Toby continued to circle, trying to clear Scott’s line of fire, hoping Scott still had a sightline. The demon turned—too quickly—and staggered to the side, his leathery wings flapped for balance, and he swept the tranquilizer darts out of his skin with one hand.
A round from Scott’s rifle buzzed by Toby, sounding similar to a wasp buzzing nearby, and slammed into Hartman’s shoulder, half spinning the demon away from Toby. A deep purple ichor splashed across the grass, and the rifle’s report echoed in from the apple orchard. Toby dropped to one knee, raised his tranquilizer gun, and slammed three more darts into the demon’s back.
Ten darts… Either the M99 is getting weaker, or all of the demons are somehow building a tolerance to it. Toby rolled to the side, ejecting the empty magazine and sliding his last loaded magazine into the gun. One more question to ask this bozo.
Hartman staggered toward him, like a drunken maniac, wheeling his arms and flapping his wings for balance. His eyelids drooped, and he leaned forward, then stumbled back. Another rifle round buzzed by—this time slamming into Hartman’s middle and hurling him to the ground. The demon tried to stand, tried to push up on his elbows, and gave up consciousness.
Toby stayed where he was, covering Hartman with his tranquilizer gun.
“Mike, bring in the car,” Scott said over the radio. “He’s down.”
“Who’s down? Toby?” Panic danced around the edges of Mike’s voice.
“No, no. Sorry, Mike. Hartman’s down.”
Nice to know Mike still cares, thought Toby. Hartman’s wings twitched, and his fingers trembled, but other than that he didn’t move. Toby straightened, keeping the tranquilizer gun on the demon’s center of mass.
He heard Scott jogging in from his hiding place in the apple orchard, and out on Lake Road, the NYSP car rumbled to life and crunched gravel down the two-rut track.
“Hartman,” said Toby. “You’re an ugly son of a bitch, aren’t you?”
The demon didn’t move, not even a twitch of his wings.
Toby stepped closer, keeping the rifle pointed at the thing’s middle, and kicked his foot, but the demon didn’t react.
“Is he out?” asked Scott over the radio.
Toby held his left fist over his head. And that’s how you kidnap a demon, he thought.
Chapter 3
1986
1
“Hello, Mrs. Canton. Can your grandson come out and play?”
“Well, hello, Mason. Joe told me how you helped him the other day. That was very nice of you.”
Mason returned the old lady’s smile. He’d learned a while before that a bright smile went a long way—especially with grandmothers. “It was the neighborly thing to do.”
“My oh my! Listen to you, getting all grown up.” She half turned and glanced inside her house. “Greg, dear!” she called.
Greg! I have to remember that this time. Mason waited, the smile plastered on his face in case the old woman turned back to him. From deeper inside the Canton house, the kid answered, but Mason couldn’t hear what he said.
“Mason from next-door is here, Greg. He wants you to come out and play.”
Again, the boy answered, and this time he sounded closer, but the response was still too low for Mason to discern. “I thought we might play in the woods since he had the…trouble…out on the lake the other day.”
“I’m sure that he would enjoy that, dear,” said the old woman absently. “Greg enjoys the woods.”
“What boy doesn’t?”
Mrs. Canton’s gaze snapped back to his face, her expression unreadable. “I forget how fast boys grow up,” she murmured. “How old are you now, dear?”
Mason smiled and nodded. “I just turned thirteen.”
“My oh my,” murmured the old woman. “Getting all grown up.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He looked down quickly, so she wouldn’t see his sneer. He hated it when people said things like that to him.
“Ah, here’s Greggy. Dear, you remember Mason.”
Mason lifted his gaze to the younger boy’s. “Hi, Greg. Do you want to come out? We can play explorers in the woods…”
“I…”
Mrs. Canton put her hand on Greg’s shoulder and exerted a little pressure toward the door. “Go on out, dear. Have fun with someone your own age for a few hours.”
Again, Mason dropped his gaze to the concrete path beneath his Reebok sneakers. His own age? That twerp is way younger than me!
“Okay. For a little bit, then.” The brat put his hand on the screen door and pushed it open a crack.
Don’t do me any favors, jerkwad. Mason stepped back, giving the door room to swing open all the way. “Yeah, it can’t be too long, anyway. I’ve got other stuff to do this afternoon.”
“You two boys have fun,” said Mrs. Canton, already turning away.
Greg stepped outside and let the screen door close behind him. He glanced at Mason, then looked away. “What do you want to play?” he asked in a quiet tone.
“Come on, kid. I’ve got a game we can play in the woods.” Mason turned and walked away before the boy had a chance to answer, hiding a smile.
“In the woods?”
Mason didn’t answer. Instead, he ducked his head and sprinted across the gravel lane and between the trees beyond the lane's edge. “Keep up!” After a moment, the boy’s running footsteps crunched in the gravel behind him.
“Hey! Wait up!”
Without pausing, Mason called, “Come on!” He zigged behind a tree before circling around another. “Keep up! Follow in my footsteps…”
“Why do we have to run!”
“It’s part of the game.” Mason leaped over the trunk of the fallen tree, kicking at the leaves on the other side. “Do what I do.” He put his head down and ran as fast as he could. He sprinted in a straight line, leaving the younger boy behind.
