by Ken Douglas
“ Come on, boy,” she whispered into the dog’s ear, drawing strength from his tense shoulders and bared fangs. “We’re going up,” she whispered, more to herself than to the dog. She looped the fingers of her left hand through the dog’s collar, so he couldn’t get away from her again.
She squinted her eyes, trying to peer through the fog, as she stood up. She started backing up the hill, one hand holding onto the collar, the other with the forty-five pointed toward the rustling sound coming from the fog.
“ I will not be afraid. I will not be afraid. I will not be afraid,” she mumbled under her breath, like a mantra, as if saying it would make it so.
She had covered half the ground back toward the clearing, when she heard it blundering in the fog, not even trying to be quiet. The hyena stayed out of sight, but not out of the dog’s scent. The hairs on Condor’s back were stiffened, like an agitated cat’s, and the low rumble growl was constant as she tugged on his collar. Maybe Condor wasn’t such a bad watch dog after all, she thought, because all traces of his fun loving self were wiped out as he tugged against her. He wanted to attack whatever it was out there in the fog.
She started to backtrack faster when she reached the clearing, until she reached the center of it, and realized that she had no place to go. The flimsy tent wasn’t going to offer any protection. She stopped, dropped to her knees, to offer a smaller target, in case the hyena leapt at her through the fog, the way the wolf came flying in her front window, and waited, still mumbling her mantra, “I will not be afraid, I will not be afraid.”
Then as magically as the fog had appeared, it started to clear as the drizzling rain started to pick up.
And laughter shot from the hyena to her soul, knifing through her body like cold electricity. Condor barked an angry response as she caught a glimpse of the glowing eyes through the dark. She had the gun up with her finger ready to squeeze the trigger, but the eyes flashed out. She held her fire. She had learned early that there was no use shooting at what you couldn’t see. But she didn’t have to see to know that it was gone. The hair settled on the dog’s back. He retracted his fangs, and best of all, he turned toward her and ran that slurpy tongue across her cheek.
“ Sarah,” she heard his voice, coming through the clearing fog. She stood up and faced the rain, letting it wash the fear from her body, and as quickly as it had come, the rain was gone.
“ Over here,” she shouted, and then he was there and she was in his arms, showering him with kisses.
“ What happened?” he said.
“ I’ll never doubt you again,” she said, hugging him close. “And I’ll never, never let you go.” Then with a rush of words, she told him about the hyena and everything that had happened since he’d been gone, and she knew that if she lived through this night, her life was never going to be the same, because she was in love.
“ It knows we’re here. We have to move,” he said, but once again that staccato laughter filled the night and when they turned to the sound they saw the hyena half in and half out of the two man tent, glaring at them with its flaming eyes.
Condor moved like a silent wraith, gliding like a missile over the cool ground, as he charged the hyena, mouth open, fangs bared.
Chapter Eighteen
“ The witch that can’t die. I guess that means she’ll never get a home over there,” Carolina said, looking across the cemetery, as they walked away from Harry’s.
“ Everybody dies.” He looked over at the tombstones and saw a freshly dug grave through the patchy fog, and wondered if it was for the man who was killed with his father. Did that man have a home and children? Did they miss him? Or were they happy he was gone and better off without him? Everybody dies.
“ Not the Nightwitch,” Carolina said.
“ Even the Nightwitch,” Arty said.
“ Mr. Lightfoot said?” she shivered.
“ No, that’s not what he said. He said you can kill it with salt and hot pepper. Remember? They scratch themselves to death and burn up.”
“ Even if you do that there still won’t be anything left to bury. It’s kinda sad, she’ll be gone and there won’t be anybody to remember her.”
“ Nobody’s gonna wanna remember her,” Arty said.
“ If she can’t die, except with the hot pepper, and we can’t find her skin, then it’s impossible for us to stop her. Harry’s right. We should go home and stay there.”
“ Harry knows a lot of stuff, but even he doesn’t know everything. Nobody knows everything.”
