Goodbye Lucifer

by John Harold McCoy

  * * *

  Sarah Crumb was not asleep. She didn’t dare sleep around Harry. Maintaining the “Tamara” illusion was not a lot of effort, but if she weren’t conscious it would slip away. She could imagine Harry turning over and planting a big kiss on Sarah Crumb’s pudgy face.

  Hi, Harry. Surprise! How ’bout another little smooch? She sniggered at the mental picture.

  Sarah was getting uncomfortable. She opened her eyes and looked down at her body. A tinge of redness was beginning to show through the sweat and tanning oil. “Tamara” would probably look great with a nice glowing tan, but Sarah had sensitive skin. Maybe that was enough sun for one day.

  She sat up, shaded her eyes with her hand and peered through the brilliance of sunlight reflecting off white sand. She spotted Harry standing in the water, spent waves lapping at his feet. His back was to her, and he seemed to be staring out over the ocean. She wondered what he was thinking about.

  She sat watching Harry, as he stood there at the edge of the ocean, his gleaming body, the wind in his tousled hair. He looked so…

  She caught herself. Stop it, Sarah! She watched him for a moment more.

  Suddenly her shoulders slumped, and she sighed in resignation. Damn it! This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. They had agreed, she and Aubrey, that the devil should be in Hell where he belonged. It had been a mistake to let him escape. Trickery, lies, typical devil’s work. That’s how he’d gotten out. He couldn’t just quit being the devil. That was ridiculous.

  It was Aubrey’s idea to bring him back and Sarah was all for it, but neither had a clue as to how to go about it. After making and discarding several plans, they finally decided to fall back on what every woman knew: when in doubt, go for the libido. So, Sarah had whipped up “Tamara” and had gone for it.

  Now, here she was lying on a beach in paradise, and there was Harry, standing in the rippling tide under the golden sun like some goddamned Adonis or something. And she, Sarah Crumb, bastion of all that was righteous, was falling for the evil bastard.

  She felt like laughing out loud at the absurdity of it all. She imagined some third-rate author’s lame attempt at a book title: The Devil and Sarah Crumb. Yep, that’d be a winner, for sure.

  A tingling sensation on her shoulders interrupted her thoughts. Sunburn. She really had to get out of the sun.

  “Tamara” picked up a towel. As she dabbed at the sweat on her face and neck, something wispy, almost unnoticeable, touched her mind.

  Something was wrong.

  TWENTY-NINE

  THE LAKESIDE INN in Stillman wasn’t in Stillman, and wasn’t beside a lake. In 1965, a traveling antique buyer, scouring the back roads of Appalachia with the idea that “one man’s trash was another man’s treasure,” came upon a marshy pond located in a small hollow between the mountains a few miles from Stillman Township. Near the pond stood three weatherworn brick walls, the remains of the long defunct Rawlings Mill, which had survived the ravages of time and encroaching forest.

  Gerald Bowman stopped his car on the side of the rutted, tree-canopied road and got out for a better look. He stood there for a while enjoying the beauty of the pristine little hollow. Then got he back into his car and drove thirty miles to the nearest decent restaurant for dinner.

  Five years later Gerald Bowman came back to Stillman Township and built the Lakeside Inn around the three surviving brick walls of the old Rawlings Mill. Through the passing years, it remained the only decent restaurant within thirty miles in any direction.

  John Simmons was impressed. From Amanda’s description, he’d expected little more than a truck stop diner, which the Lakeside Inn definitely was not. He was just beginning to realize that Amanda held very little to be sacred when it came to her sense of humor. He liked that about her.

  The two couples sat at an elegantly appointed table beside a large floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the pond. They watched as a lone figure rowed a small boat through the afterglow of evening, across the still water of the pond, and towards a low wooden platform on the other side where several families of raccoons had appeared, waiting for their dinner of scraps from the Inn’s kitchen.

  Melanie said, “They do that every evening—kind of a tradition here at the Inn. Some evenings I drive the kids over, and we just sit in the parking lot and watch the guy row across and feed the raccoons.”

  The waiter arrived, bringing ice-cold martinis with large Spanish olives for John and Jack. Melanie and Amanda had ordered Brandy Alexanders. The bow-tied waiter handed them each a menu and left.

