The Orangefield Cycle Omnibus

by Al Sarrantonio

  He nodded, dropping the gun. He began to weep, and tried to talk with his ruined mouth: “I… k-k-killed—”

  Yes, Aaron. But I’ll help you to forget, until it’s time for you to help me. Do you understand?

  Aaron was weeping. “I…ki…illed…”

  And then the freezing had first fallen on his head, and with it blessed forgetfulness.

  And then, suddenly, he understood what he could do, what loving service he could perform, and he had become, then and now, the Pumpkin Tender.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Kathy Marks could not stop thinking about Annabeth Turner.

  What is it about her?

  Ever since Annabeth had taken three restricted books from the library — returning them the next day while Kathy was not on duty, which the librarian was sure had been deliberate — Kathy had felt a strange affinity for the girl, something that went beyond the tug of outsider recognition she had felt for Annabeth initially.

  Is it because she lost her father, and I lost my parents?

  A brief memory of Aunt Jane and Uncle Ed, who’d taken Kathy in after the car accident, rose into her consciousness, and she shivered.

  Or am I afraid for her because of what happened to me afterwards?

  Annabeth and her mother had moved to Orangefield, the librarian knew, at the beginning of the summer. Mr. Turner had died the year before. Kathy had deduced that things were not good at home — that Annabeth’s mother, in the girl’s phrase, had “problems.” There had also been the hint of social services involvement, which could mean anything from child neglect to outright abuse. Kathy had driven by the house one evening after work and found it unkempt and lonely-looking — the poor relation on a block of neatly trimmed cape houses.

  Why am I so worried about her?

  Without really knowing why, she suddenly decided that tonight she would stop by the house and see the girl.

  There was something sad and desperate about her, something that reminded her of herself at that age.

  And something else that she couldn’t put her finger on, something to do with the voice she had heard in the library that night…

  The library was busy, for a Tuesday night, and she was occupied until just before 9:00. And then, suddenly, she was alone. Her student assistant Paul, after turning out most of the lights, was through the door at the stroke of the hour, and with the bang of the closing, locked door Kathy found herself with a little paperwork and a silent library.

  The wind had picked up at the windows, making its sound that always reminded her of moaning.

  And now there was another sound which drowned out the moan.

  It was the voice she had heard the night Annabeth had taken the three restricted books.

  Kathy.

  Again, as it had that night, the vaguest of dark memories tried to rise, then melted away. She felt herself go cold all over.

  Kathy. Speak to me.

  The voice had moved to one of the other windows, and then she heard it from the darkened back of the library.

  Kathy.

  She heard the shuffle of steps in one of the aisles, the sound of books being moved aside.

  Call me Sam…

  The librarian marched to the bank of lights by the front door, threw on the fluorescents in the back of the library.

  She felt something cold touch her finger, brush up her left arm and across her neck. There was a whisper in her ear.

  It’s me. Samhain…

  The windows began to rattle — all of them at once, a sound as if they would all shatter to bits.

  The suspended overhead florescent lights began to sway.

  Kathy ran to her desk, grabbed for her purse and jacket.

  A stack of books, waiting to be checked in, flew off the desk in three directions.

  Kathy.

  She ran for the door and the newspaper rack came alive as she passed, magazines and the daily newspapers flying up like flapping birds at her.

  She covered her face and cried out as newspapers hit her in the face, magazines slapped at her legs.

  Annabeth is mine.

  The voice was all around her, whispering in her ear and shouting at her from the back of the library simultaneously.

  The window rattling rose to a breaking point —

  And then stopped.

  The library was silent.

  The overhead hanging lights swayed to a squeaking halt.

  The newspapers fluttered to the floor around her.

  Kathy Marks stood by the doorway, panting, eyes wide.

  She let out a single, frightened sob.

  In her car, she regained her composure. She sat steadying her breath, watching the darkened library building in front of her. The lights were out, the building quiet.

  Whoever you are, she thought, you won’t stop me.

  As she pulled away, once more determined to visit Annabeth Turner, the lights in the library, unseen to her, blinked on for a moment, and something dark passed before the front windows.

  The house was even untidier and sadder looking than she remembered. There were empty garbage cans at the curb that needed taking in. The grass needed mowing and the flower beds to either side of the front door were choked with dry weeds.

  The paint on the shutters was peeling, and the front steps groaned with rotted wood when she stepped on them.

  She rang the doorbell three times, hearing nothing, and then knocked loudly on the door.

  She still heard nothing.

  Daring herself, she walked around to the side of the house, almost stepping on a rusted rake left carelessly, tines up.

  The first floor windows along the front were all dark, but she detected the glow of faint light in a window on the second floor of the house.

  She walked to the back of the house, which was even more overgrown, and looked up — there was a light on in the single second story window.

  She went back to the front door and banged on it repeatedly.

  She heard the rustle of movement inside the house, followed by a grunt.

  She banged again.

  She heard more movement, a slurred voice: “Whozzit?”

  “Mrs. Turner,” she called, “it’s Kathy Marks, from the Orangefield Library. May I speak with you, please?”

  There was a groan, and then silence.

