Thief of Souls (12 page)

A
FLIER WAS CIRCULATING
in Peach Springs, Arizona, and surrounding communities, featuring a picture of the missing conjoined twins. Those who did not know them thought the absurd picture must have been some sort of prank. Those who did know them, did not expect them to turn up alive—least of all their devastated parents, who knew that Lara and Jara never dared to venture far from the safety of home.

Radio Joe cooperated with police, insofar as he told them half the story, ending it upon hearing the distant four shots, and saying no more. There were no footprints to corroborate his story, as the wind had dusted the hardpan clean, but bloodhounds had tracked the twins' movements as far as the canyon rim, where they recovered their clothes, shredded but bloodless. Snagged at various points down the canyon wall were the bodies of the four cougars, as well as Radio Joe's rifle, which Joe had hurled into the canyon, not wanting to be near anything the
Quíkadi
had touched. It was confiscated as evidence. At the canyon rim, however, the hounds became feral, howling and frothing at the mouth as if the scent had taken a turn into canine nightmare. They were of no use beyond that.

The fringe element in town spoke of alien abductions and police complicity, which mired the investigation further.

Through the first night and day, Joe performed his rituals, asking the spirits for guidance. He used to perform his rituals more out of respect than anything else, for there was a peace in carrying on a tradition, but now it all took on the type of mystical power it had in his childhood. The spirits were very real again. The only question was, how was he to act upon what he knew—what he had seen? He listened for voices in the wind and in the calls of birds. He forced his dreams into lucidity, remembering their images, and a sense of purpose
began to take shape. Two days after the plane crash and the twins' mysterious disappearance, Radio Joe began to visit the neighbors.

“A
LL THIS FUSS OVER
those two,” Mary Wahomigie said to Joe through her screen door. He had approached her under the pretense of looking for work. “TV repairs, air conditioners, any gadget that's giving you trouble,” Joe had said. “I'll give you my preferred-customer rate.”

Mary laughed. “I thought I already was a preferred customer, Joe.”

The woman had no need of repairs, and so the conversation had slipped to the air crash, and then to the missing twins.

“All that fuss,” Mary said. “But maybe what happened to them is for the best. Those two never belonged here to begin with. A miracle they survived as long as they did.”

“So you think they're dead?”

Mary hesitated for just an instant. Radio Joe imagined that if this were a polygraph test, the needle would be pinned in the red. He could almost feel the electric charge of her lie. “Yes, they must be, don't you think?” she said.

Joe took off his baseball cap, revealing his thin, sweaty hair. He brushed his hand across his forehead, wiping off the sweat.

“Would you like something to drink, Joe? Maybe a piece of berry cobbler?”

She swung open the screen door, and as she did, Joe stole a look into her eyes—the same look he had stolen from each of his neighbors today. Although several had invited him in, he had turned them down. Until now.

“Yes, Mary, I'd appreciate that.”

Mary Wahomigie's house was both spotless and cluttered. The shelves and walls were polished and dusted, but several
lifetimes' worth of dime-store trinkets sprouted from every surface like fungus on a stump. No shelf space remained for future memories—perhaps because all of Mary's memories were behind her. Phil, her husband, had died of a heart attack five years before, and their only daughter lost her battle with breast cancer shortly thereafter.

Mary had had her eye on Joe for a few years now, but Joe had no interest in her. His solitary life had always suited him fine. However, now he turned to whatever charm he had, complimenting her on her sun tea and cobbler.

“I grew the berries myself. Only enough for a couple of cobblers a season, but every bite's worth a dozen.”

Joe took the last bite, and set down his fork. “I see you still keep Phil's guns out.”

He was referring, of course, to the glass showcase cluttered with a preponderance of hunting weapons and accessories.

“Never dream of selling them,” Mary said. “He'd roll over in his grave”—which was a curious expression, considering the man had been cremated.

“Ever consider loaning them to a friend?”

“Planning a hunting trip, Joe?”

“Been thinking of it.”