  Simmons took a sip of his drink then set it down and picked up a menu. He opened it and looked inside. After a quick glance at the Inns impressive fare, he squinted over the top of the menu at Amanda.

  “Fried chicken, eh?” he teased.

  Amanda grinned. “Sorry. I meant Chicken Marsala.” Everyone laughed except Jack.

  “Apparently, I missed that one,” he said, smiling anyway.

  “Don’t worry, it wasn’t that good,” Melanie assured him.

  “Ha!” Amanda sneered, and buried her face in her menu.

  Jack took a healthy drink of his martini, and said to Simmons, “Gotta try the Prime Rib, John. Trust me. Big thick ones. You can cut ’em with a fork.”

  “You read my mind,” said Simmons, “Nice and rare.”

  Amanda closed her menu and announced her decision. “Fish, I think. Salmon.”

  “Same for me,” agreed Melanie. “The Salmon Almandine,”

  Jack looked up at a passing waiter, and said, “We’ll order, now.”

  Night had come by the time they’d finished dinner. Outside, the pond had disappeared in darkness, but inside, subdued, indirect lighting, and the glow from the little gold hooded lamps on each table shown on old brick and polished wood, burnished brass and white linen.

  Simmons swallowed his last bite of Prime Rib and drained the few remaining drops of Merlot from his wine glass. He set the empty glass down, wiped his lips with the linen napkin, and sat back in his chair looking very satisfied.

  To his three companions he said, “This place is a treasure,” then, jokingly, “Do you think they’d consider moving it up to Charleston?”

  Jack feigned shock. “Hey! No way. This one is for us poor mountain folk. You guys have all the fancy restaurants you need up there in Charleston town.”

  Amanda put on her best Ozark accent, and smirked at Simmons. “I reckon yer gonna have to move down here to the boonies if’n ya want good vittles, Mr. Simmons.”

  Simmons laughed, and for an instant, the thought actually crossed his mind. He liked these people: Jack, the big cop, as tall as Simmons himself, friendly and quick with a smile. Amanda and Melanie, both beautiful, intelligent, and graciously cultured, but playful as kittens. He thought of Melanie’s father Louis and her Aunt Claudia. No one in these valleys had treated him like an outsider—a far cry from the impersonal bustle of Charleston.

  They ordered tall coffees laced with sweet liqueurs and topped with whipped cream and crushed cherries. Simmons was enjoying himself, immensely. They laughed and talked, and laughed some more: at Jack’s funny stories of his experiences as a cop, at Amanda’s and Melanie’s tales of mountain lore, and the improbable, but hilarious misadventures of their sometimes wayward kids. Simmons was surprised to find himself contributing as much to the merriment as any of them.

  Melanie held up a hand and said, “Listen!”

  Through the door of the cocktail lounge came the sound of music: a three-piece band—piano, bass and drums. They were playing an old standard song.

  Melanie sighed, and said wanly, “I haven’t been dancing in ten years.”

  She turned, suddenly, to Simmons, and said, “You know what? You’re going to fix that right now, sir.” She pushed her chair back from the table and stood up. Simmons took the hint and stood, also. He took a step back and bowed deeply.

  “My pleasure, Madam,” he said, and turning to the others, “If you’ll excuse us?”<
br />
  Taking Melanie by the hand, he led her towards the Lounge.

  Amanda elbowed Jack. “Well?” she said, frowning at him.

  “Huh?” he grunted. “Oh…right. Would you like to dance?”

  “Thought you’d never ask, officer,” she smiled, coyly.

  They both got up and walked, hand and hand, towards the music.

  THIRTY

  FOR DREAD, DYING WAS IMPOSSIBLE. Losing consciousness due to a massive overload of numbing shock, pain and panic wasn’t. Nothing in Dread’s half-eternity of experience, not even the bright fluorescent lights in the halls of Hell, had prepared him for the piercing brilliance of high-noon in the upper world—not to mention the searing cold of the frigid water gushing out of the springs.

