Coven

by David Barnett

  “Fine,” Lydia said. “But do you have any beam hewers?”

  “Why, of course,” Fredrick answered.

  Lydia wanted to shout the next question into his face, but she managed to calm herself. “Why didn’t you tell me that before?”

  “You specifically asked me about independent museums, not college archaeological properties.”

  Lydia’s heart quickened. “Professor Fredrick, are you telling me that there are beam hewers on this campus right now?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Several, as a matter of fact.”

  “Where?”

  “The main administration lobby. My department maintains a fine display of local artifacts there. It’s an impressive exhibit; I’m sure you’ve seen it. There are three or four hewers on display.”

  Lydia’s scalp seemed to be tingling. Tensely she stood up and said, “Professor Fredrick, thank you very, very much.”

  ««—»»

  Wade scrubbed toilets and mopped floors, oblivious. He smiled, whistling, and thought of his night with Lydia Prentiss.

  It had been wonderful, which sounded corny, but it was true. He’d driven her home at 7 A.M. He could tell by the way she kissed him that this was more than a one night stand. The look in her eyes had finished him. This girl loves me, he thought in a crash of incredulity. She hadn’t said it, of course. But Wade knew, and that shock of knowledge was all it took to show him how significantly his life had changed literally overnight. His past’s romantic demons had fled like blown leaves; Lydia had exorcized them. No more macho rich kid in a Corvette. No more beaver patrol. No more reducing the society of women to physical tidbits for his indulgence. The burden of his sins was gone. Wade the Conqueror had been conquered. By Lydia.

  I’m in love, he thought giddily. How do you like that?

  What a stark, blazing realization. He felt glittering in the rush of love. Nothing could spoil the moment of this beautiful truth.

  Or at least almost nothing—

  Plunk.

  He looked down and saw that he’d stepped in the mop bucket. It tipped over when he lifted his foot out. Then he slipped.

  Splap!

  Now he lay belly down in the puddle. His temper struggled. When he tried to rise, he slipped again and fell on his back. He got up, swore, and kicked the bucket. The bucket bounced off the wall, hit him in the head, and knocked him in the water again.

  Splat!

  Laughter cracked down the hall. Wade, wet and red faced, looked up. Chief White was standing in the doorway.

  “I seen a lotta dumb ass hobnobbin’ in my day, but I ain’t never seen a grown man get his ass whupped by a bucket.”

  “What do you want!” Wade yelled.

  “Get in the car, St. John. We’se goin’ for a ride.”

  ««—»»

  Wade sat in back, behind the screen, as White drove his souped Buick cruiser. Am I in trouble? he wondered. The mop water stank in his clothes. But the situation stank worse.

  White had developed a nervous tic. He chewed a cigar butt and steered wringing his hands. Earlier, Lydia had made Wade and Jervis promise not to speak of the business at the Erblings’ dorm. She wanted to follow up on it herself, assemble more pieces before informing White. She’d implied that White had been covering things up lately, before Lydia could investigate them properly. Wade knew White was a crank, but maybe it was something more than that.

  White spat out the chewed butt and parked at the campus substation. He shuffled Wade in and slammed him down in a chair.

  “Why the Gestapo treatment, Chief? Is kicking a campus owned mop bucket a felony? What am I looking at, five to ten?”

  White sat at his desk. “You’re a two bit pain in my ass, St. John. You know that?”

  Two bit? What an insult. “What’s this all about, Chief?”

  “It’s about your pal Tom McGuire, that’s what!”

  Wade tried to show no reaction. Had Lydia changed her mind about informing White of the break in at the Erblings’?

  “The goddamn punk robbed the Town Pump last night,” White spat. “The owner made his vehicle and got his plates, then picked his face out of random student photos. Positive ID.”

  “Tom’s got plenty of money,” Wade said. “He doesn’t rob liquor stores. That’s ridiculous.”

  Or was it? Jervis claimed he saw Tom breaking into the Erblings’, which was ridiculous too. Then there was always the Spaten cap Wade had found at the campus clinic.

  “He beat up on the owner and stole two cases of beer.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Wade challenged. “What type of beer.”

  White grimaced at the police report. “Spaten Oktoberfest.”