  Kathy banged on the door again. “Mrs. Turner, I need to talk with you about Annabeth!”

  Another groan from within, and then a sound as if someone falling to the floor. She heard a curse, and then slow, measured steps from behind the door.

  The door was yanked open, and a blowzy, angry face appeared.

  “What the hell you want?”

  The door was thrown all the way open, and the woman, who was dressed in a dirty housecoat and slippers, nearly lurched at her. The librarian was forced to step back by the strong sour smell of gin. Behind her the house was filthy, cluttered and dark, all the way back to the second-story stairway and the kitchen beyond, where a cat crouched, staring at her suspiciously.

  “Mrs. Turner —”

  “I said what the hell you want! Botherin’ me at all hours! What’d she do? What’d the brat do?”

  Kathy took a breath before answering reasonably: “Annabeth didn’t do anything, Mrs. Turner. I’m here because I’m concerned about her—”

  “Concerned about wha’? Get out! Leave me alone! I ain’t a bad parent. I can do what has to be done! No goddamn social services bitch is gonna tell me otherwise!”

  “I’m not from social services, Mrs. Turner—”

  “Dammit! Leave us alone! Leave us all alone!”

  Behind Mrs. Turner Kathy saw Annabeth slowly descending the stairs and staring at her intently. She stopped at the bottom.

  The librarian took a step forward and tried to reason directly with the girl. “Annabeth, can I speak with you please?”

  “I brought the books back,” the girl said defensively.

  “It’s not about that—”


  Mrs. Turner suddenly lunged forward, holding on to Kathy Marks and breathing directly in her face. Kathy saw Annabeth run back up the stairs.

  “It ain’t right! Get out! Get out!”

  Kathy moved back, disengaging herself from Mrs. Turner.

  “I’m sorry I bothered you, Mrs. Turner.”

  “An’ don’t come back!” Mrs. Turner shouted, slamming the door shut.

  The librarian stood staring at the front door for a moment.

  I told you she’s mine.

  It was the voice again, from the library.

  Annabeth belongs to me, Kathy.

  A swirl of pure cold rose up around her, like a tornado, driving her from the front walk.

  Mine.

  Kathy Marks turned and ran for her car, opening the door and slamming it behind her.

  The dervish of wind was left in the street, where it circled down to nothingness.

  Kathy Marks drove slowly away, stopping once, without really knowing why, still breathing hard and trembling, to look back at the second floor of the house.

  Chapter Forty

  “Dude!”

  As Josh got out of the cab of his black Ford truck, Jordie nearly rushed forward to hug him. Josh took a step back, hesitating, but Jordie seemed to be in such a good mood that he gave a short laugh and allowed himself to be nearly picked up off the ground.

  Jordie dropped him, looked around him into the truck’s cab.

  “Hey, were’s Will?”

  “Couldn’t come,” Josh answered. “Had to do some stuff for his mom.”

  “Mom. Yeah, cool.”

  Josh looked into his friend’s face, and saw that the pupils were wide as dimes.

  Shit, hammered again, he thought.

  “Maybe I should come back later, Jordie,” he said. He hitched a thumb at the cab. “Truck needs an oil change—”

  “Hell, I’ll buy you an oil change, after we move that shit I told you about. We’ll go over to the Jiffy Lube, then pick up Will—”

  “I don’t think Will can make it at all today,” Josh said.

  “No shit?” A dark cloud passed over Jordie’s face, and Josh thought he heard him mumble, “Not on the list, man…”

  “List?”

  Jordie seemed to touch earth again. “Shit, man — just you and me, then! Dynamic duo. Just like fifth grade!”

  Josh was suddenly uncomfortable. He looked past Jordie at the house. The rest of the driveway was uncluttered by cars, and the open garage was empty. “Your mom and Aunt ever get home?”

  “Huh? Sure! Days ago. They went out for lunch or something. You know how these modern couples are…” He laughed, and leaned closer. “Hey, wanna get stoned?” he whispered.

  The inside of the house looked as spotless as the last time he’d been in it. In fact, it looked exactly like the last time he’d been in it, more than a week and a half ago. There wasn’t even a cereal box out of place in the kitchen. More out of curiosity than hunger, he opened the refrigerator and said, “Got anything to e—”

  The fridge was completely empty, not even an egg in its plastic nest — no milk, no butter, no fruit in their bins, no cottage cheese —

  A weird chill went up Josh’s back.

  “Jeez, Jordie, what the hell have you been living on?”

  When he turned around Jordie was right in front of him, grinning as he pushed something long and brightly metallic into Josh’s stomach.

  “Sorry, man,” Jordie whispered, “but it’s on the list.”

  Josh opened his mouth wide to speak, but Jordie shook his head and ripped the blade viciously up through his middle.

  A bright blurt of blood formed in Josh’s open mouth, and then his eyes clouded over and he became a weight against the open refrigerator, which began to hum.

  Jordie let him down easily to the floor, then pushed him aside with his booted foot and closed the refrigerator door.

  “Have to clean that again, man,” he said, focusing on the drops of red splattered on the door.

  Find Will, the voice in his head told him.