  Dread’s body lay crumpled among the barely submerged rocks at the edge of the spring’s basin. He came to with a start. A flood of sensations returned and he squeezed his eyes tightly shut, anticipating the stabbing pain from the blinding light.

  He was freezing, and ached from a dozen scrapes and bruises, but fearful that movement would bring on something even worse, he lay very still. A minute passed, then another. Nothing happened. A thin edge of relief opened in Dread’s mind, and he grasped at it, desperately. He could sense no warning glow through his eyelids, and dared hope that the brightness overhead had gone away, or at least dimmed. He opened his eyes a slim fraction of an inch and saw…blessed darkness. The relief blossomed, but wasn’t quite total. He was still freezing.

  Carefully, he tried sitting up. No problem. He was banged up a little, but not really hurt. Standing up on the wet, slippery rocks was a bit tricky, but after a few slips and some frantic arm waving for balance, he managed it.

  He stood on the rocky rim of the basin, water splashing around his ankles and into the river below. He looked around, his crimson eyes shining through the dark night of a world he’d never imagined.

  I don’t think this is Lucy’s closet, he thought.

  THIRTY-ONE

  AFTER MORE THAN TWENTY YEARS of being in love with Amanda Clark, holding her in his arms on the dance floor was an almost painful relief from the yearning he’d felt for so long. His arms around her, the feel of her body against his, her face against his chest at last, and no longer a dream: the reality of it was dizzying, the smell of her hair, intoxicating.

  “If you hold me any tighter I’m going to puke on you, Jack,” she kidded.

  Harris choked on a laugh. He looked down at her upturned face. “Damn, Amanda.” He smiled, still chuckling. “That was romantic.”

  She smiled back at him. “Damn yourself, you dumb cop. Do realize you’ve never held me before?”

  “I’m holding you now,” he said softly.

  She stared up into his eyes, her face showing her own pent up relief. “Yes, you are. Finally.” She leaned into him, her face against his chest again, and with a catch in her voice, said, “What can I do to make sure you never let me go, Jack?”

  He bent down and nipped her ear playfully. “This is where I’m supposed to say I love you, right?”

  She kicked his ankle. “Oh, great! That was romantic.” She snuggled closer to him “…and about damn time.”

  Harris let out the breath he’d been holding for twenty years. Simmons and Melanie were dancing a few feet away. Melanie reached out and poked Amanda on the arm.

  “Hey, you guys,” she said. “This is a family place. That doesn’t mean start one on the dance floor.”

  Amanda sneered, “Go away, you old hag. Us young beautiful people are having sex here.”

  From the low stage, the piano player glanced towards the dancers.

  “Oh, my God, Amanda, that guy heard you,” Melanie said in a loud whisper.

  “Oh, Jesus.” Amanda cringed in embarrassment, quickly sidestepping around Jack, putting him between her and the stage. She peeked over Jack’s shoulder. The piano player had looked away but was grinning. Scrunched behind Jack, she looked over at Melanie with a mischievous giggle. Melanie had pulled the same move with Simmons, putting him between her and the piano player; sharing Amanda’s embarrassment.

  Jack looked at Simmons and said, “You see, John? That’s why I like Brandell women. Never a dull moment.”

  The remark earned him another kick from Amanda.

  THIRTY-TWO

  ON THE CARPETED FLOOR of the Meljacs’ basement rec room, five demons lay on their stomachs like a group of neighborhood children, faces cupped in hands propped on elbows, eyes glued to the TV. They’d been like that all day.

  Off to one side, Quackrak sat in a straight-backed wooden rocking chair staring down at them disgustedly. He was fuming with anger. Figuring he would try it one more time, he pointed the remote at the TV and clicked the Off button.

  The five demons on the floor erupted with an ear splitting caterwauling, rolling around, kicking their feet and pounding the floor with their fists—a comic parody of spoiled brats. Quackrak quickly clicked the TV back On and the demons settled down, contented.

  Beyond frustration, Quackrak suddenly lurched forward, and screamed down at them,

  “We have to go!” They ignored him.

  The same scene had been repeated over and over throughout the day. Since discovering the television, the five maintenance demons had refused to move, and because of their reaction, turning it off was out of the question. With a loud sigh, Quackrak sat back in his chair and stewed.

