The Devil's Demeanor (29 page)

And he was
going to change. He was already experiencing the unexplainable illness that
gripped Don and Ethan when they had turned five. The cramps, the fevers, the
headaches.

Don called Stan
and told him he wanted to write a trilogy of books. Not about the cursed
brothers, but about something else entirely. Something for thriller hounds—that
chase through the ghost town, the tracking of Stephen, gave him inspiration. He
provided the outlines to his agent a week later, and before Don knew it, he was
using the advance to buy a house in Fort Worth. He got the surprisingly nice
house for a very reasonable price on account that the previous owner had died
in the master bedroom. That didn’t bother Don at all, considering what he’d
been through in his life.

*
 
*
 
*

Two months had
passed since he signed the divorce papers, and there wasn’t a day that went by
when Don didn’t think about it. Even when he was blindly typing away at his
computer. Conner and Jordan were upstairs, playing loudly; Don could hear them
through a vent in his study.

The book he was
writing now was junk, but he managed to tap into a subconscious state that
allowed a continuous flow of words to spill forth. The trilogy was based on
something he wrote for Language Arts in middle school. That had been his
favorite subject, and he remembered that particular story fondly, about a
detective who found out his best friend was a murderer.

Don’s heart
wasn’t really in the story now, and luckily the house was fully paid for. All
he had to do was keep the lights on.

*
 
*
 
*

The
neighborhood was relatively nice, despite a crabby neighbor across the street
named Mr. Leper. The old man always stayed in his house, which he kept locked
up like a damn fortress. There were even bars on the windows. Don wondered why
the man felt the need to protect himself to that extent.

Don and the
boys took a walk through the suburb and found a nice little park nestled in a
wooded area. Paths sprung from the park in every direction, leading to parking
lots and creeks. Don sat on a bench as the boys joined other kids at play. He
was reminded of a park in Connecticut where he and Ethan used to play. He also
remembered a bully who had picked on the boys one day. Ethan had chucked a rock
at his head, knocking him out cold.

Jordan and
Conner seemed to be making fast friends with these kids, though—no bullies in
the general area.

“Is this seat
taken?” a woman asked, pointing to the empty space on the bench.

“Not at all.”
He scooted over, giving her more room. She was very striking, with long brown
hair and green eyes.

“Are those your
boys?” she asked, indicating Jordan and Conner on the swing set.

“Those are my
little monsters,” he replied with a dry chuckle.

“I’m Samantha.”
She offered a handshake.

“Don.” He shook
and caught her eyeing his left hand. No wedding band. “I got the kids in the
divorce, luckily.”

Samantha raised
an eyebrow. “Divorced? Sorry to hear that.”

She didn’t
sound sorry.

That didn’t
bother Don in the slightest.

Jordan sat in
the school auditorium, bored out of his mind, while the principal tried to
settle the kids down long enough to introduce the guest speaker—a local news
reporter. Jordan was also embarrassed, surrounded by other fifteen-year-olds
who didn’t know how to act. Morons.

Principal
Garfield was also clearly embarrassed by the way the kids were acting in front
of the local celebrity, Diedre Marshall. She was an elegant African-American
woman, like his mother, in a red blouse and black skirt. Jordan was immediately
smitten.

The dimly
lit—and very large—auditorium finally began to quiet down. It seemed like the
entire sophomore class of Anderton Ridge High was packed inside this room. The
school was still fairly new, having been built four years prior. As Ms.
Marshall spoke Jordan looked about until he found who he was looking for.

Conner waved at
him from a few rows farther back. Jordan returned the wave and then faced
forward again.

Ms. Marshall
went on to explain the importance of school and believing in your dreams and so
on. Jordan listened respectfully, but her words left little impression on him.
At fifteen, he was sick of school and didn’t want to think about his future. He
had no dreams to follow. He blamed his father for his lack of ambition.

Dad made his
living writing cheesy thrillers. They sold very well, though Jordan doubted his
father enjoyed writing them. Jordan had walked in on Dad once while he was
writing. Dad had looked like he was in a trance, never blinking or taking a
break from typing. Jordan stood there in the doorway for nearly ten minutes
without his father realizing he was there.

Jordan could
tell that, to his father, writing was a job that paid the bills, nothing more.
To Jordan, however, writing was like therapy. He started keeping a journal two
years ago, chronicling his horrific nightmares. He often dreamed of a black
creature with horrible pink lips all over its chest that tried to suck out his
soul. Every time he dreamed about it, the creature seemed to suck out a little
more of it. Jordan always awoke feeling lifeless.

The audience
suddenly began applauding, and Jordan realized that Ms. Marshall had finished
her speech. He clapped as well, even though he hadn’t listened to most of it.
The students began filing out of the auditorium.

Conner ran up
to him. “Would you bang her?” he asked Jordan.

“Who?”

“That news
chick.”

“She’s pretty.”

“That’s not
what I asked.

“Would
you
bang her?” Jordan asked, refusing to answer.

