Bone’s voice.
Miss McMarkus apparently hadn’t heard, because she stared straight ahead with that inquisitive, trained smile.
“What?” Crystal shouted, not sure how far away from the Orifice Bone was, or if sound even traveled at all in Darkmeet.
“What?” Miss McMarkus said.
“Bone.”
“I know it’s hard when you lose a friend—”
“I didn’t lose her.” Though sometimes I wish I had.
“If you ever want to talk, you know where to come.”
“In Royce we trust,” Bone said.
Oh, no. She’s gone over to the dark side. Fallen for those brooding eyes. Or maybe…
She recalled Rance and Snake’s vacant-eyed incantations and remembered the subliminal messages in The Darkening.
Bone had watched one of Dempsey’s movies.
“Anything else, Crystal?” Miss McMarkus said.
“That math problem? I think I know where the ‘two’ went.”
“Excellent. We’re making progress.”
The portal narrowed down to the diameter of a rotten plum, and then vanished with a final splurp.
“Pardon me,” Miss McMarkus said with a giggle.
“Later.”
Chapter 18
“Well, I did it,” Bone said. “I hope you’re happy.”
“I’m never happy,” the Judge said.
Which made him the perfect hammer in this crazy land of midnight moonlight. After the little stunt with the owl and the bloody grin that followed, the Judge had laid out the ground rules for their new relationship:
A. Royce was going to be a star.
B. Bone was going to help by tricking the Aldridge family.
C. They, along with the Judge and some of his producer buddies, would channel the Royce worship and become solid and alive again.
D. She would be Royce’s arm candy and the whole world would be jealous. Plus—the beauty part—she’d get to be flesh and bone again.
E. Or else the Judge would have her reincarnated as Paris Hilton’s purse pooch and she’d be a virgin all her days—after the operation.
Now that she’d followed his instructions, they stood in the silence of the mausoleum, listening to leaves skitter against the granite. Tim stood near the wall, looking like he was late for dinner and would be getting a spanking.
“What happens now?” Crystal said.
“It depends,” the Judge said. In the flickering candlelight, the hood hid his face, and the gap of darkness seemed to roil and slither. “We can’t predict the future.”
Where have I heard that before? Aren’t any of these dead know-it-alls omniscient?
“You got to Dempsey, didn’t you?” she said. “That whole horror-movie thing.”
“Dempsey was easy. Almost as easy as you. You see, Bonnie Whitehart, you don’t have to be a fortune teller to know how weak, desperate people will react. All it takes is a little understanding of human nature.”
“I’m not human anymore. I’m dead.”
“You’re a Tweener. You haven’t let go. And I can use that.”
“Why don’t you leave her alone, you big bully?” Tim balled his fists. It was cute but not very threatening.
“Tim McFarland,” the Judge said. “Your affection for Miss Whitehart is quite endearing. But it makes you vulnerable. And I eat ‘vulnerable’ for breakfast.”
He belched for emphasis, and another feather flew out.
“You’ve been watching me the whole time,” Bone said.
“Actually, little dumpling, I’ve been watching Crystal. Those Aldridges have been a thorn in my crown for centuries. When you had your—er, accident—I saw an opportunity I couldn’t resist. In this market, timing is everything.”
“What? The end of the world was like, more than a decade ago. And the whole 2012 thing was overrated.”
“The apocalypse is always in fashion. The world is already dying a little at a time but refuses to accept it. I’m merely putting it out of its misery.”
Bone eyed the mausoleum entrance. She was young. She could knock him over and be out of the graveyard before he even untangled his robes. But Tim might not be so lucky. He’d already risked his neck to save her from Royce, for all the good it did. But she owed him anyway.
Tim’s eyes flicked to the corners of their sockets and back, indicating something in the corner of the chamber. Bone nodded, as if agreeing with the Judge’s assessment.
“Okay, so you tricked Dempsey into putting subliminal messages in his movies,” she said. “Probably promised he’d be the next Steven Spielberg. And Royce got some bit parts so you could feed off his ego, too.”