She unlocked the case for him, and he pulled down a shotgun. “Phil's pride and joy,” she told him. “I'm sure he wouldn't mind it being used again.”

It was a Winchester 1300—a sleek, 12-gauge pump, far superior to his own.

“My shotgun's evidence now, you know.”

Mary shifted uncomfortably. “So I heard. The twins went to kill those cougars.”

“Did the job, too.”

“Imagine that.”

“The police wonder if I had anything to do with their disappearance.”

Mary came over to him, and put a hand on his shoulder, as if she had been waiting for an excuse to do so. “I know you didn't, Joe.”

“No,” admitted Joe. “But I
do
know more than I tell . . . . Just like you.”

She recoiled for a moment, but he smiled, and she softened, smiling back. “Just what does that mean?” she said coyly.

“You tell me, Mary . . . and then I'll tell you what I know.”

Mary glanced out of her living-room window, as if they might be under surveillance, and she pulled the shades. “If you know about the cousin,” she said, “then you know it's for the twins' own good.”

“The cousin,” said Joe. “Yes, I know about the cousin.”

“Spitting image of them, don't you think?” Mary sat down on her couch, patting the space next to her. Joe stayed where he was.

“And you helped him?” Joe prompted.

“He was robbed, you know. They took his car, the clothes off his back. He said he was here to take the twins away to a special hospital where they could be taken better care of.”

“You believed him?”

“Why shouldn't I? Anyway, I gave him some of Phil's old pants, and a shirt. He was practically bursting out of them, but they had to do.”

Radio Joe's eyes wandered back to the gun case. He strode over, and grabbed the rifle that was her dead husband's pride and joy. He opened a drawer beneath the case, and as he expected, found boxes of shells in various calibers. Phil Wahomigie never kept his ammunition too far away.

“They're five years old,” Mary said. “You might want to get new ones.”

“They'll be fine as long as they're dry.”

“So you saw the cousin, too, didn't you?” asked Mary. “Now it's your turn—tell me what you know. Did he go to your place after he left here?”

Joe slipped cartridges into the shotgun. Eight, and it was full. “Actually, he came to my place first.”

Mary looked up at him, confused. “You didn't help him? Joe, that's not like you.”

“I offered him nothing and he took nothing from me. Because he was nobody's cousin. Nobody's child. It was a Quíkadi.”

She stood up. “What are you talking about?”

There were tears now clouding his eyes, but he quickly flipped them away. Then he pumped the gun, loading the chamber. “It took more from you than your clothes, Mary.”

The woman began to back away. “Joe, you're scaring me. Are you drunk, Joe? Put that rifle down.”

Joe looked at the rifle. “Perhaps you're right,” he said. He leaned the rifle gently against the sofa. Then he advanced on Mary with his bare hands.

“No! Stop!”

But there was no sense in responding to Mary Wahomigie now, because she was not there to hear. She had been dead for three days now, her soul devoured, leaving behind an empty shell to mimic life.

Radio Joe grabbed the slight woman, and hurled her to the ground, breaking the coffee table, sending knickknacks scattering across the faded green carpet. She tried to scream again, but he wedged his boot firmly under her chin, cutting off her cries. “I mourn Mary Wahomigie. She was a good woman,” he said. “Her body deserves the peace of the grave.” He turned his ankle and shifted his weight forward onto her neck. The
body of Mary Wahomigie struggled, but that, he knew, was merely a reflex, like the twitching nerves of a fly on the face of a swatter. This body would have continued to twitch and talk and mimic life for years. It could not be allowed. With a grimace, he lurched forward, feeling the crumbling of glottal cartilage, and the final crunch as her neck snapped beneath the weight of his heel.

The body stopped struggling, and came to rest. Then, when he looked in her eyes, he knew he had done the good and proper thing, because they looked no different now than they had five minutes before. Death was death, even when it walked.

He gently laid Mary on her bed, covered her with one of her many handmade quilts, then returned to the living room, taking as many weapons as he could carry.

