The boy did not answer, but the faintest of smiles played at his lips. Richard frowned, not only at the boy’s petulance, but at his appearance as well. If Richard didn’t know better, he’d have sworn—
The child stepped forward and Richard saw that Jimmy was naked. But between the child’s smooth white legs, where his penis should have been, there was only a dark labial line.
Richard’s heart hammered like a relentless red mallet. Why the absence of male genitalia should have terrified him so greatly he couldn’t say. So the child was female, what of that? He had known plenty of Staceys who were boys and Sams who were girls—was it such an earth-shattering revelation that Jimmy was Belinda’s daughter?
But that’s not what they said, his mind rejoined. Belinda had called Jimmy “he.”So had Agnes.
Richard clenched his teeth, angry at himself for reacting so fearfully. None of it mattered. None of it. He was done with this place anyway. Why was he getting so worked up?
The child watched him silently, the maddening grin daring Richard to speak.
No. He’d not be drawn in. Richard moved away, hoping now the child would not follow him. Let the girl turn and run for home. Yes, “Jimmy” would likely make it back to the farmhouse before Richard arrived at the barn and the Beetle, but there would be the waking of the parents to attend to, the explaining to them what the child had seen and what it meant. By the time Daniel McCarrick shook off his sleep lethargy, dressed, and went down to start his pick-up truck, Richard would be safely away.
The child’s footfalls crunched behind him. Richard was determined to press on, to ignore Jimmy’s irritating pursuit. True, it did bother him, but it would also benefit him if he kept his nerve. Each step Jimmy took away from the farmhouse was another step she’d have to retrace before raising the alarm.
A sudden thought of Louis, of Richard’s little brother, arose. Louis had been very much like this…child. Unkempt, a thing of nature, Louis often roamed the country after dark, doing God knew what while Richard lay in bed reading. And like the little bastard following him—Richard could almost feelher back there, naked and grinning—Louis was unknowable, a different species. Unsurprisingly, Louis favored their father, Richard their mother, though Richard’s own features were hardly discernible because of the softening fat.
And Richard felt his weight acutely now. Though he was making good progress—he estimated that he’d passed the halfway mark—his breathing was growing labored and his knees ached. His skin had grown clammy with sweat.
A rock pelted his heel. Richard’s lips thinned. Even if it had been unintentional—if the rock had been kicked rather than thrown—it meant the child was right behind him.
Another rock hit his ankle just above his boot. Two more, both in the upper calf. The sniveling little beast. The girl was playing with him, tossing stones to see how long it would take for Richard to lose his cool.
Well, let her. He’d long ago grown immune to such trifling nuisances. Growing up, his size had sometimes made him the target of kids who wanted to prove their toughness and who sensed in Richard a spirit that craved peace. He’d been hit with rocks before, even fists, and he’d risen above it. He’d rise above this, as well.
He was thinking this when a rock hit him between the shoulder blades.
Richard turned, a shout forming in his throat, when he saw something beyond little Jimmy that made his blood freeze.
There was someone else on the road.
Thirty or forty yards back, concealed by the swaying shadows of branches, stood an unmoving, solitary figure.
Richard sensed Jimmy staring up at him—for the child was now practically underfoot—but that no longer mattered. All fell away save the person standing moveless in the road.
Like the tumblers of a lock snicking into place, the implications of this new follower came to Richard with brutal clarity. Jimmy had alerted another family member before leaving the house. Or a nearby family, some house Richard hadn’t spotted on the way in, had spied him as he passed by. Idiot, his mind exploded. Why had he chosen to walk down the middle of the road, tempting fate that no one would see him? He could have stolen across fields, kept out of sight, and trimmed precious minutes off his journey.
Stop it, he told himself. That sort of thinking was useless. Richard could no more hike across fields than he could touch his toes without bending his knees. Not only was he physically incapable of traversing rugged terrain, he had no sense of direction either. The road had been his only choice.
