October (8 page)

They turned right, passed similar scenery, turned left on another corner.

A black-and-white police cruiser appeared ahead. "Uh oh,"
Scalizi
said.

Davey said, "I see it."

They slowed their walk, banished the strutting. The patrol car approached, angled toward them, stopped to let them catch up.

The window on the driver's side rolled down, and the hard-lined, crew-cut, unsmiling face of a uniformed police officer regarded them. "Out for a stroll, Putnam?" he said humorlessly.

"Yes, Officer Johnston, I am," Davey said, forcing irony into his politeness.

"I thought I told you not to stroll here," Johnston said. "Especially not with
Scalizi
."

"I'm sorry, Officer. I guess I didn't hear you."

"Get your hearing checked. What are you doing here?”

“We're on our way to Nick
Backman's
house to get help on some of Buddy's homework."

"What about your homework, Putnam?"

Davey said nothing.

"Get what you need and get the hell home." The officer turned back to his steering wheel, revved his engine. "I'll be around to talk to your old man."

The officer let the patrol car begin to roll, then braked it. He turned to glare at Davey. "You hear me?"

"Yes, Officer," Davey said.

"Any trouble, it's your ass I haul in, whether it was you or not." This time he hit the accelerator.

"What is it with that bastard?" Buddy said. "Why is he always on your tail?"

Davey watched the patrol car turn the corner. "He had some trouble with my old man once." Before
Scalizi
could say anything, he added, "My real father."

Nick
Backman's
house was a block ahead, painted the inevitable white with black shingles. The driveway, which sloped slightly down to a garage set into the foundation, was empty.

"Let's go around back," Buddy said, resuming his strut.

They walked the flagstone path to the left of the driveway. There was a green chain-link fence at the backyard, tripped with a latch. They opened it and entered. The backyard had just been mowed, wheel marks of the mower in fresh ranks. The pool, near the back right corner of the yard, was covered with a tied green tarp, flecked with blown leaves and grass.

They went to the sliding glass door off the porch. It was locked, covered on the inside by a curtain. The windows along the back of the house were curtained.

"Dragged me over here for nothing," Davey said. "There's nobody home."

"He said he'd be here," Buddy protested.

"Well—"

A glare of light caught Davey's eye. There was a light in one of the basement windows set down into the foundation. As he watched, the light was eclipsed.

"Somebody's in the cellar," Davey said.

They went to the window. It was long and narrow, double paned, screened.

"See anything?" Buddy said.

"Be quiet."

Davey got down on his knees, brought his face close to the window. Buddy crouched beside him.

The light was once again blocked. As Davey watched, the figure blocking it stepped back. A long, white, naked body was revealed, ample breasts with standing nipples, long dark hair, the tight roundness of buttocks. Someone stepped forward, another naked female, to
cup
the left breast in her hand, guide it to her mouth while the girl with the long hair threw her head back, closed her eyes, opened her mouth.

"Jesus, that's Andrea Carlson,"
Scalizi
said. "And Brenda—"

"Hello, boys."

Davey and Buddy pushed themselves up from the window to see Nick
Backman
, hands in pockets, regarding them mildly from the edge of the porch. The sliding glass door was open behind him, the curtain billowing out.
Backman
wore a deep-gray crew-neck sweater over the collared, buttoned wings of a blue oxford-cloth shirt. His creased gabardine slacks were cuffed, bottomed by oxblood loafers.

"We—" Buddy began.

"No problem. Come on in."

Backman
turned, climbed through the sliding door.

"Jesus," Buddy said. "I can't believe—"

Davey took him by the arm and said, "Let's go."

They followed Nick
Backman
into the house. The sliding glass door led into a playroom, large-screen television centering one wall, a couch, a couple of easy chairs, a leather recliner angled around a coffee table covered with copies of Vogue and Architectural Digest along with the current TV Guide. The room was dimly lit. Nick
Backman
stood between the kitchen and playroom, near an open doorway with a downward staircase, waiting for them.

"Close the door, please," he said, and Buddy turned to slide the heavy glass frame closed.

"Lock it,"
Backman
added.

After a moment's search, Buddy located the flip-switch and secured the door.

Davey balled his fists, stood facing Nick
Backman
. "You think because you're a couple of years older you can fuck with Buddy? I told you last year in high school to leave him alone. I don't give a damn if you're a big man in college now. The same—"

"Forget that," Nicky said, smiling. He turned to Buddy, and now Davey noticed the glassiness in
Backman's
eyes. "I'm sorry about that business. It won't happen again."

"Well . . . okay," Buddy said defiantly. "But if it does—"

Backman's
smile widened. "It won't." He faced Davey. "I want to show you guys something."

Nick turned and descended the cellar stairs.

"This is weird," Buddy said. "I swear, Nick is high. That was Andrea Carlson down there. And Brenda
Valachio
.”

“Want to check it out?" Davey asked.

"If you want to. But I swear, Nick was high. Did you see—"

"He was," Davey said.

They descended the stairs into a well-paneled cellar,
neons
set into a dropped ceiling, wall-to-wall carpeting, sailing-ship prints in double-matted frames on the walls, furniture that might once have been in the playroom upstairs, a frayed couch against the stairwell wall, two slipcovered chairs huddling nearby. A billiard table squatted under a long Tiffany-style hanging lamp. Along the far wall, under the row of windows giving view to the backyard, was a long bar, curved edge at the right end, a real barroom rack behind it, filled with spout-topped bottles of scotch and liqueurs. Over it was a mirror etched with the Budweiser eagle, topped by a clock.

On a wall mount at the end of the bar was another television.

To the right, abutting the bar was a paneled wall with two doors, one of them ajar.

