Popcorn Thief (7 page)

Inside the fence, three more twisting white-rock roads had
been added since Franklin’s last visit. They led from various parts of the yard
to the tree men. “Adrianna’s insistent on giving them more power,” Ray said
quietly.

It looked like a spider’s web painted by a child.

“Franklin!” Adrianna called from where she was seated. “Come
and have some sweet tea.”

It looked like she was having a late-night dinner, seated on
a blanket under her tree men statues.

Except that next to her was a camp stove that looked as
though it had been set up for days, now. Three wooden shelves, supported by
cinder blocks and covered with pots, pans, and dishes stretched on the other
side. Even a suitcase filled with clothes lay open in the camp.

“Hey Miss Adrianna,” Franklin said, coming over to sit
beside her. “Is everything all right?”

“It’s so lovely here! And Ray is doing everything he can to
help. Aren’t you, dear?”

Ray gave his indulgent smile, though even Franklin could see
it was strained. “Yep. Anything for my girl.”

“I’m so sorry to hear about your cousin,” Adrianna said
after she handed Franklin a tall cup filled with ice and sweet tea.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Franklin said. “It’s a great loss.” It
still made his heart hurt to think about it.

“Was it that creature that killed her?” Ray asked.

“The police think she was killed by a man. Maybe the
businessman she was found with. But the creature was there too. Scratched her
and the businessman all up.” Franklin didn’t bother to mention his own troubles
with the police.

“I had lunch with Earl while he was here,” Ray admitted.

“Do the cops know?” Franklin asked, concerned. What would
Sheriff Thompson say if he came over here and saw Adrianna’s nest?

“Yeah, they called, and I went in to give a statement.” Ray
sighed. “I don’t think Earl killed Lexine, though. He was a business
acquaintance of mine.”

“What was he doing here?” Franklin asked.

“Looking to set up a high-powered retreat. Not a resort, not
like what tourists would use. But a place to escape from everything. Really
high priced, too. It would have been a great success,” Ray said. “Earl came out
here to see if the economy could support it, how much would have to be flown
in, how much could a resort tend to itself.”

“Ray—was Earl special? In any way?” Franklin asked.
“Like Miss Adrianna?”

“Not that I know of, no,” Ray said, shaking his head. “But
he did have a nose for making money. That man lost and made more fortunes than
most people can even dream about.”

“There’s more to life than just money,” Adrianna said
solemnly.

“Unless you don’t have enough,” Ray pointed out gently. “Anyway.
I figure he went out to Lexine’s to see about buying some of her land.”

“Lexine would never have sold,” Franklin said.

“Not even for a pot full of money? I mean, a seriously
stupid amount?” Ray asked.

“Miss Adrianna, would you move from here?” Franklin turned
and asked. “Away from your power lines and this nest?”

“Not for any amount of money. Not now that I’ve settled in
and can see everything.” Adrianna sighed. “I hate to say it, but I think that
creature’s awful attack was useful. I didn’t see as well before as I do now.”

“I figure Lexine felt the same way, chose that spot because
it amplified her power, and wouldn’t have ever moved from it,” Franklin said.

“Still, Earl wouldn’t have killed her for it. He would have
found other land, some other way to make the money,” Ray said.

“The cops believe something human killed her. Left his
handprint around her neck,” Franklin said.

“Do you think Earl found her that way, and was trapped
there? That his death was circumstantial? What exactly killed him?” Adrianna
asked.

“I don’t know,” Franklin said, frowning. “Maybe the same
human killed both of them.”

“So maybe the creature is under the control of something
living,” Ray said. “He kills, then it feeds.”

Franklin rolled his eyes. “That’s far too complicated. No, I
think the spirit is exactly what it is, an evil spirit. It views
us—people who are special—as rival predators.” He explained
catching a glimpse of the thing when he and Darryl had been hunting it, along
with how it had killed Billy.

“So it has killed,” Ray said thoughtfully. He looked with
worry over at Adrianna.

“Now stop,” Adrianna said, patting Ray’s thigh affectionately.
“It can’t get to us here.”

