Bad Things (28 page)

He started running across the lawn, not even noticing the greenjacks.

Instantly Robin grabbed the little boy and hoisted him above his head like a rag doll. “Come and get him, Icky Ricky!” he screeched.

Paul's gleeful shriek turned into a cry of terror as Robin threw him into the middle of the dank pond.

“No!”
he screamed, running faster, his bare feet squishing through the wet grass, his legs feeling the chill caresses as he raced through masses of gibbering jacks.

At the edge of the pond, Rick stopped.

“He's drowning!” Robin called from across the fetid water. “He's drowning! Save him!”

A few bubbles rose near a cluster of water lilies in the center of the pond. Rick glared at Robin. His brother could swim; he'd seen him down here frolicking in the water on any number of summer nights. If he wanted to, he could rescue the baby. But why would he want to? He threw him in. The baby was bait, Rick realized as he pulled off his sweater and moved to the water's edge. What Robin wanted most was Rick.

The pond smelled richly of cold water and wet, rotting plants.

The water lilies tugged at his clothes as he swam past them, and then he felt the underwater plants and grasses waving all around him. Rick searched frantically, unable to see anything but small glimmers of moonlight between the lilies, fighting panic each time the water grasses coiled around his ankles like cold, slimy fingers.

He came up for air, then scissored back down. Again.

The third time, at the deepest part of the pool, he blundered blindly into Paulie. Swiftly, he seized the limp body and turned to push himself up from the bottom.

Something wrapped around his ankle, began pulling him back. Wildly Rick twisted to get free, but something sharp twisted around his other ankle now. He strained forward, suddenly felt the slimy plaster pool wall against his arms. Peering up, he could see vague moonlight—he wasn't under the lilies. Frantically he pushed Paul's body upward, up toward the light, blindly shoving him onto the pavement.

He grabbed at the wall with his hands, wishing the rock sides extended farther down to give him purchase.

His lungs felt full of fire, and his legs seemed encased in barbed wire, and suddenly something dragged him across to the other side of the pool. His lungs started to give out as blackness edged Rick's consciousness.

Water exploded into his throat, choking him, and he began to struggle, fiercely kicking at the bonds restraining him. He grabbed at the side of the pool. Whatever had him—

—gave slightly, coming up with him. His head cleared the water, and he coughed, gasping for breath, as water cascaded over his skull. He was beneath the waterfall. He grabbed at the rocks, clung to them, pulling upward, straining, straining harder.

It was so hard, so hard. He coughed again, wanting to rest, wanting to just give up.

You won't
just
die, they'll steal your body! He'll win!

At that moment he was yanked under again, and he could feel the bonelike hands and arms clearly now, embracing him, squeezing him. His own arms were still free, trying to grasp at the rocky outcroppings.
You still have a chance.

His toes connected with the side of the pool. Using every ounce of strength in his possession, he bent his knees and shoved off the side.

This time,
it
came up with him, breaking through a net of lilies and grasses. Rick clutched at the sharp rocks on the side of the waterfall, higher now, gaining ground.

Gasping, he spit out fetid water. And came face-to-face with Big Jack himself.

The creature was as he remembered. The jungly green smell, so like the odor of the pond, the pitch black eyes that bored into his, the pulsing, twisted vines, the lacework of thin white roots, all parodies of human physiology. He saw it all in a millisecond, the bark-chip teeth, the mouth opening with the obscene vines spewing forth, twining around his throat, pulling and twisting like tentacles.

“No!”
he screamed. Letting go of the rocks, he used his hands to tear brutally at the Green Man, wrenching the throbbing jugular vine until it broke, spewing chlorophyll in his face. He yanked the mouth vines from the creature. They came away dripping green, attached to a kinked jigsaw of white roots.

Big Jack faltered, and Rick tore his feet free, pulled his body up into a ball, then kicked straight out, his feet smashing into the green growing out of the thing. Jack's arm-hold loosened, and Rick flipped his legs backward to hit the poolside, then kicked, shoving off and up, flying out of the water, tearing the skin off his feet and hands and arms and legs, banging his cheek into a rock, moving, crawling, staggering, until he was free of the thing.

He crawled onto the pavement, tearing a final vine away from his ankle, crawling toward Paulie's still body. He reached the boy and began artificial respiration, just as he'd been taught in school.

