Something Bad (10 page)

She fished her hand into the back pocket of her jeans and pulled out the three cards. Her foot came down on the first step of the rectory porch, which groaned at the intrusion. She lifted the cards and inspected them in the dim light. The fog lifted a little more, allowing a better view. A foot on the next step and she was halfway up to the porch. She checked the writing. All neat. Another step up and her senses went back on guard. A distant noise made her freeze. Again the noise — muffled, but somewhat familiar. A dog barking? Way off in the distance. No need to worry.

With the final step onto the porch the fog retreated, leaving an ethereal mist that clung to the roofline of the rectory, as if it were trying to maintain a finger hold on the night. Hazel looked down at her hands once again to make sure everything was just right. The three-by-five cards were carefully hand lettered and the message was perfectly centered.

Hazel slipped all three cards into the space between the double rectory doors and pushed until the last remnant of white disappeared from view. The tap of cardstock on the wooden floor seemed to echo in her heightened sensory world. A creaking sound came from the other side of the doors and a slight gasp escaped her lips. She hit alternate steps of the porch on her way to a full out sprint across the road and into the gravel. Her silence wasn’t important to her now, and she kicked up a little gravel with each foot strike, betraying the direction and speed of her escape.

When she reached the corner of the church, she didn’t bother with the formality of streets. She headed across the vacant lot and cut a diagonal path for Main Street. With each step, she came closer to the comfort of the streetlight and closer to the safe haven of her house.

As she put distance between her and the rectory, her mind was freed of immediate tension, and the residual adrenaline rush triggered a long-ago memory of the last time she ran this fast with a similar feeling of half excitement, half fright. In her flashback, she was sixteen years old and in pursuit of John Johnson, who had just stolen her bra and panties, which she had removed on a dare by her best friend, Edna Gwynn. It turned out that Edna was in cahoots with John and got a glimpse of his privates in exchange for the set-up. Hazel gritted her teeth through a half-smile. She never forgave Edna. But she got the last laugh later that year when she received a hurried marriage proposal from John after she gave him what he wanted in the first place and became pregnant with their first child.

Hazel slowed her pace as she approached the front of the café. She wondered what had happened to Edna. She recalled how Edna tried to follow her lead with the next-best eligible man, Preston Cunningham, but through two years of trying, she was unable to get pregnant. She recalled how Press tired of Edna’s constant whining and how he carried out a well-orchestrated and very public break up that devastated Edna. At the time, Hazel felt a sense of vindication, but now she was sad. Poor Edna turned reclusive after the scene and slipped out of town later that year. No one had heard of her after that.

Hazel crossed in front of the café and turned into the house next door. She opened the door and slammed it shut, waking John, who was asleep on the couch.

“Where’ve you been? It’s late.”

Hazel stomped across the floor. “What do you care?”

John leaned up on his left elbow. “What’s with you lately? Why are you so snippy?”

“If you don’t know, then to hell with you,” she said.

John followed her into the bedroom.

She turned to face him and put her hands on her hips. “You might as well get comfortable out there because you’re not sleeping in here tonight.”

He threw his hands in the air. “What did I do now?”

“You know what you did.”

“No. I don’t. If you’re going to yell at me, just do it. I can’t do anything about it unless I know what it is.”

Hazel collapsed onto the bed, crying.

“Jesus Christ,” John whispered. He crossed the room and sat on the bed next to her. “Just tell me why you’re so upset and I’ll try to take care of it. I’m sorry. For whatever it is.” He put his hand on her shoulder.

She swatted his hand and turned her face away. She talked to the pillows. “You know the café is hurting for business ever since that little creep started eating at the Herndon’s Edge. But now, you’re going there for lunch, too. You and Billy and Mac. And you’re eating there.” She burrowed her face into the covers again.

“I’m sorry, honey, but we have business with Thibideaux. And we never know when he’s going to show.

Besides, we have enough from my pension. We don’t need the café.”

Hazel rolled on the bed, grabbed a pillow and swung it against John’s head. “You go to hell.” Another swing of the pillow and she let it loose against John’s raised arm. “You might as well take this out to the couch. You’ve seen the last of this bed.”

John turned over on the couch and nearly fell off. He looked at his watch—2a.m. His mind went to the freeway shunt. Eyes closed, he pictured the gas station and mini market, both full of customers. Then he pictured Hazel in the bright new café. She stood at a podium, menus in hand, and ushered a new set of customers through the busy dining room to the only open table.

“That’ll make her happy,” he said to himself.

G
ABE LAY BACK
in bed and watched Misty Rondelunas dance over, above him. She smiled and started rotating her hips slowly to music that only she heard. She reached up to her neck and gripped the zipper that held her top closed. Pulling it down slowly, she exaggerated the sway of her hips. The zipper slipped past her bare cleavage, then past her navel, all the way to the bottom of the garment, and apart. She turned away and lowered the garment from her shoulders, revealing a bare back over her swaying hips.