Ray looked around the garden, then, with longing, back at
the house.

“Darryl can track this thing,” Franklin said. “We just have
to figure out what to do with it, once we find it. Then you two should be able
to go back to normal.”

Now Adrianna looked worried. “Excuse me,” she said, standing
and walking over to the trunk of one of her tree men, petting it and crooning
to it.

The tree branches moved in a wind that Franklin couldn’t
feel.

Adrianna’s power was growing.

He looked over at Ray, who looked resigned. “Wanna go take a
walk through the garden? Show me everything else?” Franklin asked.

“Sure,” Ray said. They walked over to the far side of the
fish pond, close to the house.

“Adrianna’s always been—artistic,” Ray started. “We
moved here when it got too hard for her in LA.”

“You miss the city?” Franklin asked.

“God, yes. No offense, but this town was never my idea of a
retirement destination, you know?” Ray sighed. “But Adrianna needed someplace
slow, and quiet, and she insisted on here. Never quite knew what she saw in
this place. Until now.”

“What’s wrong, Ray?” Franklin asked.

“I’m afraid I’m losing her. To it. To them.” He gestured at
the tree creatures she’d created. “She says her power’s growing—maybe it
is, maybe it isn’t—but her strangeness sure is. She’s different, now.”

“I’m sorry,” Franklin said. He wasn’t sure what he could do
to help.

“We weren’t able to have kids,” Ray continued. “Now, these
things—they’re like children and grandkids, salvation and savior, all
rolled up into one.”

Franklin looked back at Adrianna. She stood holding the hand
of one of the tree men, swaying and singing softly. The branches above her
swayed as well.

If it came to a choice, if the creature came again, would
she choose to save Ray? To sacrifice one of her creations for his life?

Franklin just didn’t know.

* * *

Franklin wearily rode his bike home through the cooling
evening. How come dealing with Karl and Adrianna and the sheriff make him feel
as though he’d worked really hard all day, hauling bags of rocks or fertilizer
or something? Maybe he’d just go home and straight to bed. Once he left town
and rode down Stevens Street the temperature dropped even further away from the
buildings and into the fields, while the call of the cicadas cycled up higher.

No police car or cousin’s truck waited for Franklin in the
driveway of his house that evening.

No, what waited for him was much, much worse.

The spirit of Sweet Bess had found her way back to his home.
Franklin didn’t know why he could see her—he’d only ever been able to see
her at Lexine’s place. He couldn’t normally see spirits.

But Sweet Bess stood there, like a demented guard dog. If
she could have made noise, Franklin knew she’d be grunting and snorting at him.
Her tiny pig eyes glared red at him, out of her ghostly white skin. She pawed
the ground, a sure sign she was about to attack.

Shit. Where could he go? Franklin really wanted to go
inside. He was too tired to deal with this mess. However, Sweet Bess stood between
him and the door, and didn’t look like she was likely to let him pass.

Franklin got off his bike and kept it between him and the
glaring sow. At least he wasn’t carrying any of her lard.

That led Franklin to a plan. The root cellar had its own
entrance, to the side. It would take some time to get the lock open, but so
would unlocking the front door, if Sweet Bess was charging him. Maybe if he
rode around the house, she’d follow him. Even in death, she couldn’t run as
fast as he could ride. He could get around the house, maybe go around twice,
and leave himself enough time to get through the root cellar door.

Franklin got back on his bike and started peddling around
the house. The front wheel bumped over a hose that he hadn’t wound back up,
across the rocks leading away from the house gutter, onto the thick grass patch
that made up the backyard, around the house, then back onto the front gravel
driveway.

Sweet Bess followed, but she’d never been fast alive, and
death hadn’t speeded her up any. By the time Franklin circled the house twice
and was back to the root cellar, she was about halfway around the house, still
struggling to catch up.

Franklin ditched his bike and fumbled out his keys, reaching
for the lock on the cellar door.

Sweet Bess came around the corner, saw what he was doing,
and doubled her pace.

It was really gonna hurt when she hit. Franklin jammed the
key into the lock, twisted, and pulled. Fortunately, he kept the lock well
oiled, and it slid open easily.

