Night Of The Beast (15 page)

A tingle, sharp and clear
: [something else is out there]

You're spooked; jumping at branches and seeing ghosts from the badlands of your head.
[tingle?]
Be a rational adult and stop worrying.

"It's nothing," he said aloud.

Peter flinched and spun around. Monday had started growling. The dog felt it too; something vile and wicked, floating through the thin night air. It was leering down at him, amused. Rourke shuddered. The short hairs on the nape of his neck came to attention.

Peter started back down towards camp, Julie cradled in his arms. He didn't like turning his back to those dark, damp woods. Neither did Monday, which made things even worse. It just didn't add up. Why was Julie lying so far from the RV? Hell, she'd only gone out to avoid using the chemical toilet, yet he'd found her over a hundred yards away and in a totally different location. Looking battered, as if she'd been running through the forest.

When Rourke stepped into view with Julie, Timmy cheered. Paula cracked. She began to sob helplessly as Peter carried her little girl into the large mobile home. He had to duck to avoid whacking his head against the low ceiling.

"Which bed, Timmy?"

The boy rushed into Julie's room. He peeled back the blankets and sheets and fluffed her pillows. Peter eased Julie down onto the bed and covered her up. Her wrist had stopped bleeding. He loosened the knot and removed his handkerchief.

Paula knelt beside the bed, clutching Julie's hand. She murmured a soft prayer of thanks when her daughter responded.

"What happened, baby?" Paula asked.

Clouds rolled through Julie's eyes. She shook her head and frowned. "I don't know, Mom."

"Well, you're safe, thanks to Mr. Rourke. That's all that matters."

Julie looked unusually pale. Peter was puzzled. The girl couldn't have lost a great deal of blood.

Julie began to toss her head around on the pillow. "I must have passed out, Mom," she cried. "Why don't I remember anything? Am I going to be sick again? Even when I was real sick, I could always remember. How come I can't now?"

"You bumped your head," Rourke said. "That can do funny things to people. You'll probably be fine in the morning."

"Will I?"

"I'm no medicine man, but I think so, I don't see any sign of a concussion. Does your head hurt?"

"Nope."

"Then go to sleep," Rourke said. "You should be okay after a good night's rest."

Paula fussed over her daughter. Rourke seized the opportunity to sneak outside and warm himself at the fire. Timmy followed a few moments later, Monday happily strolling at his side. Rourke scratched the big dog's ears and smiled.

"Monday seems to enjoy your company."

"It wasn't Mom that let him get away, sir. It was me. I tried real hard to stop him — honest — but he's strong."

"Forget it," Rourke said.

"I sure love him," the boy grinned.

"Just about everybody does, Timmy. He's a good old dog."

Monday curled up at Peter's feet and yawned.

"He's sleepy," Timmy said.

Rourke rubbed his temples. "So am I. Maybe I'd better crash in the car."

"Promise you'll wake me up to say goodbye?"

"I promise."

Timmy gave Rourke a quick hug and raced inside. Peter sat with Monday and pondered unanswered questions. When Paula Baxter emerged from the recreational vehicle, she joined Rourke by the fire. He joked with her and stayed up long enough to help her regain her composure.

Meanwhile, back in her darkened room, Julie Baxter began to lick the dried blood from her wrist.

The crusty old mechanic sits by himself in the dark, ruminating. That fucking badger, she'd stumped him again. Clever little bandit; most likely a bitch with a litter to feed. He still hadn't a clue how to find her den.

Shitfire,
Jake thought,
why did I promise Candace Stone I'd shoot it? Man's got to keep his word. I swear, if she didn't keep losin' chickens all the time I'd say there wasn't any varmint. Can't find hide nor hair of it, not a blessed trace. Given me the slip twice now. Smart as hell, that one.

Jake Lewis double-checked the lock on the warped wooden door of his ramshackle room behind the gas station. The ancient cowboy had put his rifle away, sailed his boots into one corner and sprawled out on the floor. Now he pulled his hat down low over his rheumy eyes and relaxed.

