Bad Things

by Tamara Thorne

  “I guess it’s true what they say about you Scotsmen being mystical,” Dakota told him. “That’s a marvelous story. I guess Big Jack’s a lot like the Green Man in England.”

  Rick rooked at him in surprise. “Yeah.”

  “I remember him, then.”

  “You do?” he asked, the skin on the back of his neck prickling up.

  “When I was little we went to the Met in Central Park all the time, and I’d spend hours looking at those English hunt tapestries, you know? I loved them because they were puzzles. If you looked hard enough, you’d see the Green Man somewhere in the art. He was hard to spot because he always had leaves growing out of his mouth and he’d be peeking out from between the trees.” Dakota laughed. “I guess it was the medieval version of Where’s Waldo?”

  Icky Ricky, come out and play, hey, play.

  Rick shivered as the familiar voice played through his mind.

  “Piper, what’s wrong?”

  “We’re digging up old memories, O’Keefe. Ones I’d just as soon leave buried.”

  “For Christ’s sake, Rick, don’t tell me you were afraid of the Green Man?” Dakota looked incredulous. “He was into sex and orgies and all the finer things in life.”

  “I was terrified,” he confessed. “I grew up on a steady diet of those stories, and the ones my grandfather told weren’t about sex, they were about stealing the bodies of little boys. I took them very seriously.” He tried to laugh but it was a sick sound. “I was an overly sensitive child.”

  Your body, Ricky, give us your body . . .

  “Body theft,” Dakota mused. “Every time my aunt Irene visited us—she was from Ireland—she told stories about the fairies and leprechauns. They’d take a human child and leave one of their own in its place. There was a name for it—”

  “A changeling,” Rick supplied, glad that Dakota knew so much. It was just too juvenile and ridiculous to explain in detail.

  “Yeah, that’s it,” Dakota agreed. “Maybe you can answer a question for me, Piper.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “What I always wondered when Irene told those stories was why. Why would these incredibly nifty beings want anything to do with humans when they were so free the way they were? That just never made any sense to me.”

  Rick smiled wanly. “Without physical bodies, they can’t feel or taste or smell—”

  “Or have orgasms?” Dakota smirked.

  “Or have orgasms,” Rick agreed. “They want sensation, like we have. The grass is always greener, you know?”

  “Okay. Go on.”

  “I don’t know about all the other tales, but in the Piper clan stories, anyone’s body would do in a pinch, but what the greenjacks really wanted was the body of a person who had the sight. The ability to see and hear them.”

  “Why?”

  “Grandfather claimed it was because they got very lonely if they couldn’t communicate with their own kind.”

  “That makes sense,” Dakota said. “So, Piper, did you ever see any of the little devils?”

  Rick’s cheeks grew hot. “I—I thought I did,” he stammered. “But I had an overactive imagination when I was a kid.”

  “You don’t sound like you’re very eager to move back to the old hometown. Why not go somewhere else? Or do you have family there or something?”

  “A senile aunt, but she’s not the reason for going back. I own the family estate.”

  “Estate? You’re rich? Piper, you devil, you never told me—”

  “I’m not rich. The family money that my parents left for maintaining the place is about gone. It’s more a matter of cutting expenses, if you want the truth. The place is an estate more because of the size of the property than because of the house. It’s big, but . . .”

  “So sell it.”

  “I’ve thought about it, but with the market so soft, if it sold at all, it wouldn’t draw anywhere near what it’s worth.”

  “So where’s Santo Verde?” O’Keefe asked, evidently oblivious to the tremble Rick heard in his own voice.

  “It’s in San Bernardino County, maybe fifty or sixty miles east of Los Angeles.”

  “Nightlife?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Sounds boring.”

  “It’s a little bourgeois, but it’s nice.” He paused. “Well, the Piper house isn’t bourgeois. It’s decidedly weird. Conlin built what he liked, so it’s sort of part Carpenter Gothic and part Spanish hacienda. It has Victorian cabinetry and Spanish wrought iron. Some of the doors are arched, some are square. There’re even a couple stained-glass windows.” He chuckled. “Calling it ‘eclectic’ wouldn’t begin to describe it. Oh, yeah, it’s full of secret passages.”