  Melanie and Aunt Claudia had decided the demons weren’t any danger, and that Quackrak seemed responsible enough to keep the other five in line if they started getting quirky. Both women had laughed at the idea of a responsible demon, but it did seem to fit. So in the morning, David was allowed to come down to the basement

  David was a little disappointed at the lack of demonic behavior, but being the only kid in town with demons in his basement more than made up for it. Now, if they would just stop that ridiculous quacking. Maybe he could teach them to growl, or something.

  On the other hand, a tribute to youth and its acceptance of life as it is, was the fact that David never once asked why there were demons in his basement.

  Melanie decided to keep David home from school, at least today. There was no way he would be able to keep the demons a secret, and she didn’t want him ending up in the school’s equivalent of a loony bin, whatever that might be.

  Aunt Claudia had explained to Quackrak that just after midnight the TV stations available to Brandell would go off the air. She came up with the idea of using the remote to gradually, over an hour or so, turn down the brightness on the TV until the picture was no longer visible. Hopefully, by around midnight the others could be weaned off of it, so to speak. If it worked, they could start thinking about getting them all back to Hell.

  Quackrak had no idea what she meant, but was willing to try anything. Claudia showed him how to do it, and at an hour before midnight Quackrak pushed a button on the remote. The picture on the television dimmed almost imperceptibly. The maintenance demons didn’t seem to notice.

  By 1 a.m. the screen was almost blank. With the last note of the National Anthem, the station went off the air leaving only the barest outline of a test pattern.

  One more click, thought Quackrak. He held his breath and pushed the button.

  Instant pandemonium!

  THIRTY-THREE

  “HOW ’BOUT THIS ONE?” Amanda was trying out sexy poses in the mirror of the ladies room.

  Standing beside her, Melanie was leaning into the mirror, a tube of lipstick in her hand.

  Through pursed lips, she said, “You’re thirty-seven, Mandy. Sexy, you ain’t. Try a nice intelligent look.”

  Amanda grunted. “Intelligent won’t get me in the sack with Jack Harris.”

  “Ha!” exclaimed Melanie, “Figuratively speaking, I’d say you’re already in the sack with Jack Harris.”

  Amanda frowned into the mirror, and tried another pose. “He’s shy. I need a gimmick to jolt him into throwing me down on the floor and
jumping—” She grimaced at her reflection. “My God, listen to me. I’m a slut!” She scowled at herself for a moment, then sighed. “Hey, better a slut than an old maid, right?”

  She dug into her purse, brought out a small spray bottle of perfume and absently squirted herself in her eye with it. “Damn,” she muttered, grabbing a tissue from the box on the counter, “That was brilliant.”

  Melanie laughed, “Better watch where you’re squirtin’ that stuff, slut.”

  Amanda dabbed at her eye with the tissue. “I just get nervous when I think about dying a lonely old—”

  Melanie wasn’t listening. “Amanda,” she interrupted.

  “Huh?’ Amanda was still dabbing.

  “Have you felt it?”

  “Sure!” Amanda grinned. “Grabbed right hold of the little sucker. Hey, come on, Melanie, I’m not that much of a slut.”

  “No, no…” Melanie protested, “Jeez, Amanda, that’s not…” she stuttered, embarrassed. “I meant, tonight, every now and then, I get this feeling that something’s…off. I don’t know…hard to explain, but I feel like something’s wrong.”

  Amanda was leaning into the mirror, still dabbing. Without looking at Melanie, she said, “Yep! Just waiting to see if you’d say something about it.”

  “So,” asked Melanie, “What d’ya think?”

  Amanda stopped dabbing and backed away from the mirror. “Don’t know,” she said, “…s’why I was waitin’ for you to bring it up. I don’t think it has anything to do with Harry, though. Most everybody seems to have settled down with the weird stuff, so…”

  “Yeah, I thought the same. Gotta be something else.”

  Amanda shrugged, picked up her purse and turned to leave.

  “Looks like we’ll just have to wait and see. Come on, let’s go seduce some men.”

  Simmons said to the cocktail waitress, “Take your time bringing the coffee.”

  They’d decided they’d had enough to drink for one evening.

