The Pines (29 page)

“Do you want to help?”

“Oh God oh, ’Thena, I—”

“Not you. Matthew? You want to help?”

Gently, the boy reached out his hand and stroked the blood-matted tail.

“Put your finger here. Now push while I…no, not like…just enough to hold it so…That’s it.” Drawing the edges of the wound together, she pushed the needle through them.

Pam gasped, and Dooley whined a little. Fresh blood glistened in the folds of the boy’s knuckles.

Sunday, August 9

The air hummed with flies. Straw covered the floor, and the hot interior held an overpowering stench of old feces. Only a few unshaded bulbs above the corroded cages diluted the gloom, and Steve peered into the shadows. Many of the pens appeared empty, though small shapes might have huddled in the corners. The clearly occupied ones contained a pathetic lot: an ancient raccoon, a turkey vulture, a barnyard goat.

The proprietor followed him into the barn. “Like I said, no charge for seeing the animals, Officer. Not for one of you guys.” He smiled nervously at Steve’s back. “I bought this place from a guy. Could of made a fortune, they’d only built that damn highway they was all talking about. Used to have a two-headed snake, but it got away.”

“Any other animals ever escape from here?”

“Never.” The old man’s eyes slitted. “Why do you want to know? Somebody say something? You should of seen that snake with them two tongues, one in, other out. Wild.”

The man looked scared, and Steve figured he probably had a still hidden somewhere nearby. “This the lot?”

Muttering to himself, the old man beckoned toward an open back door, and Steve strode out of the barn. Once outside the fetid shed, he spat, and some of the thick saliva clung to his lips. Raising his shoulder, he rubbed his mouth against his shirt. The air seemed cooler. Post and wire enclosures tilted against the buildings, and as his eyes adjusted to the sunlight, he spotted some chickens, a few overfed rabbits. And a wolf.

“Officer? Could you tell me exactly what you’re looking for? Officer?”

Steve edged closer to the largest pen.

Full in the sunshine and scarcely breathing, the wolf sprawled in its own urine. The stench was primitive, intensely territorial. Steve pressed against the fence. The animal looked diseased. Insects crawled on it. Nose twitching, it unsteadily lifted its head, and the gummed slits of its eyes opened, barely focused on him. Those filmed eyes burned.

Matthew tilted the mug, pouring tepid broth into his cupped hand. Supporting the animal’s head with his other hand, he held the broth to Dooley’s mouth. The mongrel felt hot to him, even through the fur. With flickering movements no more powerful than the wings of a butterfly, the dog licked the broth. Even the tongue felt hot.

The steady lapping tickled his palm. Pam had made the broth, at his urging, and as he poured more of it into his hand, he could hear her outside, humming to herself as she scattered feed for the remaining hen. Unconsciously, he began to turn in the direction of her voice, and his eyes were drawn to the open back door.

Beyond the porch, beyond the yard, waited the ragged pines. He stared through the screen, and a rippling sensation traveled across his skin.
Chabwok.
The sick dog trembled. The boy tried to look away, but the call sounded in his mind again, forcefully, almost a command.
Chabwok.
Every day more powerful, each day wilder, more fearsome. Crouched on the kitchen floor, the boy resisted, shaking with the silent struggle. The broth trickled through his fingers.

The dog’s breath felt damp on his hand, and Dooley whimpered. Turning back, the boy murmured soothingly and poured the last of the liquid into his hand. “Come on now,” he coaxed. “Come on now finish it up like a good boy now finish it.”

As the shadows of the pines grew longer and darker, they left the car on the shaggy road and walked toward the fire tower. “And you’re the one’s supposed to be so goddamn conscientious, too. I waited over a hour for you.”

“Look, I’m sorry,” repeated Steve. “I told you. There was something I wanted to check out. Unofficially.”

“I’ll bet. So, how was it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Come off it.” Barry turned away. “And I frigging covered for you with Frank too.”

“Barry, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Where do you think I went?”

Shooting him a suspicious glance, Barry kept griping. “Not bad enough we got to work on Sunday. We got to get started a hour late on top of it.” One of the local fire watchers had disappeared, apparently just gone off without notifying anyone. With the heat wave continuing, they’d been instructed to periodically check his tower.

