Devil’s Wake Page 3

  Hipshot’s nails clicked on the faded linoleum as he trailed Terry into the kitchen. Terry realized he was hungry, but when he lifted the pot’s lid, he clamped it down again fast. Ugh.

  Piranha sank into his usual silence, grabbing a soda out of the fridge, so Terry was alone with the story and didn’t feel like making jokes. “We need help putting the fish away,” Terry said instead.

  The freezer was an industrial-size Master-Bilt, deep enough to hide Darius’s Ninja. That had been fun. After ten minutes of stacking and packing in the freezer while Hipshot shadowed them, Terry finally said, “Hope Vern’s gonna be okay.”

  “What happened to Vern?” Sonia said, only halfway interested. That was her shtick, really. Chronic disinterest. She actually had a black sweatshirt with BLASÉ emblazoned in white letters.

  So he told them. All work ceased. Even Sonia seemed impressed.

  “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” they kept saying. “You have got to be kidding me!”

  “You saw a cop get nailed by a driver on Pike Street?” Darius said. He sounded far more impressed than horrified. “A real cop?”

  “Yeah, after the dude chomped Vern’s arm,” Terry said, because Darius seemed to have missed the point. “It’s all over the news. Not just in Seattle. Portland too. Something’s up.”

  After the fish were stacked and their gloves were put away, they all trudged to the counselors’ bunkhouse. Technically, Sonia had a nearby cabin to herself, but she hung out with them as late as she could get away with it. Somehow Terry didn’t think Vern would be swinging by with his flashlight tonight to make sure, as he put it, nobody got any “foolish ideas.”

  Darius was Evel Knievel on the asphalt, but a bust in the kitchen. He seemed to think that monosodium glutamate could magically transform him into Wolfgang Puck. Piranha took a tentative sip from the wooden spoon and then scowled. “Aw, hell, no.”

  “Like you could do better,” Darius said.

  “I do better on a regular basis,” Piranha said. “I do better asleep.”

  “You know it,” Sonia said, and gave Piranha that sly, heavy-lidded look that made it obvious that they’d engineered a few hours of privacy. Terry wondered what Sonia would think of the calls to girls back home in SeaTac that Piranha had made on the ferry.

  Terry didn’t bother tasting the stew. Instead, he warmed up enough leftover pasta for everyone and broke out the playing cards. They listened to music while Piranha dealt, and they bet pennies on cards that seemed cold for everyone. Nobody got a hand worth a damn, just hammers and deuces until just about yawning time, when Darius dealt Sonia a royal flush, and she won the entire pot, about enough to buy a gallon of gas.

  Sonia brayed laughter and slapped her palm on the table. Sometimes Sonia seemed kind of flat-faced and skinny, but in victory she was oddly attractive. “Thanks for the change, boys. It’s been a slice,” she said, and sashayed across the room while all of them watched. Except Piranha.

  Terry saw her glance back at Piranha. That look always came sooner or later, but Piranha’s eyes remained on the table, ignoring her message. That boy was beyond cool—he was cold. Too skinny or not, if Sonia had given Terry the are-you-coming-or-not look, Terry would have beaten her to the door.

  Terry flicked on the ancient TV, bracing himself. Vern was too cheap to spring for satellite, so the best he could get was the local news on a fuzzy UHF station. Footage from the Pike Place Market, of course. The newscaster said two residents had died that afternoon, which was a surprise to Terry. He’d missed the details about who had died besides the rabid cop he’d seen hit by a car, hearing only “officials blaming the melee on an unknown form of methamphetamine Officer Norgren and others might have ingested.”

  Officer Norgren. So, the dead cop had a name. A chart came up on the screen: Two dead, forty-six wounded in Seattle. Three dead, sixty-five wounded in Portland. “And reports continue to pour in from other major cities: in Los Angeles—”

  Piranha snapped off the TV. Terry hadn’t seen the big guy sidle up beside him.

  “Hey, man,” Terry said, and turned the ancient set back on, anger flaring. “My sister’s down there!” But by the time the channel was clear again, the newscaster had moved on to a list of instructions for anyone who had been bitten.

  Piranha shrugged. “Got sick of it. L.A.’s a helluva big place, right?”