But now someone was following him. Someone hunched over, misshapen. He remembered the fairy tales his mother used to read him, the ones with trolls who ate children, the kind of stories that gave him nightmares. This figure was short and squat like a fairy tale troll, yet there was something familiar about its bearing.
He had seen it before…somewhere…
Goddammit, he thought, control yourself. While you stand here staring at whomever it is, the noose is tightening. One more mile at the most, and you’re home free. Just get moving.
Richard set off at a brisk pace. Not a sprint—that would have plainly shown his followers how frightened he was—but quicker than he had moved in years. Jimmy remained just behind. Richard had no idea how far away the other person was, but he suspected that, if he were to cast another backwards glance, the figure would be nearer.
Richard lengthened his strides. He emerged from the forest into a silvery pool of moonlight. A couple hundred yards ahead, where the road rose again, he could see another, larger forest. If he remembered right, the ramshackle barn was nestled deep within those woods. Christ, if he could only make it there, fire up the Beetle and get out, all of this dread would dissipate, replaced by the confident hum of his car, the shadowy countryside demystified by the comforting glow of his headlamps.
The little girl’s voice, just behind him: “Where are you going?”
Richard ignored the child, pushed ahead even harder. Now it was a jog, but so what? He had done nothing wrong, he was just out for a midnight run. A vague urge to ditch the merchandise flitted through his mind, but the thought was gone in an instant. Even if they didn’t find the canary diamonds and the other gems on his person, they would know it was he who had taken them. Of course they would. And Jimmy would witness anything he did, the little shit.
An ugly, tearing pain seared through his left side. God, he was out of shape. Actually—the thought nearly brought a sardonic smile to Richard’s face—there had never been a time when he’d been inshape. His boots were not made for speed either, and as a result, he could feel hot, angry blisters forming from the friction.
He was halfway to the forest when, without knowing why, he cast a glance over his shoulder.
Richard stopped.
Not only was the troll-like figure gone, but the boy had vanished too. Just how in the world had they managed it? One instant they were there, the next, Richard found himself alone on the gravel road.
So the girl had gone back to the McCarrick farm, and perhaps the other had gone with her. Now that the race was on, the clock ticking, a fresh surge of adrenaline rushed through him. But beneath it lurked a crawling dread. He knew it was the figure, the squat, troll-like figure that brought it on, and as he stood there in the middle of the road, wasting precious seconds, he remembered who the figure reminded him of.
Deek Flowers. The man with whom he’d worked these past two days. But rather than calming him, this new revelation chilled him to the marrow. He recalled Deek’s puckered face, the knowing way the man had stared at him.
It was the memory of the man’s eyes, crafty and gray, that broke his paralysis. Richard set off at a trot, faster than he had moved since childhood, and though the stitch in his side was worsening, he knew every painful stride was bringing him closer to salvation. Within moments he had gained the rise, and as he chugged up the hill the deep dark woods swallowed him. He shot a look over his shoulder and saw that the road behind him was still empty. He wondered how far Jimmy and D
eek were from the farm. Could it be that Deek and Jimmy would arrive there and not even bother waking McCarrick, instead hop in some rusty pick-up truck and run him down like a mongrel? Unbidden, the ugly, diseased face of a dead possum filled his imagination. Roadkill. An animal turned inside out, its intestines thrown over its shoulder like a sash.
The image made him groan. His side was a horror show of agony, his chest a conflagration. Richard’s legs had gone numb, but the pain in his feet was growing unbearable. The blisters, he was sure, had popped open, were oozing. He could almost feel the juices sloshing around in his boots.
At the top of the hill Richard feverishly began to calculate. He remembered that this forest was much larger than the others. The trees here were older, thicker. Through his labored breathing he caught a whiff of something pleasant, lavender maybe. It gave him hope. Ahead, beyond a thick row of ancient birches, Richard spotted a break in the forest. Could it be…?
