The Jersey Devil (22 page)

“Jane, I can barely stand at this point. Where do you get water? If I don't drink soon, I think I'm gonna pass out.”

“Water?”

“Yes, water. I need some real bad.”

When she stood, he saw a fresh gush of milk flow from her breasts. Talking about her babies had set everything off. She started walking, and he followed.

Erik Smythe had been planning the big event for five months now. He couldn't believe it was finally here. And the weather, though a little on the hot side, was about as good as he could have asked for.

He and several volunteers had worked all morning setting up the outdoor stage and running all of the electric cables so they could get the soundboard running.

Looking at his checklist, he flipped the page to the order of bands that would be performing for the charity benefit: fifteen bands in all, most of them local but some coming from as far away as Kentucky.

The anti-bullying benefit had been his idea, spawned by the death of one of his classmates, a quiet kid named Larry Quinto. Larry had killed himself after posting a video on Facebook, tears streaming down his face, saying he couldn't face another day of being ridiculed and literally pushed around in school. Time seemed to stop for a while at Erik's school when Larry's body was found at the Smithville parking garage.

When it restarted, Erik wanted to make sure no one forgot the lesson they'd all been tragically taught. He'd formed an anti-bullying club in school and this benefit was the culmination of all his hard work and passion.

His own band, Skeeter Beater, would be performing later in the day. It was going to be a blast, having such a big crowd, bringing punk back to New Jersey, if only for seven songs—four of them covers of The Dead Kennedys, The Ramones, Gorilla Biscuits and an obscure Boston band called Jerry's Kids.

“Dude, you need me to go up and do a sound check?” his pal Darren said. His band, Hippie Clipper, was set to be the next to last show for the day. It was a pretty important slot.

Darren was as thin as a pipe cleaner, black skinny jeans hanging off his sharp hips. He wore his orange hair over his face and was known to chew his bangs when he was nervous. Like right now.

“I hope you washed your hair, man,” Erik said.

Darren stopped chewing, spitting out the wet strands. “This is huge. The most people we ever played in front of was like thirty at Bridget's sweet sixteen.”

Erik shrugged, uncoiling some wires. “Thirty, a thousand, what's the difference?”

“How about like nine hundred and seventy!”

“Shit, when you say it like that, I guess it is gonna be weird.” Erik smiled, punching his friend on the shoulder. “You got the girls in the ticket booth all set up?”

“Yeah. All's good. There are already people lining up to get in the park.”

Initially, the idea had been to host the event in Atlantic City, but they decided it was better to do it right here where Larry had lived . . . and died. It would have more impact that way. The fairgrounds were right next to the beach. They'd get tons of people coming for the show, and once the music started, he was sure it would attract plenty of sunbathers as well.

“Let me just finish this and you can jump on stage,” Erik said.

“Who's the first band?”

“Diana.”

“She is so freaking hot. I can't wait until everyone sees her, all preppy until they hit that first sweet note and she goes total grindcore.”

“Yeah, it'll be sick.”

“What the heck is that?” Erik heard a girl say behind him. He didn't know her name, but she'd been helping get the refreshment stand together.

“What?”

She shielded her eyes from the sun, looking up at a clear azure sky. “I thought I saw something.

Erik looked up but didn't see a thing. “Probably someone flying a drone or something.”

The girl had already gone back to stacking paper cups.

Turning to Darren, he asked, “You know anyone with one of those camera drones?”

Darren's eyebrow arched. “No, but I can find someone.”

“Cool. Forget the sound check. Go work your magic.”

* * *

After jumping off the Garden State Parkway, they got on Route 561. Leeds Point was just a few miles away. April worked hard to keep her mind on what needed to be done. The grief of losing her father kept trying to bubble up to the surface. Then there was Daryl, a big question mark that felt like a hundred-ton weight on her chest. Last, but miles from least, was the very real horror of the Jersey Devil that had to be faced and overcome, or else many more people would lose their lives before the day was done.

Boompa handed her a piece of paper with an address on it.

“Is the GPS working?” he asked.

She checked. “Yes.”

“Plug that in. It'll take us to the one person who I know will help us find what's left of the Leeds house. People who come out here usually go to one of two purported houses. Neither is the real McCoy.”

April's fingers had a hard time entering the address. Ben hadn't spoken in a while now. She saw the hate simmering in his eyes and in the way his jaw kept flexing.

She'd thought it would be hard to face down one Devil when it was seven of them. Now they were down to four, and one of them was Boompa, who they probably should have left back at the bar with her mother. Her mom had been too distraught for words, urging them to go with her wet eyes. April shook it off, stopping the ball from jamming in her throat.

Norm had turned out to be a pretty damn good shot and would come in handy. She'd worried that he'd cut bait and run when the shit hit the fan, but he'd proven himself.

“What if we're wrong?” she said, watching the road pass by in a blur.

“Then we sit and wait for those bastards to come to us. And they will. I know it.”

“And if they come and we still haven't found Daryl?”

“We'll report he's missing to the police. After everything that's happened today, the Barrens will be crawling with them. We'll find Daryl. Don't you worry.”

She felt his reassuring grip on her shoulder. April laid her hand over his, the skin tough and rough as burlap, his knuckles swollen from years of toiling at the farm.

Looking down at the GPS, she said, “Ben, take the next exit and bear to the right. We're less than a mile away.”

He gunned the overworked engine, rocketing toward the exit.

“Slow down or you'll get us all killed,” she snapped.

He didn't even look at her, much less take his foot off the accelerator. The GPS guided them into a residential, suburban neighborhood, the streets lined with tidy Cape homes.