  Terry turned up the volume, which gave the newscaster’s voice a sudden urgency: “… extreme drowsiness. If you were bitten during the attack, you should report to a hospital immediately for treatment. Bites from human beings carry more germs than dog bites, so seek out a public health facility or police station immediately.”

  Police station. Yeah, right.

  Darius Phillips tossed Hipshot a chunk of meat from the stewpot, and the dog wolfed it up. “Hear that, boy? People are dirtier than dogs. Dogs have better taste in food too.”

  Dean Kitsap sucked his teeth. “Vern shouldn’t wait ’til morning. I wouldn’t.”

  “That’s ’cuz you’re a mama’s boy,” Darius said.

  “Least I got one,” Dean said.

  “One?” Darius smirked. “Your mom’s big enough for two.”

  Terry would have split someone’s lip for half the things those guys said to each other, but their words bounced off like Ping-Pong balls.

  “Vern’s a grown-ass man,” Piranha said, grabbing the cards, since Vern was the one they were really thinking about. Piranha gave Terry’s shoulder a pat, a silent apology for turning off the TV. “Blackjack. I’m dealing straight. Who’s in?”

  They were all in. When Piranha said “dealing straight” he could be trusted not to engage in bottom-dealing, palming, or peeking. Nobody wanted to say how nervous they were, and playing cards was easier than doing nothing. Terry hoped whatever was happening in the cities would be over in the morning, but he didn’t think so.

  Terry’s first card was the king of hearts, followed by an ace. Blackjack.

  “Look at this lucky suckhole,” Darius said.

  “The white devil wins again,” Dean said.

  “Got that right,” Piranha said, throwing down his cards.

  Hipshot sniffed at Darius’s hand, hoping for a snack.

  “What’s Hippy doing here?” Piranha said. He said it mildly, but with that calm clarity Terry had come to expect from a guy who didn’t waste words.

  “Where should he be?” Terry said.

  “Vern’s,” Piranha said. “He hangs out here, begs for food, then he bunks with Vern for the night. So I ask again: What’s he doing here?”

  Piranha’s eyes rested on Terry; the question was for him alone. Only the two of them had seen Vern get bitten and, later, how Hipshot shied away from him. When no one answered, Piranha gathered up the cards.

  Hipshot paced around the table before he sat. Then he stood up and whined, pacing some more. His big brown eyes seemed to be asking Terry a question.

  If Terry had been a dog whisperer or some such crap, he would have said Hipshot looked scared.

  Terry woke up when he thought he heard a sound. A woman’s scream seemed to have followed him from the Pike Place Market. He looked at his watch. It was 3:33 in the morning. Just a dream, man, he decided, until he heard the scream again. Terry’s heart slammed his chest.

  Damn! Terry pushed himself up on one elbow, listening into the wind.

  The bunkhouse was two rows of three bunk beds on either side of the room. Since there were only four of them, they had bunks to themselves. Even the Twins didn’t share an upper and lower bunk. The room was thick with the slow breathing of sleep.

  If Vern was sick and Molly was scared, she would come running down and wake them up. Maybe they should have taken Vern to the doctor. Terry hated the idea of navigating the forest roads in the dark again, but he would if he had to.

  But the sound, whatever it had been, was gone.

  Could have been a loon, or even a wolf or coyote. Wouldn’t be the first time he’d been fooled by creatures
who sounded human.

  Terry fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

  SIX

  Someone was in the room.

  Chuck “Piranha” Cawthone knew it the minute he came awake, without opening his eyes. The weight of the air was different. The temperature. Something.

  Hipshot was whining near Piranha’s bunk. The mutt almost never stayed in the bunkhouse with them, but tonight he hadn’t wanted to haul his furry butt back to the Palace. And now he was whining. In the darkness behind his closed eyes, Piranha saw dancing red rosettes, bloodred, capering madly. For a minute he thought his contacts were only itching, since he’d kept both in tonight instead of taking out either the right or left one to rest his eyes. He didn’t own a pair of glasses, although he was so blind that he couldn’t see the E on the eye chart. But he hated feeling helpless overnight, and tonight he’d known he would want them both.