“Creative types,” the Judge said, in his somber, stentorian cadence.
“What, you’re an executive producer?”
The laugh shook stones. “My ego is too large to settle for that. I, my dear, am the agent.”
“So you get a cut of the action no matter how it plays out,” Tim said.
When the Judge shifted his obscured face to Tim, Bone took the opportunity to glance into the corner. She understood.
“I suppose you never reached Latin,” the Judge said to Tim. “Ergo—thus—you likely don’t know the root of ‘agent’ is from the root ‘agere.’ To drive, act, do.”
Just keep on with the lecture, Professor Ego Ergo.
The candlelight bobbed as a breeze blew in from somewhere, carrying the aromas of permanent autumn—sweet grass, dead leaves, and allspice. She wouldn’t have put it past the Judge to open up a can of Almost Heaven just to taunt them. Bone eased a step toward the corner.
“The only Latin I know is ‘Et tu, Brute,’” Tim said, springing forward and kicking the Judge in the shin. His foot plunged into the fabric of the robe and kept going until he lost his balance. As he fell, he reached for the robe to keep from falling and managed to grab a sleeve.
The Judge reached out a gloved hand and snared Tim by the wrist. Tim’s eyes opened in surprise but he didn’t yell in pain. When you were dead, the physical sensations may have passed but the expectation and memory still existed. It was one reason Bone hoped she’d eventually have a real boyfriend and embrace the pleasures of the flesh—even if she had to sell her soul to the Judge to do it.
“Now,” Tim shouted, and Bone sprinted for the corner and scrambled in the leaves for the object Tim had hidden. She grabbed it and thrust it toward the Judge, making sure the candlelight glinted off its silver sheen.
The Judge kept his grip on Tim and the hood’s black oval opening was directed right at her. She couldn’t tell if his eyes were open or closed, or if the Raybans were hiding their red sparks.
Heck, I can’t even tell if he HAS eyes.
“Uh, et tu ergo,” she said, waving the object. “Latino mumbledy-jumbledy-oh.”
The Judge sucked in what might have been a breath, or maybe it was a hiccup of laughter. “You,” he said, with a dramatic pause.
Tim motioned her forward with his free arm. She wasn’t sure if she was supposed to thrust the thing in the Judge’s face-hole or not. He might not have eyes, but she knew he had teeth, because he’d smacked and snacked on the Milk Duds she’d smuggled from Earth.
She wasn’t ready to risk any fingers because she wasn’t sure if they’d regenerate.
“I command you to release him,” she said, waving the silver cross with an ominous flourish.
“Or what?” the Judge said.
“Or I’ll send you to the fiery pits of hell.”
The Judge let go of Tim, who slumped on the cool stone floor.
“Why not Waikiki Beach?” the Judge said. “Or the Antarctica? Or the Andromeda Galaxy?”
“It’s the rules,” she said. “You’re the devil, right?”
The Judge took a step toward her. She lifted the cross higher, wondering if this was going to blow her reputation.
“You’re certainly one to worry about rules, Bonnie Whitehart. Do you recall what you were doing the night
you had your nasty accident? Why you were in the wrong place at the wrong time?”
I never told anyone about that. Not even Crystal. How could he—
The Judge took another step. “Come now, Bonnie. Pretending to have post-traumatic stress disorder and amnesia may work on the Counselors, but not on me.”
Her hand trembled, the cross reflecting a glint of candlelight against the hood’s opening, but it revealed nothing of the face inside. “G-get thee behind me, Satan.”
The laughter filled the mausoleum as if it were spilling from every crack in the stone, and maybe even through the portal to Earth. Bone wondered if Crystal was standing near an Orifice and listening.
“The devil is in the details, little dumpling.”
Tim raised himself to his hands and knees, but he looked like he’d just undergone a major round of chemo. He dry heaved, sweat beading his pallid forehead.
“Not in front of the kid,” Bone begged. “Please.”
“False chivalry. If I were the devil, and frankly, that’s below my pay grade, then I’d take advantage of your pride.”
