Pitch

by William Ollie

  ‘Don’t you worry about a thing,’ he told her. ‘You’ll have all the time you want. You’re a very important part of my business here, you know, and over the years I’ve grown quite fond of you.’

  Vonda, blushing like a schoolgirl, expressed her undying loyalty, and when he told her what he wanted in return, she didn’t hesitate, happily agreeing to do anything he asked. Of course, he couldn’t give her more time, not really. He didn’t have that kind of power. Only the Dark Master could do something like that. She would die when she died, but why rub her face in it? She’d held up her end of the bargain, and a happy Vonda would be a loyal Vonda. A happy Vonda wouldn’t be plotting anything behind his back.

  Pitch, tossing the tequila down his throat, leaned back in his chair and watched the sun disappear behind the mountain.

  What’ll we do tonight? he wondered, laughing as realized, Anything we want.

  * * *

  At the police station, Walt asked Donnie about Baby Charlie’s poem. Donnie hesitated, but Walt deserved to know what he was getting into, and Donnie told him everything. Later, a frustrated and totally exhausted Johnny Porter showed up, arguing when they told him to go home and get some sleep, finally relenting after they had built a virtual wall around him with the obvious common sense of it. He did what they suggested, but not before cussing and kicking a trash can across the room, and ridiculing their ineptness.

  As night began to fall, Donnie realized that Johnny was right. What could they do, and what would he do if one of his boys were missing? Would he have gone home? Hell no. “Maybe we should call Hadley,” he said.

  “That phony son of a bitch can’t help us,” Walt told him. “He wouldn’t have the slightest idea what to do.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. Why don’t you stay here in case somebody calls in. I’ll go out and patrol.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re going to patrol the whole town by yourself.”

  “Just doesn’t sound right, does it?”

  “No, it doesn’t. We’ll just have to let the phones go. You start at the east end of town and I’ll start at the west. Hopefully nothing else will happen.”

  “This is fucked up,” Donnie said on his way to Nathan’s office, where he retrieved two thirty-eight caliber pistols and two boxes of ammunition, and then returned to the room, handing one of each to Walt. “Ever use one of these?”

  “I was in the army, Donnie.”

  Donnie winced. “Sorry,” he said, then, “Well, you ready?”

  “Hey, Donnie, we’ve got to be ready. This isn’t a game, and don’t forget our sons are camping out on High Street tonight.”

  “I can’t believe we let them go ahead and do that.”

  “Me neither.”

  They wished each other luck, and were walking outside when two vehicles pulled up in front of the police station, one of them a white Cadillac holding Harvey Lain, Jim Harris and Carver Pitts, the other an old pickup with Jerry and Willem Mays sitting in the front seat.

  “Hey, boys,” Donnie said. “What’s goin’ on, Judge?”

  “Sharon Hayes called and told me y’all were up here on your own. I called Harper Copeland down at the Clinton Coal Company, told him I needed ten good men to help the police department. He’s letting these men and a few others stay home from work so they can help us out. The town’s gonna pay their salaries, and I’m gonna owe Harper a hell of a big favor, which I’ll be more than happy to give him.”

  Another truckload of men pulled up beside Jerry, and Harvey Lain took Donnie and Walt to the side. “I’ll never forget how you two stepped up when this town needed somebody. You can go home or you can stay. I’ll leave it up to you.”

  Donnie left to check on the boys, and then went home to get some sleep.

  Walt Davis paired up with Jerry Mays.

  At daybreak, Harvey Lain was relieved to hear that nothing out of the ordinary had occurred during the night. Several cars were detained, and there were sure to be a few complaints lodged by some very outraged townsfolk. Willem Mays and Carver Pitts reported they had seen Pitch Place’s hired man driving through town, somewhere around ten o’clock. They didn’t bother stopping him, but followed his Cadillac all the way back to the access road just the same.

