Night Of The Beast (30 page)

Maggie waited silently until Rourke began to speak. He told her everything he had experienced or guessed, beginning with the murder of Dee Jennings.

At first she didn't fully understand what he was saying. He began to explain about the evil he had first sensed up on the mountain, in the cave, and that wicked, watchful presence in the back of Martoni's store. Then she knew, because she had felt it too.

"What... What do you think it is?"

"I don't know," Rourke said. "But it's ancient and powerful. It's got us all at war with ourselves. Do you believe me?"

Maggie thought of 'Tony' and shuddered. "Yes, Pete. I believe you."

"This thing that's happening, it feeds on the negative emotions or something. I think it can blur fantasy and reality, until someone like Martoni can't tell the difference anymore. It just keeps on growing. When it takes someone over or kills, it gains even more power."

"But how…"

"It knows what we secretly fear, Maggie. That's the source of its strength."

"Why did it choose Two Trees?"

He shrugged. "Perhaps it's always been here. Or maybe because this is a dying town, and there's nobody here who can put up much of a fight."
Or
, he mused silently,
it might be after me. Christ.

Maggie said: "Peter, let's just get the fuck out of here, okay?"

He looked at her, and his sad concern broke her heart. "I'm sorry," he said, "I should have taken you away earlier."

"Because..?"

"Maggie, we're stuck in the Two Trees area. I can sense it won't let us leave this place. Not now."

Maggie trembled. "Is Michael safe?"

"I can't guarantee anything, but probably. He just got here, so it hasn't had time to work on his mind. Not yet."

"If we can't leave town, then what
can
we do?"

"I honestly don't know, but I'm working on it. Let's go up to my cabin tomorrow. Maybe it will be weaker from a few miles away. It's worth a try, and then we'll see how things go from there."

"I have an idea." Maggie shifted position and took his hand. "Pete, listen," she said. "You said it knows what we're afraid of."

"I think so."

"Then talk to me, Rourke. Please, for your own sake. Tell me about your demons. The graveyard. Get it out in the open, understand?"

"I see what you mean."

"Let's take away its power before it can hurt us."

She was right. And so he did.

"My Grandfather's name was Peter Sharpe," he said. "He was one of the first ranchers to become successful in Nevada. A tough act to follow. I was born on his birthday, named after him and expected to be like him. He called me Pinky when I was a kid, because I had his bright red hair.

"Grandpa smelled of cigar smoke and hard work. He ruled Two Trees with an iron hand and no one, not even my uncle Jeremy, talked back to Peter Sharpe. Yet he was gentle, too; he took great joy in being alive. I loved him, Maggie. When my father got crazy, it was always the thought of Grandpa that kept me going.

"He ran that massive ranch on his own. He kept the books, juggled the debts, even forecast the good and bad years with remarkable accuracy. I can understand that part of it, now. He had the talent. But since no one believed in that stuff when he was young, Grandpa just considered himself lucky.

"When I was eleven years old, he suffered a stroke. Nobody was prepared for what happened. Hell, he seemed indestructible, like he'd live forever. And now he was totally paralyzed, couldn't move or talk. My family brought him back to the ranch.

"Jeremy slaved over the books, but he just didn't have his father's gift. We began to lose money. It was costing a lot to keep Peter Sharpe alive and at home. Prize breeding stock was sold, men were let go, but I was barely aware of all that. I was watching my Grandfather being destroyed.

"You see, they hired this nurse. She'd put him on the toilet with a hoist whenever it seemed like a logical time for him to take a crap. He'd be hanging in this swing, and she'd pull his pajama bottoms down and set him on the potty as if he were a child. Worse yet, she would baby-talk him like he was retarded. She didn't mean any harm, but it must have been torture for Grandpa.

"Jesus, how he suffered.

"I still dream of his eyes sometimes, Maggie. They used to light up when I came into the room. I knew he was aware and alive within that prison of a body, because by then I could touch his mind. It was our little secret; my father would have driven me insane if he'd suspected. He had no idea how gifted I actually was.