No bra, Gabe thought.

Misty slid the top down to her waist and then let it fall to the floor. She turned her head and smiled at him.

He felt himself rise against the covers.

Misty slowly turned, exposing her still-firm breasts.

She put both hands on the fastener of her jeans, pushing her breasts together and upward with her upper arms. She smiled as she unbuttoned the jeans.

Gabe looked down at the large lump in the sheets. He was so hard it almost hurt.

Misty eased the zipper of her jeans downward and pulled the waistband apart, revealing dark wisps of hair.

No panties, Gabe thought. He interlocked the fingers of his hands behind his neck and smiled.

She peeled her jeans downward until they fell free to the floor, but she kept her right leg slightly crossed over the left, as if she wanted to conserve a small semblance of mystery. She kneeled next to the bed and ran her left hand under the covers.

Her hand touched him, and then gripped him. The hand was big, much larger than he imagined. As she moved it against him, he writhed into a sympathetic rhythm. His excitement built.

He reached for her shoulders, and moaned at the touch of his hand on her bare skin. Her shoulders were broad and muscular. He tried to pull her to him, and she moved slowly, keeping her left hand busy. His hand moved upward, behind her head, then quickly pulled away. Misty’s hair was long, well beyond her shoulders, but the hair he touched was cut at shoulder length.

A stir and a snort. Gabe’s eyes opened and dark images infringed upon his fantasy world. Another dream, he thought, but then he felt the hand. It was still on him, still moving rhythmically up and down, just like in his dream. In the darkness, he saw her silhouette, kneeling by the bed. He didn’t want her to stop, but his confusion intruded.

Still a dream? But his eyes were open. He reached over and pulled on the lamp cord. He fell back into the bed, pushed her hand away, and yanked the covers up to his chin. “What the hell are you doing?”

Wanna sat back on her heels and grinned. “I ain’t churning butter.”

Gabe strained to pull air into his lungs. He felt his heart give an extra beat, then another, and he inhaled to thwart the long pause. “We can’t do this. What’s getting into you lately?”

Wanna giggled. “Nothing. Yet.”

“I’m serious. Why are you doing this?” He swiveled to a sitting position and reached for his robe.

Wanna grabbed her pants and pulled them on. Then reached for her shirt. “I don’t know. I’m just getting an itch. It comes and goes so fast and hard I can’t seem to control it.”

Gabe rolled off of the bed and hurried past her, into the bathroom. “Can’t you find some other man to scratch the itch?”

“It ain’t for any old man. That’s the strange part.”

Gabe splashed water on his face and reached for the towel under the window. He noticed movement outside so he leaned close. In the darkness he thought he saw the stringy mist of fog retracting into the night.

He successfully inhaled away another extra heartbeat and slumped on the lid of the toilet. He pounded his chest with his right fist. “And why is this happening here?” he said to himself.

Wanna leaned around the corner of the bathroom doorway. “Why is what happening here? You getting weird here at home, now?”

“I’m okay,” he said. “We need to talk about this. Maybe tomorrow.” He leaned forward and covered his face with his hands. There was no way he could tell Wanna that he felt the attraction, too. There always had been a slight draw to her, but this was more than that. It wasn’t all the time. Just some times. And it was strong—hard to resist. His mind turned to reason. Either he would have to resist his urges or he would have to tell everyone in the Tri-counties about him and Wanna. “Second one won’t work.” He mouthed the words. “Have to try the first.”

His heart gave an extra beat. Then another.

T
HIBIDEAUX SAT UPRIGHT
, his eyes open wide. He was in the rectory, sitting in the single piece of furniture that had been delivered when he moved in. It was a large chair with a high back and arms that were ornately carved to imitate the damned in Michaelangelo’s
Last Judgment
. The chair was made of the darkest mahogany and was polished to a bright shine. Due to its great size, Thibideaux’s legs dangled from the seat, short of the floor, in front of the single pedestal base, which allowed the chair to freely swivel through three hundred and sixty degrees.

Thibideaux’s eyes half-closed, and he and the chair assumed a sympathetic motion, vibrating and jerking in smallish spastic movements, beginning in his midsection, then spreading upward. As the rhythmic contractions reached his shoulders, they spread to his right arm and produced an undulating motion that belied the presence of bones.

With a dull whir, the chair swung around so it faced to the northeast. The undulations of Thibideaux’s arm intensified and moved to his wrist and hand. He slowly lowered the arm until it pointed at the ground. His arm became still. Now, the floorboards in front of the chair began to creak and groan, taking up a slight undulation that moved across the room to the near wall, still holding the bearing to the northeast. The walls shook, causing the roof joists to emit a guttural growl. The room fell silent and still.

Thibideaux slumped into the high back of the chair and closed his eyes. A slight grin parted his lips—enough to expose a gap of shiny silver that reflected the dancing flames of the fireplace.

“It’s begun,” he said.