Dead Man's Song (47 page)

It was so close that as the demon fled down the hill Tow-Truck Eddie felt cloth and hair teasing the tips of his fingers; then there was nothing but cold dark air at the ends of his fingers and the demon shot away down the hill, picking up speed so fast that he seemed to shrink instead of go farther away. If it had been on flat land, Tow-Truck Eddie might have had him, but as he tried to run down the steep slope his bruised right knee buckled with each step.

Mike belted down the hill and up the next. He didn’t stop until he was nearly a mile away, and at that distant, lofty perch he finally stopped. He literally fell sideways off the bike and lay there, gasping, barely able to breathe. His chest was a howling red-hot mass of pain, his lungs were burned raw, and lights danced all around him in a mad fireworks display. Even at that distance, Mike could see the figure of the man. He appeared to be jumping up and down in place, tearing at himself in a fit of such awful rage that it scared Mike. He stared in shock and confusion, in growing horror at the realities of the situation. Who
was
this madman? He was too big to be Vic.

Then it hit him, and he could not believe that he hadn’t seen it before. A big man, a wrecker—both with ties to Vic. The man who had just tried to kill him had to be Tow-Truck Eddie.

Knowing it still didn’t help him make sense of it. Why would Tow-Truck Eddie be trying to kill him? It made no sense, none. Everyone knew Eddie as being super religious. And, besides he was a…cop. Mike lay there, unable to move, shocked to a vigilant stillness, watching the man dance with rage, watching as he sank slowly down to one knee, burying his head in his hands, becoming part of the shadows of the hill for a moment; and then saw the man throw back his head and let out a howl of such pure bloody rage that the whole night was torn by it. It rose above the hills and the trees and into the starfield above; it was a terrible thing to hear, and it struck some primal chord of fear in Mike that came near to choking him. The howl rolled over the hills at him, a cry of frustration as much as it was an awful promise.

(1)

Val and Connie strolled quietly down the lanes between the corn as stars blossomed and wheeled overhead. It was dark, but Val had the pistol snug in the back of her waistband and Diego and two of the hands were still on the property, working one field away on a tractor that had broken down. The glow of lanterns and the hum of a portable generator where the men worked was a comfort to both women.

Mostly they didn’t talk, and when they did it wasn’t about Mark or the recent violence. The safest subject for Connie was a discussion of Val’s wedding plans. Connie warmed to that subject immediately and was filled with ideas for making the event the talk of the season. Most of Connie’s suggestions were frou-frou nonsense that would have had Val in too many layers of Italian lace with her hair in curlicues, but Val let her ramble. It was refreshing to hear Connie enthused about something.

Several times, however, she stole covert glances at her watch, wondering why Crow wasn’t back by now.
If he’s fallen down the mountain and broken his damn leg I’ll break the other one for him,
she decided. When her cell phone rang she looked at it, expecting it to be him, but frowned at the number on the LCD display. She flipped it open.

“Hello…Terry?”

“Val? I’ve been trying to call Crow all day but he’s not answering and I need to speak to him but he doesn’t pick up the—”

“Whoa, Terry, slow down. What’s wrong? Are you okay? Is something wrong with Sarah, the kids?”

Terry’s tirade ground to a halt and he barked out a dry, totally humorless laugh. “Wrong? Shit. What isn’t wrong?”

Val blinked, still surprised by Terry’s recent vocabulary shift. Back when they had dated he would never have used a vulgarity. “Terry? Jesus, what is it? Tell me what’s going on.” Connie raised her eyebrows to ask what was up but Val held up a hand for her to wait. “Terry,
tell me
what’s happening? Is it something with you and Sarah?”

“No, no, not that. Thank God, it’s not that, too.”

“Then what? Are you sick?”

There was that dry laugh again. “Sick? Yeah, I guess you could say that.”

“Are you hurt? Do you need a doctor?”

“I’ve
been
to doctors. I’ve been to a dozen doctors. Frigging quacks, all of them, Val…you just don’t know…. Nobody knows.”

“What, Terry? What don’t I know? Tell me.”

“Val,” Terry breathed huskily and Val realized with a start that Terry was crying. Softly, but wretchedly. “I think I’m over the edge, Val,” Terry said in a tortured voice. “I think I’m gone.”

“Hey…hey, now…,” she said.

Terry’s voice broke into pieces and collapsed into ruin, and Val thought she knew the shape of this. Crow had told her about Terry’s dreams and delusions. They must be intensifying, ganging up on him. Val stood there for a long time, just listening to the big man cry like a lost child. She tried to say soothing things, but felt hamstrung. She opened her mouth to speak and then abruptly there was the sound of fingers fumbling on the receiver. A voice said tentatively, “Who is this, please?”