  Not good, Wade thought. “All right, even if he did rob the Pump, which he didn’t, why drag me down here?”

  “’Cos you and him are buddies. You must know somethin’ about it.”

  “Look, Chief,” Wade lied, “I haven’t seen him for days.”

  “Bullshit! You were at the inn with him two nights ago!”

  “That was the last time I saw him,” Wade lied. “I haven’t seen him since then. I haven’t even seen his car in the lot.”

  White grimaced further. “Well, he ain’t gonna be hard to find, not in that mint white Camaro of his, and vanity plates. Got an APB out on him now. He tries to cross the line in that car, the state boys’ll be on him like bugs on flypaper. And what about this other motorhead friend of yours? Jervis Phillips.”

  “Jervis isn’t a motorhead, Chief. He drives a Dodge Colt. And what about him?”

  “He’s friends with McGuire too. Might know somethin’. But we can’t find him either. You know where he is?”

  “Sorry, Chief,” Wade lied again. “Haven’t seen him.”

  “Right, and if I was the devil I could stir my coffee with my dick. Holdin’ back knowledge of a crime, or harborin’ a criminal, can make you an accessory. Keep that in mind.” White pointed the cigar like a gun. “And another thing, boy, and I ain’t foolin’ around. I hear you been datin’ one of my officers.”

  Wade looked ashamed. “It’s true, Chief. Porker and I have been seeing each other for months now. The wedding’s in September.”

  “Don’t get funny with me. You stay away from Prentiss, or else next time I’ll be the one moppin’ the floor—with you.”

  “I’ll never speak to her again,” Wade lied. God, it’s fun lying to police! “I won’t even look at her.”

  “And next time you see that candy ass drunk Jervis Phillips” —White banged his fist on the desk— “tell him to come down here.”

  “I will, Chief.”

  White lit a cigar, pinch browed. He waved Wade away with the smoke. “Go on now, get your rich kid face out of my office.”

  Wade faltered at the door. “Say, Chief, it’s going on ninety outside, and it’s a mile back to the center. How about a ride?”

  “I ain’t a fuckin’ limo. Use your LPCs.”

  “LPCs?”

  White unreeled a sudden belt of laughter. “Yeah, boy, LPCs. That’s leather personnel carriers.”

  White’s Deep South donkey laughter followed Wade out into the sultry day. The heat was bad, the humidity was worse. He was stuck in his own sweat in minutes. A cold Adams right now would go just fine, but he still had work to do at the center, more toilets, more floors…

  Half hour later, Wade was back at the center, drenched. He stopped midstep when he entered the supply room.

  Tom McGuire was sitting on a lab counter, drinking a beer.

  “Wade, my man! I’ve been waiting for you.”

  “I…” Wade said. Tom looked sick. His face was…gray. “Jesus, Tom. You look like shit.”

  “I know,” Tom agreed, “but I feel great. Come on, let’s get out of here and throw back a few cold ones.”

  “I can’t. I have to finish up here.”

  “Nonsense,” Tom scoffed. “You’re only young once, believe me. You want to waste the day scrubbing toilets?”

  �
�Well, no, but—”

  Tom’s smile turned sad. Suddenly he was pointing a pistol at Wade. “Just do what I say, Wade. I’ll explain along the way.”

  Holy shit, Wade thought slowly. Tom led him out to the loading dock, the gun barrel at Wade’s back.

  “How do you like the new paint job?”

  Wade dumbly approached the Camaro. Tom’s beautiful white lacquered car had been haphazardly painted black. “This is no paint job!” Wade exclaimed. “The run’s ruined! I could do better work than this with a can of spray paint.”

  “That’s what I used,” Tom said. “Spray paint.”

  Using ordinary spray paint on this Chevy masterpiece was like touching up The Creation of Adam with El Markos. But the reason came quickly to Wade. Camouflage, he thought. Tom’s “Eat Dust” vanity plates were gone too, replaced by normal plates.

  Stolen plates, Wade realized.

  “I made it look like shit on purpose,” Tom said. He threw Wade the keys. “Get in, you drive.”

  Wade shifted out of the back lot. “You painted your white car black,” Wade stated. “You put on stolen tags. You know the police are looking for you.”

