Crazy Dangerous

by Andrew Klavan

  But the magic friend-name wasn’t powerful enough. The demon things kept whispering out of the dead creature in the coffin:

  They will see our power.

  They will be afraid.

  Afraid of us.

  Because we are evil.

  Because we are death.

  Jennifer stared down at the horrible thing while the whispers rose up to her. She wanted to run away, run away, run back to her room, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t move from the spot. And then . . .

  Oh, then . . . then the thing in the coffin came to life!

  It sat up suddenly and reached for her.

  Jennifer started screaming—screaming and screaming. She couldn’t stop. Even when the bedroom doors burst open, when her mother and brother came rushing out of their rooms . . . even as they put their arms around her, calling out to her, calling her name over and over, she couldn’t stop. She went on and on.

  The whisper-things were gone. The wallpaper was back on the walls. The coffin was gone and so was the thing in the coffin.

  The house was back to normal.

  But Jennifer could not stop screaming.

  9

  Going Home

  I won’t give you a blow-by-blow description of how Jeff and Ed P. and Harry Mac beat me up. Anyway, to be honest, it would be more like a blow-after-blow description because the three thugs pretty much just punched and kicked me, blow after blow, for what felt like forever. If I got an answering punch in there anywhere, I don’t remember it. Mostly, I just tried to cover myself, rolling up in a ball, throwing my arms over my head, shielding what I could as best I could.

  It was bad. It was really bad. But it could’ve been a lot worse. No, really, it could’ve been. For one thing, the thugs didn’t play nice with one another. They didn’t take turns. I know that sounds like a joke, but it actually helped me. If they’d taken turns beating on me, they would have each gotten in some solid blows. But acting together the way they did, they kept getting in one another’s way. They bumped into one another and tripped over one another and sort of blocked one another without meaning to. It saved me from some of the real damage they could have inflicted if they’d come at me one at a time. Basically, if they’d been more polite, they would’ve been better thugs . . . But then, if they’d been more polite, they wouldn’t have been thugs at all, would they?

  So that was one thing that helped me. And another thing was the pickup truck. That road we were on—there was nothing up that way but some old farms, and most of those were abandoned—there was almost never any traffic passing by, especially during the week. Most days, Jeff and his pals would have been free to knock me around for as long as they wanted.

  But today—what do you know?—a truck came. A battered old green Ford pickup. Looked like it was about a hundred years old. Came slowly, slowly, slowly up the hill from town, heading home to some farm or other, I guess.

  I don’t know how long the thugs had been working me over by then. I could hear their labored breaths above me, so I could tell they’d been at it for some time and were getting tired.

  After a while the blows stopped altogether. I peeked up through my arms to see what had happened. I saw Jeff and Ed P. and Harry Mac puffing away, gazing off down the road. They looked concerned. I peeked down the road myself. That’s when I saw the old green pickup trundling toward us from a distance.

  There was a long pause. Then:

  “What do you think?” said Harry Mac, breathing hard. I could hear by the tone of his voice that he was worried. Obviously, if you’re going to beat a guy up, you don’t want any witnesses.

  Jeff took a moment before he answered. “Aw . . . ,” he said reluctantly. “I guess that’s enough. We don’t need any trouble.”

  I saw him look down at me. He was already getting a black eye from where I’d punched him, and there were still bloodstains on his chin and his teeth. I could see the anger flashing in his eyes. He would have liked to go on punching me awhile longer.

  “You ever tell anyone what you saw with us, this is gonna be like nothing,” he said. He spat. “I thought you were gonna be one of us, punk, but I guess you don’t have what it takes.”

  He was right about that, I have to admit. I knew that now. I didn’t have what it took to be like him. And I was right in the middle of thinking, Thank you, God, for that, when Jeff gave me one last kick in the stomach. Then he and the others swaggered off to the waiting Camaro.

  I lay there at the edge of the road, curled up on my side, clutching my stomach. Blood dripped out of my nose and down from a cut in my head. I saw the red drops falling onto the gray pavement and gathering there in a little pool.