  He’d felt helpless too damned often, a punching bag for the first and second “uncles” his mother installed in her bedroom after Daddy fled his brief tenure as sperm donor. He never wanted to feel that again. Piranha didn’t want to open his eyes. If he opened his eyes, whatever was wrong in the room would solidify. Right now, it was like that Schrödinger’s cat paradox Mr. Fairbanks talked about in physics class. Right now, there was a bad thing in the room, but it both was and was not, just like the cat in the box was both dead and not dead. Opening the box collapsed it into one state or another. Opening his eyes would make it real. It couldn’t hurt him if he didn’t open his eyes.

  Hipshot’s whimpering sounded like it was directly underneath Piranha’s bunk, and the dog’s fear made sleep slide from Piranha like a sheet of oil. With full consciousness came acuity of senses. Hearing. Was anything moving in the room? No. Wait. A ragged whisper. Yes. And… a smell. A hint of rotten oranges or lemons, as if someone had spritzed a whiff of Glade into the garbage can. Piranha opened his eyes slowly and saw the shape standing there. The moonlight left Piranha more in shadow.

  Vern stood there. Vern, with some kind of black stain on his face, as if he’d been licking a jam jar. In this strange dream, and Piranha definitely hoped this was a dream, Vern was Yogi Bear. Hey, Boo-Boo! Vern grinned and stepped forward, just one step, as if testing the floorboards, and the quality of the moonlight changed enough to show Piranha that that wasn’t jam smearing Vern’s face. What was there was too runny to be jam, and another scent blended with the citrus. Piranha’s stomach cinched and twisted simultaneously, wringing his guts into knots. Hipshot suddenly barked and growled like a dog much bigger and meaner than he was. An order to get moving.

  When Piranha rolled off the bunk, Vern came straight at him, all wobbly two hundred thirty plus pounds of him, but without the waddle. His usual uncoordinated lurch was purposeful and quick as Vern lunged at Piranha’s bottom bunk. Piranha slid in the opposite direction with a huff of air. Piranha’s thump as his feet hit the floor was like lightning striking the bunkhouse, electricity surging from one person to the next.

  Maybe they’d all been waiting. Maybe they’d all known.

  The Twins jumped up from their side of the room and saw old Vern rooting around in the lower bunk like a pig after slop. Then Vern snatched at Terry, but Terry was like a cat, could fall out of a bed sound asleep without harm, so half awake was no problem. The cabin was a yelling, screaming cacophony while Vern snarled and grabbed at them. He got a grip on Dean’s bare leg and snapped at it, his face diving down toward exposed skin.

  “Don’t let him bite you!” Piranha screamed. Dean did a dance, shaking Vern off as the big man’s belly flopped, and his eyes…

  His eyes, caught for a moment in the moonlight, were swollen with blood and rage. Piranha hadn’t been sure with the fish market cop. He’d never met that guy before, and maybe he looked like that from the time he pinned on his badge in the morning, but now the same eyes on Vern looked right evil.

  In darkness, confusion reigned. They scrambled away from Vern, flinging their mattresses and chairs in his path to try to slow him down. Piranha grabbed his blanket and threw it toward their erstwhile boss, hoping it would cover his eyes long enough for them to subdue him and stay clear of his snapping teeth. The blanket was a direct hit, draping Vern’s head completely and sending him into a mindless, frustrated spin. All of them cried out, summoning strength and luck, and piled on Vern to wrestle him to the ground.

  Piranha kicked at the squirming figure, wishing he wasn’t barefoot and his kick would stop Vern’s wriggling. Darius leaped and landed on Vern with a pile-driving elbow that would have ended a steel-cage match. Vern finally fell still. The way Darius moaned and grabbed his elbow, he might have hurt himself nearly as much as he’d hurt his boss.

  They all gasped for breath, leaning on one another. Piranha had never wanted to hug other guys as much as he wanted to cling to these, but they all caught one another’s eyes and backed off, spooked by the impulse to be close. What had happened with Vern was weird enough already.

  Hipshot whined, shivering in the corner. Big help you were, Piranha thought.

  But Hipshot had been a help, he realized. Hipshot had been trying to warn them about Vern since they drove up in the van.

  “Did we kill him?” Darius said, breathless. “Did I…”

  The shape under the blanket groaned, thrashing feebly.

  “He’s not dead,” Piranha said, although his fists were ready to help Vern make the transition. “He’s acting like the cop. No matter what, we do not want to get bitten.”