  Mickey’s Clubhouse

  Tuesday

  October 28th

  Nathan came back to the police station on Sunday afternoon. That night, he headed up the new deputies. While they patrolled the town, he stayed at the police station, keeping in constant touch, monitoring their every move.

  Jerry Mays stopped old man Jeffries, who was driving his wife back from Charleston. Jeffries told him to go fuck himself and started to drive away, but Jerry stuck his pistol in the old man’s face. He cocked the hammer and Mrs. Jeffries fainted, and old man Jeffries damn near had a heart attack. The next morning, Nathan thanked them for their help, but relieved them of their responsibilities.

  Before one of them killed somebody.

  Now it was down to Donnie and Nathan, Johnny and Walt Davis.

  Last night, Donnie and Nathan patrolled the east end of town while Johnny Porter and Walt Davis rode through the west, and even though none of them would say it out loud, they’d just about given up on finding little Johnny. Their only hope was if the son of a bitch struck again. Then maybe they could catch him in the act and force him to take them to the newborn child.

  If he was still alive.

  Donnie had thought Nathan to be getting back to normal… until he found out about his visit to Maudie Mason. He could hardly believe it was Nathan, and not Jerry Mays telling such a wild story.

  “Do you know how that sounds, Nathan?”

  “Yeah, I know how it sounds, like all the other shit that’s been goin’ on around here lately. Let’s face it, Cuz, Barney Linton and Billy Dillon, Norval and Daddy, and some crazy son of a bitch reciting that poem word for word? There ain’t no rational explanation for this shit. Is there?”

  Donnie thought for a moment. Finally, he said, “I sure as hell can’t think of one.”

  They drove around all night, covering every square inch of their little country community.

  And when the sun came over the mountain, they were no closer to finding little Johnny Porter than they had ever been.

  Wednesday

  October 29th

  Billy, E.L. and Junior were seated at their desks when Vonda Peters walked through the door. Right behind her came Gary Harbus, grinning from ear to ear. “Sorry I’m late,” he said. “A train was stopped on the railroad tracks when I was comin’ back from lunch.”

  “Take a seat, Harbus,” Vonda said. Nose twitching, she sniffed the air a couple of times, and then stepped up to her desk, eyes watering as the overpowering smell of English Leather enveloped her. First she sneezed. Then she coughed. Then she ran from the room, wheezing and gasping for breath.

  Minutes later the principal walked into Vonda’s class, calling for someone to step forward and name the guilty party. Everyone knew Harbus had saturated the desk with cologne, Ron Ball included. But no one had actually seen him do it, and by the time Principal Ball finished interrogating the entire class, there wasn’t enough time left for Vonda to give the test she had planned. Not that she could have anyway, with that offensive smell chasing her away from her desk. So she stood in the hallway, staring a hole through Gary Harbus while Principal Ball told every boy in the classroom to report to detention this afternoon.

  * * *

  Harbus stood in front of the school, bragging to Billy, E.L. and Junior about how he had snuck back early to pour English Leather over Vonda Peters’ desk, eyes sparkling behind his black-framed glasses as he gave a blow by blow description of every step he’d taken since swiping that bottle of cologne out of The Dime Store, finally ending his story with: “Neat, huh?”

  “Yeah, Harbus, real neat,” E.L. said. “Missing the bus and having to walk home is about the best thing that
ever happened to me.”

  Junior, who agreed with Harbus, said, “At least we didn’t have to take that test.”

  “C’mon, Junior,” Billy said. “You’d rather stay after school than take a test you’re still gonna end up taking anyway?”

  “Let’s see.” Junior held out his hands, palms up, as if trying to determine how much weight each held. “Detention or take a test. Test or detention. I vote for detention. How about you, Harbus?”

  “Detention, definitely.”

  E.L. shook his head. “Gee whiz. It’s just a test. In case you two goofballs haven’t heard, that’s what you do in school… take tests.”