"Grandpa had a second stroke. This one left him hospitalized and on an I.V. rig. They couldn't even force his mouth open to feed him. I went over to his bed and I watched him lying there, flat on his back. He was on some kind of life-support system for his lungs; depressed, lonely and so stuck full of needles and tubes he looked like a space creature. I told him a joke, something stupid about the lung machine.

"He looked at me, Maggie.

"It must have taken everything he had, but Grandpa tried to communicate with that fucking machine clicking and whirring and working to keep him alive. Everything got... strange, then crystal clear. I kissed his hand. I can still smell the disinfectant on his fingers.

"'Yes, Grandpa,' I said. 'I hear you. And I do love you that much.' I reached down behind the machine that was keeping him breathing, gripped his hand — and pulled the plug."

Maggie was sobbing. Rourke sighed and held her. "The hardest thing was that I locked with him at the last moment, and he was afraid. But it was too late. I had to yank my mind away from his or I would have died with him. I plugged the machine back in and left. I think my mother knew, though. Somehow. Because she never spoke to me again."

"You did right," Maggie whispered.

"I hope so," he said.

She pulled him closer. Rourke lost himself inside her, suddenly as full of life as he had been of death.

"Hi, there! Are you excited about this evening?"

Gladys Pierson looked up from the switchboard, startled. Edith, cloaked in her customary occult black, was standing a few feet away. Gladys tapped her heart with her fingers. "You really frightened me," she croaked. "Don't you ever knock?"

Edith laughed lightly. "I just pass through doors," she said. "It's a very spiritual thing to do, you know."

Gladys reluctantly unplugged the line. She'd been eavesdropping on one whopper of a conversation: An irate Sheriff Bates had just been turned down for a job as a security guard at Harrah's Tahoe. Edith stepped around the desk. She was attractive, sparse and small-boned. Born thin, thought Gladys. A lucky woman.

"Practically everyone is going," Edith continued. "Everyone still left. But I don't know if I want to go or not."

"Neither do I," Gladys said, although the thought of a full picnic basket made her stomach rumble. "It's like we're all trying too hard, you know? It's so soon after the other night. It makes me sad that we're all trying to act so happy and all."

"I know. But me, I really am happy!"

"Goodness, why?"

"Goodness has nothing to do with it!."

Edith turned a straight-back chair around. She perched like a blackbird on a telephone wire. "Gladys," she smirked, "you know I'll go along with whatever you decide to do. I won't force this on you, dear."

Oh, wonderful
, Gladys thought.
It's the two of us and some more séance nonsense, either way. What else is there to do in Two Trees?

"I really enjoyed last night," Edith bubbled. "We got some marvelous responses from the ouija board."

"You got some marvelous responses. I just got sleepy."

Edith looked amused and complacent. She smiled, her dark eyes twinkling. "I'll make a believer out of you tonight, Gladys. Have you heard about poor Mr. Urich and Mr. Martoni?"

Gladys had been listening in on Bates all morning, but she pretended ignorance to give her friend the thrill of passing along some juicy gossip. "No," she said, leaning forward. "I've been working."

Edith proceeded to tell her, embellishing the gruesome saga with a few imaginative details of her own. After milking every possible ounce of enjoyment out of the exchange, both women agreed that it was a sad and terrible event. Edith's face took on a self-satisfied look. She folded her arms across her chest. "Now, Gladys. Didn't I tell you?"

"Tell me what?"

Edith became dramatic. "The Tarot cards. They said evil was coming here, remember?"

Gladys felt uneasy all of a sudden. Edith seemed... wicked. Again. "You said that's what they meant, but you always say things like that."

"You'll see later on," Edith intoned. "Tonight is the night I convert you. You'll believe, I promise you. The spirits know everything before it happens."