Yes, he saw with something approaching exaltation, yes, it was the overgrown path into which he’d driven and found the crumbling barn. As Richard veered that way he glanced behind him and saw that the road was still empty. He was nearly there, and though his entire body revolted against him, he compelled it to move even faster down the path.
As he followed the tire tracks through the darkness he felt how closely the underbrush crowded beside him. The path turned right, then left, Richard’s big boots ripping up the wild grasses as he drew nearer the barn. The path twisted again, and this time Richard did see the barn. Fifty more yards. Thirty. Ten.
He burst through the doorless entryway and nearly wept at the sight of the Beetle. Its dark green looked black in the darkness of the barn. It sat there small and wonderful, patiently awaiting his return. Dizzy from the exertion, Richard shambled over to the door and opened it. He hung there a moment, propped between the roof and the open door, and waited for the dizziness to subside. When it did, he slumped down in the seat and pulled the door shut. He reached toward the glove box, where he kept the keys.
His fingers had just brushed the handle when movement beyond the passenger’s side window made him stop. Richard smiled uneasily. There was a breeze tonight, he told himself. A rotting wall plank had swayed a little, allowing a sliver of moonlight to peek through.
Shaking his head, he opened the glove box and riffled through the contents for the keys. He frowned, sure he’d put them on top of all the other junk, the state atlases and the fast food menus. The sound of the papers scraping together was disquieting, almost as if the glove box had been miked.
He leaned over to get a better view. He knew he should flip on the overhead light a moment, but something about the quiet old barn forbade it. He plunged his big fingers beneath the landslide of papers and still found nothing. Frustrated and sweaty, Richard heaved a sigh and began the job of removing the junk so he could find the keys and get the hell out.
He paused, certain there’d been a furtive shuffling to his left.
Richard peered out the windshield and saw, directly in front of the car, Jimmy’s face. It was barely visible above the Beetle’s hood, but the little girl’s features were unmistakable.
She was smiling.
Goddamned kid.
Richard had a sudden urge to tear open the door, leap out and throttle the little demon. What kind of an animal were Daniel and Belinda raising? To let the girl roam around like a wild creature during the day was one thing. To allow it at night was irresponsible. Was it possible they didn’t know their child was gone?
Movement to his right.
Richard looked up and saw Belinda’s beautiful, malevolent face peering through the passenger’s window, mere inches away. She was naked but he hardly noticed her body, so completely did her gaze transfix him. Wilting under that hateful stare, those piercing eyes, Richard pawed impotently at the glove box, knowing already what had happened to his keys.
To Belinda’s right another figure emerged, this one familiar as well: Susan McCarrick. She too was naked, but now there was something horrible about her nudity, something pagan. She watched him through the window, deadfaced. She looked like a zombie, animated only by the rise and fall of her large breasts.
Richard whirled and saw, just outside the driver’s side window, two more figures. One was an older woman he’d never seen. She was naked, prunelike.
Next to her stood Daniel McCarrick, who was reaching forward, grasping the door handle. Richard made a move to lock the door, but it was open now, and there were hands on him, grabbing, tugging. He slapped at them, struggled to resist, but the passenger door was swinging open behind him, Deek and Susan there to shove him toward Daniel. Richard lashed out, but it was hopeless. More figures were materializing, joining the others, ripping his white shirt, compelling him out the Volkswagen’s door. His butt hit the dirt floor of the barn, and before he could scramble to his feet they were on him, dozens of them, turning him and lifting him toward the mouth of the barn. He shot an elbow back and caught one in the belly, and he saw it had been Susan, lovely Susan, whose face was now carved in a feral snarl. A sharp pain erupted in his neck, and by the time he saw the hypodermic needle, its dripping point was already receding.
A pleasant numbness dulled the terror, the pain. His vision grayed. Richard saw the truck parked on the path and wondered when it had arrived. He was lifted toward the bed of the truck, and as his face pressed down on the cool steel, everything went dark.
* * *
The sound of grunting came first. It was a familiar sound, one that had haunted his childhood.
