October (20 page)

The next morning, Davey was hungrier, finishing the rest of the soup and a fistful of crackers.

After school, Buddy bought a loaf of Wonder bread and a jar of peanut butter. When the dog showed an interest in it, Davey let him lick peanut butter from his fingers.

"Sorry, I've got no money for beer," Buddy said.

"I'd just puke it up, anyway," Davey answered.

They continued like this for four more days. Buddy's father slept most of the day and went to work at six. Buddy walked the dog each night when his father left, and just before his father got home. Buddy slept on the floor, wrapped in an old quilt that shed stuffing from one end. His room was small and dirty, the bed banged up. There was a secondhand desk, covered with plastic modeling paraphernalia,
Testor's
paints, brushes and glue, a half-finished red '56 Corvette model, parts laid out neatly next to the box. On a pine board above the desk, supported by two cheap gray brackets, were competently finished models, including a sky-blue '58 T-bird. The walls of the room, old cracked yellow paint, were thumbtacked with old rock posters, The Doors, T-Rex, Led Zeppelin, along with Bon Jovi and Def
Leppard
.

On the fifth day, when Buddy got home from school, he threw his books on the floor and turned his desk chair around to face Davey. He took off his jacket, dropped it over the back of the chair, sat, leaned forward, looking at the floor, rubbing his hands. "Time to tell me what's going on.”

"What do you mean?" Davey tossed aside the hot-rod magazine he had been reading. He had gotten color back into his face. The dog lay beside Davey on the bed, facing him, head resting over one paw. The dog made a deep, contented sound in his throat as Davey dug his fingers deep into the dog's coat, behind the ears.

"Don't give me any bullshit, man. You were talking like crazy when you had that fever. Something about a guy killing another guy. Lots of guys."

Davey looked at him, said nothing.

"Come on, Davey! You said some guy murdered Ben Meyer and his wife, buried them somewhere."

Davey continued his even stare. "I must have been dreaming."

Buddy sat up, hit his knee with his fist. "You dream that .38 in your jacket pocket? Goddammit, Davey, you don't trust me? You think I'm a jerk like everybody else does?"

"Forget the whole thing, Buddy."

"Look at you! You're scared shitless! I've never seen you like this before."

"I said forget it. Thanks for the help. You're not a jerk. Believe me—"

Buddy's face reddened. He stood up. "I'm not a jerk, but you can't trust me, right? Good enough to use, but not good enough to let in on the secret, right?"

"Hey, calm down, you'll wake your old man up."

Buddy's face flushed with anger. "Who cares!" he said. "Fuck everything! My old man thinks I'm no good for anything. Nobody thinks I'm good for anything. The college boys give me a hard time, I'm supposed to take it—"

"Nick
Backman
still bothering you?"

Buddy's anger softened to embarrassment. "He said you were
chickenshit
for running away from home, so I challenged him to fight."

"Buddy—"

"I don't need you this time, Davey. Nobody fights for me anymore. This time I take
Backman
alone."

"Where?"

"His house, tonight. His parents won't be home. He promised, just me and him. No funny business this time.”

“You can't trust him."

"Can I trust you?" Buddy's anger grew. "Know what I'm gonna do? I'm going up to Ben Meyer's place, check it out myself." He stood, pulled his jacket off the back of the chair, put it on, zipped it up. "From now on, I do everything myself." He walked to the door, kicked his schoolbooks aside, yanked the door open.

"You can't do that," Davey said from the bed. Buddy stuck his chin out defiantly. "Why not?”

“Because you'll get killed."

"Bullshit."

"There's a guy in Ben Meyer's house that's murdered everybody he's met—"

"Too late, Davey. I'm going, no matter what."

Davey studied Buddy's set face. "Don't."

Buddy reached for the door.

"All right," Davey said, getting up from the bed.

Buddy stopped. "What?"

"I'll go with you. As soon as your old man leaves for work. I owe you that. And then I'll go with you to Nick
Backman's
."

Buddy flashed his white smile. "All
right
."

In the few days Davey had been in bed it had gotten colder, rawer. The sun was lower, a deeper orange; the trees whipped a little tighter in the cutting wind. Fallen leaves blanketed the streets, lined the gutters, were sent billowing by passing cars. The houses wore lines of leaves in their gutters, along their foundations. Carpets of leaves covered browning front lawns. Piles of them, raked next to walkways, were peeled by the wind. There was, everywhere, an odor of dried leaves.

And, in those few days, the houses of New Polk had readied for Halloween. Newspaper-stuffed scarecrows with pumpkin heads, and stuffed black witches with brooms and peaked charcoal hats above long faces, guarded porches. Windowpanes were crowded with jointed skeletons, white bones bent into dancing position, smiling skulls making them look vaudevillian. Every porch and stoop held a pumpkin—fat, bursting at the seams, ripe, dark orange,
uncarved
. There were autumn baskets of gourds: fat and hard, green, deep yellow. One picture window had a jointed cardboard banner that said in big, shaky white letters, BOO!

Buddy did his bopping stride; Davey walked with his head tucked into the collar of his jacket, like a turtle. A police cruiser crossed their path a block ahead. They ducked away, as if from a cold wind, until it went on.

"Fucking cops," Buddy said.

As they turned off the walk to the dirt path near Packer's Farm Stand, Davey dug his fingers deep into his pocket, wrapped them around the .38.

They circled around through the orchard. After climbing the rock wall, they made their way into the tree blocks.

Neglected apples lay rotting on the ground. The orchard was permeated by the sugary odor of decay.

They stopped when they saw the lights of the farmhouse rise into view below.

A car was parked out front, a shovel resting against its hood.

"That's a brand-new T-bird," Buddy said.