  I heard the Camaro’s engine roar to life. For a second or two I was afraid that Jeff was going to drive the car right over me—just his little way of saying, “So long, and thanks for the memories.” But no, I heard the tires screech, and when I dared to look, I saw the Camaro tearing away down the road, sending up a cloud of dust behind it.

  I groaned. Then I groaned some more. I uncurled my body and lay flat on my back, trying to breathe. I stared up at the blue sky. I thought about my parents. I thought about how I was going to explain what had happened. I almost wished Jeff had finished the job. Almost.

  My plan just then was to go on lying there for—I don’t know—maybe a week or two—at least until the pain stopped, if it ever did. But I knew that the green pickup was still crawling up the road toward me. I thought if the driver saw me lying there, he might call an ambulance or something. I didn’t want an ambulance. I didn’t want to go to the hospital. I just wanted to go home. I just wanted to climb into bed and ache and bleed.

  So—after throwing in a few more groans for good measure—I started moving again, rolling over, pushing up off the ground, trying to get to my feet.

  I had just made it when the pickup finally pulled alongside me and stopped. The farmer behind the wheel looked to be as old as the truck, which, like I said, looked to be about a hundred. Peering out of his round, wrinkled face, his dark, sparkling eyes went up and down me. He had his tongue in his grizzled cheek as if he thought I was playing some kind of joke, standing there bleeding like that.

  “Well,” he said, “I’d hate to see what the other guy looks like.”

  I would’ve laughed, but it hurt too much. “The other three guys,” I told him. “And don’t worry: they look just fine.”

  The old man gave a hoarse chuckle. “I bet they do. What about you? Need a lift to the hospital?”

  “No, thanks. I got my bike. I just wanna go home.”

  Looking out the truck’s window, the old man chewed on his lip thoughtfully for a moment. “You’re sure, now?” he said. “You’re sure this isn’t a police matter?”

  Rubbing a point on my side where Harry Mac had gotten in one of his better kicks, I shook my head. “No. No police. I threw the first punch.”

  This time the old farmer didn’t just chuckle, he laughed out loud. “Did you, now? Against three fellas? Well, you’re a scrappy little guy, aren’t you?”

  “Oh yeah,” I said with a painful sigh. “I’m definitely scrappy. I’m just not very smart, that’s all.”

  He laughed again. “Well . . . I’m guessing you’re a bit smarter now than you were half an hour ago.”

  I smiled as much as I could. “That’s for sure.”

  “You take care of yourself, son. And while you’re resting up, you might want to think about choosing your friends more carefully.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He waved. Then, when he put the green pickup into gear, it gave a loud grinding sound that nearly drowned out his voice.

  “Do right. Fear nothing,” I thought I heard him say.

  “What?”

  But by then he was already driving away as slowly as he’d come.

  I shook my head. I probably just imagined he said that. I hobbled over to my bike, picked it up off the road, and began the long trek home.

  No way I could ride at
first. My body was just too stiff and sore. I walked the bike down the hill. The sun sank lower and lower behind the trees. The daylight turned golden, then gray. After a while I’d stretched my muscles out enough. With a mighty effort I managed to get my leg over the bicycle seat. Then, gritting my teeth against the pain, I started to pedal.

  The evening came on. I switched on my bike lights and coasted through the gathering darkness. I was glad no one passing by could see me now, could see the blood and bruises and dirt all over me.

  And yet, you know, aside from that, and aside from the pain and all, it was a funny thing . . . I didn’t really feel too bad. I felt . . . well . . . kind of good, in fact. Not good as in, “Man oh man, nothing makes for a happy day like having three thugs kick the living daylights out of you.” But good in a different way. Good because . . . well, because Jennifer got away without being hurt. There was no question in my mind that Jeff was planning to hurt her—really hurt her. But she’d gotten away because of me. And now, too, I didn’t have to go to the barn anymore. I could just go back to being my normal self, a preacher’s kid like I was before. Only before, it had seemed like a problem. Now it sounded like the best life a dude could ever have.

