Scarecrow Gods (30 page)

“Each fish has a spirit? Is a spirit?” asked Danny.

“Each fish is a spirit,” said his father with a smile. “So, in order for us to gain the benefit of the fish’s sacrifice, one must also eat the fish. If the fish isn’t eaten, the spirit dies.”

Daniel craned his neck and stared back and into the woods from which he had come. With an effort, he pushed himself up and began to retrace his steps, eyes fixed to the ground.

“I knew you’d feel that way, that you wouldn’t want their sacrifice going to waste, so I went and got them for you.”

His father reached behind him and from the high grass, revealed the stringer of fish. Daniel met his eyes.

“Why don’t you just come out and tell people it wasn’t you? Why don’t you defend yourself?” he blurted out.

“Because I shouldn’t have to. Nothing I’ve ever done has warranted this kind of suspicion. Let me just say this. A man’s actions should count for something. No one should ever need to deny what is undeniably wrong.”

Danny tried to keep his already brittle voice from breaking. “Dad, I’m sorry. I mean I never—”

“I know you didn’t, son. Don’t worry. I’m not mad at you. I just needed for you to understand.”

“And Mom, the police?”

“They don’t think I was ever involved…now,” he added, his face hardening. “I’ve been working with the police on this. I’ve hired a private investigator. Guy costs an arm and a leg, but it’s worth it. We’ve had some results, some clues as to your sister’s whereabouts. There’s talk of Arizona.”

“So who—”

“That’s enough of this talk now,” said his father, wiping away what could have been sweat from his eyes. “If we don’t get these fish on some ice, their sacrifice will be for nothing. Don’t want to have them go to waste now, do we? Get the old fish God mad at us, get the spirits all riled up.”

Danny smiled and shook his head.

CHAPTER 14

Monday—June 25th

Ooltewah, Tennessee

Danny was hanging sheets on the line and eyeing the approaching thunderheads when the crow returned. He wasn’t certain this was the same one, but was willing to bet it was. He hung the last sheet then stepped back as the wind riding the forward edge of the storm caught the wet fabric. The sheet billowed like a sail, obscuring his view. When the gust dissipated, he saw that the crow had disappeared.

He turned around and let out a girlish
yelp
.

Not two feet from him, standing about thigh high, head cocked slightly to one side, stood the crow. Danny’s eyes widened as the bird took a step towards him. Pecking at the air, it took another step. One more and it would be close enough to attack him.

Danny spun, dropping the empty plastic basket, and ran right into a sheet hanging from the line. He tried to free himself, but his momentum carried him too far forward. He tripped on the trailing lengths. The sodden fabric attached itself to his body as if he was a fly and it was fly paper.

Ooomph
! Breath escaped him as he struck the ground at an awkward angle, his shoulder stinging as he struggled to twist free. He was getting scared, thoughts going irrational. He knew his thinking was crazy, but he was certain the crow had somehow placed him in this predicament. He rolled left, then right. His arms windmilled inside the fabric. All he managed to free was one foot and this was what he used to propel himself back and forth in somersaults. Finally, he was able to free one arm, next came his other leg and then his head.

He stood, his head pounding. He could feel his pulse against the backs of his eyeballs. He gasped for breath. His legs shook, muscle fatigue adding to the cumulative effects of his struggle. The new scar along his face throbbed. He threw down the sheet in disgust. Torn in several places, it was filthy with red Tennessee clay and dark brown earth.

He screamed his frustration to the gathering storm. He wondered how things could get any worse as the first drop of rain struck him on the top of his head. Soon, there were more and more drops, transitioning into a full fledged deluge. The summer storm, like all summer storms in the South, would be gone in a few minutes, but while it was here, it might as well be a hurricane.

Danny stared at the sheets billowing violently on the clothesline and wondered whether he should leave them or grab them to take into the house. He decided on the latter and with all three soaked sheets and four pillowcases hanging over his shoulders, he stumbled for the back door. The crow was standing at the base of the stairs, the wind tugging at its feathers. He kicked at it. His third kick finally convinced the bird to step out of the way.

By the time Danny fell up the three wooden steps into the kitchen, he was completely drenched. With a grunt, he pulled off the sheets, dropping them in the center of the kitchen floor. Water began to seep out of them moving slowly over the uneven surface of the linoleum towards the hole beneath the stove.

Danny stumbled through the living room where Maxom was sleeping into the bathroom. He removed his shirt, grabbed a towel, and savagely dried his wet hair. He pounded an ear with the heel of his hand in the hopes his brain would drain. Then he dried his chest and his arms. As he struggled to get his back, he wondered for the thousandth time why Maxom slept so much. He felt a spike of anger surge through him, but fought it down. What had happened had nothing to do with Maxom. It was just that damned bird and the weather.

Danny took off his shoes. He wrung them out the best he could in the bathtub. Brown water and the stench of dirty socks filled the enclosed space. His feet had never smelled before this year. Heck, he’d never sweated half as much. His mother said it was hormones. His father said it was the first step to dating girls, which Danny found difficult to believe. All he knew was that it was a pain in the butt and if he ended up like Doug with his
foo foo
deodorant, he didn’t know what he’d do.

Now barefoot, he stepped into the living room, the long fronds of shag carpeting tickling his feet. He glanced over at the still unconscious Maxom and made his way back into the kitchen. Frowning, he stared at the pile of dirty, wet sheets, wondering how he was going to make them not dirty and not wet.

He shrugged. It wasn’t like he could do anything about it now. He was pretty sure he should wring them out before he put them in the washing machine. There was nothing to be done until the storm passed, anyway.