  He gestured towards the two empty seats. “They’re in the ladies’ room.” The waitress nodded and left. Simmons settled back in his chair with a contented sigh. He said to Jack Harris, “This is great. Wish I were rich. I’d eat here every night.”

  “No argument there,” agreed Jack.

  “Hey, I got an idea,” he said, grinning. “Let’s marry our two rich women; make ’em bring us here regularly.”

  Simmons raised an eyebrow. “Rich? …Amanda and Melanie? You’re kidding.”

  Jack chuckled. “Yeah, I am…sorta. Then again, Meljac and Clark; those two names are on half the deeds in Brandell valley; so maybe not rich, but damned well off—old Brandell families, that kind of thing. Then there’s Melanie’s dad, Louis; he’s no pauper, either. Add in the Crumb sisters, who live in the house right across the lane from Melanie, and you’ve got all the money in the valley right there at the intersection of Brandell Boulevard and Stillman Road.” He laughed. “All nice and tidy. No loose change floatin’ around the valley for people to trip over.”

  Simmons asked, “And these Crumb sisters, who are they?”

  “Sarah and Aubrey,” said Jack, “Their dad moved down to Florida about ten years ago, right after the mother died. Of course, the sisters couldn’t go with him.”

  Simmons frowned. “What do mean ‘of course’? You put it like they had no choice.”

  “They didn’t. When the mother died, either one, or both of the sisters had to take her place, otherwise there would only be three—”

  Jack stopped in mid-sentence, and was silent for a moment, tapping a finger on the table, considering whether to go on. He took a deep breath, adjusting himself more comfortably in his chair, then looked Simmons directly in the eyes.

  “John, the uh…the women…” He hesitated thoughtfully then went on. “Melanie, Amanda and the Crumbs, and especially Claudia…” He stopped again. “Damn! I shouldn’t have started this. Too much good old Lakeside Inn alcohol.”

  Simmons said, “Hey, you’ve got me hooked. Don’t stop now.”

  He saw Jack glance up. Neither of the men had noticed Melanie and Amanda approach the table. Melanie was right behind Simmons.

  She leaned down close to his ear, and said, “Boo.”

  Simmons jumped, then laughed. They all did.

  “My ears are ringing,” said Melanie, taking her seat.

  Amanda said, “Mine, too. Somebody must be talking about us.”

  Jack pointed at Simmons innocently. “Wasn’t me…it was him. He started it.”

  Simmons straightened, guffawing, “Oh yeah, right! Blame it on the new guy.”

  Amanda gave Jack a little peck on the cheek, saying, “That’s all right. You guys talk about us all you want. Just keep it clean. You weren’t saying anything naughty, were you?”

  “Of course not,” answered Jack, then under his breath he teased, “Maybe a little bit.”

  “Jack!” Amanda scolded. “Not even a little, ya hear?” She leaned over and gave him another peck on the cheek.

  Simmons said, smiling, “I assure you ladies, the conversation was all flattery.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THE LITTLE FREAKS WERE HERE. Dread could smell them. His long pointed ears twitched, each in different directions, listening for the freaks’ annoying jabbering. He heard nothing but the breeze rustling the leaves in the trees, and the scattering of lonely insects calling for mates.

  Dread raised his head, sniffing the night air. The little demons’ smell was faint, not close; but there was something else, something vaguely familiar. In a moment he realized the obvious; it was souls—just the smell of souls, but different—barely recognizable.

  Odd, he thought. A soul was a soul. No matter where you were, they should smell the same, shouldn’t they? He took a deep breath, slowly, sensing, separating the nuances of the night scents. Yes, definitely souls, but missing something. What? He held the air in his lungs for a moment, then released it with a sudden whoosh of revelation.

  Corruption! That’s what they were missing. Abomination and depravity…they had none of that. Unlike the foul malignant souls of Underworld, or even the simply evil souls of Hell, the smell of these souls was like nothing he’d ever imagined. These souls were… Clean!

  He breathed deeply, again and again, willing out all but the one smell, the scent of pristine souls, glowing souls with none but mere traces of sin and perversion. He was overcome with desire. These shining souls—he had to find them. After millenniums in the company of only the most unutterable vileness, here were souls whose essence was virtually pure. He had to have them—all of them.

