Night Of The Beast (10 page)

Rourke got out of the car and strolled over to their mother. She seemed in her middle thirties, with soft features and gentle eyes. He gave her a nod and his name. The woman smiled and introduced herself as Paula Baxter. She lit one cigarette from the butt of another.

"I've got to quit," she said, more to herself than to him. "I'm chain smoking. Thanks for stopping, Mr. Rourke."

"Peter," he said. "Tire?"

"Uh-huh. I can't seem to figure out how this jack works or I'd change it myself."

Rourke dropped to his knees and examined the tool. The boy seemed bright, energetic and exceptionally curious. He was maybe eight or nine years old. He rushed over to watch. His face bore a wide smattering of freckles and he had unruly brown hair. The sister, perhaps fourteen or fifteen, approached more cautiously. She seemed meek or perhaps a bit aloof, and looked very much like her mother.

"My son, Timmy, Peter Rourke. And this is my daughter Julie."

"Hi, kids."

Julie held back, but Timmy moved closer. "Hi Mr. Rourke," the boy said. "Nice to meetcha."

"Likewise," Peter smiled. "Dude. Are you going to give me a hand with this?"

Excitement. "Sure thing!"

Paula Baxter smoked one cigarette after another while Rourke guided Timmy through removing the hubcap and some of the lugs on his own. The job was done in a matter of minutes. Peter stayed for a can of cold soda. Paula seemed pleasant — simple and direct, although a bit jumpy — and he enjoyed the boy's company immensely, but his mind was elsewhere. He was going through the motions. He did learn that the Baxter clan was headed North, into Rourke's old territory. He suggested a few scenic stops and mentioned a favorite place to fish.

"Why don't you come with us, Mr. Rourke?" Timmy asked.

"I wish I could," Peter lied. "But I've got things to do."

"You can if you want to," the boy said. "See, my Daddy ran off with his secretary."

Paula Baxter cringed and studied her shoes. She was crimson with embarrassment. Peter grinned. "Some other time, maybe. I have a few things to do in town first."

Timmy looked disappointed. He hesitated. "Mr. Rourke, are there vampers in these woods?"

"Huh?"

"You know, vampers. Monster things that drink blood."

Paula shook her head ruefully. "Those trashy old comic books he reads. Horror stories his father gave him. He means vampires, Peter."

Rourke waved the thought away. "No, Timmy. We don't allow any vampires around Two Trees. It's against the law."

"Good. Because I know all about 'em. How they can't come in unless you invite 'em and they hypnotize people and stuff and have to be killed with a stake — WHAM! — right through the heart, just like that."

"Timmy," Paula said patiently, "how many times do I have to tell you there's no such thing as a vampire? That's just something somebody made up. It's all make-believe, not real."

"Oh, I know that Mom."

The boy didn't seem convinced. Rourke rose, stretched and scanned the horizon. "Excuse me," he said, "but I'd better be on my way. How long do you plan on staying?"

"I don't really know. Maybe a few weeks."

"Well, then I'll probably see you again. It's a tiny town."

"Gee," Timmy gushed. "That would be great!"

"Goodbye," Julie said softly. It was the first time she'd spoken. "Thank you."

"You're welcome, Julie. So long."

As Rourke drove away Paula Baxter glared at her son.

"Timmy?"

"Yes, ma'am?"

Innocence. Kids. Paula shrugged and lit another cigarette.

"Oh, never mind."

Julie, now that the nice young man had gone, became animated and whiny. In short, herself again. "Momma, I've got a headache. Are we going to sit here all day?"

Paula got behind the wheel. The kids blocked each other's way; delayed entering and staged an elaborate sight gag. Timmy ducked low, slipped under his sister's outstretched arms and tumbled over into the rear seat with a triumphant whoop. Julie followed, pouting. Their befuddled mother started the engine and pulled out onto the long stretch of empty highway.

Paula inhaled deeply and puffed white clouds of acrid smoke. Her fingers began to goose-step along the dashboard. Meanwhile her son slouched down, extended his short legs and opened a comic book.

"
Ghouls and Goblins?
Oooh, how gross!"