“Quit bitching, Barry.”

“From now on, the only thing’s gonna be working overtime is this. Sunday’s the only time I get to spend with Cathy.”

“I never noticed you being anxious to see your wife.”

“Yeah? Well, I am now. Especially since that Jack’s been sniffing around.”

“You sure about that? It doesn’t seem likely somehow.”

“What, you gonna defend him now? Guess I ought to expect that from you.” He glared. “Did you think ’Thena wouldn’t tell me about you being over there the other day?”

“You’ve seen Athena?”

“I called her. Not that it’s your goddamn business.”

“Barry, I only went over there to—”

“I know what you went over there for. What, do you think I didn’t know you was spying on us all them times? You sick bastard. What do you think ’Thena’s going to say when I tell her about that?”

Steve turned his back to him, willing himself not to listen. He looked up. The ladder to the fire tower hung just above his head.

“Huh? What’s the matter, boy?” Barry stopped ranting, and a sly look came onto his face. “Too high for you? You’re the one supposed to be in such great shape. Are you too drunk? Big hero. Too drunk today? Let’s see you climb it, boy. Let’s see what kind of shape you’re really in. After how many years of hitting the bottle? Ever since Anna died, you ain’t been nothing but a drunk. So what you covered for me a couple times? You think that makes you a better cop than me? I been carrying this team. About time you remembered it. You don’t do shit, just sit in the car and get loaded, and now you’re hanging around ’Thena’s. Big cop from the big city. You ain’t nothing but dead weight. When I tell her about…”

Steve threw himself at the base of the ladder and climbed, pulling himself arm over arm, rung by rung away from the voice.

Halfway up, it became excruciating. A drop of sweat tickled his stomach. Barry was right. He was out of shape. Breathing hard, he pulled himself up another rung, his uniform suddenly drenched. The voice rose from below, taunting, ridiculing. The heat grew unbearable, and a nerve throbbed in his temple. Sweat got in his eyes, and it became hard to clutch the wet, slippery rungs. His arms trembled. Barry’s voice surrounded him, but he could no longer make out the words, though vaguely he realized the tone had changed to one of alarm. Almost to the top, he heaved himself, and lights flashed in his brain.

The insistent voice seemed to be coming from another planet.

At last—thick breath bursting from his lungs—he muttered, “Yeah, yeah, I’m all right.” He lay on his back on the platform. The shouting continued, and he turned on his side. “Quit yelling. I said I was all right.” The air he drew seemed filtered through blood. “Just got sick for a minute.”

“I’m coming up.”

“No. Stay down there.” He sat up, ashamed. Of course, Barry was right. All the years, all the drinking—the body in which he’d taken such pride had betrayed him. Or rather he’d betrayed it. Panting heavily, he got to his feet and leaned on the rail until his whirling vision steadied.

Distant pines clawed the horizon. Astonished, he turned around: an ocean of harsh green. A dim corner of his mind tried to estimate the acreage. Endless, it swept to the bristling sky, and except for the police car directly below, nothing man-made could be seen. Gradually, his breathing returned to normal.

“You okay up there? What the hell are you doing? I didn’t mean what I said before. About Anna. You gonna make me drag myself up there?”

Steve started down. “Would you shut up already?” He expected to be shaking when he reached the bottom. Instead, with his feet on the ground, he felt strangely calm.

“Asshole! What, were you just goofing off up there? I thought you had a heart attack or something.” Barry stomped toward the car.

After a moment, Steve followed, slowly at first, more acutely conscious of the woods than he’d ever been. Every muscle in his body ached. And it felt good. “You know,” he said, catching up. “When I went over there, Athena said something about wanting to talk to us again, about what she saw that night.” As though suddenly distracted, he stopped and looked away into the pines. “She mention it to you?”

“You ain’t gonna start all that crazy shit again, I hope.”

Steve didn’t flinch from the sudden hate that blazed in his partner’s eyes. He drew a deep breath.

“No, shut up,” Barry cut off his response. “I don’t want to hear about it. Anyway, you know what Frank said. He’s the boss, and he told you to lay off—he don’t want no more crazy talk.”

