Thunderland (9 page)

They had baked two frozen Tombstone pizzas and brought them into the den on big pans. Jason was starving, and the fellas were, too. They greedily dug into the food as they talked.

‘We should call a minister,” Shorty said. He paced, cap turned backward, a slice of pepperoni-and-cheese in his small hands. “That’s what we should do, man. Call up Minister Thompson from my church. Only a man of God can kick a demon’s ass.”

“Who said the Stranger is a demon?” Jason said, sitting on the couch. “I mean, he seems to be some kind of spirit, but not all spirits are demons. Are they, Brains?”

“That’s correct,” Brains said from his perch on the stairs. “Basically, a spirit is a supernatural being. It can be either good or evil, an angel or a demon or maybe a poltergeist. The possibilities are broad.”

“We don’t know exactly what he is,” Jason said. “All we can be sure of is that he’s really powerful.”

“Very powerful,” Brains said. “So powerful that I wonder if a minister could help us, assuming that one would believe our story in the first place. I doubt it.”

“If we don’t turn to God, who do we turn to?” Shorty said. He stopped pacing in the center of the room and regarded them pleadingly.

“We handle it ourselves,” Jason said. “Your minister probably won’t believe us, and no other grown-ups will believe us either. Think about it. A spirit writing words on my mirror, then coming out of a Ouija board to rip apart a bedroom? I’d think it was a wacky story myself if I wasn’t living it. We can’t rely on anyone else. We have to fight back on our own, fellas.”

“I agree.” Brains pushed his glasses up on his nose. He gulped down a bite of pizza. “So what’s our strategy going to be?”

“Lots of prayer,” Shorty said. When he saw Jason and Brains frown, he said, “Okay, okay, we can do more than pray. Why don’t we get a weapon?”

“What kind of weapon?” Jason said.

“A knife,” Shorty said. “I have a blade we can use, a real longass one. It has a sheath that you can clip to your belt, too. It’s not the greatest thing, but it’s something. How’s that sound, fellas?”

“How’s a knife going to hurt a spirit?” Jason said. “A spirit is like a ghost, right? You can’t stab a ghost.”

“We
think
the Stranger might be a spirit,” Brains said. “We don’t know for sure. He could be a man who’s able to move objects with his mind. I’ve heard about people who can supposedly do that. It’s called telekinesis.”

“Tele-ki-what?” Shorty said.

“Telekinesis,” Brains said. “Have you seen those people on TV who can bend spoons and stuff? Obviously, whoever the Stranger is, he’s a lot more powerful than the average spoon-bender, but my point is, he could be human. And if he’s human, a knife could hurt him. It’s better than nothing.”

“Well, okay,” Jason said. ‘We arm ourselves with the knife. I just hope we don’t have to use it.”

“Then we have the weapon stuff settled,” Shorty said. “Now, how about action? What’re we gonna do?”

“Before we get into that, I need to tell you guys something,” Jason said. “About another weird problem I’ve been having.”

“Another one?” Brains said. He looked at Jason incredulously. “That shocks even me.”

“This one isn’t like the word-on-the-mirror thing,” Jason said. “It’s different. I’ve been having a nightmare.”

‘What’s it about?” Shorty said.

Jason told them everything about his recurring dream. He was relieved finally to be able to relate it to someone; the details poured out of him. In light of what had happened that day, the nightmare, while disturbing, was not nearly as terrifying. Reality had become more frightening than his darkest dreams.

‘What do you think?” Jason said. “Is the stalker in my nightmare the Stranger in real life?”

“I’d bet on it, Jason,” Brains said. “It has to be him. I’m glad you told us about that dream. I think I know what we should do.”

‘What?” Jason said.

“We stay at my house tonight. And we sleep in shifts. Remember how the Ouija said the Stranger is coming for you? It seems logical to me that when the Stranger comes for you, he’ll come at night, like he does in your nightmare. By sleeping in shifts, one of us will be awake when the Stranger appears, and maybe we’ll be able to stop him. Or maybe we won’t. But until we’ve solved this, it’d be foolish for you to sleep alone, like a sitting duck. Agree?”

“Yeah,” Jason said. “For now, I think we’ve got our plan. Arm ourselves with that blade, and sleep in shifts. Seems good to me. Is that alright with you, Shorty?”

“Yeah, man. It’s cool.”

“Great,” Jason said. “When can you get your knife?”

“I’ll get it now,” Shorty said. “I have to drop by the crib and pack some stuff for tonight anyway.”

“Same here.” Jason finished his last slice of pizza and stood. His memory of what had happened in the bedroom weighed heavily on his mind, and the fact that they were up against someone who did not appear to be an ordinary man evoked shivers of sheer dread. But with a plan of action to protect themselves, maybe he and the fellas had a chance. Whoever he was, whatever he was, the Stranger would not win without a fight. Not with anything less than a full-scale war, Jason vowed silently.

Like father, like son.