“ But if he’s right, then the silver shotgun bullets you made won’t work.”
“ They have to work. Harry said that silver made it weak, remember? He said people used a silver cross to keep it away, didn’t he?”
“ Yeah,” she said.
“ I think he was only trying to keep us from messing with the Nightwitch.”
“ He said he would take care of it,” she said.
“ But it’s not coming after him. It wants you. And I know why.”
“ Why?” she asked, turning away from the sunset and sticking out her lower lip.
“’ Cuz you got her magic locket and she wants it back.”
“ What?”
“ The one your dad gave you. That has to be why it keeps coming around your house.”
Carolina reached up to her neck, but the locket wasn’t there.
“ Yeah,” Arty said, “You put it behind Sheila’s name tag. I bet that’s the only reason you’re still alive. It looks in your window. It probably watches when we go to school and we would never know, because it can be anything it wants. It’s waiting to find out where the locket is, and when it does, that’s when it’s going to kill you, and me, too, ’cuz now I know.”
“ No, you’re wrong,” she said. “My dad would never give me something like that.”
“ What if he didn’t know?”
“ If he didn’t know, maybe?”
“ So we should go to my house and get the shotgun.”
“ But Harry said we should stay home.”
“ We will, but we’ll get the shotgun, just in case.”
“ That makes sense.” So instead of turning right to Carolina’s, they turned left to Arty’s house.
“ Do you think we should call Harry and tell him about the locket?” Carolina said, as they rounded the corner of Arty’s street.
“ That’s a good idea,” Arty said. It was starting to get dark and Arty could tell Carolina wanted to be home as quickly as possible. “You wanna call from here or when we get back to your house?”
“ From here,” she said. “Maybe he’ll want to come and get it.”
Arty pulled a key out of his pocket. “I’ve never had my own key before,” he said. “My dad wouldn’t allow it.” He opened the door, went to the phone and dialed.
“ You know his number by heart?” she asked.
“ Yeah, once I learn a number, I remember it forever.”
“ Just the opposite of me,” she said.
“ I remember things,” he said, “that’s why I remembered about the locket.” The phone was ringing for the eighth, then the ninth time, before he hung up. “He’s not home.”
“ Probably gone after the Nightwitch,” Carolina said, following Arty out of the house and into the garage. She watched as he went to a stack of old newspapers and pulled some from the top.
“ It wouldn’t look right for a couple kids to be walking around with a shotgun, so I’m gonna wrap it up.” He used masking tape to hold the newspaper in place, but it didn’t make much difference, when he was finished it still looked like what it was. A shotgun wrapped in newspaper, but Arty was pleased with the attempt.
“ We should make a silver cross,” Carolina said, “and get some salt and hot pepper.”
“ My grandma’s old silver is in the kitchen. My dad wouldn’t sell it, ’cuz he loved his old mother. She was horrible. I hated her.”
Carolina followed him back into the house and into the kitchen. He opened a cu
pboard and pulled out a box. She stood back as he put it on the table and opened it. The inside was lined with blue velvet and it was packed with an ornate looking silverware service.
“ We could make a cross out of two of the knives,” she said, “but we need a way to make them stay together.”
“ No problem,” Arty said. He laid the shotgun on the table next to the silver set. He rushed from the kitchen, returning seconds later with a box of rubber bands. “These are the thick ones I use for the Sunday papers,” he said, picking up the two knives. He used several rubber bands and bound them together at the center, fashioning them into a crude cross.
“ Now we need some salt and hot pepper.” He took the salt shaker off the table and dropped it into his pocket. “We’ll have to stop by the store and buy the hot pepper.”
“ We have to hurry,” she said, “I want to be home before it gets too dark.”
They stopped at the supermarket on their way to Carolina’s and Arty knew he didn’t do a very good job disguising the shotgun, because everybody in the store was watching them as he followed Carolina to the spice section. And if anyone’s attention wasn’t drawn to the gun, it was riveted on the silver knife cross clutched in Carolina’s right hand.