Another step and he was in front of her, a low rasping noise issuing from the face-hole like a lost breeze over a bleak desert night. He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “And you say she’s your best friend.”
He reached out and plucked the cross from her limp fingers, the chill of his glove penetrating her substance. She swayed, feeling disconnected from her spirit body, and wondered if she were finally moving on to the afterlife—the real afterlife, because there had to be some kind of reward for all this pain and suffering.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” someone boomed from the mausoleum entrance. “Did I miss the cast party?”
Bone sagged against the wall as the Judge concealed the cross in the folds of his robe.
“You’re late, Royce,” the Judge said.
“Had to press the flesh down at the Rock’n’Roll Café,” he said. He was wearing a deerskin jacket that looked pretty fresh, and his hair was a carefully crafted mess. “Hey, Dollface, you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Take that line out of your repertoire,” the Judge said.
Bone ignored both of them and went to Tim, who was still dry heaving. She’d only visited him in the hospital once, when her mother made her go with Crystal and a couple of classmates from Sunday School. That had been a couple of weeks before he took a turn for the worse, and even then he’d been waxy, his cheeks sunken and hair falling out from the chemo. But his eyes had burned with a fierce intensity, and Bone had wondered how such a light could ever be extinguished.
But, being kids, they mostly wondered what it was like for someone to hold a pot for you to poop in.
She knelt beside him as Royce worked the room. “Tim, are you okay?” she whispered.
He gave one more retch and a tuft of vapor came out and curled away in the candlelight. “Yeah,” he managed. “Never been deader.”
“Hey, that’s good,” Royce said. “Can I use it?”
“You’re supposed to be alive, remember?” the Judge said. “If you go to Earth and start getting typecast, you’ll lose your star power. Don’t be eccentric. Nobody likes eccentric.”
“If Johnny Depp can do it, I can do it.”
“We’re a long way from Netflix, Royce. We’re still at the Tan Banana & Movie Emporium level.”
“Do you know how he started out?”
There was so much venom in the word “he” that it could only mean Jimmy Dean, and not the sausage-king version, either.
“High school theater,” Royce continued, jumping the cue line. “Such immortal classics as ‘You Can’t Take It With You’ and ‘Our Hearts Were Young and Gay.’”
Tim wiped his mouth. “And now your heart is a geriatric drag queen,” he said, though he lacked the energy to put any real malice in the comeback.
Bone helped him stand, resisting the impulse to put her wrist to his forehead and check for fever. Any heat would be an illusion, though she could have sworn the banked coals of rage glowed deep in her belly.
“Okay,” Bone said to the Judge. “Make him better, and I’ll help.”
“Oh, you’re helping anyway,” the Judge said. “What good is a shepherd without sheep? What good is a star without a supporting cast? What good is—”
“Take the cancer,” Bone said. “Just let him be a boy.”
“What is this?” Royce said. “’Pinocchio’?”
“Bonnie Whitehart, you think it’s that simple?” the Judge said. “That I can just wave my hand and undo the great, grinding wheels of time and Fate? That I can just—”
She cut him off before he could get rolling again. “Fix it.”
“No, Bonnie,” Tim said. “I’d rather puke my guts out for a billion years than owe Hoodie Boy here any favors.”
The Judge chuckled, which sounded like a dozen knucklebones rattling in a China cup. “We all get on our knees sooner or later, Tim.”
Royce stood there looking cute and confused, as if waiting for the director to yell “Action.” Bone considered another run for the cemetery gate, but Tim was barely able to stand, much less run or float.
And what if I did run? Crystal needs me as much as Tim does. Christaroni with cheese sauce, I’m too young and dead for responsibility.
“Okay,” Bone said. “I get it. I’ve been working for you the whole time and didn’t know it. You let me slip back because you knew I’d want more. Like any good pusher, you gave me the first hit for free.”
“Then we have a deal?” the Judge said.
“Hey, wait,” Royce said. “I thought you were my agent.”
“We’re all on the same team here, Royce,” the Judge said. “Do you want to get typecast as a B-movie extra, or do you want Sunset Boulevard and red carpets?”