  “We’ll shut him in the meat locker,” Terry said. “Lock him in.”

  “He’ll freeze in there!” Dean said. “We can’t do that.”

  “Says who?” Darius growled.

  “He won’t freeze in ten minutes,” Terry said. “We just need time to think.”

  Piranha heard himself try to laugh. “Think? I think I pissed my briefs.”

  “Wondered what that smell was,” Terry said, but his voice sounded hollow.

  There was an aroma, but it was more than panicked sweat. Vern had a smell now. Like rotten oranges.

  Carefully, Piranha picked up one corner of the blanket, and Terry another, and Vern’s new smell floated out, impossible to miss.

  Hipshot backed into a corner, whining as he watched them. Vern lay there as if he’d curled up to sleep on the floor, eyes closed. His face was a mess, but in the dark Piranha tried to tell himself it was only chocolate syrup.

  Piranha looked up, his eyes wild. “Damn! Sonia…”

  As if her name was a conjuring, Sonia suddenly appeared in the doorway, wrapped in a terry-cloth bathrobe. In the moonlight, her skin looked chalky. Piranha took her shoulder and steered her back outside. He might never have been happier to see anyone, but there was no time for a reunion. “Stay back,” he said. “We gotta handle this.”

  “What the… ?”

  “Just stay back,” Piranha said, more sharply than he’d meant to.

  “Vern went crazy.” Terry’s voice was hushed. “Tried to bite us.”

  Sonia’s eyes squinted with confusion as she brushed loose hair from her face. “What? You mean like on TV?”

  Sonia was usually cool, but panic was rising in her face, her lips trembling. Piranha couldn’t tolerate hysterical women. His mother had been hysterical when she should have been packing her bags, and he didn’t want his anger at a dead woman to freak Sonia more than absolutely necessary. He forced gentleness into his voice as he curled strands of hair around her ear with his index finger. “Relax, baby,” he said. “Stay back and let us handle this, a’ight?”

  Sonia nodded as if his voice had suddenly hypnotized her. She stepped away.

  While Sonia watched from a healthy distance, sucking on one of the cigarettes she kept stashed in her robe pocket, Piranha and the boys dragged Vern out to the meat locker, rolled him in with the salmon, and closed the door. Vern’s head was still covered with the blanket, but Piranha held his breath until he heard the gears go ca-chink. The freezer was loc
ked tight.

  Sonia finally joined them, and they stood in a semicircle around the metallic freezer door, as if they expected it to come flying open from the inside. Their reflections stared back at them, muddy and indistinct.

  “You guys were making a hell of a racket,” Sonia said. “So I’ve got a stupid question…” Her voice was hard, as if a blade were buried inside.

  “What?” Piranha said.

  “Why didn’t Jolly Molly poke her nose in?” Sonia said.

  They all looked back up at the Palace. The windows were dark.

  Piranha had forgotten about Molly. Maybe he’d wanted to. Whose blood did you think it was, dummy? They were all thinking the same thing, but wouldn’t say so.

  Darius checked his flashlight, turning it on and off. “Think I’ll wander up there,” he said, and sighed. “Maybe she’s got some of those chocolate chunk cookies.”

  Piranha felt like he should go too, but he wasn’t in a hurry to volunteer. His heart knocked against a wall of ice.

  “I’m going too,” Sonia said. “Love those cookies.”

  “Hold up,” Piranha said. “Lemme get my pants on first.”

  “I could use some milk,” Terry said.

  They left Dean at the icehouse with a baseball bat, although Piranha thought it would have been smarter to bring both Dean and the bat. Silence hung like fog as they trudged the path to the main house. Sonia walked beside Piranha, her hand occasionally brushing his, but it didn’t have the usual electric spark, and she barely noticed he was there.

  He wasn’t there. None of them were. The night was composed of silence, the dark house up ahead, and a waiting horror they couldn’t pretend away.

  SEVEN

  The door stood an inch ajar, enough for Terry to see a sliver of the foyer table covered in cheerful lace. Terry had reached the door first after the others fell behind, so he knocked, staring down at the welcome mat in the beam of Darius’s light. Got Love? it said in a flowery script, beneath two hands pressed in prayer. Terry didn’t know much about praying, but he gazed at the hands and realized how much he hoped there was a God, because just about now a little God might come in handy.