  So I was feeling pretty decent as I pedaled home through the cool evening—until, that is, I got near home and started to think about my parents again.

  There wasn’t any chance of hiding this from them. I might sneak inside and make it up to my room before anyone saw me. I might take a shower, change my clothes, clean up a little before coming down to dinner. But I was going to be wearing these cuts and bruises for a long time, and Mom and Dad were going to see them eventually. I hated to think what their reaction would be when they did.

  Let me make a long story short. Their reaction wasn’t good. It wasn’t good at all. I don’t like to describe my mom as being “hysterical,” but hey, when you hit on the right word, you might as well use it. I didn’t try to hide myself. I walked right into the kitchen where she was making dinner, and . . . Well, I don’t remember everything she said, but I think it involved my being grounded for the rest of my life while the United States military was called in to unleash a massive air strike against Jeff Winger’s house. Okay, maybe I’m exaggerating, but that’s what it sounded like at the time. Fortunately for me—and for Jeff and maybe for the United States military—my dad heard the commotion, came down from his study, and quickly took control of the situation.

  Sitting in front of my dad’s desk and telling him the truth about what I’d been doing for the last couple of weeks will probably win the award for “Worst Half Hour of My Life.” Really, it made me wish I was back out on the road with Jeff and his crew using me for a punching bag. It wasn’t that he yelled and screamed or anything like that. In fact, he didn’t say a word. He sat quietly and let me tell the whole story without a single interruption. He didn’t even look angry. He just sort of nodded every now and then as if he understood exactly what I was talking about. Which somehow made the whole experience even worse.

  Finally, I got through it. It was a relief to stop talking. I sat there in the visitor’s chair while my dad sat in the high-backed leather swivel chair. I looked at my dad and my dad looked at me and I wished God would just hit me with a lightning bolt and get the whole ordeal over with.

  After a while my dad took off his glasses and massaged his eyes with his fingers. For the first time I noticed that he wasn’t really looking too good. I knew he was worrying about his sick friend, Mr. Boling, and I guess he wasn’t sleeping very well. His face looked kind of gray and old with dark rings under the eyes. Adding to his troubles made me feel about as small as it’s possible to be without disappearing.

  “I don’t suppose . . . ,” he said slowly. “I don’t suppose you could have found some other way of dealing with Jeff—some other way besides punching him in the face, I mean.”

  I shook my head. This was the one thing I was sure of. After all, I knew when I swung on Jeff that I was going to be the one who got beaten up in the end. I wouldn’t have done it if there had been any choice at all. “He was gonna hurt her, Dad,” I said. “I could see it. He’d already slapped her for no reason, and he was gonna keep hurting her until he really hurt her. I could see it in his eyes.”

  Dad nodded. “Okay. I figured that. I figured by the time you got to that point you had no choice. But of course, before that happened, you had a lot of choices, didn’t you?”

  I sighed. “I know.” I had to pause there for a minute. I’m sixteen. Too old to cry. But I sure felt like it. “I have no excuse. I pulled a dragnet.”

  “A dragnet?”

  “Dumb de dumb dumb.”

  He gave a pale smile. “Ah.”

  “I was gonna talk to you about it,” I said. “Remember? When I bumped into you out in the hall that time? But you’ve been so worried about Mr. Boling, I just didn’t want to give you any more trouble than you already had.”

  “Oh, well, thanks a lot,” he said drily. “That worked out well.”

  “Right. Sorry.” I was about to tell him the whole story about how I’d come into his study, how I’d seen the statue of the archangel Michael on his shelf and read the Latin inscription and so on. But somehow it didn’t seem important just then. It seemed beside the point.

  “All right.” My dad put his glasses back on. He leaned toward me, his elbows on the desk. “You did the wrong thing hanging around with Jeff and his crew. They have nothing to offer you. You know that now, right?”