“Icky Ricky, you're so brave.” Robin sidled over to him, moving sideways like a crab. “But you're too late. Your precious little baby was under there way too long. He'll come back to life, all right, but he'll be one of us.” Robin cackled insanely, staring at something behind Rick.

Rick chanced a quick look back, saw Big Jack lumber out of the water. When it straightened, it stood at least eight feet tall. Paulie coughed.
He's alive!

Robin's cold hand grasped his arm so hard, he couldn't pull free. “Two for the price of one,” his twin whispered in his ear. “That's what I was hoping for. Two for one.”

Swaying, scarecrowlike, Big Jack stepped toward them. Robin giggled madly and let go of Rick's arm, backing away from the creature. “Well, little hero, guess it's not quite midnight. Maybe I'll have your body tonight yet. Maybe I'll have your
eyes!”

“Fuck you,” Rick whispered back.

Robin laughed and did a handstand, then, body raised overhead, he fled across the grass and disappeared into the house.

Big Jack stepped closer, vines dripping and snapping in the night wind. Ricky backed up, away from Paulie, thinking he had a better chance of saving both of them if he led the monster on a chase.

Icky Ricky, we've got you now!
came Big Jack's powerful voice.

“You have squat!” Rick yelled. “You want me, you have to catch me first!” He leaped sideways and started zigzagging across the lawn, and the church bells began to chime the midnight hour.

It chased him, fueled by long-standing greed and desire. Rick ran, feinting this way and that. Big Jack barely inches from him. Suddenly, on the eighth ring, Rick lost his balance, landing hard and skidding across the dew-damp grass. Big Jack's twig fingers encircled his neck, choking him.

The eleventh bell sounded, and Ricky barely heard it over the ringing in his ears. He couldn't breathe.

The final bell chimed. Slowly Big Jack began to disintegrate, twig fingers dropping off, leaves drying up and scattering. The arms and legs fell into a pile of kindling around him, and then he was surrounded by a tumble of luminescent little jacks as they gave up their Big Jack for the year and swarmed over Rick, screaming and taunting and laughing.

He ignored them to run to Paulie. He fell to his knees and helped the coughing toddler sit up, thunking his hand against his back to help clear his lungs.

“Are you okay, Paulie?” he whispered. “It's all over now.”

Paulie coughed violently, then whispered, “ 'Kay.” It was the best thing he'd ever said.

For just an instant, Rick let himself collapse on the lawn, let himself feel his muscles quiver, became aware of his cuts and bruises, his exhaustion.

Ten feet away, the little jacks watched. He closed his eyes and then opened them again as he felt a cool, feathery touch on his arm. Quickly he looked sideways, saw the faint outline of a single little jack beside him. It touched him again.

Ricky
. . .

The voice was so soft, he could barely hear it. The strident jumble of voices from the other jacks assaulted his mind, but he concentrated on this one.

This voice, soft and gentle in his head, was a shimmer on the wind, a solitary sound separate from the others. He knew the inflections of this voice. They were his own.

“Robin?” he whispered. “Robin?”

Ricky
. . .

The voice seemed anxious, mournful.

Too late .
. .

“What?” he cried desperately.

Changed, he's changed .
. .

“No!”

There was no reply, only another sad caress.

Ricky
. . .

The sound of his name in his brother's voice made hot tears stream from his eyes.

Remember Thomas .
. .

A small voice, faintly riding the wind.

 

 

Rick's head ached. “That's all I can remember.”

“There's more, Ricky,” Carmen said, her eyes boring into his.

The tone of her voice alarmed him. “He died,” he said, his eyes burning. God, he'd loved that little kid, and he'd tried to save him, redemption for losing Robin, but that, too, had failed. If he'd only awakened Carmen. “I remember the funeral . . .”

“Ricky, you said he coughed.”

“Yes. He did.”

“Then why did he die?”

Helplessly, gut twisting, he looked at her. “I don't know! You came out and called the ambulance.”
The blue nightgown!
“You were wearing the blue nightgown and you picked him up.”

She nodded. “Yes.”

Suddenly he heard a key in the lock and then Hector's cheerful voice called out, “Anybody home?”

Rick stood and went to the sink to wash his face. An instant later, Cody was hugging his waist, and grateful to be released from Carmen's prison, he picked up his son. “Your sister's working late tonight. How about you and I getting a pizza?” he asked with false cheerfulness. “Just us guys?”

“Yeah!”

