October

by Al Sarrantonio

  "Scalizi!" Backman greeted him. He was sitting on the long couch in the family room, TV remote in his hand. The big-screen television was on. A bowl of popcorn sat on the coffee table in front of him. Nick wore a blue oxford-cloth shirt, clean chinos, leather slippers. He rose to shake Buddy's hand. "Ready to have your tail whipped?"

  "Sure, Nick," Buddy said.

  "Good." Backman smiled. He looked at the dog. "This your corner man?"

  When Backman reached down, the dog moved his head aside, giving a warning sound.

  Backman straightened. "Touchy. Want a soda? Beer?”

  “A beer, yeah," Buddy said.

  "Great." Backman walked to the cellar door, opened it. "By the way, any sign of that asshole friend of yours?”

  “Davey?"

  "That's the man."

  "Nothing," Buddy said.

  "I hear they're thinking of going national with it." Nick laughed. "Can you see Putnam's face on a milk carton?”

  “Sure."

  Backman snapped on the cellar light. "Beer's downstairs," he said casually. He took a step down, stopped, looked back. "Coming?"

  "No jokes this time, Nick?"

  Backman laughed. "My Lord, no. That's all over with. It's just you and me tonight. You know, I like you. You're not like that jerk friend of yours. Come on, we'll talk, have a drink, maybe play a little billiards, then we'll have our little fight. Mano a mano." Backman laughed. "Maybe we'll just get drunk, forget about the whole thing. Okay?"

  "Sure, Nick. Listen—"

  Backman held up his hand. "Drinks first, Buddy. All right?"

  "Yeah."

  "Good." Backman turned his back on Buddy and descended the cellar stairs.

  Buddy and the dog followed. Ahead, Backman snapped on lights. A long bank of neons blinked on; the hanging Tiffany lamp flared whitely over the pool table. It was littered with unracked balls. Backman strolled to the bar against the back wall of the cellar, angled behind it, opened a small refrigerator, and pulled out a beer bottle. He poured the beer carefully into a glass. He returned, smiled, handed Buddy his beer, racked the balls. Backman chose two cue sticks, handed one to Buddy.

  "There's chalk if you want it."

  "That's okay, Nick—"

  "Beer okay?"

  "Sure. Look, there's something—"

  Backman prepared to break, straightened, looked at the dog.

  "Okay if we put the mutt in the tool room for a little while? If my parents come home and find a dog in the house . . ." He made a cutting motion across his throat with his index finger.

  Buddy suddenly felt warm. He unzipped and peeled his jacket off, laid it on the billiard table. "I don't know . . ."

  "Come on," Nick said reasonably. "Like I said, they'd kill me."

  "Well, okay . . ."

  Buddy helped Nick lead the dog to the tool room. Nick turned on the light, waited for Buddy to retreat, pulled the door closed. The dog began to whine.

  "Howl all you want," Backman said cheerfully.

  Buddy still felt warm. He felt achy in the joints, lightheaded.

  "Hey, Nick—"

  "Don't worry, Scalizi." Backman laughed. "You won't die. Just a pinch of something in your beer."

  "The dog—"

  "The dog can bark all he wants. It's a well-built house. Nobody will hear him."

  "Wha—" Buddy said. His head was badly fogging. His legs and arms felt weighted. He sat down on the floor, held his head up with effort, tried to look at Backman. "What . . . are you doing?"

  Backman laughed. "Like I promised, no more jokes." Backman's face grew larger through the fog. Buddy felt Nick's hand fall heavily on his shoulder.

  "But . . ." Buddy said, "we need your help . . ."

  Backman laughed, loud. "Sure, Scalizi. Anything you say."

  In a moving rush, Buddy came back to consciousness. He was in darkness. He heard the dog whining, scratching at the wood of the tool room door.

  He was on his back. He tried to lift his hand but discovered it was bound. He couldn't rise. He felt air move over him. He angled his fingers inward toward his body, felt the elastic top of his underpants, nothing above or below them. He turned his palm downward, touched a smooth, cottony surface.

  A light went on behind his head.

  Buddy twisted his head around, saw a yellow glow descending the cellar stairs. A candle. He saw the hand holding it, an arm, a face. Backman, naked to the waist, face painted with reddish streaks.