  “Oh yeah, definitely. I know it.”

  “So you ended up in a bad situation—which could’ve been a lot worse.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So”—he gestured at me, grimy and bloody as I was—“it looks like you got your punishment already. And it sounds like you learned what you needed to learn.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So all in all, I’m inclined to go easy on you. But you better hear me, son. If anything else comes of this, like Jeff comes looking for revenge or something or even threatens you—or anything at all—and you don’t tell me about it right away, that’s it, I’m going Old Testament on you, you hear what I’m saying?”

  I swallowed. “Yes, sir.” Dad had gone Old Testament only a couple of times I could remember, but it was not pretty business.

  “But for now . . . ,” he said.

  Dad couldn’t let me off scot-free because it would’ve driven my mom up the wall, but he did go pretty easy, all things considered. Grounded a couple of weekend evenings. Some heavy lifting, cleaning up the garage. Like the beating itself, it could’ve been a lot worse.

  When Dad was done with me, I took a shower. Then I went to my room. I chatted with Joe online and told him what happened.

  ME: I got beat up.

  JOE: Yeah, I know. I saw the video.

  ME: The video???

  JOE: From Ed P’s phone. He posted it on Facebook with the whole story.

  ME: O no. The whole school will know about it by tomorrow.

  JOE: By tonight. Now.

  ME: Great.

  JOE: Well, look at it this way: you may have been beaten up but at least you know it was your own stupid fault.

  ME: Yeah. That makes me feel a lot better.

  After a while I couldn’t type anymore. I updated my Facebook status to “beaten up.” Then, groaning, I lay down on the bed.

  My mind was racing. I kept thinking over all the things that had happened over the last couple of weeks. How Harry Mac had tripped me during my run, how I’d played chicken with the freight train, how I’d joined Jeff and his little crew in the barn. As I was thinking about it, I looked over and saw the Buster that Jeff had given me lying on my bedside table. I’d left it there when I’d emptied my pockets before taking a shower. I picked it up. Held it in front of me. My mind kept racing over the things that had happened.

  I remembered Jennifer telling me, “I’m looking for the devil.”

  What did she mean by that—or was it just one of those
crazy things she was always saying?

  I remembered Jeff telling me, “Mark’s pushed me just as far as I’m gonna go.”

  What was that about? What could a guy like Mark have to do with a guy like Jeff?

  But before I could give it any real thought, there was a knock on my door.

  Uh-oh, I thought. I was afraid it might be my mom, coming to blow up at me some more.

  I set the Buster down on the table again. Then the door opened. It wasn’t my mom. It was my brother, John.

  John is the brains of the family. He’s tall and thin like my dad. He kind of looks like my dad too. Same long face, same serious expression—only he still has his hair. He’s one of those big brothers you have, you know, where when you go through school, all the teachers say, “Oh, you’re John Hopkins’s brother. We expect great things from you.” Not a pleasant experience, especially if you’re not as smart as he is, which I’m not, or as good an athlete, which I’m also not.

  John leaned in the doorway. “How you feeling?” he said.

  “Like three guys beat me up. How are you?”

  “Oh, you know. Working out which college I’m going to. Did Dad come down pretty hard on you?”

  “Not too bad. He figured I’d already got what was coming to me.”

  “Yeah. Well, you did. That’s for sure.”

  “I know it. You don’t have to tell me.”

  “Well, listen, watch your back from now on, okay?”

  “What do you mean?”

  John straightened off the doorway. He was so tall, the top of his head nearly grazed the top of the frame. “Well, think about it, you know. Winger will never let this rest. You’re a marked man now.”

  I didn’t answer. I just looked at him. I hadn’t thought about that.

  “You mean, you think this isn’t over?” I asked softly.

  “No chance,” my brother said. “Believe me. This is just the beginning.”

  Then he moved away, closing the door behind him.

  Just the beginning, I thought.

  I didn’t know how right he was.