Malice (17 page)

Inside…two men were struggling…the one of top, dressed in a flared yellow jumpsuit with a painted face, a clown man, seemed to be winning…there was blood on the floor and the man underneath was grunting…the clown man, Lysander could see, was holding a knife…the same terrible knife he had seen before…and he was trying to push it down into the other man’s face…into his eye…the knife point reflected a dash of light in the man’s fear-stricken eye…two sets of hands were holding it now, each pushing in opposite directions…more light cutting into the room cut across the man’s terror-stricken face on the bottom…Lysander gasped…he knew this man, knew him well…and he was no man at all…it was Derek…and the terror on his face was like nothing he had ever seen. A thick mat of fright took hold of Lysander and he swung out to grab the knife…to pull it away from Derek’s eye…but his hands were passing through the blasted thing…he swung around before them, hardly aware of the ease with which he was maneuvering…perhaps if the angle was better, he thought desperately, it might work…The clown’s head rose and for a moment his nostrils flared. He seemed to be sniffing the air. Then he looked directly at Lysander and spoke, his lips never moving. “I want it back! Do you hear me, you little shit! It’s mine and I want it back!” The blood in Lysander’s veins froze solid. This clown man who was killing his friend, and who had killed at least three others before him…was no stranger…But how could it be?…no, there was some mistake…there must be…but there
was
no mistake and the panic was suddenly too much to contain …

Samantha had been in the back room for no more than a few seconds when the ringed hand had reached in to stop the door from closing. Once she saw the face attached to that hand, her fear had flown off the chart. The clown’s wide painted grin stood in stark contrast to the man’s real mouth—thin and tight with hatred. She would not have recognized him, his face narrow, angular and colored, had she not seen the ring on his left hand. It was a silver ring, and it had what looked like a child’s drawing of a fish. Or was it an eye?

Reverend Small watched her with a perverse calmness. When she saw the sightless, milky white orbs that were his eyes, she gasped. She sprang up on rubbery legs, trying to leave, as though that were an option still open to her.

He put a hand on her shoulder.

SIT CHILD!

He shoved her down with unnatural force for a man of his age. Sam fell backward onto the chest with a loud thump.

His voice had changed as well. There was nothing even remotely like the cute southern drawl he had before. No, he sounded now more like an androgynous mishmash, as though a whole chorus of people were speaking through the same body.

He scanned her up and down. “I’ve been looking forward to this.”

He was fiddling with something behind his back.

Samantha’s heart was thudding harder now. She thought of screaming, but she knew her voice would fail her.

“Your screams will not be heard,” that thing calling itself Reverend Small said through a tight grin.

He was reading her mind. A vivid image of her mother came into focus, and she fought it away. Her mother’s face was wrought with pain:
Please stop the pain, Samantha. Please stop the pain
. He grinned again, and this time she noticed the double grin: his thin crescent shaped lips against the painted backdrop of his hideous makeup.

She would not let him inside her head. But it was too late. He was already there.

“Why?” she managed to say. There was fear on her breath, she knew, and he seemed to be savoring it.

Then in his sexless voice: “I want you to see something.”

She saw an image of her mother in the bath with Derek. He was seated behind her. They were caressing one another. He cupped her breasts. Her mother looked back over her shoulder and Derek leaned over to kiss her.

“Stop it!” Samantha yelled, and both of those terrible grins before her seemed to falter.

“Stop this!” She could feel an unbearable heat at her temples as she clutched them with both hands.

Then one of her hands fell to her side, brushing against a glass jar. And in that instant her mind cleared as though a strong wind had blown a thick blanket of clouds off the horizon. She was going to kill him. She was going to crack this bottle over his head and then cut his throat with whatever was left. Her hatred was so intense she could feel it burning the edges of her tongue, like something wet and rotting.

She grabbed the jar and swung it in a great screeching arch toward the reverend’s head.

In a blur he brought a huge gleaming knife out from behind his back and smashed the glass in midair. A shower of tiny razors sprayed into Samantha’s face. She screamed, raising her arms to shield herself, edging away from him until she felt the crook of her back press against the wall. The reverend rose, towering over her as if on stilts, knife in hand. Eyes skull white. Dead.

His smile broadened to reveal a set of sharpened teeth.

The doorknob rattled and then a voice called out from behind it: “Samantha?”

It was Derek, and Samantha screamed to him. Outside, a pair of feet shuffled away, and in the next instant a crashing boom splintered the door. The door buckled. Then another and the door came crashing in.

***

Moments before he heard Samantha’s scream, Derek had been standing in Jason Gibb’s living room. It felt strange being in a house this large, he thought, sipping his beer. For the last month his time had been divided between tiny back alleys and crappy motels. He hadn’t found much down in Florida. No bike shops were willing to take on a drifter, that was for sure, but more than that: he hadn’t found many people willing to talk to him. The prostitutes—of which there were plenty in that malaria-infested swamp-turned-state—had been the exception. They were only more than happy to chat, so long as you slipped them a US Grant for their time.

When he finally made up his mind to come back, he hadn’t dared call anyone, especially Samantha. He couldn’t have risked the chance that the sheriff would have answered the phone and recognized his voice.

Derek sipped his beer again, not really caring who recognized him anymore. He was tired of being on the run. He had come to tell Samantha that he was planning on turning himself in tomorrow, or at least very soon. The problem was doing it the right way. His way.

He saw Samantha again, standing before him in his mind’s eye, just as she had a second ago. She was as stiff as a board, blinking at him stupidly, a skinny boy with pimples hovering behind her. Derek recalled how his own face had lit up with excitement.