  Behind Backman, in near shadow, came Andrea Carlson and Brenda Valachio. They were in panties and bras. Andrea held Nick by the shoulder for guidance; Brenda clutched Andrea, giggling.

  "Be quiet," Backman said solemnly.

  Buddy realized that he was bound to the top of the billiard table.

  When he reached the bottom of the cellar steps, Backman walked slowly toward Buddy. He placed the candle, set in a dish, near Buddy's head.

  "What are you doing, Nick?" Buddy said. He could feel the candle's heat.

  "Quiet."

  The girls bent over Buddy. Andrea held up something that looked like a thick pen. She took off its cap, turned up the squat point of reddish lipstick. She stared gravely into Buddy's eyes.

  "Go on," Backman said.

  Brenda Valachio broke into laughter.

  "Shut up," Backman said.

  Brenda continued to laugh. "I can't help it, Nick."

  Buddy heard a loud slap. He turned his head to see Brenda Valachio holding her cheek, staring wide-eyed at Backman. "You bastard."

  "Shut your mouth, Brenda," Andrea Carlson said.

  Brenda faced the two of them angrily, then caved in. "All right," she said petulantly. "As long as there's more coke later."

  Andrea turned to Buddy. "This won't hurt," she said gently. She dug the point of the lipstick into Buddy's cheek. He twisted his head aside.

  "Hold him, Nick," Andrea said.

  Buddy looked back to see Nick Backman's face, staring down at him, upside down. There were long streaks of lipstick like war paint down his cheeks, across his forehead.

  Nick clamped Buddy's head between his palms. "Just be still," he said.

  "This isn't funny," Buddy said.

  "It's not a joke," Andrea said. She met Nick's eyes. He nodded.

  She dug long streaks of red onto Buddy's face.

  "Now his body," Nick said.

  She ran the lipstick over Buddy's chin, down his neck to his chest. She made two large circles around his nipples, drew an arrow on his belly, pointing downward.

  "Now the rest," Nick said.

  Buddy felt Andrea's fingers slide beneath the elastic on his underpants, pulling them down.

  "Hey, listen," Brenda said. "I mean, this could get heavy. I mean, do you think you should . . ."

  "For the last time, shut up, Brenda," Nick said. "I don't want to have to tell you again."

  "Well . . ."

  "Finish up, Andrea," Backman said.

  "Leave me the fuck alone!" Buddy shouted. He tried to kick his bonds loose.

  Nick said, "Buddy, just be quiet."

  "No way! Let me go, Nick!"

  "Would you like me to kill the dog in front of you? I'll do it if I have to."

  "You wouldn't do that."

  "Yes, I would."

  Buddy thrashed; he felt Nick's palms clamp on his head once more.

  "Make it fast," Nick said.

  Andrea pulled Buddy's underpants over his thighs, drew two deft circles on the sides of his buttocks, pulled the underpants back up.

  "That wasn't so bad, was it?" Nick said.

  Buddy stopped thrashing. "That's it? You'll let me go?"

  Nick turned to look at Brenda, who sat cross-legged on the floor, head in her hands. "Brenda," he said, "we need you now."

  "No, I don't think so," she said weakly.

  "You're in it all the way, Brenda."

  She raised her head, looked at him. "No, Nick. I can't."

  Backman smiled. "You want a little snort first?"<
br />
  Her face brightened. "Could I?"

  "Go get it. Get the rest of the stuff, too."

  She got to her feet, ran up the stairs, returned momentarily with a paper shopping bag.

  "Cut it on the coffee table," Nick said.

  Brenda removed a Baggie from the shopping bag, flaked cocaine from it, cut it into thin lines with a razor, reached back into the bag, produced a tiny cocktail straw.

  "You first," Nick said.

  Brenda pulled two lines of coke greedily into her nose. She handed the straw to Nick, who passed it to Andrea. Nick cleaned up, snorting what was left, then put everything back into the bag.

  "Feel better now, Brenda?" he asked.

  She nodded, looked evenly at Buddy. "Sure, Nick. I'm okay."

  "Good."

  Buddy said, "Nick, let me go."

  "Can't do that, Scalizi. We took an oath."

  "What oath?" Buddy's voice cracked.

  Nick said nothing. They heard the dog's desperate scratching behind the tool room door.

  Nick reached into the paper shopping bag, drew out a black-handled carving knife with a long, thick, sharp-looking blade. He reached in again, brought out a frayed paperback.