Jake liked to feel the whole world moving beneath him. He considered himself an uninvolved observer, did his best to remain stationary. Jake couldn't have articulated his position, but he knew in his heart that if he did not participate, he bore no risk. The man who never enters a race will never lose one.

Jake had survived to near dotage by doing little. Actually, that was his secret, his special, greedy little sin. He knew he should have felt guilty for sleeping through life — never having committed, chosen, or participated where he could avoid it — and he did carry a small bundle of regrets; but he generally examined them only in his blackest moments. Questions and "what if" thoughts: What if I'd proposed to old Candace Stone someplace along the line? How would it feel, not sleeping alone?

But those games depressed and bored him. They seldom stayed on his mind for very long. Besides, every now and then, when he really poked and prodded the wounds, the sorrow became a different feeling altogether... A sick sense of triumph. Like getting away with doin' somethin' dirty, back when he was small.

Yeah. It felt like not getting caught.

And he hadn't been so far. Jake just bided his time, closed as a safe, and listened to the years roll by. In one long-ago memory, he was a young boy on a merry-go-round. A shy, cowlicked little farm kid who never grabbed for the brass ring. He might miss it and be noticed, singled out, perhaps obligated to try again.

Jake Lewis is a microcosm of the withering town of Two Trees; submerged in old age and waiting calmly for death to come calling.

But first, may as well get some sleep.

Listen
…It is like this:

White hot sun; the sky a stiff, starched collar. The desert rolls away to the edge of the world like an endless strip of sandpaper. Low yellow dunes, shifting constantly, trace the shape of the wind. Lines seem to carve themselves in the sand, slicing up and down and in spirals. Sharp edges, deep cuts in the red meat of the infertile earth. This is monotonous violence and constant motion; dry, sweltering heat. No moisture. No shade. The brain bakes, the spirit withers…

The shack was splintered and patched, open in places to the full force of the wind. It was impossible to guess its age; the structure had been repaired too many times, built too long before. The two men who shared it were unlike others of their kind.

See this large, misanthropic man? His name is Chalmers. He had chosen a hermit's life. He'd been unhappy to find he had a new companion. Still, the hours crawled by, same as before, and Chalmer had come to accept the slim Latino as part of the landscape. He'd had to. Nobody in his right mind would have tried to say no to Anthony Vargas.

Neither man cared much for idle conversation. Sometimes they didn't speak, just passed a bottle back and forth on the porch and listened to the insects. Days had gone by.

Billy Chalmers was a big, wide man with reddish hair, vacant brown eyes and a thin mouth that seldom cracked to smile. He was low on teeth. Chalmers was raw and tough, a mean drunk. One too many scrapes had landed him in prison, and he'd spent five long years there. Came out different, all right — reformed, if you had a mind to call it that. He'd split for the sticks and settled in the high desert to stay clear of hassles. Killed his own food, minded his own business. Things had gone along peacefully enough. That is, until a few days ago, when Vargas showed up.

Chalmers had started to object, really meant to kick some ass but ended up not saying a word. It was because of those eyes, mostly. Vargas had snake eyes, cold as marble. There was no feeling left in them, not even an instinct for survival. Tony Vargas didn't give a shit one way or the other.

Chalmers had known the type in stir. Cons, already in for life, who'd rape and kill for a pack of smokes. You didn't mess with a man like that, you just backed away. So Chalmers hadn't complained, and Vargas wound up staying. He'd never say what he was running from, but Billy knew better than to ask. The man had his reasons. Chalmers didn't pry, didn't care for those who did.

The big man stepped out onto the porch, shading his eyes with the brim of his sweat-stained cowboy hat. It would be sundown soon, time to gather some dry brush and firewood for dinner. He trudged out into the sage. There was no sign of Vargas as usual. The slim Latino was probably down there in that damned old mine shaft again, pecking away like he really expected to find something. Chalmers had decided that for Vargas it was just a way of keeping sane. He never came up with much, maybe a trace of gold flake here and there, but the hope seemed to spark him. Chalmers didn't want to see Vargas pissed off. He was a crack shot, but even better with a knife. Impossibly quick. Billy had seen it with his own eyes, watched Vargas flick his wrist and slice off a rattler's head just as neat as you please.

