Kornwolf (41 page)

On lifting his head, he still couldn't see—blinded by burning gall and ammonia. He coughed in silence. Something was wrong with his voice. He was puckering, wheezing desperately. Straining to cry out, he only succeeded in gulping air. He choked.

He was mute.

Only now, this late in the game, were his fears confirmed beyond a doubt: The Devil had always been after
him
. Exclusively. Benedictus Bontrager … All other incidents, every attack in The Basin had happened on
his
account. Dozens of unwitting neighbors were victims of guilt by association with
him
. Beaumont, Grabers, Tulk and the Stoltzfi, with hundreds of farmers all over the county, had been ensnared in a noose originally fashioned for
his
neck alone. And now, as it tightened, the rancor and weight of an age-old conflict came to bear.

Yes, The Devil had been
his
curse—in the strictest, most literal, worldly sense: it had hounded his trail for nineteen years, using every available fissure, all openings, every weakness in gaining a foothold, acting through constantly shifting mediums, vessel by vehicle, host after host, guise upon dupe after innocent victim; beginning first with Jacob, already weakened by drink and worldly exposure, who'd borne him a grudge from their first encounter, relapsing into the blight of his ancestry—second, Maria, the “virgin bride,” seduced into carnal hosannas therewith, then murdered while giving birth, as attended by Sister Grizelda, third, the chameleon, whose life in The Basin would take on the role of a masquerade in preparing for this, The Return: The Devil's Final Coming, through fourth and last, the boy, Ephraim.

The Minister's vision cleared to confirm it: slowly descending the staircase, cloaked in a shadow of stark, impending malevolence, closing to blot out the lantern above him. It looked like the boy, from a certain angle. The dip in its forward stride was evident. Shades of Jacob came through too.

But mostly it looked like Richard Nixon.

Whatever was happening off in the forest, in fields or on back roads for miles around, the bars along Route 21, Old 30 and 342 were oddly calm. The neighboring English developments, too, for the most part, had been devoid of unrest. By now, it was almost appearing as though the entire evening might just blow over—most of the first half had passed without serious, or even the standard, expected incident. Curfew had brought trick-or-treat to an end with a sigh of relief across The Basin. Amazingly, now that the tally was in, a much lower level of vandalism had been reported than many had feared—substantially lower than in previous years. In part, this was thought to have been the product of so many nightly patrols on the road; between the development crews, the superstore guards, the police and the black bumper squadrons, an estimated seventy mobilized parties—an unlikely body of interests known, unofficially, as the Lamepeter Coalition—was combing the township in search of trouble. As well, the field bashes, parties and barbecues had served to contain the local youth. So far, the greatest discernible threat to the public was run-of-the-mill drunk driving.

Inside of most taverns, no matter how crowded, the vibe was decidedly anticlimactic. At first, it reminded Owen of New Year's Eve in an all too familiar sense: everyone hell-bent on pulling out all the stops, thereby ensuring a flop …

But after a while, it started to look as though much of the crowd—in costume, sifting through baskets of now complimentary korn puppies—hadn't shown up for a party so much as in spite of The Coalition's insistence that everyone stay indoors for the evening. The Coalition did
not
run The Basin. That was a point which most of the locals appeared intent on making clear. For a week now, they had been subject to constant harassment while driving home at night. Concerned as they may have been with the situation, they seemed even more resolved on living, for an evening, in defiance of it. The Lamepeter Coalition be damned.

But once that notion had been established, the rest of the evening began to lose steam. As though in corroboration of all of his worst assurances, Owen watched as, in bar after bar, the atmosphere steadily leveled off to a vacuous hum. In several establishments, sales were beginning to drop by as early as ten o'clock. Indeed, the “keepers of song and flame” had been spared the (
lo, but for korn meal
) wrath. They'd also been spared much entertainment … Bars like the Villa Noeva were filled with drunks nodding off to third-rate honky-tonk. The Visigoth's “karaoke explosion” was dead in the water by 10:15. The Dogboy, though somewhat more lively, at first, wound up full of half-lidded regulars, most of them looking embarrassed by the state of their appearances.