Boompa slid the side door open before they came to a full stop.

“You might want to come and lend a hand,” he said. “This might not go so easy.”

They walked through a creaking, metal gate and up a few short steps to a wide, peeling porch. He rang the bell, giving the door a few raps for good measure.

“I suppose Gordon's hearing isn't what it used to be,” Boompa said.

The door flew open. A man as old as her grandfather, if not older, stood in the doorway, his full head of gray hair askew as if he'd just been woken from a nap, the lines of his face deep as wells.

“I can hear you just fine,” he said. “That rust bucket you came up in can be heard across the damn Atlantic. Now who the hell are you?”

“We don't have much time for formalities,” Boompa said. “Are you Gordon Leeds?” The man narrowed his gaze at them, not answering his question. “I'll take that as a yes. My name is Sam Willet. This here is my grandson, Ben, my granddaughter, April, and a friend, Norm Cranston. I need you to come with us.”

The old man tried to slam the door, but Boompa shot his foot forward, keeping it wedged open.

Gordon Leeds!
April thought.
Boompa said he knew someone special out here.

To her surprise, Leeds's face softened.

“I know who you are,” Gordon said, wagging a finger at Norm. “I seen you on TV, right?”

Norm touched the brim of his hat. “That w-would be me. No TV crew around for this one.”

Gordon's mouth pulled in to a rigid line. “I bet you wish you had. I know what you're looking for. You won't get any assistance from me. People like you have done enough exploiting of my family as it is.”

Boompa pulled back the hammer on his Colt. The heavy click stopped Leeds cold.

“Now, I'm not here asking you to take me to the Leeds home. An old drunk like you, here's your chance to do something good for a change. The Devil that your family birthed has company. Lots of company. I just lost my son to them, and I'm in no mood to debate with you. They also have my grandson. I aim to get him back.”

Leeds scratched his wiry hair. “What do you mean,
company
?”

“We killed a few dozen of them just an hour ago. And there's more. They're tearing through the Barrens like locusts.”

The door opened wide.

Gordon Leeds rummaged around his couch. It was covered, like every other piece of furniture in the small living room, with old clothes, books and garbage.

April said, “Is he from the same family that started the legend?”

Boompa kept his gun trained on the man. “Eleventh generation, if I recall correctly. There's quite a few Leedses still milling around, and they're not hard to find. Old Gordon here is the black sheep. I was afraid he'd be dead by now. Hard to fathom how people can still believe that the Jersey Devil ate the entire family when they've been living and procreating just fine for over two hundred years.”

“He knows where the original house is?” Ben asked, startling April just a bit.

“Yep, and we're the only ones outside of his family that will see it. Rumor has it that he's one of the few who remembers. I've heard that the family steers clear of him because of his belief in what the rest consider their curse. I came down here twenty years ago on the sly, looking for Leeds. Found a couple nice enough to let me bend their ear. After a few drinks, one of them slipped about old Gordon here. They used the word
eccentric
when they didn't say he was outright crazy. He wasn't around then, but I saved his address just in case. Somehow, I knew he was would be our man when the time came.”

Gordon Leeds returned with a wool cap on his head and a shotgun. “I'm sorry about your loss,” he said. “Seeing as I don't have much say in the matter, we better get going. How're your legs?” he asked Boompa.

“Still moving,” Boompa said, his gun pointed squarely at Leed's forehead. The ancient man didn't even seem to notice.

“Good, you're gonna need 'em. We can only go so far in that van of yours.”

“Point that shotgun the wrong way and it won't go well for you,” Boompa said.

They ambled into the van. April took Leeds's shotgun from him for safekeeping. As Ben started the engine, Gordon said, “I spent a lifetime worrying about something like this. Everyone thought I was crazy, but I guess now they'll know better. You say he has children. That's not a first.”

April saw her grandfather's face turn ashen. He quickly looked away.

Leeds continued, “But a lot of them, that's not how it works. You say you've killed
dozens
of them? That I find hard to believe.”

April turned around in her seat to face him. She kicked the lid of the cooler off. “Open one of those bags if you need goddamn proof.”

He did just that, whistling with amazement as he peered at one of the bodies. That one had a face that disturbingly bordered on human. He looked to Boompa. “Maybe if you showed me this first, I would have come without you having to point that gun at me.”

Boompa exhaled, the Colt firmly in his grip. “That's a chance I didn't have time to take.”

* * *

To Daryl's chagrin, Jane the wild woman didn't take him to a water source. Cramps knifed his stomach. When he tensed, the pain in his cracked ribs intensified. All he wanted to do now was lie down and sleep until the next day.

They came upon a six-foot high column of stones. Jane pointed.

“Down . . . there.”

He looked at her dubiously. “What's down there? I'm not in the mood to be lured into another pit.”

She savagely shook her head.

“Down!”

He cautiously moved closer to the stones. They looked like they could have been part of a wall or chimney about a hundred years ago. Green moss grew in patches.

“You stay in front of me,” he said.

For once, she did what he asked of her. She kept giving furtive looks to the sky, which made him think she was expecting company, and not the good kind.

This was no pit. He looked down at the remains of what was probably once somebody's home. The sunken foundation was a perfect square. It was old, redolent with the scent of centuries of abandonment. There was what looked to be the opening of a tunnel across from him, an opening into pitch blackness.

“Is this where the Jersey Devil stays?” he asked, pointing at the shadowed recess.

Jane nodded, her eyes wide and frightened.

“Where is it now?”

“Away.”

“With your babies?”

Again with her furtive head nod.

What happened to her to make her think she had a bond with these creatures?

If she was right, there was a chance, a slim one, that he could end things right here.