Andrea Carlson and Brenda
Valachio
rose from the couch. They were dressed, New Polk preppie, sweaters, gray and blue, circled at the neck with pink flowers, white shirts, short button-collared beneath, washed jeans, white socks, penny loafers.

"Hi, fellas." Andrea Carlson smiled. Brenda's smile quickly widened and she bent over, covering her mouth, tittering.

"Hi," Buddy said. He flashed his white teeth, embarrassed.

Andrea Carlson held Davey's even look for a moment, then turned to take Brenda by the arm and say, "Stop that!" before beginning to laugh herself. Davey noticed a glassy look in Andrea's eyes.

"Where's Nick?" Buddy said.

"He's—" Brenda
Valachio
began, pointing toward the doorway by the bar, before collapsing into giggles again.

"In here, fellas!" Nick called. He appeared, motioning them to follow him into the room. The girls went ahead, holding each other, laughing.

Buddy leaned over, whispered to Davey, "This is fucked up."

Davey paused at the doorway. It was almost dark within, musty smelling. He saw something flickering in a far corner. The light of a single basement window from the front of the house threw bare illumination. In the shadows, he saw the outline of an overhead bulb,
unpulled
, saw the boxy shape of what looked like an oil burner.

"Come on in!" Nick called.

Davey went in; Buddy followed.

Davey's eyes adjusted. A tool bench sat against the far, unpainted cement wall, tools on Peg-Board above it, sloppily kept. No dropped ceiling. Bare support beams. Off to the left, canned goods on a bank of pine shelving; to the right, the oil burner; behind it, the source of the flickering light.

Andrea's head suddenly appeared, looking around the oil burner at them. "Come on!" she said impatiently.

"It's cold in here," Buddy complained.

As they approached the oil burner; they heard a mewling sound. There was the flicker of a candle flame. Reflected in it was the curved side of a coffee can resting on the cement floor. Andrea bent over it, reading something from a paperback book.

"Davey, I don't—" Buddy began.

"Quiet."

They moved around the oil burner into a cleared-out area. Boxes had been pushed aside; the disassembled skeleton of an old bed was jammed against the wall, nicked pine boards up under the rafters. Dust balls slept in the corners.

The area in the center was cleared.

A single candle, waxed onto a saucer; next to it, the empty blue coffee can; out of the can butted a wooden utensil handle.

The oil burner suddenly flared.

Davey felt Buddy jump beside him.

"What the fu—"

Nick, his back to them, turned. Something struggled in his hands, cupped at his middle; a small thing, brown, a tiny leg pushing out, trying to free itself from
Backman's
grip.

"Whoa, there," Nick said, laughing, holding the thing up. He pushed his thumbs under its ears to make them stand out, its little legs dangling, running in air. A cocker spaniel.

"Cute puppy,
heh
?" Nick said.

"Let's do it, Nick," Andrea said impatiently. She threw the book down. On the cover were three witches, putting things into a caldron.

"Okay," Nick said. "You ready, Davey? We needed five to make the coven complete."

On the cellar floor, Brenda was sketching a pentagram, a five-pointed star, with a piece of chalk.

"I don't think—" Davey said.

But in a blur of motion, Nick
Backman
forced the puppy to the floor, pinned it on its belly as Andrea drew the wooden handle from the coffee can, revealing a steak knife tapering to a bright point. She jabbed the knife forward, blocking the dog from Davey's sight.

"Do it!" Brenda said.

There was a yelp and an explosion of red. Nick yelled, bringing his hands up. A wash of liquid rose from the cellar floor, bathing all of them.

Davey stumbled back. Buddy said, "Shit!" throwing his hands to his face and then gasping. Frantically, he wiped his hands at his eyes.

"Oh, my God," Buddy cried. "Oh, my God."

"All right!" Nick cried. He lifted up a small, bloody mass, suspending it above the candle.

"And now—" he began solemnly, before blurting out a laugh.

Andrea and Brenda dissolved into giggling as Nick dropped the red thing onto the floor.

"Oh, Jesus, you should have seen your faces!"
Backman
screamed, pointing at Davey and Buddy. "You should have seen it!”

Nick collapsed into laughter, holding his middle. The puppy, safe and whole, scooted out to sniff at the red, pulpy thing on the floor and then yelped and ran off to another part of the cellar.

"Catsup and water!" Brenda laughed, tears filling her eyes. She reached down to squeeze the red-soaked sponge on the floor. "It was catsup and water!"

"I can't stand it!" Andrea howled, turning away from them, rolling on the floor.

Davey advanced on Nicky. Once again his fists were balled. "You bastard—"

"No—" Nicky said, still laughing. "It was . . . just a joke. Just a joke." He picked up the paperback book. "We got it all from this. I've got to read it for a frosh English class at the university." He kept laughing. "Give me your clothes, I'll wash them in the machine. You can have a little snort while they're cleaning. I've got some coke somewhere . . ." He broke off in laughter. "The stains will come out. We've done it before." He looked at Andrea and Brenda. "Haven't we done it before? Taken off our clothes?"

The three of them exploded in laughter.

Davey clamped his hand on Nick's shoulder. "I'll break your goddamn head."

Nicky's face sobered. "No, you won't." He looked at Andrea and Brenda, who were still howling, and gasped a laugh before looking evenly at Davey. "You won't do anything, because I'll call the fucking police if you do and report you broke and entered my parents' house. Maybe you used to be a big shot when your old man was mayor, but your old man's long dead and now you're just a delinquent punk. And
Scalizi
is a coward who needs a punk to do his fighting for him." He looked down at Davey's hand until Davey removed it from his shoulder. "Leave."