“I want a sports car.”
“You got it.”
“And cigarettes.”
“It’s in the job description.”
“Hairdressers. I’ll need lots of hairdressers.”
“All that will happen if you just concentrate on your art.”
“I thought I was an actor.”
“The art of acting. The craft of drama. Performing arts.”
“Forget it,” Tim said. “You might as well be talking to a turtle about turtle wax.”
Bone was glad to see Tim had returned to his usual sickly self. He’d probably be okay if she left him alone for awhile. After all, he’d been dead four years before she came along, so it wasn’t like she had anything to teach him.
“I leave the fine print to you guys,” Bone said. “Right now, I’m anxious to get over there and get Dempsey’s movies out where they can do some good. I mean, do some harm.”
“Excellent,” the Judge said. “But there’s another rule: you only get to go solid three times.”
“Why?” Bone knew why, but she had to ask anyway.
“The Rule of Three,” the Judge said. “In the meantime, Royce, why don’t you and Tim rehearse that scene from ‘A Streetcar Named Desire’?”
As Royce began spouting lines, the Judge slipped up behind Bone and gave her the silver cross. “You might need this over there.”
“Thanks for not ratting me out.”
“’Yet.’ I haven’t done it yet.”
“You’re all heart.”
The Judge, with his back to Tim and Royce, parted his robe just a bit to reveal a wedge of hard darkness. “I gave my heart away. Just like you did.”
Bone gripped the cross and crawled toward the vault opening in the back of the mausoleum. She had a plan for dealing with the Judge, and it all started with Tan Banana & Movie Emporium.
The emporium had a special on Milk Duds, and she’d need a lot of them.
Chapter 19
“In Royce we trust,” Pettigrew said.
Crystal’s Diet Sprite stopped halfway up the straw and the bit in her mouth nearly went out her nose. “Huh?”
“This cheeseburger’s gr
easy,” he said, wiping his hand on the dashboard. He was driving her to work, since her Toyota needed a new timing chain and that was at least two paychecks away. Pettigrew would do the work, but she wanted to buy the part herself. With him putting on the pressure for a “committed relationship,” the last thing she needed was to owe him any more favors.
“That’s not what you said.”
Pettigrew glanced sideways at her. It was the “Women come up with the weirdest notions” look. Or maybe it was “Women. Shrug.”
“I think you been watching too many bad movies,” he said.
“Don’t be telling me what I do too much of. Probably, if anything, I’m doing too much of you.”
“Fine.” He lay on the squeaky brakes, slowing in front of the Gas’n’Gulp & Orthopedic Supplies, which advertised scratch-off lottery tickets and discount cigarettes, as well as 30 percent off wooden legs. “We can fix that right now.”
This section of Parson’s Ford—the side where she lived, where the old paper mill had spawned a collection of cinder-block businesses to serve the working class—had no sidewalks, a weedy railway bed, and the occasional aggressive stray pit bull. Her immediate response was to jump out and hoof the last two miles to the emporium, but then she’d be half an hour late and today she was opening the store. Fatback Bob was easy to please, but he didn’t like refunding late fees, and some people still hadn’t figured out how to work the drop slot in the door.
“Keep driving,” she said.
Pettigrew accelerated in a grumble of busted muffler. “You been acting weird lately.”
As if I’ve ever acted any other way? You might be the aspiring actor, but I can read between the lines.
There was only one way to go, and that was with the perfect and universal excuse. “I’m about to start my period.”
Pettigrew rolled his eyes as if that was another thing that would be off limits for a while.
She decided to drop the “Royce” bit, because she wondered if she was starting to get paranoid. When she’d gone through the depression, Miss McMarkus and the Pickett County Behavioral Healthcare counselors had probed her for suicidal or delusional thinking. It took her a while to figure out what they were doing, mostly because she checked out a couple of diagnostic manuals from the public library and did a little research. One thing that jumped out from the case studies was that once they slid you into a file folder under a certain label, you were stuck there forever.
October Girls: Crystal & Bone Page 14