“Sarah?”

“Val? Oh, thank God!”

“Sarah, what the hell is happening? What’s wrong with Terry?”

“He’s in the bathroom now. Oh, Val—I just don’t know what to do.”

“What’s
wrong
?”

“He’s…well, he’s not well.” Sarah lowered her voice. “Remember what I told you—the dreams and all? It’s gotten so much worse lately. I have a call into his doctor.”

“Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry. Is this because of the blight and all? Or the older stuff? From…when we were kids?” She didn’t want to say much more with Connie standing close by, but Sarah caught the drift.

“I—think so.” She paused. “He’s told me this morning Mandy has been following him around.”

Val echoed softly. “I know…Crow told me a little, but—”

“He said that she’s been trying to get him to kill himself. The medication’s not helping. I’m so scared, Val. I’ve…sent for an ambulance.” Sarah was starting to cry now. “He’s falling apart. I can see it happening but I can’t do anything for him.”

“Hey! Listen to me, Sarah,” Val said, putting some steel in her voice. “Believe me when I tell you that you don’t want to break down right now. Later, but not right now. This is going to sound really harsh, but suck it up because you can’t let him see you fall apart. Not now, not until he’s under
care.
You hear me?”

Val could almost hear Sarah take a steadying breath. “Right. Right…but…
shit
!”

“Sure, get mad, honey, that’s good, it’ll help—but stay focused.”

Sarah gave a funny little laugh. “God, I wish I had your strength, Val.”

“Honey, I don’t even have my strength. It’s all smoke and mirrors.”

“Bullshit,” Sarah said, but she sounded like she was standing on firmer ground.

“Should I come over? I can be there in fifteen minutes.” Then she caught sight of the look on Connie’s face. “Connie’s with me. We can both come. Get some girl power going.”

“No,” she said sharply, “but if they want him to check into the hospital could you come over there later, sit with me for a bit? Can I ask that?”

“Sure. Call me once you know what’s happening and I’ll scoot on over. Me and Connie. Crow should be back soon, too. We’ll all come over.”

“He keeps asking for Crow.”

“Yeah, I know, but Crow’s out of touch right now, but he should be back soon. Look, you get him ready and we’ll all see you later. And…Sarah? I love you. Both of you. Tell Terry that he’s not alone.”

“Thanks, Val, I’ll tell him,” Sarah said, and hung up.

Val closed her phone and looked at Connie, then told her the bones of the conversation.

“That poor man,” Connie said in a motherly way, but her eyes were nearly vacant. After a moment they started walking again, taking the long way around that would bring them up past the barn and then back to the house.

I think I’m over the edge, Val, I think I’m gone.
There had been such pain, such terrible fear in Terry’s voice as he said it. Such awful conviction that the observation was true. “Damn…” she said softly.

(2)

Just as Sarah set down the phone there was the sound of a blow and shattering glass from upstairs. “Terry!” She tore out of the kitchen, raced up the stairs, and burst into the bedroom just as Terry Wolfe brought the golf club down on the glass of a framed Warhol litho. The head of the sand wedge chopped noisily through glass and matboard and took the top of John Lennon’s head clean off. Sarah skidded to a halt by the edge of the bed, turning away to dodge the spray of little glass needles.

Terry turned a face toward her that was a snarling mask of animal rage.

(3)

Mike Sweeney got home just before seven, well before his curfew. He walked his bike around back and chained it up by the garage door, then went inside.

“That you, Mikey? You’re home early. Want some dinner?” Her voice floated from the living room, which was dark except for the blue flicker of the TV. There was already a gin slur to her speech.

Mike stood in the hallway, not wanting to go into the living room, not wanting to see his mother drunk, though nowadays she almost always was. He turned toward the stairs, calling over his shoulder. “I’m not hungry. I’m gonna go study.”

“It’s Friday!”

“Big test on Monday.”

“Oh. Okay.” She sounded more relieved than disappointed that he didn’t want her to cook anything. “If you want something later, we can order. I have some coupons for Pizza Palace.”

“Yeah. Sure. Whatever.” He pounded up the stairs and into his room, where he locked his door. He was no longer sweating, but his clothes were damp; his skin still felt feverish and strange, so he stripped the clothes off and headed into the bathroom. He was in the shower for a long time, first just standing under the spray, eyes closed, running and rerunning what had just happened out on the road. It was all so weird, so unreal.