With Sweet Bess breathing down his back, Franklin wrenched
open one of the cellar doors and leapt down the stairs, panting and sweating.

The sow passed above him. The wooden door groaned loudly as
the spirit passed through it, as if had suddenly aged. Franklin shivered. What
the hell was Sweet Bess up to? He hoped she wouldn’t try to come in the
house—she’d never done so when she’d been alive, and he certainly
couldn’t stop her if she was dead.

What the hell did she want? Why was she bothering him?

Thump. Crash.

What was that? It came from directly above Franklin’s head.

Something was in the house.

Cautiously, Franklin poked his head back out the root cellar
door. Sweet Bess stood not two feet away, pawing the ground, about to make another
run at him. Franklin heaved himself up out of the root cellar, grabbed the door
and pulled it shut, the galloping sow on the other side.

He didn’t know if it would help, but he put the wooden beam
across the doors to lock them. He wouldn’t be able to come and go as easily,
but hopefully, he wouldn’t need to.

Franklin turned back to the dark of the cellar. There wasn’t
a flashlight in the root cellar, so he got out his phone, using the tiny screen
to light his way. Though the floor was clear, he still didn’t want to run into
one of the walls.

Slowly, Franklin made his way up the basement stairs.
“Mama?” Franklin called out.

Thump. Tinkle.

“Gloria?”

Whump.

What the hell was going on? Was that a burglar in his
kitchen? Were Ray’s crazy theories about a human controlling the spirit
actually true?

Franklin turned the doorknob to the kitchen slowly and
opened the door a crack.

Chaos reigned in his kitchen.

The creature was there. It whirled like something possessed,
snatching up everything not put away and smashing it against the walls, the
ceiling, and the ground. It even managed to get into the cupboard holding
Franklin’s glassware, and was gleefully smashing that as well.

What the hell did that thing want? Just to destroy things?
Or was it here to kill Franklin?

Franklin opened the door just a bit more.

For the first time in over a year, Mama wasn’t sitting at
the kitchen table.

“What the hell?”

The thing paused in its destruction.

Shit.
Franklin
realized he’d spoken out loud.

Had this spirit killed Mama? She’d been special, too. Did it
have the power to kill ghosts?

Before Franklin could go back down the stairs, the spirit
grabbed him with its sticky vines.

Franklin cried out—they stung like nettles, cutting
into his skin like barbed wire.

The thing threw Franklin up toward the ceiling, then let him
fall. Sharp pieces of broken bowls jammed into Franklin’s back, while the fall
itself pushed all the air from his lungs.

Franklin still scrambled to his feet. Shit. He had to get
out of here, or this thing would kill him. Where could he go? What would save
him? Maybe he could get out the front door.

However, the thing reached for Franklin again before he
could get more than two steps, slicing open his arms and slamming him against
the wall. Shaken, Franklin pushed away, trying again for the door.

He had to get out of there. Or he was a goner.

Suddenly, Mama was in the kitchen. She stood between the
thing and her boy, her
intent
clear:
It was going to have to go through her first before it could get at her boy.

The thing obliged. It flayed her with its whips, tearing
into her ghostly flesh.

Mama didn’t cry out in pain—the dead couldn’t make a
sound. She stood steady and firm as the mountain of Abraham, bleeding ghostly
blood; little trickles of light flowing from her arms.

“Mama!” Franklin cried.

Mama turned and glared at him.
Run, you fool.

Franklin ran, stumbling out the front door.

Was Mama okay? Would she survive?

He looked around the yard. Sweet Bess was nowhere to be
seen.

But Sheriff Thompson’s Crown Vic, with the blue and red
squad lights on, was pulling into the drive.

“WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TO YOU?”
Sheriff Thompson asked as he hopped out of his car.

“A fight?” Franklin said. He didn’t know what else he could
say. He couldn’t lie and say that nothing had happened. He looked down, his
back twinging. Shit. He probably had glass embedded all up and down his spine.
His arms had deep gouges in them, bleeding heavily. His shirt was ripped around
his torso, and had provided little protection. Now, it stuck to his sides. Damn
it. He was gonna have to buy another uniform shirt.