  “I have to see this place.”

  “If I pack up and go, you’re more than welcome,” Rick told him. “Its only about four hours from here, but it’s very different. It’s citrus country, nestled in right up against the mountains. In the thirties and forties a lot of the movie stars used to live out there. It’s scenic. Very scenic.” His stomach twisted as he heard himself add, “It’s the greenest place you’ll ever see.”

  “Dakota?” The door opened and Cody peered in. “Is dinner almost ready?”

  “Another half hour. Why don’t you take a banana and watch another cartoon show?”

  “Okay.” The boy reached up and took a piece of fruit, then disappeared back into the living room.

  Dakota turned back to Rick. “So this house you own is the same one that you grew up in?”

  “The very same.”

  “So how come you’ve never mentioned it before?”

  “There are some bad memories . . .”

  The greenjacks’ll getcha if you don’t watch out.

  “How do you mean, ‘bad’?”

  “Oh, you know, goofy stuff mostly. Kid stuff.” Boy, does that sound stupid! His hand trembled as he sliced a potato.

  “Goofy? Kid stuff’?” Dakota stopped peeling to stare at him. “Come on, Rick. You think I can’t see that this ‘goofy kid stuff’ is eating you up? It’s why you’ve never gone back, isn’t it?”

  Rick said nothing.

  “No more bullshit, Piper, dear. What’s the real story?”

  “There’s nothing else, Dakota, really. The place is a little run-down,” he added quickly. “At least that’s what my lawyer says, but it’s solid. It’s in the best part of town, and the schools are excellent, but . . .”

  Ricky, icky Ricky, Ricky, icky Ricky.

  “If it’s so great, then what the hell are you raising kids in this hellhole for? Gambling, drinking, drugs, hookers . . . Mormons, for Christ’s sake . . .”

  Icky Ricky, I’m gonna getcha, Icky Ricky.

  “Rick! Watch out!”

  Startled, Rick jumped, dropping the knife. It clattered into the sink.

  “Jesus Christ, Piper! Let me see that.”

  Rick recoiled as Dakota’s water-cold hand grabbed his left wrist.

  The potatoes he’d sliced into the colander were turning red. He watched bright blood splash into the white sink as Dakota pulled Rick’s arm toward him.

  “You’re bleeding like a sieve.” O’Keefe pulled a wad of paper towels from the holder and wrapped them around Rick’s fingers. “Jesus, I can’t even see which finger you cut. Piper, you’re as white as a baby’s butt. Are you okay?”

  “Not one of my smoother moves,” Rick said as he took charge of his hand, pressing on the towels to stop the bleeding. It was starting to hurt.

  “Are you okay?” Dakota repeated.

  “Fine. Got any Band-Aids?”

  “Just a sec. Let me rinse the blood off these potatoes before it soaks in or something. What Cody doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Keep hanging on to those towels.”

  Rick almost smiled. Dakota was nothing if not practical. He loosened the pressure, but the artery was still pumping. He tightened up again, feeling a little dizzy.

  “You’re shocky. Sit down,” Dakota ordered as he l
eft the room. A moment later, he was back with a box of adhesive bandages and a bottle of iodine.

  Carefully Rick unwrapped the hand, and everything south of his abdomen tried to climb to visceral safety as the pad of his middle finger, nearly severed, started to come away with the towels. Gingerly he loosened it and let it fall back over the wound.

  “You need stitches,” Dakota said.

  “No, I don’t,” Rick answered.

  “If that finger was your throat, you’d be dead.”

  Rick snorted. “Don’t be so dramatic, O’Keefe. It’s not my throat.”

  “Well, it’s gaping. What are you planning to do? Staple it shut?”

  “That’s a thought,” he said, trying to ignore the throbbing. “But let’s try a Band-Aid first.”

  “You need stitches. The fucking thing is positively grinning at me.”

  “It’s cut on the bias,” Rick said, keeping his voice light. “All I need to do is tape it down. It’ll glue naturally.” It was everything he could do to control his trembling. “The Band-Aid, please?”