Gladys cringed in fear. The minute Edith left, she located and began to inhale a candy bar. Food always made her feel safe. She was being foolish. What in the world had poor Edith done? They were old friends, for God's sake. She licked the wrapper, crushed it in her fist and tossed it out onto the sidewalk. A playful gust of wind began to bounce the crumpled ball of paper down the street towards the outskirts of town.

Candace Stone had begun to fear for her life. Often, just out of the corner of her eye, she would catch Bert staring at her. His features seemed twisted and ugly; the face of a stranger. But that ghastly expression would vanish the moment she turned to confront him. It was as if she were going psychotic.

They each went through the motions: Small talk at the dinner table, splitting chores, watching television together. But it was all a travesty. Neither trusted the other. As the horror grew, she began to picture sick, nasty things; images her conscious mind tried to shove aside. Ways to kill Bert, before he could murder her.

But then, as quick as the flip of a coin, Candace would ache with a desire to marry him. To have a legal, binding relationship before God. Almost like that was the answer. It was kind of crazy, she knew that, but so was the alternative. Going on with things as they stood.

Why couldn't they sit down and talk it over? What in God's name had come between them?

Bert was rocking silently, as usual, his attention focused on town. Candace gathered up her knitting and went out to join him. Time crawled by. She was searching for words of her own when Bert finally spoke to her, his voice surprisingly warm.

"Maybe you'd best get away," he said. "I think something's wrong with me, Candy. Can't explain it, don't understand it."

Candace felt as though a hundred pound rock had just been lifted from her shoulders. "You don't need to explain, Bert. I'm not myself, either."

He lowered his head. "I get these bad ideas. I keep wanting to hurt you, Candy. Really hurt you."

"I know," Candace said.

"You do?"

"Yes. I feel it, too."

"Life just ain't worth a damn to me no more," Bert mumbled. "I don't even know if I wanna go on."

"I understand."

"You do?"

"I surely do."

"That's good. That's good."

They didn't talk again for quite some time, just rocked back and forth together on the porch.

Meanwhile, in another life: The day hung suspended, as if from a pendulum — bright and shiny and waiting for a push. Chalmers looked out through the cracked glass of the hotel window and wished that something, anything, would move. The fucking place was incredible. Normally the big hermit enjoyed peace and quiet, but this was different. Not like the desert, that wide-open stretch of beige he was accustomed to. Hell, Two Trees was supposed to be a goddamn city. Life in it, people moving around. Voices, dogs barking, cars. This felt like it wasn't real, just some damn oil painting.

The claustrophobia and stifling heat combined to make him feel drowsy. He went to the sink, twisted the rusty handle and threw cold water on his face. I'm losing my edge, he thought. Vargas wouldn't like that. He'd get pissed off.

Chalmers lay facedown on the floor and did some pushups to clear his mind. He experienced a sudden jolt of confusion and fear. Someone buried deep within him struggled, briefly, to regain control; tried to structure him as he'd been... before. Way back in the beginning.

But then it didn't seem important anymore. Chalmers relaxed. He stretched and yawned. Shit, things would be okay. He returned to his place at the window, dreading the view and the eternal day.

He watched as a tall man wearing a badge crossed the street. Chalmers took the Sheriff's measure. Strong, loose and limber in his walk. Military background. Someone to stay clear of, most likely.

Sheriff Bates went up onto the splintered sidewalk and into the afternoon shade. Behind him, his shadow mated. Michael Moore stepped through the swinging doors of the hotel casino, finishing a beer. The two men eyed each other. They were natural enemies, and knew it. Something tense crackled between them.

"I took another look this morning," Bates said. "It must have gone down about the way you figured. I was a little drunk, but I sorted it out all right."

"Town's lucky to have you, Sheriff."

Bates showed his teeth. "You know something? Now that I'm sober, I don't think I like you very much."

"Don't worry. I won't be around long enough to bother you. Don't feel obliged to do anything about it."

"You best be telling me the truth," Bates said. He seemed a bit mollified. Michael noticed more than a hangover. The Sheriff's eyes were darting about nervously. He had slept poorly.