"Great. Seen enough?" Davey asked.

"Are you kidding?" Buddy laughed, began to walk down the hillside.

Davey reached out, held him. "Let's leave."

The defiant look had not left Buddy's face. "I told you, I'm not taking any more shit from anybody. The only way I go is to see."

"If that's what you want. But let's see if anyone's home first." Davey reached beneath his jacket and pulled the .38 out. He raised the gun and fired one shot. It popped loudly, echoed, died.

No one came from the house.

"Okay," Davey said. "But be ready to run."

He quickly descended the hill, holding the gun in front of him.

Buddy followed.

The dog stayed by the tree line, making an angry sound in his throat.

At the bottom of the hill, Davey crossed the yard and walked straight to the shovel leaning against the hood of the car. He pulled it from its resting place, handed it to Buddy, pointed at a freshly tilled spot near the edge of the garden. "Dig."

Buddy dug, struck something solid. He uncovered a man's hand, stiff and white as marble, the sleeve of an expensive-looking suit.

"Jesus," Buddy said.

"Had enough?"

Buddy moved over a few feet, dug in another fresh spot until he uncovered the blood-clotted top of a boy's head. The face fell back, revealed an open mouth filled with a spill of soil.

"This is no fucking joke."

"I told you," Davey said.

"Yeah." Buddy dropped the shovel, turned to vomit.

With the side of his sneaker, he pushed dirt back over the boy's face.

"Ben Meyer and his wife are in there," Davey said. "
So's
their dog. There's also a guy in a raincoat from town. It's been almost a week since I was here. Who the hell knows how many others there are."

"All right, Davey, we can go—"

At the top of the hill, the dog howled.

The screen door on the house banged open.

"Oh, Christ."

Davey went cold. He turned to see the tall man in suspenders step out onto the porch. His face was blank, white as the moon. His hands hung at his sides listlessly. He turned from Davey to Buddy.

"Run!" Davey shouted.

They ran.

The tall man loped after them.

Davey and Buddy hit the hill hard. They were halfway up when the tall man began to climb. By the time they topped the hill, the distance between them was only thirty feet.

"Move it!" Davey shouted.

Buddy started to go down. He slipped on a row of stones, recovered. The dog barked, ran back. Buddy regained his footing and kept running.

Davey retraced his old steps through the blocks of apple trees toward the stone wall. He glanced back. The tall man was closing the gap, arms working like pistons at his sides, long legs churning.

"Buddy, the wall!" Davey yelled. "Jump it!"

The wall came quick. Davey hurtled it, catching his back sneaker on the very top. He tumbled over, hit, dropped the .38. He jumped to his feet as the dog and Buddy leaped simultaneously.

Buddy hit the wall awkwardly. He set his foot halfway up the rock face and started to hoist himself up and over. The tall man reached out, caught the cuff of Buddy's jeans, closing his hand around his sneaker.

Buddy's momentum carried him over the wall, dangling in the tall man's grip.

"Help me!" Buddy shouted.

Davey searched the ground frantically for the .38. He found it. As he stood up, the dog leaped, howling, and caught the tall man's wrist in his teeth. He held, twisting, until the tall man roared and let go of Buddy's ankle. The tall man raised his other hand to strike as the dog let go.

"Go!" Buddy shouted. He scrambled to his feet and followed with the dog.

The tall man stood at the wall and began to climb it. By the time he had made it awkwardly over, Buddy and Davey were fifty yards down the slope of the hill.

"Keep going!" Davey said.

"Jesus," Buddy gasped, "his . . . hand on me . . . was . . . like . . . ice."

When they reached the dirt path to the main road, they stopped.

Behind them, in the dusk, there was no sign of the man in suspenders.

Davey tucked the .38 into his belt. "Now what do you think?"

"I think," Buddy said, resuming his bopping stride, "as soon as I fight Nick
Backman
, we get him to call the cops for us."

On Nick
Backman's
block, porch lights were on. But they were restricted beacons, brightening their spot of night, leaving the rest of the world black. A single streetlight was on, its long pole settled at an angle by the root push of a nearby oak.

Two houses from
Backman's
, in front of a darkened Cape Cod, Buddy halted. "I want you to stay here, Davey," he said.

"Are you crazy?"

"Listen," Buddy said. "
Backman
hates your guts. If you show up, he won't help us get this guy at the Meyer place. After he punches me out, he'll definitely help."

"You're going to let him beat up on you?"

Buddy grinned in the darkness. "Shit, we both know I don't have a chance against him anyway."

Davey said, "I don't like it."

"It's the only way. You know the cops won't believe us without
Backman's
help. He's a shithead, but he's respectable. You stay here, keep an eye out. I might be in there awhile. If the tall bastard shows up, use your .38 on him."

"I still don't like it."

"There's no other way, Davey boy."

Davey hesitated, then said, "Okay."

Buddy thrust his hands into his pockets, went into his bopping walk away from Davey. Suddenly he stopped, strode back.

"Mind if I take the mutt?" he said.

Davey looked at the dog.

"For companionship," Buddy said. "In case
Backman
tries anything. Maybe Nick won't beat up on me so bad if I have the dog with me."

Again, Davey hesitated. "All right."

"Thanks." Buddy turned to the dog. "Come on, pooch.”

“Go on," Davey said quietly.

The dog went with Buddy. As they walked away, the dog glanced back, and Davey waved at him to continue.

Buddy and the dog made the turn into Nick
Backman's
driveway. Davey, feeling suddenly very alone, holding the .38 like a talisman, leaned into the darkness to wait.

As he had promised,
Backman
had left the sliding glass door in the backyard open. Before going in, Buddy glanced at the cellar window. It was a dark rectangle, no light on.