  “Give it up, E.L.,” Billy told him. “You can’t argue with ignorance. C’mon, Junior, we gotta get going.”

  “See y’all tomorrow,” Harbus said, waving as they walked away.

  “Yeah, unfortunately for us,” Billy said, as Harbus and E.L. headed for town, ultimately parting ways when they reached the railroad tracks, E.L. walking down the tracks while Harbus headed off down an alleyway. He was halfway down the alley when Vonda Peters pulled up beside him in her dark blue Cadillac. He couldn’t help grinning at Vonda, because he knew he had smeared English Leather all over her desk and she couldn’t do a thing about it. After all, nobody had seen him do it. So he was feeling pretty good when he said, “Hey, Mrs. Peters. What’re you doing down here?”

  “Hi, Gary,” she said, smiling up at him. “I’ve got to take a trunk up to Mr. Hastie, the caretaker at Pitch Place, and I need someone strong enough to lift it and carry it inside for him.”

  “Why can’t he do it?”

  “He’s an old man. I was going over to the courthouse to see if I could get somebody to help me, and noticed you walking down the alley.” Vonda looked around, but no one was in sight. “I’ll give you ten dollars if you’ll lend a hand.”

  “Ten dollars? Just to carry a trunk inside a house? Sure, I’ll help you out,” Harbus said, and then ran around to the passenger door and jumped inside, slamming the door shut as the car pulled slowly forward.

  Vonda rolled down the alley… through the center of town as if she hadn’t a care in the world. She wasn’t in a hurry, she wasn’t doing anything wrong. She drove slowly down Main Street, past a group of vagrants hanging out on the corner, and then finally, out to the highway. She was seen, of course, but nobody really noticed her. She was crossing the bridge, heading up Seeker’s Mountain, when she said, “Who poured that English Leather on my desk, Gary?”

  “I don’t know. I was late gettin’ back from lunch, remember?”

  “Yes, I know, the train.” She smiled at him. “I know you didn’t do it. I just wondered if you knew who did.”

  “No ma’am, I sure don’t,” he said, all while the smarmy look on his face cried out: Of course I did it. You know I did it!

  They took the access road, following it up to the long, winding driveway, until before them stood the mansion, with its columns and gables and polished marble walkway, and a lush green carpet of grass stretching as far as the eye could see.

  “Wow!” Harbus said. “I’ve never been up here before. I didn’t know it was so big!”

  “Yes, it’s quite impressive.”

  Vonda pulled up to the front porch, waving as the door opened and James Hastie walked out to greet them.

  “Afternoon, Mrs. Peters.”

  “Yes, Mr. Hastie. It’s a wonderful afternoon. I’ve brought this young man along to carry that trunk inside for us.”

  “Yes, yes, of course.” He gestured toward the front door. “Come in and I’ll show you where I want it.”

  Hastie led them into the kitchen. He picked up a flashlight and led Harbus through an open door in the back of the pantry, and together they began the long descent to the basement, down a long and winding stairway that seemed to go on forever. Down the stairwell they went, a single bulb at the top of the landing casting a dim yellow glow that seemed to fade with every step they took.

  “Gee, how much farther?” Harbus asked, and could hardly believe his ears when Hastie told him they were only halfway there. They continued down the stairwell, down and around, and when they reached the bottom, Hastie clicked on the flashlight and led Harbus into a sea of darkness.

  “Y’all don’t have any lights down here?”

  “We’ve got a problem with the wiring,” Hastie said, and then continued across the floor, following a pale disc of light as Harbus looked back at the stairwell, and saw a veil of pitch-black stretching out behind them.

  “Shit, Mr. Hastie,” he said. “What happened to the light back there?”

  “Must’ve burnt out a bulb,” Hastie told him. “Why, you scared?”

  “Hell no,” Harbus said, while goose bumps marched up the spine of a young boy who was beginning to wish he’d never climbed into Vonda’s car, or at least held out for more money. He could’ve been downtown hustling up some dough, or swiping something out of one the shops lining Main Street. Anything seemed better than what he was doing now.