Something clattered inside the house.

“Who’s in there, Franklin?” Sheriff Thompson asked. He flicked
off the safety on his weapon but didn’t pull it out of his holster as he walked
up the front porch stairs.

“No one’s there,” Franklin said, hurrying up behind him.

Would it be better if the sheriff saw the spirit destroying
Franklin’s kitchen? Or just the aftermath? The sheriff wouldn’t believe his
eyes if he saw the spirit. But maybe Franklin could explain the destruction.

The sheriff pushed open the door and called out, “Hello?”

Nothing replied.

Sheriff Thompson walked through the hallway into the
kitchen.

The spirit was gone, having thrown its fit. Broken dishes
and glasses lay scattered in a spiral pattern across the floor. Two of the
kitchen chairs were turned over, and the table itself had been shoved into the
corner.

Why had that thing attacked Franklin like that? Had it been
trying to kill him? That hadn’t felt like its
intent
—it had just wanted to hurt Franklin as much as it could.
And where was Mama?

The sheriff looked around the kitchen. “You got some
explaining to do,” he said darkly.

“You won’t believe me,” Franklin said with a sigh.

Sheriff Thompson glanced over at Franklin, his hard eyes
dark in the dim light. “You’re right. I probably wouldn’t. But I do believe
you’ve been in a pretty bad fight, and you need some stitches.”

“I’ll be all right,” Franklin said. He just needed someone
to clean out the glass in his back. He could take care of the rest.

“Franklin, son, I don’t think you will be,” the sheriff
said. “I’d feel much better about doing my civic duty if you’d let me drive you
to the hospital.”

“That’s all the way across the county,” Franklin protested.

“All right. How about urgent care, then? There’s the country
doctor’s office in town.”

“I’ll bleed on your seats. Stain your car,” Franklin said,
though he knew his protests were getting weaker.

“If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll let you clean it up later.”

Franklin looked around the ruins of his kitchen. He couldn’t
do anything more here. Mama would either come back or not. And where the hell
was Gloria? Had the thing already attacked her and driven her off?

“Come on.” The sheriff had Franklin’s arm where it wasn’t
bleeding and was leading him out of the kitchen.

Everything seemed distant suddenly, like there was a bale of
cotton between Franklin and the world. “Why’s it all so far away?” he asked.

“I think it’s shock,” the sheriff said. He got a silver
emergency blanket—the kind Darryl had put in their backpacks when they’d
been hunting—and got Franklin folded into his car. He’d even had to help
Franklin pull his legs up. Why weren’t they moving right? He worked to find a
comfortable way to sit, where he wasn’t putting any pressure on his back, and
ended up twisted, so his shoulder rested on the seat, while his legs were
stretched out to balance him.

“It’ll be okay, son,” Sheriff Thompson said.

Why did the sheriff sound so worried?

“Don’t you be going to sleep on me,” the sheriff growled,
brushing his hand against Franklin’s arm.

Pain spiked through Franklin’s system. “Why’d you do that
for?” he asked.

“’Cause you can’t pass out on me. Not yet,” the sheriff
insisted.

“Why was you coming out to see me?” Franklin shouted over
the wailing sirens the sheriff had turned on. Why were they in such a hurry?

“Karl was mad as a hornet. Insisted I come arrest you. He’d
shot something in his field, filled it full of rock salt. Said it must have
been someone you’d hired, to ruin his crop.”

“Ah—that’s why it was so angry,” Franklin said. No
wonder the spirit had attacked him. But—damn it. That meant rock salt
didn’t work.

“It?” the sheriff asked.

“Another thing you don’t believe in,” Franklin said. So much
was closed to the sheriff. It was so sad.

But at least since the sheriff was normal, he didn’t have to
worry about that damn spirit coming after him.

They stopped in short order, or maybe time was a bit funny,
in front of the hospital. “You said we’d go to urgent care,” Franklin accused
the sheriff.

“I lied,” Sheriff Thompson said with a grin. “Besides, you
really need to be here.”