A man in a pink flamingo suit may have said it best when, on losing a game of pool to the likeness of Long John Silver, he settled his tab with a word to the bartender: “Sorry, Freida. But I look like an asshole.”

Owen had shown up in Lamepeter Township expecting a riot on every corner. Instead, he had found that, despite his efforts, no one was up for the Harvest Sabbath. Stepford simply wasn't game. Surprise, surprise. There had been no disturbances … Not one tavern brawl. No burning scarecrows or overpass drops had come up on the scanners. There was no way of knowing what calls had poured into
The Plea
that evening, for practical reasons, but as for the public airwaves, no Kornwolf sightings had been relayed whatsoever. A total of seven reports of vandalism—four window
soapings, two drive-by eggings and one toilet paper attack—accounted for Halloween in The Basin this year. A single arrest had been made hours earlier: the charge was “failing to signal a turn.” The offender was seventy-eight, and sober. It hardly amounted to bedlam in Blue Ball.

Normally, this would have been embarrassing.

Aided by storybook-ideal conditions, bathed in the radiant glow of a Blue Moon and buoyed along by a week-long, $25,000 advertisement campaign, and he
still
hadn't managed to kindle the flames of pandemonium in Stepford Town.

Normally, this would have sent him packing.

But right now he couldn't help feeling lucky—lucky not only to be alive, but for every passing moment of calm.

It wasn't until 11:30—seated in his Legacy, parked in a tavern lot, staring at the moon in vague disquiet—that a garbled exchange broke the scanner's silence, hinting at the first, however initially vague indication that maybe, just maybe, the evening wasn't entirely over.

One of the voices had mentioned a fire.

Owen, starting his engine, thought
here we go
…

Ten minutes later he arrived on the scene—the Holtwood Development headquarters trailer—to find its exterior paneling scorched and the front porch smoldering, stinking of gas.

The company spokesman, whom Owen had met once before, was shouting at a pair of officers.

A guard behind them dispensed with the last of a portable fire extinguisher's foam. Two other property guards stood watching. The charred stoop was coated in lather. From what Owen gathered, the trailer had just been nailed in a “drive-by Molotov cocktailing.” One of the guards had spotted the vehicle: a “light blue Hessian-mobile,” as he put it.

The smaller of the cops stepped back from the spokesman to ask for Owen's press credentials. Before they were checked, however, the spokesman flew off the handle, blasting both officers, along with the sheriff, as incompetent
scumbags
. With that, the
officer went back to arguing, forgetting all about Owen's clearance. Watching them go at it, Owen began to sense what felt like a coming storm—a drop in the air pressure sweeping The Basin: something approaching with terrible certainty.

Two miles north, on Eby Hess Road, just south of Bareville, driving west, Officer Rudolf Beaumont was so deranged with agitation, he was having trouble keeping his grip on the wheel.

Over the course of the past ninety minutes, he'd taken a blind-siding: first, by way of a call from the sheriff demanding to know about “bribery charges,” the details of which were scant and confusing, at best, however directly alarming. Beaumont had lied through his teeth, of course. The sheriff knew nothing about the mill. Beaumont alone had been working with Tulk and the Stoltzfi and Grabers and Benedictus. His involvement amounted not only to turning the other cheek to their operations—but to strong-arming, ushering off and / or bearing false witness against their opposition—i.e., overly persistent intruders. Over the years, he'd made seven related arrests, and administered even more beatings. Most of the suspects, what Tulk called the “animal activist prowlers”—had wound up in jail. In exchange for testifying against them, Rudolf had been given monthly payoffs. Essentially, this arrangement had always been simple, if undemanding enough. On select occasions, when circumstance dictated, Beaumont had even guarded the mill. Today had been one such occasion, as most of its keepers had been locked up, evidently. The idiots. Something had happened in town that morning to land them in Stepford's prison. Ezekiel Stoltzfus had contacted Rudolf at 5:15 in search of his father. By that point, Beaumont had already heard all about the attack on his cruiser radio. Ten minutes later, he'd been at the mill. A distraught Ezekiel had filled him in while, behind them, the hounds had been wailing chaotically. The timing couldn't have been any worse.