Timmy ignored his sister. He was accustomed to the nagging and her superior attitude. His mother told him Julie only behaved this way because she wasn't well. That she needed their patience and understanding. She had made him promise to try his best, and so he did. Still, Julie often pushed her luck a little too far... Like now.

"You're a dummy," she declared. "You can't even say 'vampire' right. 'Vamper'? Jeez, how embarrassing."

Timmy flushed, but calmly turned the page. This was the neat part, when all the dead people started sitting up in their graves. He wished his sister would shut up so he could enjoy the scary stuff, the way he usually did. But Julie noticed the pink in his cheeks, and she had never been one to back away while she was winning.

"Creepo," she said. "You are so immature."

"Mom, make her cut it out."

Paula smoked and fiddled. She was far away, thinking about Karl. The way he'd walked out after sixteen years of marriage, most of them good. Why hadn't he talked about it? Shared? She'd never had a fighting chance. Bastard. He hadn't even said goodbye.

"Timmy," Julie whispered. "Do you still think there's something in your closet? Well, you know what I'm gonna do tonight?"

He turned the page, ignoring her, but the hair on his scalp quivered and came to attention. It was not a cool kind of scared.

"I think I'll just hide in the closet and wait until you're fast asleep and dreaming. Then I'll jump out and —"

"Mom! She's picking on me!"

Paula reacted swiftly. "That's enough, Julie," she snapped. "Lay off, or you'll end up with a spanking you won't forget."

Julie nodded politely. "All right, Mom." She was no fool. Besides, time was on her side.

Timmy focused on the story again, because now all the dead folks were walking around, real creepy, looking for the bad guy. He lingered on the ending, frame by frame, in no hurry to finish. The next tale, the worst one, was about a girl vamper that killed her whole family. It was

kinda fun, but awful spooky. Like that book by a guy named Douglas Clegg that a buddy at home had let him look through.
Whew!

Julie elbowed him. "The closet," she whispered.

Timmy flinched, unable to control his reaction. Julie grinned and repeated the threat. "The closet, Timmy. I'll be hiding in the closet tonight."

"Mom!"

"Damn it, Julie!"

"Oh, Mom. I hate this trip. There won't be any movies and nothin' to do, no malls or shopping, I just hate it!"

"Julie Baxter, you shut your mouth this minute."

Ooops. Mom had used the dreaded last name. That meant it was time to straighten up and fly right. Timmy gave his sister a dirty look. He stuck out his tongue, but failed to provoke her. Julie was quite adept at assessing her mother's moods, and usually knew when to quit. She'd won this round, anyway.

Timmy decided to skip the vamper story. He'd have enough trouble getting to sleep tonight just because she ran her mouth about the darned closet.

Miles of sand went by, each one much like the last.

Further up the long, black ribbon of highway Peter Rourke was pushing his Nova past seventy. He had classical music playing on the cassette deck. Suddenly the strong sounds warped, his vision blurred and he heard electric guitars and Dee Jennings:

"Storm clouds gather

In a bleak grey sky..."

Panicked, he yanked the tape from the machine's mouth and immediately lost control of the car. The Nova began swerving all over the road, new tires belching smoke.
I'm having another hallucination,
he thought
. This is not real. That did not happen. I only imagined hearing the song.

Rourke slowed. He was breathing hard, sweating fiercely. He forced himself to relax, turned the radio on and —

"Storm clouds gather

In a bleak grey sky..."

Christ!

Peter felt a wall of sheer energy, and solid as a block of dry ice. His foot slammed on the brake and the car wheeled 180 degrees, peeling rubber. Had he encountered a palpable force — something powerful enough to trigger his latent talent? Perhaps.
Or maybe
, he thought,
I've just gone crazy again. Either way, I lose.

He felt too exhausted to continue. He leaned back and closed his eyes to rest for a moment. The world went away, and all music with it.

The caskets were closed. Sheriff Glenn Bates ordered Jason to seal them. He saw no reason why the others should bear witness to the horror lacquered on Elmo's sightless eyes, much less the ghastly mess that had been made of pretty little Beth Reiss. It was the worst sight Bates had seen since Viet Nam.