  “Yep. The cops know my rod on sight, but they won’t give this a second glance. Pretty slick thinking, huh?”

  “Yeah, slick,” Wade said. “So you did rob the liquor store.”

  “Dumb move, but what can I say? I was thirsty.”

  “You also stole a bunch of medical files from the clinic, mine included. And last night you murdered Dave Willet.”

  Tom seemed mildly impressed. “You’re a smart boy, Wade. How’d you know about Do Horse?”

  “Jervis saw the whole thing through a telescope. He also said he saw someone…eating the guy.”

  “It’s true, partner, but it wasn’t me. It was one of the sisters. That bitch ate half the meat off Willet’s bones. I can’t figure out where they put it all; they eat like pigs. She even ate the guy’s cock” —Tom chuckled— “and that was one big meal, let me tell you. They didn’t call him Do Horse for nothing.”

  Wade turned off campus, steering stiffly. Little point remained in asking for reasons. Wade was no psychiatrist, but he felt fairly certain that confessing to murder and holding your best friend at gun point in a camouflaged car with stolen tags was a pretty clear sign of some psychological problems. Tom was crazy—

  And Wade was scared.

  “You’ll understand it all once you’ve become part of the family, Wade. But I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking I’ve gone nuts, that I’ve turned into some sort of psychotic criminal.” Tom pointed quickly to the exit. “Take Route 13 south.”

  Wade did so, wondering. He assumed Tom planned to flee the state, but 13 south would take them away from the state line.

  “I’m no criminal, Wade,” Tom went on. “And I’m no psycho.”

  “What are you, then?”

  Tom’s pallid grin reached its peak. “I’m a myrmidon—a holy gofer. I’m the shoeshine boy to the gods.”

  No, you’re crazy, Wade thought.

  “Let’s get off these grim topics,” Tom suggested. “We’re still friends, it’s just that the circumstances have changed a little.” He pulled a couple of beers from a cooler in back, a Spaten for himself and an Adams for Wade. He removed the non twist off caps with his fingers. “A toast,” he proposed, and raised his bottle. “To destiny!”

  “Yeah, to destiny. Whatever you say, Tom.”

  Their bottles clinked.

  “Hey, Wade. You ready for an old one?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  “You know what they say about Liberace, don’t you? He was great on the piano, but he sucked on the organ.”

  “Hilarious, Tom.”

  “Aw, come on, buddy, cheer up,” Tom said, and chugged some of his Spaten. “You’ll feel different once you’re in.”

  Wade drove on stoically. This whole thing was madness.

  “Besser will be mighty pissed that the cops are onto me,” Tom said. “At first we had to be real careful, but I don’t think that matters now. We’ll be gone in a couple of days.”

  Wade blinked. “What does Besser have to do with this?”

  “He’s my supervisor. Winnie Saltenstall too. They’re called nativeemissarials. I’m just a productionvassal. And the sisters are like…project managers. We all work for the Supremate. It’s a family. And what’s best is you get to join the family too.”

  Wade followed the wooded bends of the road. He still didn’t know where they were going, nor was he compelled to ask. Even if a cop passed, it wouldn’t matter. They were looking for a white Camaro, not a black one. The only vehicles to pass were periodic semi rigs, which dangerously used the Route as a shortcut to the interstate.

  “Hogs of the road,” Tom remarked as one big rig blared past, blowing its horn. The truck roared by them. “Goddamn truckers think they own the Route. Be careful around these bends, man.”

  “I have driven the Route before, Tom.”

  “I know, just be careful. If I don’t get you to the labyrinth in good shape, my ass is grass.”

  “The labyrinth? I’m not even going to ask.”

  “Besser will tell you all about it. We’re going back behind the agro site, in case you’re wondering. That’s where the labyrinth is. I can show you our little graveyard back there.”

  Off and on, Wade glanced over. Occasionally Tom rested back as if listening to something in his head. Probably instructions from God, Wade thought. Or Son of Sam’s dog. Tom’s hair seemed to be thinning—Wade could see a bump of some kind. Then there was always the upside down cross around his neck. Hadn’t Wade noticed Besser with an identical cross on his first day at work?