Anthony Vargas was the only living soul Billy Chalmers had ever met who paralyzed him with fear. There was just something about the way Vargas held a knife, like it got him off to stroke it. Billy didn't care much for blades. They scared the shit out of him. Guns were one thing, but to use a knife a man had to enjoy killing from real close in, like an animal.

So fuck it, if Vargas yelled "jump," Chalmers knew he'd ask how high and how far. He'd keep right on jumping, too, until Tony said he could stop. That fact made him feel sort of sick, but there it was.

Chalmers stacked the wood and brush and built a fire. He located his battered old coffee pot and a bottle of bourbon and hunkered down, rubbing his hands.
Nights have always turned cold fast out here
, he thought,
but lately it's worse than ever
. He glanced to the right, at the black mouth of the abandoned mine shaft. No sign of Vargas. He poured himself a stiff one and settled down to wait.

A scowling, thirsty green lizard crawled through some boulders at the foot of the mountain and started down into the mine. It immediately retreated from the noise and vibration below.

Look, now: A distant light, bobbing and weaving.
CHINK. CLANG
. A hammer striking, splitting grey rocks.

The handsome Latino called Anthony Vargas held up his find. He raised the lantern and took a closer look. Gold? Maybe, maybe not. It was always a blind guess in the cool, dark belly of the mine. It was frustrating to carry so much useless rock out into the sunlight for inspection, but then again it was something to do. It kept him occupied.

He had to bide his time, let things cool off a bit. After all, the Mafia was nothing to fool around with, right? He'd just outlast those Italian bastards, lull them into a coma before emerging from his hiding place to strike again
[...the cigarette burned, smoke-drilled a small red hole in her soft, round breast and she tried to scream but she choked on the gag and he knew then that he had become her whole world, first the thunder and the lightning...]

"Damn!"

He had a skill. Vargas knew he was handsome; dark and slender, lithe as a panther. He undersood that all women wanted him on sight, but quickly lost their passion and knew horror. Because he was also all ice and frozen fire. There was an odd glint to his eyes, like the reflection of a sharp steel blade — and behind those remote, calculating eyes, dark things bristled. They bit and clawed, fighting for release. He had taught himself to control them, but every now and then
[...the mafia princess, she tried to beg for release from her agony, but the gag — a pair of torn pantyhose — slipped deeper into her throat. she swallowed furiously, her insides convulsing, and began to shake. he smiled; strong teeth, white teeth, shark teeth. first the thunder, then the lightning, then the devil's reign...]

Vargas tore his thoughts away and smashed down with the hammer. Stupid, so stupid. He'd left a trail, clues to his identity, and now it wasn't safe to do the thing anymore — perhaps not for a long, long time.
[
...
666 hundred years of pain
...
]
It was his own damn fault, and he'd have to live with that, but the urgent need still smoldered. It burned and sometimes overflowed, like a boiling hot poison.
[
...
mafia! that damn bodyguard, chasing him relentlessly
...
]
This was like starving to death, not being able to do the thing for days. Staying out of sight, living in the middle of nowhere with that fucking hobo Chalmers.

Vargas was explosive, clever and quick. He had gotten away with doing the thing many times, but not that night, not with that woman. Bitch. Tramp. Whore.
[...that rock singer, dee jennings, her body jumped and trembled, outraged. she thrashed around and coughed up a kind of ragged shriek as the room filled with the odor of roasting flesh — oh good so very good — and he let her struggle for a while before grabbing her by the neck, squeezing with his hands; before the knife, using the beautiful blade of his knife...]
Stop.

No sense in getting too excited, thinking about any of those girls. The way it was, how it felt to be God.
I'm restless and impatient,
Vargas realized
. I don't want to slip up.

He knew he should wait, but he was beginning to have trouble controlling himself. He felt summoned, like something big was going on out there, something strange and wonderful. A war. He could smell it, taste it, wanted to be a part of it. An army was on the move — Vargas fancied he could hear a rumble in the earth like the sound of distant cannon. The air was full of ashes and the odor of spoiled meat. Violence was approaching; a black thunderhead, stuffed with reckless bolts of human lightning.