  Buddy laughed uneasily. "That book again? This is a joke, right?"

  "No joke," Nick said.

  Andrea and Brenda positioned themselves to either side of the billiard table, near Buddy's head. Backman, holding knife and book, climbed up onto the foot of the table and knelt, moving forward on his knees until he rode Buddy's midsection. He straightened his back, his head nearly touching the Tiffany fixture.

  "Sorry, Scalizi," he said, "but someone had to be sacrificed."

  "What are you doing!" Buddy screamed. He yanked desperately at his bonds, tried to raise his hands off the table.

  "Say the words," Nick said, handing the book to Andrea.

  Andrea found a marked spot in the paperback. "Saman, great Lord of the Dead, take this offering. We honor you this day, all days, and pray you grant us the continuance of life immortal. For in you, death is life."

  Backman brought the knife high until it bumped the Tiffany fixture. Light rocked nightmarishly across Buddy's eyes. He saw Nick Backman lower the knife toward his heart—

  "No!" Buddy screamed.

  The knife, tight in Backman's clamped hands, froze inches from Buddy's chest. Nick moved his hands aside, dropped the knife, and rolled from the table, laughing helplessly.

  Brenda and Andrea collapsed, howling with laughter. "Christ, you are stupid, Scalizi!" Backman howled. "Twice you fall for the same gag. Jesus!"

  "Goddammit, Nick!" Buddy wailed. "Goddammit, you scared the shit out of me!"

  Backman couldn't stop laughing. "It was all an act, Scalizi."

  "But you hit Brenda—"

  Brenda rolled onto the floor, giggling.

  "Let's show him," Nick said.

  Still laughing, Brenda sat up and slapped her thigh as Backman pretended to hit her.

  "Understand?" Nick said. "A joke. I just couldn't resist seeing how stupid you are."

  "And now we know," Andrea said.

  Grinning, Backman reached out to Andrea, kissed her, put his hand to her bra-covered breast, lowered her to the floor.

  "That's right, Buddy," Brenda said, getting up, laughing, approaching the billiard table. She picked up the carving knife, made a grotesque face, held the knife over Buddy. In a deep, falsely solemn voice she said, "You must be sacrificed—"

  A large hand slipped over hers. It clamped over the handle of the carving knife, pried it from her fingers. "Let me."

  "Hey—" Brenda said. She twisted away, looked with surprise at a tall man with a pale face, dressed in white shirt and suspenders.

  "Oh, God," Buddy said.

  "Who—" Nick Backman began. He rose from the floor as the stranger slashed out with the knife, cutting a clean line through Brenda Valachio's neck under the chin.

  Brenda staggered back. Her gasp was cut short as a flood-line of blood burst from her severed jugular.

  "Jesus!" Nick Backman cried. The tall stranger faced him. Nick moved back toward the bar.

  Andrea Carlson made a dash for the cellar steps. The tall man kicked at her feet, tripped her to the ground, drove the knife deep across the back of her neck. Her head dropped forward in a gurgling scream as blood poured across her back.

  "Jesus God! Somebody help me!" Nick said. He backed up until he hit the edge of the bar. He started to slide to one side. The tall man held his arms wide as he advanced, compensating, restricting Backman's movements.

  Crying, Nick fumbled behind the bar, producing a highball glass. He brought it down on the bar top, but as the brittle glass broke, it cut his hand across the palm. He dropped the weapon.

  "Davey!" Buddy screamed. "Davey!"

  The tall man closed in on Backman. Nick pushed himself up onto the bar, managed to swing his legs over the back.

  The tall man lunged, threw himself across the top, and stretched his long arms over, catching Backman by the hair.

  Thrashing at his ropes, trembling with cold terror, Buddy twisted his head to see the tall man holding Nick Backman's head up, while his other hand drove the knife across in short, savage half-circles. Nick gave an unearthly scream. There was a liquid ripping sound. The tall man straightened, holding Nick Backman's severed head, the open mouth dripping blood. It landed sideways on the bar where he dropped it.

  The tall man approached Buddy, his face a stony mask.

  "Jesus, no!"

  The tall man stabbed viciously down with the knife. Buddy felt a burst of hot pain in his leg above the knee. The tall man turned the knife, wrenched it out, raised it to stab again.