Conner ran his
fingers through his gelled, blond-tipped brown hair. “I’d bang her all night
long.”

“Fantastic.”
Jordan snorted. “Why do you talk like that?”

“Because I’m a
kid.”

“Your roots are
showing,” Jordan joked as they walked into the cafeteria located just outside
the auditorium.

“You should get
blond tips too,” Conner said, smoothing his hair down.

“A black kid
with frosted tips? Why would I do that to myself?”

“You’re only
half black,” said Conner as they got into the lunch line. “That reminds me—are
you going to visit your mom next summer?”

“Probably.”

“I hate getting
stuck with your dad all summer. Why did my mom have to kill that guy and go to
the crazy house?”

Conner always
seemed more than happy to tell anyone about what his mother had done to her
boyfriend a decade ago. He barely remembered that night, seeing as he was only
five, but he always tended to go into graphic detail about how his mother had
ripped her boyfriend’s face off after he hit her a few times. Surprisingly, the
story made him popular around school, especially with the girls, since he told
them that incident taught him to respect women.

Jordan and
Conner joined a few other kids at a circular table and Jordan immediately
started dipping his chicken rings into his mashed potatoes.

“You just love
those chicken rings, don’t you,” said a pretty redhead named Erin.

Jordan nodded
and smiled. He liked her a lot, more than she realized.

“Maybe you
should cut back on those,” said the boy next to her.
 
“You’re getting a little chunky, I think.”

Unfortunately,
Erin had an asshole boyfriend named Travis Hooper. He was on the basketball
team and had an athletic build that he liked to show off whenever he got the
chance. He had an arm around Erin’s shoulder, holding her close. He was
grinning at Jordan, as if he was well aware of the crush Jordan had on his
girlfriend.

“Stop squeezing
so tight,” Erin complained, and Travis loosened his grip. He never stopped
grinning at Jordan, however. Jordan, losing his appetite, dropped his chicken
ring and looked elsewhere.

“So, Travis,”
Conner said, “did Ms. Marshall’s speech inspire you to follow your dream of
becoming a skanky ho on the streets?”

Erin chuckled.
Travis looked at him and simply said, “I can’t imagine being anything else.”

If anything,
Jordan admired the fact that nothing ever got under the jock’s skin. It was
nearly impossible to anger him.

“What did you
think of Ms. Marshall?” Erin asked, addressing everyone at the table.

“I thought she
was pretty cool,” said Travis.

“Me too,”
Jordan replied.

“I’d do her,”
Conner added.

The sound of a
throat clearing turned Jordan and Conner around. Standing just behind them was
Diedre Marshall.

“Um,” Conner
said, completely at a loss for words. His face turned bright red. “Um....”

Principal
Garfield stood next to the reporter, equally red, though in anger as well as
embarrassment.

“I’m sorry,”
Conner finally said just before turning away with a grin on his face.

“That’s quite
all right,” the woman said, waving away the comment. “I’ve heard worse.” She
looked at Jordan. “I was wondering if I might have a word with you, Mr. Scott?”

“Um....” Great!
Jordan felt like he’d caught his cousin’s stupid. “Sure.”

He stood and
followed the reporter and principal to the front of the auditorium.

“Don’t worry,”
Ms. Marshall said quietly, just barely audible over the din of the lunch room.
“You’re not in trouble or anything. I just wanted you to know that I’m a huge
fan of your father’s books.”

“Oh.” That was
the last thing Jordan had expected to hear. “Thanks. I’ll tell him you said
that.”

“Actually,” she
said hastily, stepping closer, “I was hoping to perhaps interview him.”

“For a story?”
Weren’t there official channels to go through for stuff like this? Jordan
wondered.

“You could say
that,” she replied.

She was so
close that her perfume practically smothered him. It smelled of vanilla. “How
can I help?” he asked.

She smiled.
“Maybe you could talk to him for me. Your father deplores interviews—hasn’t
done many at all since hitting it big—and even when he does, it’s just to talk
about his books.”

“You don’t want
to talk about his books?”

“Not quite,”
she said.

*
 
*
 
*

Jordan and
Conner got off the bus and walked up the hill to their house. Jordan was
exhausted and wanted to take a nap, but knew he should finish his homework
first. There was also that one other thing he had to do, however.

“Dad?” he
called into the house as Conner headed for the kitchen to the left, next to the
staircase.

Jordan dropped
his backpack on the floor and walked into the living room on the right. He
walked right up to the fireplace and looked inside. Dad sat at his computer in
his study; the fireplace was like a window into the little room. Jordan could
see tiny black words on the computer monitor but couldn’t read any of them.

“Dad?”

The man spun in
his chair to face his son. Jordan still hadn’t grown used to seeing his dad
looking so old. He was only forty-one but looked well into his sixties. He was
very skinny, so much so that he looked like a cadaver. His hair was dark brown
with a lot of gray strands, and the corners of his eyes were nothing but
wrinkles.