  Those were the thoughts running through his mind, as they came to a stop and, Hastie, sweeping a beam of light across a door decorated with a colorful caricature of a smiling Mickey Mouse holding a big bouquet of brightly colored balloons in his hand, said, “Here we are.”

  The light went out, and Hastie slapped the flashlight against the palm of his hand.

  “Go on inside,” he said. “There’s a switch on the wall to the right of you.”

  “I thought the lights didn’t work.” Harbus, nervous as a cat, thought about turning and running through the darkness.

  “Those lights work fine,” Hastie said, slapping the flashlight while Harbus grabbed the doorknob, happy his friends weren’t here to see his shaking hand as he turned the handle and pulled the door open, and… “God, that smell!” he said, as a stiff hand in the back sent him reeling to the floor and the door slammed shut behind him; “God forgive me” echoing from out in the basement as the lock clicked shut, and Harbus lay down in the dark and put his cheek to the floor, watching a narrow beam of light grow slowly dim as the old man made way back into the pitch black.

  * * *

  “He’s down there in the dark?” Pitch said, when Hastie appeared in the kitchen.

  “Yes sir, just as you instructed.”

  While Hastie returned to the pantry, to shut the door and conceal it behind the fake wall of shelving, Pitch went to the refrigerator and flipped one of three wall-mounted switches. Moments later, screams echoed through the dark basement, and Hastie quickly slammed the door shut, gathering all the strength and composure he could muster as he walked calmly past Pitch, through the kitchen and outside, where he leaned against the porch railing and squeezed his eyes shut, trying desperately to silence the horrific screams that seemed to be looping endlessly through his mind.

  * * *

  Harbus couldn’t believe it when the lights came on, where he was and what lay before him: Norval Jenkins’ bloated body in a puddle of blood and bodily fluids, flies buzzing around him, many crawling about his corpse. The smell made him gag, and then vomit. When a spider emerged from the dead man’s nostril, Harbus let out a blood-curdling shriek. All around the room were dead bodies in various stages of decay: small bodies… children’s bodies. Most nothing but skeletons; others, desiccated shells whose skin was dry as leather, like mummies straight out of a horror movie. Harbus counted twelve, every last one with a big rip down the middle of its chest. One skeleton so small it must’ve been killed right after it was born.

  There was a bed, and a chest of drawers with a white envelope resting atop it.

  Harbus, rising on shaky legs, crossed the room, picked up the envelope and read the address:

  Gary Harbus

  C/o Death’s Door

  Whitley, Wva. U-GO-2-Hell

  He opened the envelope, and pulled out a single sheet of paper, which read:

  Dear Gary,

  I told you I would make you pay!

  V. Pete
rs

  Harbus read the note, and as he began to understand its significance, and that of Norval Jenkins and the twelve little bodies, his mind shut completely down. Heart racing, his eyelids fluttered as screams and sobs surrounded the self-proclaimed king of class clowns, who looked around the room as if he had no idea where they were coming from, until he realized they were coming from his own mouth. Screams and sobs and oh my Gods, as his knees buckled and he fell crumpling to the floor.

  * * *

  When school let out, Jimmy Pritchard rode his bike to the east end of town, where he spent an hour and fifteen minutes crawling around on his hands and knees, shooting marbles out of a circle he and his friends had drawn in the dirt. When the game was over he jumped on the old Schwinn and headed for home. Jimmy couldn’t wait to tell Jackie he’d won a sack full of marbles from Robert Hadley’s little brother. He’d even come away with Ricky Hadley’s favorite steel aggie. At the corner of May Street he rode through some broken glass. Minutes later, a thoroughly disgusted Jimmy was standing beside his bike, looking down at a flat tire.

  He was starting to push his bike down the road when Sheriff Hayes pulled up in his pickup truck.