Arty was aware of shoppers at both ends of the aisle watching them as Carolina took a jar of cayenne pepper off the shelf.
“ Do you have any money?” Arty asked on their way to the checkout line.
“ No,” she said, “I only take enough to school to buy lunch.”
“ I don’t have any, either.” He took her by the arm as they turned around and walked away from the cash register.
“ We can’t put it back,” she said, “We might need it.”
“ Give it to me,” Arty said. She handed it to him and he led her down the breakfast food aisle, and turned left at the potato chips. When he was confident no one was looking, he slipped it into his pocket, failing to realize that half the store had seen them turn by the cold cereal with the pepper and exit at the next aisle over without it.
“ You, stop!” one of the checkers said, pointing at them. They were close to the door and Arty thought about making a run for it as Ray Harpine’s father walked in, blocking their exit.
“ Shoplifters!” the checker said.
“ Hold it, Arty,” Officer Harpine said.
“ Look in his pockets,” the checker said.
“ What’cha have wrapped up there, Arty?”
“ Nothing,” Arty said.
“ Looks like it might be your daddy’s shotgun to me,” Harrison Harpine said.
“ Mine now,” Arty said.
“ I think there’s a law against children running around with loaded guns,” the policeman said.
“ It’s not loaded,” Arty lied.
“ Look in his pocket,” the checker said.
“ Hand over the gun,” Harpine said, as a young woman, overloaded with two large shopping bags, was passing by on her way out of the store.
All eyes were on Arty as Carolina removed the backpack from her shoulders. She took out the ferret and tossed it into one of the grocery bags. The woman screeched, clutching at the animal and dropping her groceries as it popped out of a bag. The ferret scrambled among the fallen foodstuffs, then scurried between Harrison Harpine’s legs.
“ What the hey?” Harpine exclaimed as a bottle of ketchup broke inside the shattering bag, and oranges, tomatoes and canned goods started rolling over the floor.
“ Sheila,” Carolina called. The ferret spun around and dove into the open backpack. Then Carolina started running for the door with Arty right behind her.
“ They’re getting away,” the checker yelled. Harrison Harpine turned to give chase, but he stepped on a tomato and tripped on a can of corn.
“ Son of a bitch,” he yelled as his rear end landed on a pair of rolling oranges, squashing them. He yelled after the children, “You two stop right there. I know where you live.”
But the kids weren’t listening.
“ This way!” Carolina started across the parking lot.
“ No, follow me!” Arty went the other way, dashing around the store’s right side without looking back. When he got to the rear of the store, he tossed the gun into a large dumpster.
“ What did you do that for?” Carolina asked, huffing and out of breath. “I thought we were going over the fence and down the alley?”
“ Can’t make it with the gun. Gotta hide. We gotta get in,” he said.
“ No.”
“ Now!” He grabbed a wooden crate from a stack against the back wall, dropped it in front of the dumpster. He used it as a step and climbed into the giant garbage pail.
“ Quick, put the crate back. I’ll pull you in.” Numb with disbelief, Carolina put the crate back on the pile, handed Arty her backpack and with a groan, she grabbed on the sides of the dumpster and pulled herself up. Arty grabbed her by the skirt and pulled her in. Then he pulled the top closed, shutting them up in the dark.
“ They went that way,” someone said. Footsteps came running. Arty prayed they wouldn’t look in the dumpster.
“ They must have gone over the fence.” They recognized the checker’s voice.
“ They won’t get away from me,” Officer Harpine said. “I’ll cut them off with the car.” Then they heard the footsteps retreating.
“ How long are we going to stay here?” Carolina asked.
“ Till it’s dark.”
“ I don’t want to stay here till dark. I want to go home.”
“ Me, too, but I bet that cop’s on his way to your house right now.”
“ Shit,” she swore, “what are we going to do?”
“ I don’t know.” He sat back against the cold metal and sank a little into the garbage.
“ It smells in here,” she said.