The smell of excrement washed over him, and he knew he was in the ferring house. It was the worst place he could think of, a hellish den of snorting, slimy pigs, their freckled legs caked with shit and mud, their wet noses perpetually slicked with rotten food.
Richard tested his fingers. He could move them, though the anesthetic, whatever they had injected him with, made it difficult. He opened his eyes and saw only darkness, but he felt the grimy concrete under his body. Its cold, moist surface made him shiver. He became aware of a sick throbbing in the base of his skull.
Richard smiled bitterly. So this was where they’d put him until the police showed up. The ferring house. The indignity of it was somehow worse than the dire truth that this time—his second offense—could lead to an extended stay in prison. He wondered vaguely what the statute of limitations was for burglary. It had been more than a decade since his first arrest. Perhaps that one would be off the books, perhaps—
The chanting cut off his thoughts.
At first, through the throbbing in his skull and the drugged haze, he couldn’t make out the words. Then, slowly, he pieced together fragments, words: “…matris…
Demeter...matris...voro…referre pedum…Demeter...matris...ferinus…”
Richard wracked his brain, feverishly searching his memory for a translation, anything familiar, but nothing came.
The chanting grew louder, from a hushed whisper to a pounding incantation. Richard lifted his head and saw the women entering the ferring house, one by one. They all carried candles, and all of them were naked. As they flowed into the ferring house Richard was reminded of a horror film he once saw in his youth, something involving a black mass, involving sacrifice.
He began to whimper.
He saw a fat woman approaching, her pendulous breasts swaying above a huge black bush of pubic hair. Three more unfamiliar women entered before he saw Belinda, then Susan. Daniel McCarrick came next, and Richard’s mouth dropped open as he saw Daniel’s small breasts and bald cleft.
They were women, all of them women, and they were flowing around him, encircling him. Richard pushed to his knees, but felt something bite his neck and drag him down.
It was a collar, a thick steel collar, and as Richard’s fingers traced the chain attached to it, he realized that he too was naked.
Through a gauzy haze he heard the chanting voices changing, swelling, growing more urgent. The naked women approached. He seized the c
ollar, made a frenzied attempt to yank it loose, but it held fast. As he struggled, he realized there were manacles around his wrists, his ankles, and chains dangling from them all.
A hand touched his shoulder and Richard struck out at whoever it was. Then he was rolled over onto his back and a dozen hands pinioned him down. He heard the pigs begin to squeal as the woman who called herself Daniel McCarrick elbowed through the crowd.
Richard moaned. The hellish grunts of the pigs were very near. He could smell the awful creatures. He avoided looking that way, not wanting to catch a glimpse of their black idiot eyes, the way they wallowed in their own feces.
His hands were held down as the chains distending from the manacles were attached to iron eyehooks that protruded from the floor. His legs, too, were fastened down, and the hands that had moments before pinned him to the concrete were now caressing, massaging. A score of female faces, women of all ages—Dear Lord, even Grandma Shirley—stared down at him, a glaze of lust in their mad eyes. The woman who called herself Daniel McCarrick straddled him, her body muscled and smooth. The crowd opened and Grandma Agnes shuffled through. She held something that glinted in the candlelight.
Despite the horror, the unfathomable grotesqueness of his plight, the feel of Daniel’s sex was awakening him. He did not want to couple with this grinning creature, but the body was lithe, serpent-like, and Richard grew aroused all the same. As the familiar heat spread, he closed his eyes. Through his terror and humiliation descended a suffocating desire, a maddening blaze that threatened his very sanity. The chanting had altered again, transforming into a weird, frightening melody. It reminded him of wind, of fields, of live things spreading their moist tendrils in the soil. Hungry, insistent. Above him Daniel continued to writhe, teeth bared in savage triumph.
Grandma Agnes was staring down at him. Richard saw her ancient eyes and below that the steel instrument she held. As Daniel clung to him, her body rising and falling in a savage rhythm, Richard stared with growing terror at the thing that looked like an overlong ice pick.
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