Danny stepped over the pile of sheets and to the back door. Far over the tops of the trees, he could see the back edge of the storm. The sky was a glistening metallic blue there, promising rainbows and a return of the sun. He figured about half an hour and the rain would stop. In the meantime—

Danny halted and gaped at the crow still standing in the back yard—in the same spot where it had been before the storm had arrived. Water poured from the great bird’s glistening blue-black feathers. It stared at Danny, then leapt into the air. It traveled only a few feet towards him before it landed. Then as deliberately as a two year-old with a crayon, the crow dipped its head and made several deep scratches in the mud.

The crow finished marking in the wet earth and, with a knot of mud upon the end of its beak, turned and flew away, disappearing into the trees. Danny stared at the scratches that were quickly filling with water. Reluctantly, he stepped back into the deluge. His shoulders jumped as the cold water struck the skin of his bare back. He found himself walking on his tip-toes, his feet sensitive to the coolness of the rainwater. Within seconds, his hair was once again plastered to his skull.

The rain and run-off had already almost obliterated the marks, but what he saw sent a chill through him. The marks weren’t merely marks, but letters. Letters that spelled out the word:
GOTCHA!

Suddenly from behind him came the sound of laughter. Danny spun. Rainwater dripped from his face. Maxom stood in the frame of the open back door, his head rocking back laughing. Danny felt his anger rise again. He didn’t like being laughed at. Especially when he was scared.

Maxom Phinxs, balancing upon his prosthetic legs, leaned over and spoke a single word.

“Gotcha!”

Then the man laughed even louder.

* * *

Paradise Valley, Arizona

She was such a fine little girl.

Fifteen.

Sixteen at the very most.

John doubted seriously she was the twenty year-old woman she pretended to be. Not only was there still the look of virginal paranoia in those darkly shadowed eyes, but her features were too smooth.

Most runaways were hardened professionals by the time they hit twenty–-
if
they hit twenty. Graduates of the rape crews—truckers, hobos, other runaways, predators, police officers, border patrolmen—they became the things they’d been most afraid of becoming.

He trailed a hand through her hair and snipped.

But this one’s face was still fleshed with the good living of the suburbs. By the curve of her jaw and the subdued cheek bones, he could tell that if allowed to live, this one was going to be a looker.

Grabbing another length of hair, he snipped.

Like the others of his private group, he’d found this one wandering vaguely West. He could almost read her mind. After all, they were all the same.

Her mother didn’t understand her. Maybe her father was abusing her, maybe not. The teachers didn’t have a clue and were too busy putting all their hopes and dreams into the few smart ones while the rest struggled to learn on their own. Angst, angst and more angst. The girl didn’t know where she was going, but like all girls who read about movie stars and rock and rollers and the glitter of Hollywood, Los Angeles was a possibility. After all, everything was wine and roses on
Beverly Hills 90210
. No homeless mass murderers or priestly rapists. Just clothes, cars, silicon and enough hormone magnified angst to fuel a rocket to the nearest Quasar if a person was intelligent enough to tap into it.

So sad.

He snipped another length of hair from her head and placed it in the ever-growing pile. He had uses for the strands in his
root
making. He’d already collected a personal item from her bag. He’d clipped her fingernails, carefully sliding each piece into a plastic baggy with her name written prominently across the front in permanent laundry marker. Now that she was here, there was no going back. His magic would keep her here.

He placed the stainless steel scissors on the wooden table beside the pile of cut hair. The girl lay drugged across his lap. Pulling out a container, he squeezed a green gel from it and applied it to the girl’s scalp, taking extra care to rub it around the still remaining tufts of hair. As he rubbed it in, the color changed from green to white, the shaving foam growing. Finally complete, he picked up an old fashioned straight razor. When she awoke she would no longer be who she had been.

He was remaking her into one of his apostles. A smile flicked across his lips. He leaned down and whispered in her ear.

“I know who you are. I know.” He kissed a clear smooth spot on the side of her head. “And soon, you will know who you are as well.”

* * *

Ooltewah, Tennessee

The heat of the teacup kept his hands from shaking. The steam blurred his vision. The smell of the sweet sassafras reminded him of the candies he used to steal from the top of the piano when he’d been five. He concentrated on these things as he sat scrunched into a corner of the couch, his legs drawn up protectively. He blinked away another tear, letting the salty residue of his fear join the others that had flowed onto his bare chest.

In front of him, insectile and looming, Maxom Phinxs stood. Behind him was the television. On the screen, Danny could make out the shape of Beaver Cleaver amidst the tumbling vertical hold and blizzard snow. Other, smaller things were harder to discern. Like, what was hanging at the end of the strap Beaver held in his hand? Was it really a stack of school books? Or perhaps the small dog, the pet of the lady who lived across the street from the Cleavers? From watching the old reruns, Danny knew they were books, but on this television, he couldn’t be sure. On this television things could be different. After all, in this place things were different.

“Boy, you gotta stop crying and listen to me. Your mother’s gonna be here soon and there’s no telling what she’s gonna think went on here. God forbid, a half naked white boy crying on my couch.”

Through the gap in Maxom’s legs, Danny watched three boys tossing around a head on the screen—or was it a football. He closed his eyes.

“Damn it. Listen to me.” Maxom’s fists were balled as he leaned over, his face squarely in Danny’s vision. “I got this thing I want to share with you.” He grinned. “It’ll be fun.” Then, realizing the imposing figure he was presenting, he straightened, walked across the room and sat heavily in a little used chair. “This wasn’t the way I wanted this to turn out. I just thought it’d be funny. I didn’t think you’d get this way.”

The part of Danny’s mind that wasn’t concentrating on the morbid game of Catch the Head on the television begged to respond to the man’s frustration, but Danny wouldn’t allow his mouth to open. The last time it had, he’d screamed for the man to let him go home. He’d screamed for the man to leave him alone. He’d screamed for his mommy to come save him. No, he’d keep his mouth shut.