  Forty minutes later, after bringing Josh’s body to the cellar and lining it up neatly with that of his mother and aunt, which were already limed and tarped, he climbed into the cab of Josh’s truck and pulled it out onto the road. The day was bone chilly, but he wore only his light jacket over a tee-shirt and jeans. In the flatbed was his DJ equipment, carefully wrapped and tied down. On the seat next to him in the cab was an open piece of paper with Will’s name on it, and a pile of pill bottles. On the bottom of the list, after Will’s name, was the phrase, Take your meds, in the proportions I told you.

  Will’s house was empty, which started to panic him, but the voice in his head calmed him down, telling him to take one Zyprexa, which he did dry, because he had forgotten to take any vodka with him.

  I didn’t want you to take any vodka, the voice said, and he said out loud, “Oh, yeah,” and remembered one of the other things on the list.

  And drive slowly, the voice added.

  He slowed the truck down to thirty as he came into town, matching the speed limit.

  It was a busy Thursday afternoon, and the business district of Orangefield was crowded with traffic. Most of the parking spots along Main were taken, and the bank parking lot was full. He spotted Will’s mother’s Malibu in one of the bank slots near the front.

  Park across the street.

  He circled around the block again, coming back out on Main Street behind the bank, and pulled into a street spot across from the bank as someone pulled out ahead of him.

  Check the meter.

  He got out of the car, and saw that there was twenty minutes left on the parking meter.

  Put a quarter in.

  He started to protest, then stopped when a woman walking a baby stroller looked at him oddly.

  Do it.

  He fished a quarter out of his pocket, noting that it was a Delaware commemorative — hadn’t his aunt collected those? Did she have this one? Maybe he should save it for her — and then remembered that she was dead and didn’t collect them anymore. He slid the quarter into the meter slot.

  Get back in the cab and wait for them to come out. Then follow them.

  He did so, and turned on the radio — he turned the dial away from Josh’s alternative rock station and zeroed in on the rap station he listened to. He cranked up the volume—

  Turn it down.

  “But—”

  The voice was less pleasant: Now.

  He shrugged and turned down the volume so that it couldn’t be heard on the street.

  After a half hour of music mixed with what seemed like a hundred commercials (Got to find another station to listen to, he thought) he was reaching for the dial when the voice said: Look.

  He looked up and saw Will and his mother, a petite brunette with a no-nonsense look on her face, leaving the bank and heading for their car.

  Follow.

  Jordie turned on the engine and pulled out behind Will’s car.

  Back a little. So they don’t see you.

  He let another car pull out from the curb in front of him, and kept himself a discrete distance behind that.

  There were two more stops — the pharmacy, which Will’s mother ran into while Will stayed behind the wheel, and then the supermarket.

  Jordie groaned as Will and his mother parked and headed into the food store with a cart.

  Be patient. Listen to the radio again. Take a Clozaril.

  Jordie kept the radio on while he rummaged through the pile of pill bottles, drawing one oblong pill out and, again, swallowing it dry.

  “Damn! I do need some vodka for that!” He eyes the liquor store next to the supermarket but the voice said:

  No.

  Anger flared up but the pill kicked in quickly, calming him. He lazily spun the tuner on the radio, looking for a more commercial-free rap station, but it wasn’t to be found.

  “How long are we going to have to—”

  Th
ere. They’re coming out. Follow them like before.

  “James Bond,” Jordie laughed, bringing the truck’s engine to life again.

  He kept a distance from Will’s car, and was rewarded when it headed straight out of town.

  In a few minutes it had pulled off the main road into Will’s neighborhood, and into his driveway, which sided a neat red ranch house with a small porch guarding the white front door.

  Wait till they go in the house. Then follow them in and do it.

  Jordie held back, parking on the street a few houses away while Will and his mother unloaded the groceries; as Will slammed the car’s trunk closed and headed for the front door, Jordie pulled up and parked in front of Will’s house. As he parked he rummaged beneath the mountain of pill bottles and found the knife he had used on Josh. It still had blood on it.

  Get out. Do it.

  Jordie climbed out of the truck’s cab, hiding the knife in his jacket pocket — he felt something else in there, a bag with some of his marijuana in it.

  “Man, sure could use a toke or two now—”

  Do it.

  He skipped up onto the porch, like he had a thousand times, stepped to the side of the huge pumpkin there, and reached for the doorbell.

  He pushed the buzzer twice. As the door opened, revealing Will’s surprised mother, a hand clamped on Jordie’s arm from behind him as Jordie pulled the knife from his pocket, followed by the bag of marijuana, which fell to the ground —

  Jordie twisted around to see the face of deputy sheriff Charlie Fredricks.

  “Jeez,” Fredericks said, tightening his grip on the hand with the knife in it. As he did so the knife fell to the ground. “I told you I’d keep an eye on you, Jordie — all I wanted to do was see if you were drunk or stoned!” He yanked both of Jordie’s arms behind him while he fished out his cuffs and secured them.

  He turned Jordie around. “What the hell were you up to?”

  Jordie waited for the voice to give him instructions, tell him what to do or say, but the voice was gone.

  He looked the deputy sheriff in the face and grinned. “I was just gonna kill ’em, is all. Just like the others at my house.”