  He looked around for the easiest way to go…anywhere, wherever these souls were. The shallow water in which he stood seemed to flow towards a glow in the sky, a reflection on the bottom of the low clouds, perhaps from the shining souls. He decided to follow the river towards the glow.

  In no time at all, Dread found himself underneath a curious structure. A span, of sorts, that stretched from one bank of the river to the other. The glow in the sky was almost directly above it.

  Here the riverbank was steep, but the slope was easy to climb. At the top, where the bridge touched ground on the Brandell side of the river, Dread emerged from the shadows and into the light from the street lamps. He walked to the center of the road and stood, staring, mesmerized by the town before him.

  Joe Paul got real perky when he drank. He was real perky tonight. He left the bar in Stillman, zoomed up the Stillman side of the mountain, roared down the Brandell side, tore across the bridge, and splattered Dread all over the grill of his crappy old pickup truck.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  SINCE THE HEAVY IRON DOOR made a rather loud “ka-chunk” sound when it closed—sure to attract attention—and since Dread figured he’d only be out of Underworld for a few minutes, he’d left it open just the merest crack. All would have been okay had he been able to snag the ice cream from Lucy’s fridge, tippy-toe back up the hall, and sneak back into Underworld un
noticed. The freaks were too stupid to put two and two together, so the ka-chunky sound the door made when it closed wouldn’t have mattered once he was safely back inside. As it was, the heavy iron door between Underworld and Hell being open the merest crack…was not okay.

  Writhing and curling its way out of Underworld through that merest of cracks, a misty gray putrescence swirled through the halls of Hell, leaving the normally glisteningly white walls fouled and streaked. The thick fulsome stench spilled from the hallway into Lucifer’s empty office, filling it with a vile fog that roiled its way through every crack and crevasse—and door.

  The gray squirrel, frightened by the sudden boil of water out in the springs, leapt from the picnic table and streaked towards the nearest oak tree. From a high branch it watched as a dark cloud erupted from the bubbling water, and spread across the surface, rolling its way onto the shore and down the path towards Meljac Lane.

  THIRTY-SIX

  BEING SENSITIVE TO BAD VIBES which made her sick at her stomach—and since she was getting bad vibes now—Tamara bent over and threw up in the knee-deep surf of the Atlantic Ocean. Harry had been holding her hand, but when she hurled he let go and jumped out of the way. Her unexpected retching caused Sarah to lose concentration, and for an instant her “Tamara” facade almost slipped away. She regained her composure, splashed water on her face and stood up straight.

  Harry was a few feet away, backing towards the shore, carefully avoiding the ebb and flow of the water where Tamara had lost her lunch. He beckoned her to follow him out of the water.

  They reached the shore and walked across the white beach to where their towels lay spread on the sand. Harry sat down on his big beach towel and used another smaller one to dry the salty water from his body while “Tamara” rummaged through the ice filled cooler for something cold to drink. She fished out an ice-cold can of coke, pulled the tab then sat down on the towel beside Harry.

  She said, “That was the most embarrassing thing I’ve ever done.”

  Harry reached for her, rested his hand on the back of her neck, massaging gently, tenderly.

  “What happened out there, Sarah? You were fine one minute, and barfing all over the place the next. Are you okay, now?”

  Sarah bent her head forward, enjoying the feel of his hand on her neck.

  She said, “I don’t know. I just got this feeling all of sudden that something terrible—”

  Suddenly her head snapped up, jerked around to face him. “Wait… What?” she stammered.

  “Huh?” Harry grunted, quizzically.

  “What…what did you say?”

  “I said are you all right, now?” He looked puzzled.

  “No, I mean what did you call me?”

  Harry’s hand moved from her neck to around her shoulders. He pulled her close and kissed her, lightly, on the forehead.

  “Sarah,” he said, softly. “I called you Sarah.”

  She pulled away and leaned back, staring at him expressionlessly for a moment, then drew her knees to her chest, hugging them with both arms.

  Sighing, she asked, “How long have you known?”