“I’m pretty hot about that too. Seems to me, somebody must’ve gone to Frank with a story to get him to jump on the thing the way he did.”

“Don’t give me that,” Barry sneered. “I know what you’re hot about.”

He only restrained himself with an effort. “Maybe it’s true. Maybe you just don’t care what happens out here. Some cop. Maybe all you care about is what the troopers might uncover. I got ears, Barry. How many hot cars has Frank Buzby got out here right now? You think I don’t know who torched that place?”

“Big fucking deal! I don’t see you resigning,” he laughed. “What’s your goddamn problem, Steve? Wouldn’t she give you none when you went over there?”

At the last instant, Steve managed to pull the punch.

Even so, Barry staggered back against the car. His teeth turned red. Instantly, he started swinging. “You fucker!” His knee caught Steve in the groin.

Doubled over, Steve tried to dodge or block the worst of the blows. “Stop it!” Then the muscles of his back bulged and flattened as he struck. Quickly, efficiently, he pinned the heavier man against the car, twisting his arm behind him. “I said, knock it off!”

Barry grunted, seemed to relax, and Steve eased off. Barry drew his gun. Steve hit him in the gut. As Barry crumpled, gasping, Steve disarmed him…then just went wild.

Barry clung to Steve, tried to pull himself up as punches hammered into his stomach. His face turned to the sky.

Steve grabbed him by the throat and squeezed. The face clotted to a deep purple. Hands clawed wildly.

Steve threw him to the rough soil, and small infantile noises broke from Barry’s open mouth. Steve bent and retrieved his partner’s gun from where it had fallen.

Choking, Barry looked up. Their eyes met.

Steve turned away. He tossed the gun through the open window onto the backseat and got in.

Barry knew he’d never been closer to death. He’d seen it in Steve’s eyes. The dust cloud from the car still settled, gagging him, as he lay in the dirt and waited for his breath to return. His throat hurt so bad he couldn’t swallow. He rolled onto his side and curled up. The pain diminished, though the side of his face continued to throb. Finally able to rise, he brushed away some of the sand and stood, clenching and unclenching his fists. He peered down the road after the car.

That son of a bitch had wanted to kill him, Barry thought with something like admiration. Who would have guessed old Steve had it in him? Wondering how long it would be before Steve came back, he massaged first his arm, then his throat. He knew Steve would come back soon as he cooled off. In the meantime, he was stuck out here. Nowhere to walk to. Not much chance of a ride. Staggering slightly, he turned and wandered toward the shade of the fire tower.

The cicadas had begun in the surrounding woods. Glinting red along their tops, fir trees began to sink into the gloom. Pacing around the tower, he winced and spat blood on the sand.

The last of the few patrons having left without her noticing, Athena sat alone in the diner. What remained of the daylight failed to penetrate the murky windows, and Sims never turned the lights on this early. To think she’d actually come here to cheer up.

At the grill, old Sims scraped grease into an iron trough with a spatula and glanced over at her. He wiped his hands on the apron.

“Want something else?” She jerked her head up. Sims looked down at her, yellow teeth gleaming in the poor light. His right hand held a steaming coffee server. “Some more?” She nodded, and he poured the stale coffee.

Suddenly, he laid his hand across her arm. “I just want you to know how much I always liked Wally, an how sorry I was to hear ’bout Lonny.” His grip was trembling and clammy. “Some folks ’round here, they says things ’bout you, but I always stick up for you. Just the other day, I says to…”

He smelled dead, and the T-shirt was a horror. She nodded, trying to endure this politely. He stroked her arm with two fingers.

And then his words seemed to come to her from a long way off. Catching only snatches, hints of sound, she struggled to listen. “…nice girl…little getting use to is all…” The pressure pounded in her ears.
What’s happening?
It throbbed behind her eyes.
What’s happening to me?
The churning started low in her intestines and burst hotly upward like a flare. As she hunched over in the booth, Sims’s voice rose thinly in shock and concern. Through her swirling agony, she sensed the physical world waver and ripple about her. Then the rending of her bowels ceased as suddenly as it had come, leaving behind no trace of nausea.