Let's get this over with
, the Sheriff thought grimly. It's hot. They'll be starting to stink soon. What the fuck is happening to this little town? He nodded to old Martoni, the grocer, who hit play on his small cassette player. Bagpipes played "Amazing Grace."

Preacher Louise Polson, feeling like a hypocrite, said: "Now let us pray."

Everyone bowed their heads. The grey-haired former evangelist dropped the Bible into her broad lap and shifted her weight abruptly. Her wheelchair began to move forward. Her husband Hiram, gasping, grabbed for the handles. He was barely able to stop her from rolling down through the parted lips of soil and into the mouth of the double grave. Louise would not have cared. Whatever faith I had left, she thought grimly, is being buried with that poor, innocent child.

Louise had been chosen by default. Robert Reiss was too grief-stricken to form a rational sentence. He stood nearby, head bowed and blue eyes streaming tears, struggling to grasp how his God could have allowed such a thing to happen. Thought:
My sweet Lord, I cannot bear this.

Louise continued. "Jesus, we bring these two departed souls to You in their human imperfection. We pray You will show them mercy. Take them in Your loving arms for all eternity — You, who are the Resurrection and the Light. Amen."

"Amen," said the town.

The Murphys, hard-scrabble alfalfa farmers until less than one week ago, turned and walked briskly towards a battered tan station wagon piled high with their belongings. They'd had their fill and were moving south. Jack and Helen Younger, a couple in their sixties, followed.

A cloud of swirling dust, and Two Trees was smaller still.

Spats Rafferty, his breath sharp with liquor and his mind fogged, stood waiting with Jake Lewis. They'd been appointed by Glenn Bates to fill in the graves. Spats hated work, but had been afraid to say no to the Sheriff. Old Martini stopped the tape and handed the cassette to his friend Urich. They walked away, heads down.

Hiram rolled Louise closer to Robert Reiss. She patted his hand wordlessly, and then the Polsons left for their hotel. Soon, no one remained behind but the confused young minister and his two reluctant gravediggers. Jake spat on his hands and hefted the shovel, impatient to get started and get it over with.

Jason Smith watched from the second-floor window of the mortuary, a thin smile carved on his gnarled features. He fingered his birthmark, which had now all but vanished. The Beast was pleased with his sacrifice. The time was coming. Jason closed the drapes.

Robert: Father, please help me to understand. Thy will be done, but soothe my rage so that I carry no hatred towards the man who caused this. Ease my guilt, my gnawing pain; still the shrieking voice that insists I should have been here when it happened. Bless Elmo and Elizabeth Reiss, Heavenly Father. Bless me. I must leave. I can't stay here any longer. Something wicked has entered this place. Guide me, Lord, that I may be Your servant. Amen.

The bearded young man glanced up at the mortuary windows. Had the closed curtains rustled? Probably just the wind. He should come to the service, Robert thought with a burst of resentment. Smith knew my family well enough. He lives in Two Trees. It's disrespectful of him to remain indoors. He's the mortician, for heaven's sake. How can he stay away?

But then again, perhaps the pitiful sight of Beth's ravaged corpse might have disturbed the strange little man; sickened him, despite his professional training. Robert knew that Smith had nurtured a crush on his sister. Tending to her body, he thought, must have cost Jason a great deal.

Spats Rafferty belched, shuffled his feet and began knocking his shovel against a small mound of clay and pebbles. Jake elbowed him sharply, but Beth's brother heard and understood. He sighed.

"Amen," Robert whispered. "Rest in peace." And then he walked away.

Moments passed. A steaming wind pirouetted across the parched, yellowing hillside. The afternoon grew hushed and still. Alone in the scorching heat, with the sun just beginning to sink behind the towering mountains, Spats Rafferty and Jake Lewis shared a drink of whiskey. Jake coughed and wiped his mouth.

"May as well get started."

Rafferty decided to keep his mind on the twenty bucks Bates was paying. A lot of sauce for an hour's work. Spats lifted the shovel, dug deep. Grunted.