Bedbugs (15 page)

“‘He was fucking me over! . . . Royally! . . . He ruined my life . . . and I was gonna lose my house . . . maybe even go to jail because he was squeezing me. . . . He was busting my balls for the back taxes I owed.’

“I looked at Campbell, disgusted by what I was seeing—a grown man, breaking down and crying like a little baby.

“But beneath that, I could also see that dealing with this IRS guy was what did it to him. I could see it, because, like I said, a while back, I had my own run-in with the IRS, and they never showed a drop of mercy toward me, either.

 
“I waved my revolver at Campbell, signaling for him to get up and stop his blubbering.

“Trying to look past my disgust, I says to him, ‘The problem we have here is, you have really fucked it up.’

“Campbell lets out another cry and drops his head. Now he looks like a condemned prisoner on the scaffold, waiting for the executioner to chop his fucking head off.

“But then I start laughing, and before I know it, I can’t stop laughing.

“‘Come on. Come on. Get up,’ I say between fits of laughter.

“I had to yell to get Campbell’s attention, and when I did, I saw Stone’s body twitch. His eyelids slid open, and he’s looking at me with a glazed, distant look in his eyes. A single teardrop runs from the corner of his eye, down his cheek, and into his ear.

“I turned away from Stone and concentrated on Campbell, who was shakily rising to his feet as I waved for him to come over to the makeshift table.

“‘Look here,’ I say. ‘See this?’

“I point with my revolver at the plastic valve that controls the flow of blood from Stone’s arm.

“Absolutely numb with fear and shaking terribly, Campbell frowns and then slowly nods.

“He’s trying to understand. He opens his mouth and tries to say something, but the only sound that comes out is a little girlish squeak.

“‘Well. . . .’ I say. ‘I’m no doctor, but I’d say you have the valve open a little too much. If you really want him to linger, you have to close the valve a little more. Like this.’

“I holster my revolver, grip the spigot, and adjust the flow so there’s only the tiniest trickle of blood sliding down the inside of the plastic tubing. We wait until we hear it plop in the bucket on the floor.

“Standing back, I fold my arms across my chest and nod with satisfaction.

“‘There,’ I say. ‘That ought to just about do it. Don’t you think?’

“I look at Stone and see his eyelids flutter. If it was at all possible, he looks even paler than before. I could tell he didn’t have the strength to resist or even to cry out, but the way I figure it, with a little more care, me and Campbell can keep him like this for at least another couple of days . . . maybe even a week or two.”

—for Joe Lansdale

-1-

T
he summer sun had started to fade, stretching long, blue shadows across the lawn. Billy Lewis was sitting on the front steps of his house, staring earnestly at Sarah Cummings, who was straddling her bicycle and leaning over her handlebars on the walkway in front of him. Billy was eleven years old, so there was nothing provocative about Sarah’s stance; it just made him feel a bit uncomfortable.

“You’re just like that kid in the story who was always crying wolf, you know that?” Sarah said. “I’ll bet this is just another one of your stupid stories.” She huffed and blew her breath up over her face, making her bangs jostle.

“It ain’t,” Billy said. “You gotta believe me. I saw lights up there in the Laymon house for the past three nights in a row. Honest to God!”

Against her will, Sarah shivered. Although she couldn’t see the Laymon house from Billy’s front yard, she knew all about the decrepit old place. Built at the end of the dirt road that wound through the woods and past the swamp behind Billy’s house, the house looked at least a hundred years old. No one had lived in it for . . . well, at least as long as Sarah could remember. The few times she had asked her mother about it, her mother had simply commanded her to stay out of the place. “It’s dangerous,” she had said, her voice edged with exasperation. “You never know when a floor or something will give way and cave in on you. Just stay out of there!”

     
Warnings like that from just about every parent in Hilton, Maine, hadn’t stopped just about every kid in town from entering the Laymon house at least once in their life. Most of them made their entries during the day, usually with several friends for mutual support; and just about all of them came away disappointed. There was no dust-covered furniture, no heavy curtains that shifted eerily in the wind, no ghostly shapes in the dark corners. It was just an empty house with faded, peeling wallpaper and exposed lath where the plaster walls had crumbled away. The windows had practically no glass left in them, and the rocks that had done the damage were scattered over the floor like boulders in a New England field. Oh, yeah—sure there were probably rats in the walls, and there certainly was a terrible smell wafting up from down in the dank cellar; but that was to be expected.

The Laymon house was nothing but an old, abandoned house—scary and spooky only to overactive imaginations, and certainly not haunted—not
really
!

Over the years, a few kids
had
dared to enter the house at night. More often than not it was part of some silly initiation rite for some gang or other. No one, to Sarah’s knowledge, had ever spent an entire night there, but then again, she was only twelve years old. She had heard stories from her older sister, and had no intention of going there—even on a sunny day like this!

“Well, I think you’re just trying to scare me,” Sarah said. “This is just like the time you had me and everyone else convinced there was a ghost out at Cedar Pond Cemetery. A bunch of us went out there, and you had rigged up a sheet with a flashlight under it, hanging from a tree.”

“That was just a Halloween trick—a little early,” Billy said, glancing down at the ground. Still sitting, he leaned forward, his elbows on his knees.

“And how about the time you got my brother, Johnny, and Curt all convinced there was a werewolf in the woods behind the Canal Street school? Remember that?”

Billy shrugged coyly, focusing more intently on the ground.

“You convinced a whole bunch of guys to stay out in the woods all night looking for it, and what did you get? Johnny came home with a cold that almost turned into pneumonia. And he got grounded for two weeks after he got better ‘cause he lied to my folks about sleeping out in your backyard that night.”