Standing at the window of his girlfriend’s North Chicago apartment, holding a cigarette and gazing into the night, Thomas pondered his father’s cruel words. Since he had left the nursing home earlier that day, Big George’s words had followed him like haunting spirits, making it nearly impossible for him to concentrate on work or anything else. He told himself to put them out of his mind, to dismiss them as yet another example of Big George’s dementia, but he could not expel them from his thoughts. Because he secretly worried that Big George might be right.

He took a draw from his cigarette. He had been chain-smoking for the past several hours. It was unusual for him. He had not tasted nicotine in years.

He heard the bedroom door open behind him. Footsteps whispered across the plush carpet. Then two slender, copper-colored arms slipped around his waist, embracing him from behind.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” Rose Mason said in a whisper, her lips near his ear.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.” He took a final draw from the Kool and extinguished it in a glass ashtray.

Rose dropped her hand to his groin, rubbed gently. “Maybe so. But I know the most important things about you.”

He took away her hand and turned to face her. She was nude. She had a beautiful body: lithe, shapely, full in all the right places, her caramel skin as smooth as a peach. Ordinarily, the sight of her set his hormones aflame. But he could not summon any desire.

“Rose, I might have to disappoint you tonight,” he said. “I’m not in the mood.”

“I’ll get you in the mood. You don’t have to do a thing. Lie down, and I’ll
take care of everything.”

She would, too, if he allowed her. He could lie down and let her fuck his brains out, then get dressed and leave, and both of them would have got exactly what they sought from this one-dimensional relationship. She got fantastic sex with a virile man whose stamina matched hers. He got to slip out of the demanding role of Thomas Brooks, hardworking entrepreneur, devoted son, inept husband and father, and assume the position of a man whose sole responsibility was to get it up. Rose required only great sex and trite conversation, and that was all he delivered. Their relationship was almost sinfully superficial—and relaxing. Whenever he left her apartment, he always left with the belief that he had released air from a stress balloon that often seemed dangerously close to exploding.

Nevertheless, as therapeutic as sex with Rose might have been, it was
wrong.
He was married and deeply in love with his wife. He had no business being in this woman’s bedroom.

That is, unless he was really the womanizing dog Big George claimed both of them were.

Like father, like son.

Those damned words again. Mocking him. Challenging him. Daring him to prove them wrong.

Like father, like son.

He resolved that he had to break this cycle. Right here. Right now. Rose had unbuttoned his shirt. She started to slip it off his shoulders. He stopped her.

“Hold on,” he said. “We have to talk.”

“Can it wait?”

“No. We have to talk now.”

“Come on, baby. You haven’t been here all week.”

“It’s only Tuesday.”

“It feels like Friday to me.”

“Damn, girl. Is sex all you think about?”

“I have needs, Thomas. I’m not gonna hide the fact that I need a man a few times a week. A female can’t be shy these days, or she won’t get shit.”

“I guess so.” He walked past her and sat on the bed. “You’re honest.”

“Damn right, I am.” She sat beside him. She stroked his chest, kissed his neck.

He gently pushed her away. “But it’s time for me to be honest, too.”

She drew back. “What do you mean?”

“You probably don’t care, but I have to tell this to someone. I talked to my dad today. Like usual, he chewed my ass out over anything that came to mind. But he said something I’ve never heard him say before, and it bothered me. It still bothers me.”

“What did he say?” she said, watching him but, judging from her expression, not earnestly interested in his confession. She wasn’t interested in anything if it wasn’t about her. Her conceit was one of several unpleasant personality traits he had been willing to overlook because the sex was so good.

“My dad said I was just like him,” he said. “ ‘Like father, like son,’ is how he put it. He accused me of cheating on my wife, the same way he’d cheated on my mother.”

“So, he was telling the truth.”

“I can’t stand the fact that I’m like him. I hate my father. It’s terrible to say that, but it’s true. There’s nothing I love about him. When he told me that today, I saw how much like him I’ve become, and I hate myself for letting it happen. I can’t take it anymore; I’ve got to change. So ...”

“I get it.” Her face darkened. “You want us to stop seeing each other.”

“Rose, I’m sorry. But we have to. I can’t do this anymore.”

She glared at him.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, knowing how lame he sounded like all of the other married men who used women for sex, then cast them aside when the affair became inconvenient. He sounded like a manipulative dog, the kind of man whom women despised and nice guys loathed because he gave
all
men a bad reputation.

Shit, he needed another cigarette.

Rose went to the closet and removed a blue silk robe. She covered herself, returned to the bed.

“This doesn’t surprise me,” she said. “I knew you’d leave sooner or later. Men always do.”

He stood and buttoned his shirt. “I didn’t mean to use you.”

She laughed. “Please, you make it sound like you’ve broken my heart. I never loved you, baby. You were a good fuck, nothing more, nothing less.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“Don’t get an attitude. We used each other, and that’s that. You’ll go home to your wife, and I’ll go on to the next man.” She snapped her fingers. “You’re dismissed.”

“Is that all? That’s so ... cold.”

“Oh, you’re dripping with self-righteousness, ain’t you? Are you gonna tell your wife about me, Mr. Do-right?”