Sheriff Highman, braced for a loaded evening, was calling out all of his units. In moments, Rudolf would be assigned to “crowd control” at the Blue Ball Devil maze. From there, he wouldn't be
able to steal away for more than a couple of minutes. Hence, the mill would be left under insufficient guard for most of the evening.

He managed to slip away from his post at ten, right when the call had come in: Sheriff Highman's voice crackled over the radio, demanding explanations.

By this point, Highman was fed up with Rudolf—what with the beatings and all, and the bad publicity they had brought the department.

But
these
charges,
felony bribery
charges, if true, were a whole different game altogether.

Rudolf, parked in the compound lot with his headlights cut, listened in horror—all the while, pretending to be at the fair-grounds (minus the carnival roar), which didn't sit well with the sheriff—“
Where are you?
”—as Rudolf replied: “
In a portable toilet
.”

He blew his cool in the conversation. He might have done better to simulate bad reception for all of his grace under pressure. And Highman wasn't about to let up. His interrogation was only suspended, momentarily, due to distraction: a call had come in on a situation apparently pending in Bird-in-Hand. This left Rudolf standing at a loss with a frazzled Ezekiel, who couldn't enlighten him. It wasn't until—by stroke of fortune—Jonas Tulk pulled in behind him, rocking along in his family wagon, that hope for an explanation surfaced. But Tulk, for that matter, would be in the foulest of moods himself, and for solid reason: Beaumont and Benedictus had landed them all in a world of shit, he said. And with that, the picture began to unravel, however imbued with acrimony.

Back on patrol at the maze by 11, Rudolf began to register the full implications. Beaumont would surely be called to the stand to account for his role in accepting the offerings. Someone had caught him on film, red-handed. And knowing Benedictus, he'd botched their arraignment—Rudolf could hear the old windbag raving of Devils and hippies in Percy's courtroom. The harder he thought about Minister Bontrager taking the stand, the more nervous he grew. And the crowd around him was no help at
all—hundreds of drunks in masquerade walking by, some lipping off to him (“
Look, it's a pig!
”) from behind their veils of anonymity—as, all the while, the park's director, now seated inside of the ticket booth, glared at him. Rudolf felt himself flushing over. A simmering inner panic welled up in him. Presently, Sheriff High-man's voice came over the radio, calling for Kutay.

Allegedly, the city police had issued a warrant for violation of house arrest on an Ephraim Elias Bontrager. The young man and his aunt, his legal escort, had been due back at her house by ten. Officer Kutay was ordered to check on it …

Finally.

Rudolf broke for his cruiser, blasting himself for not realizing earlier: yes—of course. The kid, that bastard …

He and those Dough Balls—or Crubbills, or whatnot—had carried this whole thing out with a camera.

Resourceful, they were. Every one of them: crafty. Punks.

Beaumont knew where to find them.

He slowed on approaching the old gravel lane that cut into the woods from a bend in the road. A trail of dust hung over its weed-choked corridor. Someone had just driven through.

Rudolf turned off his headlights and slowly drifted up the rising incline, shadowed on either side by deciduous trees, their silhouettes etched in the moonlight—around a bend to a break in the forest, then out to a narrow path between cornfields. From there, he slowed his advance even further. An acre of stalks moved by at a crawl, beyond which a floating expanse of darkness harbored the glow of a distant bonfire.

Yes. Exactly as he had suspected: the Schlabach Farm. They were gathering here.

The last three barn party raids had been launched against out-in-the open, high-profile targets. In light of foreseeable heightened police opposition to underaged drinking this evening, surely the Dough Balls would have relocated operations to somewhere secluded. The long-abandoned Schlabach Farm was the obvious choice, to Beaumont's reckoning. Situated 500 yards from the
northernmost bend in Eby Hess Road, behind him—and a mile to the nearest lane in all other directions—the place was nearly invisible. No one could see it from any road. The nearest house was miles away. And the aging couple who owned the property lived in Ronks and didn't patrol it.

Across the field, a couple of figures were moving around in a haze of firelight. Stacks of what looked like boxes dotted the yard. A car was parked to one side. The southern wall of the barn was faintly discernible, patterned with networks of ivy. Beaumont cut his engine and stared for a minute.