“Well . . .” Billy said, almost whining. “There was something out there in the woods. I heard it—and both Johnny and Curt heard it, too!”

“And I’ll just bet you’re making this one up, too,” Sarah said sharply. Her grip on her handlebars tightened, and she cast a fearful look behind her. “And even if there is someone out there, how come you’re so sure it’s that killer that escaped from Thomaston?”

“It’s
gotta
be him,” Billy said, his eyes wide and glistening. “If any of the guys were staying out there, don’t you think we would’ve heard about it?”

“Then how come you haven’t told Johnny and Curt about it?” Sarah asked pointedly. “
They’re
your best friends.”

“They wouldn’t believe me,” Billy said. “‘Specially not after the werewolf thing.”

“But you expect
me
to believe you?”

Billy shrugged and said nothing.

“Well . . .” Sarah said. “I don’t!” She shifted her foot on the bicycle pedal, making ready to ride away.

 
“Wait!” Billy barked, so suddenly Sarah let out a surprised squeal.

“What is it?” she asked, exasperated.

“Look, how often do I ask a favor from you?” Billy said.

Sarah shrugged, thinking that more often than not Billy, like her brother Johnny, made it a point of honor to ignore her—and irritate the shit out of her when possible.

“You’ve gotta believe me, Sarah. I’m positive that killer’s out there, and I—”

“Then why don’t you just go to the police and tell them instead of me?” Sarah asked. She kept gnawing at her lower lip, and Billy took this as a sign that he was getting to her.

“Because they’d believe me even less than you do,” Billy said. “I want to go out there tonight and peek in the cellar windows. Just to make sure. But I need someone else there to see, too, so they can back me up when I go to the cops.”

Sarah shook her head and scratched the side of her neck. She could still feel the sprinkling of goose bumps that had arisen when Billy had first mentioned the Laymon house. Another, deeper shiver ran up her back now as she stared blankly at the long shadows on the ground.

“Make a unanimous phone call to the police, then,” she said.

“You mean anonymous.”

“Whatever!” Sarah’s frustration was rising higher as she see-sawed between skepticism and belief.

“You ain’t chicken-skit, are you?” Billy asked.

Sarah was about to say that she
was
chicken-shit, and she didn’t care if Billy or Johnny or anyone else knew it; but something made her hold her tongue. She just stared at Billy.

“I figure,” Billy went on, “if we keep this just between you and me, then we’re gonna be the town heroes for helping catch this guy. I’ll bet we even get our picture in the newspaper—maybe even get on TV—and meet the governor and stuff!”

“Who’d
want
to meet the governor?” Sarah asked.

She knew Billy was throwing this stuff out just to tempt her. He was laying down a line of honey to draw her in; and she knew she should follow through on her first impulse—tell Billy to take a hike to the moon before she biked away. She should forget all about him and his harebrained story about an escaped murderer living out at the Laymon house. Why would a convicted killer go there in the first place? How would he even have known about it? This was just another case of Billy trying to sucker people in with another one of his wild stories.

But, just like her dad was always telling her, there’s always another side to everything. Granted, the escaped killer might not be living out there . . . there might not be
anyone
out there; but what if there was? If there
was
, then, like Billy said, she would be a hero. And if nothing else,
that
would certainly slap Johnny into place, the fact that she was counted in, and he wasn’t.

“So . . . uh, what are you gonna do?” Sarah asked. She swung off her bike, laid it gently down on the ground, and came over to sit on the steps beside Billy.

“Can you get out tonight and meet me behind my house around . . . say, eleven o’clock?” Billy asked. His voice had a conspiratorial hush, and she didn’t like the way he wouldn’t look her straight in the eyes.

Gnawing at her lip again, Sarah nodded. “It might take some doing, but I think I can manage it.”

“Good,” Billy said. “Wear dark clothes, and bring a flashlight. And make sure no one sees you leave!”

-2-

T
he night was filled with the chirping sound of crickets. Overhead, stars sprinkled the sky like powder. A crescent moon rode low in the east.

The ground beneath Sarah’s feet was lost in darkness as she cut across the neighbors’ yards between her house and Billy’s. She didn’t dare chance walking down the road where a neighbor driving by or glancing out a window might see her. She was wearing a thin jacket against the chill, and, in her hand, she gripped a flashlight she had taken from the glove compartment of her father’s truck. Summertall grass whisked at her legs, soaking her cuffs with dew and sending a thin chill up to her knees.

All of the lights were off at Billy’s house as she approached it from the side. A faint current of fear raced through her as she looked at the silent, dark house. Her parents had stayed up a little later than usual, and she knew she was at least fifteen minutes late.

. . . What if Billy had given up on her coming and had already gone back to bed?

. . . Or what if he decided to go out to the Laymon house alone?

. . . Or—most likely, she thought—what if he was off hiding somewhere in the trees behind the house, just waiting to give her a scare, pretending he was the escaped convict?

“Psst! Hey, Billy!” she whispered, looking back and forth along the length of the dark house. “You out here?”

The sound of the crickets went on undisturbed. From where she stood, she knew, if she turned around and looked, she might be able to see the Laymon house through the trees. If she turned around, she thought, maybe she
would
see a light in the cellar window.

But as much as she wanted to look, she just couldn’t bring herself to do it. If this was one of Billy’s half-assed jokes, he might already be up there at the old house, shining a light in the window to lure her. And now that she thought about it, maybe her rotten little brother Johnny was in on this, too. Come to think of it, he had gone off to bed tonight without too much complaint, none of his usual fussing about wanting to stay up to watch Leno or Letterman.