Emergency technicians bundled Franklin out of the car. He
tried to answer their questions but the sheriff talked over him, describing his
injuries in clinical terms that Franklin couldn’t quite hold onto, as well as
talking about him going into shock.

As the sheriff passed him off to the technicians, he also
instructed them to check for rock salt, just in case.

* * *

Franklin woke, stiff and sore, in a strange room that was
all white. Shit. Had he died?

No, he remembered now. He was in the hospital. Thick padded
bandages covered the gouges on his arms, and he couldn’t feel his back: It was
like someone had shot it full of Novocain. Something was stuck into his
bandaged left hand, a needle leading to a tube leading to a bag of some clear
fluid—saline, maybe.

Damn it. How the hell was he going to afford this? The room
smelled like sour medicine and stinky bleach. A white curtain hung along one
side, blocking Franklin’s view of the rest of the room. A TV hung on the wall
at the foot of the bed.

Franklin pressed the call button, hoping that he wasn’t
going to have to pay for every nurse’s visit.

A young white girl poked her head into the room. “Good to see
you awake,” she said, stepping further into the room. “I’m Julie. You’re at Wesley
County hospital.” She had brown, shoulder-length hair that looked as though it’d
be soft to touch, and big hazel eyes over a tiny nose dusted with freckles.

“When can I get out?” Franklin asked as he sat up.

Okay, sitting up maybe was a bit of a mistake, as the room
swam. But Franklin stubbornly stayed sitting, not supported by the pillows,
even though the pretty nurse came quickly over to his side and pushed gently on
his shoulder.

“You should just rest, sir,” she insisted. “You’ve lost a
lot of blood.”

“You should’ve seen the other guy,” Franklin weakly joked.
He resisted Nurse Julie for another few moments before he finally lay back. Then
he remembered. “Why don’t my back hurt?” he asked.

“You’re on morphine,” Julie told him. “As well as
antibiotics. Whatever attacked you left a nasty infection behind.”

“When can I get out?” Franklin asked again. “Not that I want
to leave a pretty girl like you,” he added. “But I gotta get back home.” He had
such a mess to clean up there. Plus, a funeral to go to. And he somehow had to
stop anyone else from being attacked.

“I understand,” the nurse said with a smile. “You got a wife
at home to get to, right?”

Franklin chuckled. “No, ma’am. Just family and a farm.”

“Speaking of family and friends, is there anyone you want to
call? The phone’s right here.”

“I’d like to be able to tell them when they can come and get
me,” Franklin hinted.

“I’ll go get the doctor, and we’ll see about getting you
released,” Nurse Julie said. “Then I’ll come back in and give you instructions
on how to clean and change your bandages. You’ll need help,” she added. “Backs
are tricky, and it’s difficult to do arms, too, sometimes.”

“One of my cousins will help,” Franklin said, though he
wasn’t sure which one.

“That’s so nice to have family,” Julie said.

“What time is it?” Franklin asked. It still seemed light
out—was it only mid-afternoon?

“5:45 AM,” the nurse said cheerfully.

“Have you been up all night?” Franklin asked. “You still
look like you’re full of energy.”

“Thank you,” Julie said. “I’m just used to it. I am about to
go off shift, though. So let me get you a doctor before
he
goes off shift, and we’ll see if we can’t get you out of here.”

“Thanks,” Franklin said as Julie left the room.

What had happened to him? Franklin shook his head. He didn’t
remember much of anything after the doctors had first numbed his back so they
could take the glass out. He should have just been in and out, that’s what they
said, outpatient, right? Nothing about having to stay overnight.

Was this some kind of effect of the creature? Was this why
Adrianna had gotten more spacy? Was Franklin going off the deep end now? As if
his life wasn’t hard enough already.

With a sigh, Franklin turned on the TV, looking for the
weather report. More of the recent heat wave was predicted. Of course. He
wasn’t going to catch a break.

* * *

Darryl came to get Franklin. He agreed to bring Franklin’s
suit, as well, after stopping by the house.