Although he didn't know where the Quíkadi had gone, he knew he'd have more luck than the bloodhounds in tracking it, for he knew what he was searching for. And if he listened, attuning his soul to the dark, his ears to the silences, and his heart to the void, he would be able to trace its footsteps.

S
OMETIME BEFORE DAWN, FIVE BUSES SNAKED SOUTH DOWN
Pacific Coast Highway, hugging the cliffs of California's central coast.

By the time the sun made its appearance, the buses were pulling into the large Visitors Center of the area's most celebrated tourist attraction. The night guard stepped out from his shack to greet the buses. To him the situation was obvious; some overeager tourists must have gotten it into their heads that this was a twenty-four-hour attraction. Not so. The Visitors Center was closed, and the first tours didn't begin for three more hours. He felt sure he'd be able to convince them all to come back later, and if he couldn't, the iron security gate would.

He approached the dark-tinted windows of the first bus, and the door opened to admit him.

Turns out he had misdiagnosed the entire situation.

Ten minutes later, the night guard emerged from the lead bus, bewildered and rubbing his chest. Although he had never told his employer, he was, in fact, a dying man . . . but the redheaded kid who led this group had changed that. Now the cancer that had been devouring his right lung was leaving him. He could almost feel the malignant cells collapsing in upon themselves, the genetic mutation corrected—his body fixed from the inside out. He didn't know what all this meant, but he did know that, even though it broke the rules, he was going to open the gate, and allow these buses to pass.

What was the kid's name? Darren? Devin?

The buses rolled through, and he closed the gate behind them, wishing he could be in there with those people—because he knew that this had been the most important moment in his life.

Dillon! Yes, that was it.

Whoever he was, the guard sensed that Dillon was not coming here as a tourist, and he realized that his own sense of loyalty was no longer with the department of Parks and Recreation. Now he worked for the boy.

He marveled as he watched the buses wind their way inland, amazed by the way they moved in perfect, orderly formation, spaced precisely one bus-length apart, as they drove east down the lone road, and toward the solitary castle in the distance, which stood silhouetted against the rising sun.

M
ICHAEL AWOKE WITH AN OVERWHELMING URGE TO JUMP
off the back of the boat. That's how he knew they had gone too far. He climbed out of the cabin to find Lourdes at the controls. They were a few hundred yards from shore, and while the flat stream of water still stretched out ahead of them, Michael knew it would only lead them to a place Dillon had been, not the place he was now. The sky, which had been a sunny blue just a moment ago, was already weaving with clouds.

“I took over for Drew at around midnight,” she told him with a smile.

“We've passed him, Lourdes,” Michael said. “We passed him sometime during the night.”

“Or he passed us,” Lourdes said calmly.

“Then why are we still headed up the coast?”

“I was waiting for you,” she said. “So we could decide together what to do.” She turned off the engine and the boat quickly slowed and began to drift.

“You could have woken me!” he said.

Lourdes smiled again. “Maybe I just wanted to let you sleep.” She gently brushed his hair out of his eyes. “You looked too peaceful to wake up . . . . I knew when you woke up you would be worried. So I let you sleep.”

There was warmth and concern in her words, but Michael couldn't echo back her warmth. All he could do was stare at her emptily. Lourdes leaned just an inch or two closer.

“No kissing in front of the children,” said Drew. Their
shipmate sat in the corner of the deck, as unobtrusive as a barnacle on the hull.

While kissing hadn't been on Michael's mind, apparently Lourdes had been considering it, because she backed off the moment Drew spoke, leaving Michael to take control of the boat. He brought them around to a southerly heading, while Drew, under the glaring eyes of Lourdes, inhaled Chee-tos.

“Drew,” said Lourdes, “if you keep on eating like that, you're going to get fat. Believe me, I know.”

Drew shoved another Chee-to in his mouth. “I'm a growing slug,” he said.

Michael had to admit that Drew was playing his third-wheel role to a tee—but the fact was, Drew and Lourdes had more in common than they cared to admit. To Michael, it seemed both of them were far too content for their own good.

“Can't you just close your eyes, and figure out exactly where Dillon is?” asked Drew.