  “Suit yourself.” Dakota shrugged and unwrapped several bandages. Wearing a disgusted expression, he handed over one, then another, his lip curling as he watched Rick tape his flesh back together.

  “I can’t believe you did that yourself,” he said as Rick finished. “I’d pass out. Shit. You forgot the iodine. We’d better—”

  “No. I don’t need it. I bled out all the impurities.”

  “What? Have you got a death wish? If it gets infected—”

  “I don’t get infections,” Rick said lightly. “I have the constitution of an entire bottle of antibiotics.”

  “Piper, you are acting extremely weird. What are you, afraid of doctors?”

  Quit’cher fuckin’ cryin’ boy, and take your whippin’ like a man! a new voice screamed in his ear. Dear God, how could he have forgotten about Uncle Howard? His head spun as he wondered what else he’d forgotten.

  “Piper, you need stitches, so quit your macho man act!” Dakota stood up. “Come on. I’ll get Cody and we’ll run down to the emergency room—”

  “Lay off, already!” Rick barked. “I cut my fucking finger, big fucking deal. I’ll live.”

  His harsh words made Dakota flinch as if he’d been slapped. Instantly Rick felt terrible.

  “Sorry,” Rick muttered. “I didn’t mean—”

  “Mellow out, Rick,” Dakota interrupted. “I’ve never even heard you say ‘fuck’ before, and now you say it twice in one breath. Just a wild guess, hon, but I’d say something’s wrong.”

  Get out of my face! he wanted to scream. Instead, he spoke casually. “Nothing’s wrong. It was just a stupid accident.” God, it hurt so bad, he could hardly stop clenching his teeth to talk. The only thing worse than the pain was the humiliation.

  “If I cut myself like that, I’d be squalling so bad, my face would be puffy for a week, and I’d be getting stitches and pain pills. Look at you, pretending it doesn’t even hurt.”

  Rick said nothing. It took every ounce of control not to scream at Dakota to shut the hell up or to humiliate himself by admitting it hurt.

  Crybaby, titty mouse, Ricky got a whipping! I’m gonna tell Uncle Howard, and then you’ll get another! Crybaby, titty mouse.

  “Rick!”

  “What?”

  “Here! Take these!”

  Dakota stood in front of him holding aspirin tablets and a glass of water. Rick hadn’t even realized he’d moved.

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.” Dakota went back across the room and took a bottle of wine and two glasses from a shelf. “Merlot, Cypress. A ninety-nine. I hid it from Lil. She wouldn’t appreciate it.” He uncorked the bottle and poured, handed a glass to Rick.

  “Thanks again.”

  “Welcome again. So what’s eating you? When you cut yourself we were talking about Santo Verde. You said you have bad memories. They must be doozies.”

  If you tell, they’ll take you away, away, the little men in their white coats will come and take you away, away, away.

  Old memories, presumed dead, old voices, his voice, came alive in his head. “No, not especially, but I hadn’t thought about all those stories my grandfather used to tell in years.” Rick sipped the wine, then downed half the glass at once. “Going back to Santo Verde is sort of like going to the dentist to get a bad tooth pulled. You don’t want to do it, so you put it off, hoping it’ll get better. Maybe it seems like it does, sometimes, but it only gets worse and worse until you take care of it, once and for all. Refill, please?”

  “You’re intriguing the hell out of me, you mysterious man.” Dakota refilled Rick’s glass, then topped off his own. He sniffed the wine. “It has a good kick, not to mention the nice bouquet. And the afterbirth is purely delightful.” Suddenly he nailed Rick with a look. “So what was your grandfather, a sadist?”

  Rick laughed, his stomach already warm. “No, he was great. He was sort of stuffy like the professor in ‘The Paper Chase,’ but he was full of the devil, too. My problem was that I was overly impressionable and ridiculously sensitive. My brother wasn’t and, oh, I don’t know . . .” Rick swallowed hard. My brother. He’d said it aloud.

  “I didn’t know you had a brother.”