He had taken a step forward. He was going to sweep her off her feet. Spin her around until she fainted, but he stopped, suddenly uncertain. Was this really Samantha? His Sam? The zombie get-up aside, she had the same large brown eyes and round face he knew and loved but this Sam seemed so filled with rage that he was positive he had been mistaken. This girl was ready to kill someone. She broke away a second later and stormed off toward the kitchen.

No, that was Sam all right, Derek knew, tilting his head back and draining the plastic cup. Then his hand tightened all on its own, crushing the cup in his grasp, making the plastic tink and pop in his hand.

He stood in the midst of people he either didn’t know or didn’t give a shit about. What could Sam be so angry about? His eyes flickered with dawning realization. No, that wasn’t possible, he told himself. Ol’man Wallace would never open his mouth. But the more he twirled it around in his mind, the more obvious it became. The old man was the only person he had really confided in about Diane.

A shrill scream pierced the air, and Derek charged toward the kitchen. A girl in a torn white dress was stumbling down the stairs, screaming bloody murder. Suddenly, everyone was clamoring to see what the commotion was about. A group began buzzing around like a handful of angry wasps. A moment later, everyone was rushing outside.

The kitchen had emptied in less than thirty seconds. Only beer bottles remained, standing sentry over half finished cigarettes, burning merrily in overflowing ashtrays. He hadn’t seen Sam leave in the stampede, but he couldn’t be sure. He started to follow the crowd when he noticed the door leading off from the kitchen. It was closed now, but he swore it had been ajar only moments before.

If he knew Sam, she was probably hiding away, definitely pouting, probably wanting to be alone. But wanting even more for someone to come and talk to her. Judging by the warm reception she’d given him, Derek wasn’t so sure he was the person she wanted to see right now.

He grasped the handle and shook it gently.

Locked
.

He yanked his hand away, rubbing the inside of his palm. The knob was a block of ice. So cold his hand had nearly stuck there like a tongue on a metal pole in the dead of winter. Then he heard Samantha scream.

“Samantha,” he called. For a second he stood before the door, dumbfounded. Adrenaline was pumping through his veins. His senses sharpened, his arms and legs felt light and powerful. He took a step back and ran at the door. The frame shuddered. Staggering back again, he slammed his foot right above the handle. With a loud boom the door flew open.

The room was dark. Derek found Samantha cowering in a corner, a look of sheer terror on her face. She was pointing frantically, trying to speak.

“Look out!” she screamed.

Derek turned, but it was too late. A knife sank into his right shoulder and he howled in agony. He spun to face the source of the pain, and a horrible dread gripped him, the adrenaline suddenly expelled from his system. That smiling clown, the same one from his nightmare, now stood before him. Except this clown was worse than the one in his dreams, worse by far. Only sheer instinct saved him from a second, fatal blow. He spun away and fell backward, pinning Samantha against the wall. The clown lunged at him, his gleaming knife bearing down. Derek caught the arm with the swinging blade as it cut a swath toward his face. There was a searing pain where he had been stabbed in his right shoulder. His arm didn’t want to cooperate anymore. The slightest movement required titanic effort. Derek clutched the clownman desperately.

“Run, Sam,” he shouted. The muscles in his arms stood out like taut cords.

Sam rushed passed them, swinging the shattered door out before her, filling the house with a booming screech.

The two figures struggled on the ground. Shards of glass stabbed Derek’s back. One dug into his spine and he arched his back, screaming.

The glistening knife was inching toward Derek’s eye, and a knee was burying itself into his groin. The pain was unbearable. His testicles were about to explode.

Not fair, he thought. Not fair.

Then he saw those sharpened teeth, gnashing the air like a human meat grinder. They were trying to tear him apart.

Derek cocked one of his legs between them and flung the clown back against the far wall. A shelf filled with jars crashed to the floor over him.

The clownman lay curled in a ball. Derek stood and nudged him with his foot, but there was no movement, only a soft groan. Slowly, the clown looked up at him. The features of his face were coming undone. His face was melting like a waxwork dummy. Globs of thick flesh were oozing down his cheeks, dissolving and then reforming into something else. Derek blinked. A moment later his brother James was curled on the floor. Derek’s jaw fell open. His eyes filled with tears.

“James …?”

His brother’s face was flushed with guilt. “I’ve done such horrible things, Derek.”

“Buh…but you died?”

“The bike shop we used to talk about late into the night? The way Mom and Dad would rag us out for missing our bus to school the next morning? Do you still remember?”

Derek’s eyes were blinking. “Of course I do. How could I ever forget that? Those were the happiest days of my life.”

“Help me, Derek. Please.” His brother held out his hand. “Will you help me?”

Derek started forward and then stopped himself. His head was reeling so badly he could hardly tell which way was up. Someone was tinkering inside his head. Someone was poking around for a soft spot, monkeying with the wires and connections. His eyes dropped to his brother’s hands and his fingers, stained with grease from years of work. The tension in his face relaxed and then melted away entirely. His brother would never lead him astray. Never betray him. Somehow, he seemed to know this with greater certainty than ever before. James on the floor with a single arm outstretched. Derek bent down and took his brother’s hand.

Lysander sat up in a blinding shot of pain. Speckled stars danced before his eyes.

An unfamiliar voice sounded above him, grumbling, cursing. He had knocked heads with someone bent over him. Through the pain, snippets of memory began swimming back, waiting to be plucked from midair. He opened his eyes and tried to focus.

The man leaning over him wore a pair of latex gloves. A name tag pinned to his chest read Frank. There was a reddish bump forming on his chin. With strained patience, he told Lysander to lie back down and not to touch his face.

Frank wasn’t answering Lysander’s question.