  Harry smiled warmly, and said, “Since the first time we made love. You may be a witch, Sarah, but you’re still a woman; a very passionate woman. You lost it a dozen times that night.”

  Sarah muttered, “…m’not a witch…told you that before.”

  Then, suddenly indignant, she sputtered, “Hey! If you knew, then why did you let me…you’ve been lying all along by letting me…”

  Harry threw his hands up, laughing, “Whoa, there tiger! Who lied to who, here?”

  Sarah wanted to be angry, but it was hard to do with Harry. She pouted, instead.

  “That’s different.”

  “Really?” Harry scoffed with his own playful indignance.

  Sarah looked away, rested her chin on her drawn up knees, and fixed her eyes on the ocean.

  “Well…still… You took advantage of me, Harry.”

  “Poor baby.” Harry smirked.

  She slapped at his leg, absently. “Stop it…s’not funny.”

  Harry said, warmly, “Sarah, listen…”

  She ignored him, still pouting.

  “Yoo hoo…” he teased.

  “I’m not talking to you,” she murmured.

  Harry grinned to himself. He said, “Okay,” and lay back on the beach towel, eyes closed.

  A few minutes went by while Sarah fidgeted. “Well?” she said.

  Harry ignored her.

  “Harry?”

  “I’m not talking,” he said.

  “Harryyyy, talk to me.” she slapped at him, again.

  “Ow!” Harry sat up, grinning.

  “All right,” he said. “But first, get rid of that ridiculous “Tamara” facade. Then we’ll talk.”

  She scowled, haughtily, “Why? …you’re bored with your little fantasy girl toy, already?”

  Harry laughed. “Just do it, and I’ll tell you why.”

  “Oh, all right,” she said, scanning the beach. “Is anybody looking?”

  “It’s fine. Go ahead.”

  Sarah hesitated, the idea of losing Harry making her feel sick all over again. Reconciled to the inevitable, she closed her eyes for only an instant. “Tamara” shimmered, then faded.

  Under the drab, austere, and very unflattering attire in which the Crumb sister’s chose to bore the world, Sarah Crumb wasn’t at all dumpy. She might be described as “pleasantly plump” by those who felt the need to describe some lack of perfection, or “bursting with health” by those who habitually saw the best side of life. The time spent under the Florida sun had enhanced the “pleasantly plump” part to a pleasantly light honey hue. The resulting overall appearance was downright pleasant.

  Over the last few days the righteous severity of her normal expression had softened, replaced by an almost perpetual smile. The few early strands of gray blended with the sun-streaked hair clinging wetly—framing her face, giving her a fresh, almost cherubic look. In a different sort of way, “Tamara” had nothing on Sarah Crumb.

  Harry looked at her and smiled, “There,” he said, “That’s why.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  JOE PAUL SLAMMED ON THE BRAKES. The crappy old pickup screeched to a stop in the middle of Stillman Road halfway between the end of the bridge and the scattering of broken glass on the sidewalk beside Louis Walker’s boarded up window. The pickup’s old engine coughed, sputtered a few times, and quit.

  Joe sat hunched behind the wheel, gasping with relief that the deer—that must have been what it was—hadn’t come crashing through the windshield. At that speed it could have killed him. Poor Emma, he thought, …woulda’ broken her heart.

  He sat for a moment listening to the pinging of cooling metal and the slight hiss of steam escaping from a hole in the radiator; the sounds intrusively loud in the stillness of the night. The crash had scared him half-sober, but that still left him half-drunk.

  Joe hiccupped a few times and fumbled at the door latch. The door, which usually stuck and required a hefty bump from his shoulder to open, was already ajar, and the momentum from his hefty bump against the already open door almost sent him sprawling out onto the pavement. A series of frantic grabs and fast footwork saved him from minor tragedy, but not from an undignified exit.

  Once out of the truck, and standing rather wobbly upright, Joe looked back down the road towards the bridge for the deer, or as he’d decided to think of it, the venison. By the side of the road near the vacant lot behind the Crumb sister’s house, he spotted a dark shape on the ground. It looked too big for a deer, but he’d mowed that vacant lot for the Crumbs a hundred times and had never seen anything there before. Joe walked, unsteadily, over to have a look.