He mentally agreed as the scent of rotten vegetables, mingled with the freshly cut grass from the supermarket’s sideyard, and stale coffee grounds from the deli assaulted him. He was used to the dark and he tried to imagine that he was in his room, with lights out and eyes closed, but he couldn’t make himself believe it, and he couldn’t calm himself. The stench was overwhelming, making him want to hold his breath, and the fear was climbing out from someplace dark within, causing his lungs to tighten and shrink, forcing him to gasp for the putrid air.
Outside they heard the sound of footsteps coming closer. Arty quivered with both delight and fear when Carolina’s hand grasped his and squeezed. He squeezed back.
“ How about those kids?” Arty recognized the checker’s voice.
“ What kind of animal was that?” And he recognized the voice of Tommy Margolis, the high school kid that worked the deli. He was a short, skinny kid with pimples.
“ Looked like a hairy rat. Big one,” the checker said. Arty pictured him punching the keys to the cash register, darting his pea-sized, beady eyes over each item, like they were his personal belongings and you were stealing them. It wasn’t his store.
“ I never liked that guy,” Carolina whispered in his ear. He squeezed her hand in agreement.
“ Think you can make it in from here?” the checker said.
“ Easy,” the kid that worked in the deli answered.
“ Got a buck says you can’t.”
“ You’re on.”
The object of the bet flashed through Arty’s mind. He clamped a hand over Carolina’s mouth to keep her from screaming when the lid of the dumpster flew open. She was surprised and bit into the fleshy part of his palm, but he grit his teeth against the unexpected pain and didn’t cry out.
And her little body bucked against him as something smashed into the side of the dumpster, sending shock and sound ringing in their ears. It was like being trapped inside of a giant bell.
“ Missed,” the checker said.
Arty released his hand from her mouth, because now she also understood what the bet was about. The kids were playing basketball. The trash bags, the ball. The dumpster, the ne
t.
“ Double or nothing,” Tommy Margolis from the deli section said.
“ You’re on.”
Arty could see short Tommy Margolis, probably bending low with the bag in both hands. He was probably chewing on the insides of his cheeks, the way he always did when you ordered a sandwich.
“ Here goes,” Tommy said.
Arty covered Carolina with his body as he pictured Tommy whipping his knobby arms forward, letting the bag go in a great arc. He would have to make it this time. Nobody could miss a target the size of the dumpster twice in a row.
Arty and Carolina held their breaths, as Arty saw the skinny kid in his mind, putting all his effort into the underhanded throw. He pictured a basketball thrown from mid court, a split second before the buzzer. He saw the ball as it reached the top of the arc, and could tell, like he could read the future, that it was going to make the basket.
He hugged Carolina in close as the bag smashed down on his back. He gasped and pulled in small, quick, silent breaths of foul air. From a distance, he heard the skinny kid from the deli laughing and saying they would leave the mess for the trash man to clean up.
“ Oh shit,” Arty whispered, “we gotta get out of here, right now.”
“ Something’s on my leg,” Carolina’s whisper was as close to a scream as a whisper could get. She started kicking, then Arty felt it scurry across his back.
“ Rat,” he said, wrapping his hands around her mouth to keep her from screaming.
“ I almost lost,” Tommy’s voice was fading and Arty took his hand away from her mouth.
“ I wasn’t going to scream,” she whispered.
“ We gotta get out of here,” he said again. He heard the rat burrowing away from them on the opposite of the trash bin.
“ I’m sorry I got scared,” she said. “I’m not afraid of the rat.” He could tell she was doing her best to be brave, but he could feel her shaking.
“ This is Friday,” he said.
“ So?”
“ Trash day.”
“ So?”
“ They pick up the dumpsters at night.”
“ Oh, no.”
“ Mr. Williams is gonna be by any minute,” and, like on cue, they heard the rumble of the trash truck maneuvering into the parking lot. He thrust his hand into the garbage, rummaging around for the shotgun as the truck lumbered and rumbled closer.