Franklin was ready to be out of there. The new nurse wasn’t
as cute or friendly as Julie had been. And the paperwork had been horrible. At
least his insurance covered a lot of it—but he was still out a huge chunk
of change.

“I’ll help you clean up,” Darryl told Franklin as he handed
over the clothes. “That thing did a right good job of messing up everything at
your place.”

“It’s kind of poisonous, too,” Franklin said. “Doctor said
my cuts was all infected. Every single one of them.” Part of why he was so
fuzzy about the night before was because they’d been feeding him high octane
antibiotics. The doctors had been afraid it was some sort of staph infection.

Franklin took his clothes into the bathroom to change. It wasn’t
easy pulling on his clean white shirt over his bandaged arms. His legs weren’t
much better: Though they hadn’t been gouged by the creature, they’d still been
scratched up the previous day when he went running through the woods. It was
part of why the doctors had been concerned—the infection from his arms
and back had spread to his legs as well.

Franklin finally admitted defeat and came back out into the
hospital room. Darryl was perched on the bed, flipping through TV channels.

“Can you help?” Franklin asked, holding out his suit coat.
He just couldn’t get his arm moved around to catch the sleeve. The drugs were
starting to wear off, too, and trying to do even normal stuff just set his back
off.

Darryl silently helped Franklin into his jacket. At least
Franklin could slip on his shoes, didn’t have to tie them: He wasn’t sure he
could reach down to get at the laces.

They got the prescription filled at hospital, and Franklin
dry-swallowed two of the pain pills right away. He knew he’d be high as a kite,
but his back was already starting to ache.

The drive to Katherinesville was hell. Franklin tried to
stay twisted in the seat, just have his shoulder resting against it, as he had
in the sheriff’s car, but it didn’t seem to work as well. He felt every bump
like a jolt from a cattle prod.

People were already gathered outside the church for the
funeral. Franklin was going to have to get his whole suit dry cleaned since he
was sweating so much, already, before they stepped into the bright sunshine.

“Come on,” Darryl said, taking Franklin by the arm and
steering him away from the front. “Let’s go in the back.”

Franklin gladly followed. He liked people, but he felt
vulnerable today, not sure he wanted to see much of anyone except family. Or
maybe, just his bed.

From the back entrance they went straight to the fireside
room, next to the sanctuary, where the rest of the family was all gathered.

Aunt Jasmine sat on one of the floral couches, crying
quietly into her kerchief, Preacher Sinclair in his purple robes sitting beside
her. She wore her best red suit, complete with hat and gloves. It broke Franklin’s
heart so see such a proud mountain of a woman shaking with such grief.

Franklin was surprised to see Lexine’s father
there—after he’d left, he’d had nothing to do with any of the family. He
stood, looking uncomfortable in his fancy rose-colored suit, to one side, all
alone.

May was at least decently covered in a navy blue dress, and
her eyes were clear as she handed her mother another tissue. Jason entertained
the kids in another corner, sitting on the floor with them and telling them a
story.

Franklin sat down on one of the side chairs, near his aunt.
He felt like collapsing with pain and grief, swallowing down the lump in his
throat. It was just so unfair that Lexine had passed on.

May left her mother’s side and came to crouch down next to
Franklin. “You look like shit,” she said quietly.

“You should see the other guy,” Franklin said, repeating his
joke.

“What happened?” May asked. “Darryl just said he had to go
pick you up at the hospital. Details. Now. I want the dirt. Who’d you get into
a fight with?”

Franklin sighed. “No dirt. No real fight. Just a stupid
angry spirit. The same one as killed Lexine.” Even though the police thought it
was the businessman, Franklin knew the real killer was the creature. It had
damn near killed him. It might have killed Mama, if you could kill a ghost.

“Shit,” May said loudly. Everyone looked at her. “Excuse me,
reverend,” May said contritely. “My cousin here’s been attacked by the same
thing that killed Lexine.”

Franklin closed his eyes for a moment.
Damn it.
She shouldn’t have just announced it like that. When he
opened his eyes again, everyone was staring at him.

“Is that true?” Aunt Jasmine demanded.