Tow-Truck Eddie tried to kill me
, he thought
.
Twice now. And tonight he had caused the guy to crash his wrecker in a ditch. As the water pounded him he replayed each moment—the way the truck was lying in wait for him, the way the big driver had let him get just far enough ahead so that it would be a good chase. The way the bastard had nearly caught him when Mike had gone back to look. The way he had howled after his truck had been wrecked. It was all so unreal. He took the soap and washed himself and shampooed his hair and used a nailbrush to scrub his fingers. He wanted to be clean,
needed
to be clean, as if by washing so hard he could sponge away the unreality of what had happened. Of nearly dying. The water was as hot as he could stand it and he lingered under it, loving the feel of the thousands of tiny impacts, feeling his muscles become gradually looser, feeling the tension go, letting his mind drift…

Fugue.

The water rained down on him but Mike Sweeney no longer felt it. He stood there, eyes closed, his skin red from the heat.

Inside the chrysalis the pupa undergoes slow change.

On his face the last of the bruises faded to green and then to yellow and then vanished as if the water had washed them away. The cartilage in his knees that had suffered microtears while he raced uphill away from the wrecker mended itself. Internal bruises from cramps deep within his calf muscles relaxed and the tissues mended.

Transformation continues along predetermined pathways following a biological imperative.

The water pounds down on him, but Mike Sweeney has stepped out. No trace of him exists within the chrysalis of young flesh.

Transformation is inevitable now.

When he opens his eyelids Mike Sweeney does not look out through those blue eyes, and indeed those eyes are not quite blue. Not pure blue. They are blue flecked with red and the irises are rimmed with gold. Mike Sweeney does not see the water, or the steam, or the shower walls through those eyes. They are not his eyes. Mike Sweeney, as he has been, is almost completely gone now.

It is the
dhampyr
who sees through those eyes.

(4)

Terry bellowed in rage and lifted the golf club like an ax, standing with legs braced wide, his naked body bathed in sweat, his muscles rigid with tension as the club reached the apex of its lift, and then with a ferocious convulsion that carved definition into every muscular inch of his body he smashed the club down on the largest remaining piece. Splinters leapt up around him, adding to the dozen small cuts that bled sluggishly on his calves and feet and thighs. The glass settled quickly into stillness on the carpet, not only adding to the litter but substantially increasing the number of mocking glass surfaces. He raised the wedge again, not even remotely aware that Sarah was standing in the doorway, her face white with shock. All he saw were the thousands of splinters of that picture glass spread out in a fan-pattern on the thick blue bedroom carpet, each polished surface dispassionately reflecting his face and body. Each little sliver was a fun-house mirror, distorting blue eyes and red hair and strong limbs into feral yellow eyes, stiff reddish-brown fur, and the twisted, hulking musculature of something impossible. When his mouth opened to yell in protest, the muzzles of the myriad mirror-image mouths wrinkled to show dripping fangs. If his hand wiped angrily at the tears on his face, the reflected mockery swiped at its bestial face with a furred paw that ended in black talons. A thousand tacit accusations glared at him from the glittering debris.

“Terry! For God’s sake!”

He spun, the club still raised, glaring at her with mad eyes. “
Get out!”
he roared.

“You’re going to hurt yourself,” she pleaded. “Look at you. You’re bleeding!”

“Get out! Get away from me!”

She took a tentative step into the bedroom; her movements slowed by fear for him and fear
of
him. Until now Sarah never would have believed Terry would ever hurt her, but the closer she got to him the more she doubted. At that moment there was nothing in him that was not polluted by torment—and she did not trust that he really knew who she was. “Terry, come on now,” she soothed, holding her hands out in a gesture of nonhostility, empty palms turned toward him, half to calm, half to plead, the way you would calm a dog.

He stumbled a step back, his big feet crunching on the glass. There were smears of blood on the carpet. He pointed the club at her. “You stay away! You don’t
understand
!”

“I’m trying to understand, Terry! Let me help, Terry.” She kept deliberately using his name, calmly, soothingly, hoping that it would in some way anchor him, bring him back to himself.

He jabbed the head of the club at her. It was less a threatening gesture than it was a barrier for him to hide behind. Then he spun and pointed at an old armoire across the room. “It’s all her goddamned fault! She won’t leave me alone. She’s been driving me out of my goddamn mind for a month. Every day…every
goddamned day
!”

Sarah turned to look. The japanned armoire stood silent and alone between the twin doors to their clothes closets. Slowly, she turned back to Terry. “Who, Terry? Who is she?” She knew he was talking about Mandy, but did not know how to approach that concept.

“
Her!”
he snapped. “She’s blamed me all these years…all these years. But—damn it to hell, I did what I could. I was just a
kid
! What else could I do have done? It all happened so…fast! What
could
I do?” He glared with anger and hurt at the wall. “Why can’t you get that through your head?” He paused, as if listening and then picked up the conversation as if he was replying to a statement. “Well, if you don’t blame me for what happened, then why are you doing this to me? Why do you keep making me see
that
!” He pointed the club at the broken picture glass.