  “What’s that thing around your neck?” he finally asked, and swerved through the next bend. “You in a satanic cult or something?”

  Tom chuckled. “That’s a good one. Don’t worry about it.” He tossed his empty Spaten. “You ready for another?”

  “Sure,” Wade said. Getting loaded seemed as good a way as any to deal with this. “Here’s an idea,” he offered. “Let’s turn around right now, check you into the hospital, and we can go to the labyrinth tomorrow. Sound good?”

  “Sounds bad,” Tom said. “Just keep driving.”

  Another semi roared by, horn blaring. Wade swerved.

  “I’m serious, buddy,” Tom complained. “Be careful around these bends. If you got killed, I’d be neck deep in the Supremate’s shit.”

  “I’m impressed by your concern for my well being.”

  “Just be careful around these bends.”

  Wade tried to concentrate on his driving. Once they got to the agro site, he presumed Tom, in his delusions, would kill him. He’d mentioned a graveyard, hadn’t he? Wade needed a plan, and fast. His only chance seemed to be wrecking the car—drive into a ravine or spin out, and hope to escape in the confusion.

  But one second later, fate provided its own plan.

  What seemed to transpire over minutes actually took place in a few heartbeats. Wade pulled through the next bend. Tom shouted: “Careful around these—look out!” An oncoming car was suddenly in their lane, a black Fiero with two obviously shit faced occupants. “We’re gonna wreck!” Tom shouted. Wade swerved, lost control as he jerked the wheel. The Camaro shuddered off the road and plowed into a good sized tree. Wade, on impact, shot forward and snapped back. He was wearing his seat belt. Tom, however, was not.

  Tom’s head burst through the windshield; inertia pulled his body down, and Wade saw something bounce across the road.

  Tom’s body fell back in the seat, headless.

  Holy holy holy shit. Wade hauled himself out, jarred, dizzy. The Camaro was totaled, and so was Tom.

  The Fiero had skidded to a halt, its driver looking back.

  “You fuckhead drunk motherfucker!” Wade bellowed.

  “Tough luck,” the driver muttered. The Fiero sped away.

  Jesus Jesus Jesus, Wade thought, and blundered ac
ross the road. I just got Tom killed. Jesus Jesus Jesus.

  He looked forlornly down at Tom’s head, which lay face-up in weeds. If Wade had been more careful, none of this would’ve happened. He might’ve talked Tom out of his madness, gotten him to a shrink, gotten him fixed up. Instead, he’d gotten him killed.

  Jesus Jesus Jesus. Look what I’ve done.

  Wade glanced up. He thought he’d heard a sound. A car door?

  He peered across to the smashed Camaro. Tom’s body was getting out of the car—without the benefit of a head.

  Wade stood limp, staring.

  The headless corpse stood upright, even closed the door behind it. One of its hands still gripped a Spaten Oktoberfest. It faced Wade, or would be if it had a face. Wade’s bladder voided then, as the headless corpse of Tom McGuire began to confidently cross the road.

  A horn shrieked, along with tremors and a roar like thunder. Instantly a log loaded eighteen wheeled Peterbilt barreled through the bend with no chance of stopping for the perplexed thing that stood in the middle of the road. The massive front grille mowed Tom’s body down with an ear splitting whap!, then fed the crumpled corpse into its axles. The body tumbled like a doll in a dryer and eventually became lodged by its legs in the truck’s spare tire rack, trapped. Wade noticed Vermont plates on the rig’s loaded trailer. Tom’s body was going for a long ride. As quickly as the truck had appeared, it was gone.

  Wade remained limp at the shoulder, half in shock and easily doubting his own sanity.

  He looked down again at Tom’s head.

  Its eyes flew open, and its lips spoke: “Goddamn it, Wade! I told you to be careful around those bends!”

  Wade screamed, kicked the head into the woods, and ran.

  —

  CHAPTER 21

  White’s office was locked, which worked out for the best. Lydia was determined to tell him nothing until she’d acquired enough evidence on her own to make a case, and not just this business with the hewer, but the break in at the clinic and the Erblings’ dorm. Something was seriously wrong around here. Lydia didn’t trust White. She didn’t trust anyone.