  There was a howling from the locked tool room, a desperate scratching sound against the door.

  The tall man straightened. The mouth split in a thin, almost lipless smile. The hooded eyes looked like those in a jack-o'-lantern. "Rusty?"

  The tall man walked to the tool room door. He raised his foot, kicked the door.

  The door flew open. The tall man stood waiting, nearly filling the dark doorway.

  "Rusty?" His voice was filled with hollow affection. "Come on out, boy." He stepped into the room. Whimpering with cold, fright, and frustration, Buddy pulled against his ropes. As if by magic, the bond holding his right wrist gave way. He sat halfway up on the billiard table, yanking at the rope on his other wrist, working it loose.

  In the tool room, the dog growled. Buddy heard the tall man curse loudly.

  The knot on Buddy's left wrist gave way, unraveled, fell aside.

  "Here, Rusty!" the tall man shouted.

  Buddy's trembling hands worked at the rope around his left ankle. He struck the deep wound in his leg accidentally, cried out.

  The tall man stood looking at him from the tool room doorway.

  Buddy pulled the rope from one ankle, then the other. He tumbled off the table. When he tried to stand, his wounded leg collapsed. He pulled himself up, using the billiard table for support, and, crying in pain, launched himself toward the stairway.

  As the tall man stepped forward to block Buddy, the dog attacked, hitting the tall man on the right side, closing over the hand holding the knife.

  Buddy hobbled to the stairs, fell, boosted himself up, and began to climb.

  The tall man jerked his hand up and threw the dog off. The dog yelped, moved back, avoiding the tall man's knife thrust.

  Buddy was halfway up the stairs. With each step, a bolt of agony fired through his leg.

  The tall man stumbled toward the stairs. Once more, the dog attacked. The tall man sheltered his right hand so the dog could only bite at him below the shoulder.

  The tall man reached the bottom step, started to climb. "Little bit more," Buddy begged, fighting the agony in his leg. "Little—"

  The tall man's hand gripped his leg, crawled up it, found the open wound, dug into it.

  Buddy's eyes went white with pain.

  "Davey!"

>   The tall man raised his knife hand, hammered it down into Buddy's back.

  "Davey . . ."

  Buddy heard the dog fighting, ripping at the tall man.

  "Too late, boy . . ."

  Through the descending curtain, Buddy looked up. The top step was only inches from his face. He saw the dog vault overhead to the top of the stairs, felt the tall man scramble over him, screaming rage, stepping on Buddy's ruined back.

  "Davey . . ." Buddy breathed.

  Davey had waited forty minutes in the shadows when the dog appeared, running like a greyhound from Nick Backman's house. The dog jumped at him, grabbed his sleeve with its teeth, tried to push him off the sidewalk.

  "Hey—"

  The dog kept pulling at him, growling.

  "All right, all right."

  He backed across the darkened front lawn of the nearby Cape Cod, stopped in a deep pool of shadow near the side. There was a lawn chair there, a Halloween figure sitting in it, newspaper-stuffed clothes, plastic pumpkin for a head.

  "Where's Buddy?" Davey said.

  The dog eyed the street intently.

  Suddenly, the dog tensed.

  Davey caught sight of something: a tall, dark shape among the street shadows, moving silently by.

  Davey's heart went numb as the tall man in suspenders, his white shirt drenched red in blood, entered the illuminated cone of the single streetlight.

  As the tall man passed silently on, Davey bent, held the dog's head.

  "Where's Buddy?"

  The dog huffed hoarsely, tried to nose Davey back into darkness.

  "I've got to see what happened to him."

  The dog whined, then followed.

  Davey moved across front lawns until he reached Nick Backman's house. He went quietly to the back. The sliding door was open. He pushed past the curtains, walked to the cellar door in the kitchen, looked down.

  "Oh, shit," he said. He stared down at the reaching, silent body of Buddy Scalizi. Davey touched the black handle of the knife in Buddy's back, tried to pull it out.

  The coppery smell of blood rose from the cellar like stomach-churning perfume.

  The dog barked in protest as Davey descended the cellar steps. Davey's eyes, his nose, registered blood. There were bodies everywhere. The dog, at the bottom of the stairs, whined.

  In a daze, Davey saw a paper bag, reached into it, lifted out a plastic Baggie filled with what looked like cocaine. "My God, boy—"