“See you later,” he called to the Zapatas as he escaped the cottage.

“What'd you and Carmen do, Daddy? Why's Quint at their house? What kind of pizza do you want?”

He welcomed Cody's endless questions because answering them let him forget about the one Carmen had asked. How
had
Paulie died?

 

Even native Californians seemed amazed when September turned into the hottest month of the year, but it invariably happened, and was invariably forgotten the following September, when the weathermen and everyone else expressed dismay over the extended dog days of summer.

And so, on the first day of kindergarten, when Cody insisted upon wearing his new fall clothes, Rick hadn't tried too hard to talk him out of it. Taking him to school, Rick was mildly embarrassed until he saw that most of the other kids wore sweaters or jackets even though, at eight in the morning, it was eighty-five degrees, on its way to the hundred mark. Fortunately, his teacher, Miss Cantrell, had instantly charmed the children into shedding a few layers, and since then, everything with Cody had been peaches and cream. The boy had it bad for Miss Cantrell. Lacking apples, he took her a barely ripe orange from the orchard every day.

He'd made some friends besides Bob the Invisible, too, which pleased Rick since Bob had remained fairly important instead of becoming more invisible, as he had expected. But now Bob ranked behind Craig, Matt, and Doug as Cody's priorities. And way behind marrying Miss Cantrell.

Shelly had settled in as well. Late in August, Rick presented her with a little red Bug with only thirty thousand on the speedometer. She hadn't said a word about it not being the coveted PT Cruiser, but instead, became invaluable to Rick and Carmen because she wanted to run everyone's errands for them.

Now that school had started, her life revolved around that and her job. She tried out for and made the cheerleading team—something so incredibly wholesome when compared to her previous goals that Rick still could barely believe it. And even though her phone rang so constantly that Rick bought her an answering machine as a back-to-school present, she was doing reasonably well in school.

For over a month now, Rick had tried not to be alone with Carmen. He hated the dark, serious way she would watch him when she thought he wasn't looking, and though he knew it had something to do with his memory lapse concerning the death of Paulie Ewebean, he'd decided once more that the past was the past and that he would dwell in the present.

Now, in mid-October, the heat had finally ended, and the occasional warmth of a Santa Ana wind had become a pleasant experience instead of a hellish one. As Rick lifted the welding mask from his face and stood back to study his statue, he told himself that life was turning out pretty damned good.

From the tip of Don Quixote's lance, ten feet in the air, down to Rosiante's hooves, his masterpiece was virtually complete.
Semimasterpiece,
he corrected, smiling to himself. Maybe it wasn't great art, but like life, it was pretty damn good.

Except for writing his weekly column, Rick had done nothing but indulge himself in this sculpture, and he'd assuaged his continuing guilt about letting the house go so long by having Hector buy interior paint for the entire house. They'd work on it this winter.

The rat problem seemed to have died down somewhat now, but he still hadn't sealed the rest of the passages, and since Quint had made it obvious that he much preferred to spend his days at the Zapatas' and only come back at night to sleep with Rick, he really saw no need.

Rick lowered the mask and fired up the torch, fixed a small curl on Don Quixote's breastplate.

“That's better,” He set the mask aside and put down the torch. He had a lot to do before Audrey arrived.

She'd been wonderful to him, only mentioning in passing that if he wanted the information on vision, she had it. Thus far, he hadn't asked—he'd learned to ignore the greenjacks over the last few months. But he was going to ask her soon, because he needed to be honest with her if their relationship was going to proceed to a more serious level. As it was now, every time it started to, he'd find an excuse to hold off because he didn't want to start something under false circumstances. Fear of rejection, he knew, held him back, even though Audrey seemed more open to the idea of greenjacks than anyone else—even Carmen, who, he'd finally realized, had protected and loved him
despite
his stories about the jacks.

Scratching sounds, faint and annoying, came from the vicinity of the old Rambler. The vermin living in the car were either very smart or very resistant. He'd have to put out yet more bait for these guys.

But not now,
he thought as he checked his watch. It was nearly two o'clock already. The piano movers would show up at two-thirty and have Don Quixote moved out to the oval of cement he'd had poured behind the koi pond before Audrey arrived around four o'clock. He smiled to himself. He'd planned on putting the knight out there as a talisman long before he remembered Paulie's drowning. It seemed more fitting than ever, he thought as he locked up and went inside to grab a quick shower.