“Working on
another book?” Jordan asked him through the fireplace.

“Sort of.” Dad
turned off the monitor absently. “What’s up?”

Jordan told him
about Diedre Marshall speaking at the school and how she wanted to interview
the mildly famous Donovan Scott.

Dad’s face
darkened slowly. “I’m not interested.”

“Why not?”

“Because she just
wants to ask a bunch of personal questions that are none of her business.”

“Like what?”

Dad sighed.
“Son, I said I’m not interested. And I don’t want you talking to her anymore,
okay?”

“No problem.”

“Need any help
with your homework?”

“No, thanks.”

Dad spun back
around as Jordan left. He heard his father typing away a second later. Jordan
grabbed his bag and headed upstairs to his room. As he lay down on his bed, he
wondered why Dad hated talking about his past so much. Of course, there was all
the misfortune that plagued his father’s childhood, but there seemed to be more
to the story than just the deaths of Jordan’s uncle and grandparents. Jordan
knew he would get nothing from his father and decided to ask Mom when he saw
her next.

For now,
though, he had homework to do.

*
 
*
 
*

An hour into
his work, he heard a shrill voice coming from downstairs. “I’m home!” Samantha
announced.

Jordan sighed
and tried to get back to work. He was sprawled across his bed with his books
and paper in front of him. He preferred working from there rather than his work
desk.

Moments later,
loud pop music blared throughout the house. Jordan groaned; that woman loved
Cher. Jordan hated Dad’s girlfriend so much. They’d been together for nearly
ten years, but Dad refused to marry her for some reason. Jordan didn’t blame
him, but why keep her around? It was as if she fulfilled some need—

Jordan quickly
abandoned that nasty line of thought. Samantha had moved in a few months after
she and Dad’s first date and seemed content with the arrangement. She never
hassled him about marriage or kids, at least not to Jordan’s knowledge.

Jordan grabbed
his MP3 player and attempted to drown out Samantha’s music. He could still feel
the beat, however. He sighed, turned off his own music, and went downstairs.
There he saw Samantha dancing by the fireplace, weaving her way around the
orange couch.

Jordan looked
through the fireplace but didn’t see Dad in his study, so he went down the five
steps that led to the long den that ran the length of the entire house. There
was a bathroom on the left, directly across from the kitchen, a bar (like
Great-Aunt Cynthia’s) and a comfy, gray couch in front of a large
high-definition TV. This den was very comfortable, and Samantha, thankfully,
usually stayed away from it; the bright living room one level up was more her
domain.

Conner was in
the backyard, bouncing on their trampoline. Jordan went out onto the porch and
watched him for a moment; he could barely hear Samantha’s music anymore. The
evening was growing cold, and he could see his breath misting in front of him.

“Jump...with...me,”
Conner said between bounces.

“It’s too
cold.”

“Jump...warm.”

“That’s not a
complete sentence.”

“Get your ass
up here,” Conner said in midair.

Jordan climbed
onto the trampoline. As he jumped with his cousin, he looked to the dark woods
that loomed behind the house. Their home was part of a court and was the
closest to these woods. Jordan often wished Dad had picked a different house;
he didn’t like being so close to this dreary forest. Conner often joked about
going camping in there, but Jordan never found it funny.

“You afraid of
the Texas Devil?” Conner asked clearly, despite his bouncing.

Jordan looked
at him. “There’s no such thing.”

Conner stopped
bouncing. “Sure there is. It’s out there, in those woods, waiting for helpless
victims to wander in. One of these days, it’s gonna get tired of waiting, and
it’s gonna come out and start taking people from their homes. We’ll be the
first, of course, since we’re the closest.”

Jordan stopped
bouncing too. He was fifteen and didn’t scare very easily, but Conner had
spoken some truth. A few people had died in those woods over the past decade.
Police suspected a bear or wolf, but others chalked it up to a mythical beast
called the Texas Devil.

“I wish it
would take Samantha,” Jordan said before he could stop himself.

Conner
guffawed. “Me too.” He started jumping again. “I think I can talk Erin into
camping with us. If you want.”

Jordan, who had
also started jumping again, did a double take. “First of all, Dad would never
let us go camping in there. Secondly, Erin has a boyfriend.”

“Who’s a total
dick,” Conner added.

“Yes, but that
doesn’t matter. She still has a boyfriend.”

“You’re afraid
to tell her how you feel, aren’t you?”

“Yep,” Jordan answered
immediately. He refused to let his cousin drag him into this discussion. Jordan
wasn’t sure how Conner had found out about his feelings for Erin, but ever
since, Conner barely let a week go by without commenting on the situation.

“I think Uncle
Don is going to propose to Samantha,” Conner said a moment later.

“No way! Why do
you think that?” Jordan’s heart raced.

“I heard them
talking about it in his study. You know, through the vent in my room.”

“But they’re
always fighting,” said Jordan. “I was hoping they would break up. Who brought
up marriage first?”