  “His name was Robin.” Rick had never told anyone even this much about his past, but suddenly, almost against his will, it came bubbling out. “I was an easy target for Robin. He was . . . precocious and spent a lot of time feeding my fears, telling me that the jacks would steal my body while I was asleep, things like that. He liked to tease.”

  “He sounds cruel.”

  “Little kids are always crueL” He drained another half glass in one fell swoop; then laughed uneasily. He paused while Dakota crossed the room, stirred the potatoes, then withdrew a fresh bottle of wine from the back of the cupboard and opened it. “Want to smell my cork?” he asked as he returned to the table.

  Rick smiled and waited for his refill. He already felt a little smashed, a little better.

  “Tell me more.” Dakota’s gaze was frank. “Did you hate your brother?”

  “Christ, O’Keefe. What kind of question is that? How could I hate my own brother?” The wine went down like water. “I sure got pissed at him. One Halloween Robin pulled this joke on me. He made me think the greenjacks had taken him.”

  “How do you mean, ‘taken him’?”

  “He pretended to have a new personality—like a jack had possessed his body. And I, idiot that I was, believed it and thought I was next. Isn’t that stupid?”

  “It’s not stupid,” Dakota said. “Could your brother see these things?”

  “No.” He finished another glass and swallowed hard. “But I thought I could,” he confessed. “I was the only psycho.”

  “Don’t get maudlin on me, Piper. It’s a waste of good wine. So are you still afraid? Is that why you haven’t gone back?”

  If you tell, they’ll lock you up and throw away the key.

  “Oh, maybe a little.” Rick smiled to imply that he was joking. His whole body was warm now, and the finger had stopped hurting. “It’s a lot more than that. My parents died, and the Wicked Witch of the West and her alcoholic husband came to take care of us. I guess I mixed the greenjack stuff into everything else that happened, and it’s all left a bad taste in my mouth.”

  “Both your parents died?”

  Rick nodded.

  “An accident?”

  “Shit, you’re nosy, you know that?”

  O’Keefe smiled smugly. “Sorry. If you don’t want—”

  “They were murdered.”

  “God, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize—”

  “It’s okay. You couldn’t know.”

  “What about your brother? Do you two get along now?”

  “He died, too. An accident.” Rick realized he’d hit another hole in his memory. “Anyway, not too long after that, I moved here and enrolled in UNLV. I’ve never gone back.”

  �
��I’ll bet you felt guilty as hell for hating your brother, then having him die and all.”

  “I told you, I didn’t hate him.”

  “Of course you did. Maybe you loved him, too, or maybe you didn’t, but you had to hate him for scaring you. I would’ve hated him. It’s perfectly natural.”

  If he hadn’t been drunk, Rick would have been furious over Dakota’s words, but the wine allowed him to see their truth. “Dakota, you’re either horrible or wonderful, I can’t decide which. How can you be so fucking blunt about things like that?”

  “I almost succeeded in killing myself once. After that, it was either finish the job or face my problems head-on. I couldn’t live with the lies anymore. It hurt too much.” Dakota patted Rick’s uninjured hand affectionately. “You’re developing quite a gutter mouth, Piper. I’m proud of you. Now, tell me about your brother. I take it he was older than you?”

  “No.” He paused. “Well, strictly speaking, yes. By five minutes. Robin was my identical twin. Well, almost identical.”

  “Different personalities, obviously.”

  Rick nodded. “Also, Robin was handicapped. He was born without legs.”

  “My God, you must have been terrified before your kids were born!”

  “No, it wasn’t inherited. It was a fluke, a condition called Streeter’s dysplasia, where part of the fetus gets cut off from—”

  “That’s enough,” Dakota interrupted, “If you say more, I’m going to toss my cookies.”

  “Sorry. The point is, I think that my having legs may have made him a little antagonistic toward me.” He was mortified to hear himself let loose with a stupid drunken giggle.

  “Piper, dear, you have a gift for understatement. He probably hated your guts because you had the utter audacity to have legs.” He paused. “I would have.”

  Infinitesimally, the weight in his chest lifted. “You really think so?”