Mason threw out his hand, skidded around the trunk of a sapling, a predatory grin on his face. Greg ran toward him, but before he could get close, Mason laughed, spun on his heels, and sprinted away.
“Is this it? Is this the whole game?” asked Greg.
Mason laughed louder and kept running. He wanted to get the boy farther into the woods—farther away from the lane and the row of houses on the opposite side. “Come on! I’ve got something to show you,” he said over his shoulder. “It’s really cool. All the thirteen-year-olds around here think so.”
“What is it?”
“Keep up to find out!” Mason feinted to the right but sprinted left, ducking behind a thick tree trunk dotted with knurls. He slowed, listening for the younger boy’s footsteps. As Greg approached, Mason moved around the tree, keeping it between them.
“Hey!”
Mason wanted to laugh at the discomfort in the brat’s voice. He moved as quietly as he knew how, circling the tree. Greg stood, facing away from him and staring into the deeper woods.
“Where’d you go? Mason?”
Mason allowed a nasty grin to break across his face as he crept up behind the boy.
“Mason?”
“Got you!” he screamed as he grabbed Greg by the shoulders and flung him to the ground. He laughed at the expression on the brat’s face, pointing at him. “You should see your face!”
“That’s not funny!”
Mason squatted next to Greg, still laughing. “Oh, don’t be that way. Don’t be a brat! I was teasing.”
“Yeah? Well, I don’t like your kind of teasing.”
Drawing his eyelids into a squint, Mason frowned. “I knew you’d act this way. My grandma said you’d be more grown up this year.” He shook his head, tsking. “I guess she was wrong, huh? You’re still a bratty little kid, huh?”
“Maybe I am, but you’re just a jerk! You got me all dirty!”
Mason rocked back on his heels. “Well, excuse me!” He shook his head, putting as much disgust into his facial expression as he knew how. “I just thought you might want to do something other than hanging out with your p
arents and grandparents. I just thought you might want to play with a kid close to your own age.” He stood, dusting his hands on his jeans. “My mistake, brat. I won’t make it again.”
Greg drew his legs up, wrapped his arms around his knees and shrugged. “I don’t like rough horseplay, is all.” He ducked his head but peeked up at Mason from the corner of his eye. “Sorry I called you a jerk.”
Mason stared at him for the space of a few breaths, his face wrapped in a rictus of wrath that he didn’t feel. He gazed off into the woods, scratching the side of his head, before allowing his face to relax. “Yeah. Sorry about the stuff I said, too.”
Greg got to his feet. “So what is this thing you wanted to show me?”
With a friendly smile, Mason rested his hand on the younger boy’s shoulder. “Come on. It’s over this way.” They walked in silence for few minutes, Mason’s hand still on Greg’s shoulder.
“So…”
“You live down in Florida, right?” Mason asked.
“Yeah.”
“It’s pretty hot down there, yeah? Not like here.”
Greg nodded his head. “Yeah, it’s a lot hotter. Plus, the humidity is real high, so you sweat all the time.”
“And Disneyland? Have you ever been there?”
Greg chuckled. “Disneyland is in California, silly. Disney World is the one in Florida.”
Mason lifted his hand from the boy’s shoulder and slapped him on the back of the head, but without much force. “Excuse the fuck right out of me. I guess you’re a big man of the world, and all, and I’m just some rube from Western New York.” He hawked and spat into the woods. “But I’ll tell you something, sport. You’d better learn a bit of fucking respect.” He pushed the younger boy hard to the side, and Greg stumbled away, fighting for balance. Mason kept right on walking, ignoring his squawk.
Greg regained his balance, and hesitated a moment, staring after Mason. Then he ran to catch up. “Sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
Mason wagged his head back and forth. “Respect, kid. It’s important. The lack of it can get your ass kicked, but the use of it can get you what you want in life.”
“Yeah, sorry.”
Mason looked at him askance. “What had your panties in a wad on the lake the other day? During the storm.”
Greg looked at his sneakers. “Nothing,” he muttered.
Mason smiled crookedly. “Nah, I’m not buying that. You were all crying and sniveling when your gramps brought you back. Like a little baby.”
Greg shook his head.
“Come on, kid. Tell me what it was.”
Greg kept his head down and didn’t answer.
Mason stopped walking. “Either tell me, or I won’t show you this thing.”
“You’ll make fun of me.”
“Nah.”
A sullen expression darkened Greg’s face. “You will.”
Mason laughed, but it was far from an amused sound. “Listen, kid, I know all about her. I’ve been coming here for a long time, and I spend all summer here, not just a few weeks.” He turned and faced Greg. “What you saw was real.”
“What…” Greg shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest. “How do you know what I saw?”
Mason smirked and spread his arms wide. “That’s an easy one, Greggy. She asked me who she should pay special attention to. She asked me for a list.” He leaned forward, tilting his head toward the ground so he could look at Greg from beneath his brows. “Guess whose name I put right on top?”
“It’s not funny!” shouted Greg.
“It is to me.” Mason shrugged and wrinkled his nose at Greg. “What’s more, it is to her.”
Greg took two steps back, shaking his head. “It was just a…”
“What? It was just a what? A trick of the light? A blip of your imagination? A bad dream?” Mason sneered at the younger boy. “She’s none of those things, Greggy. She’s magnificent.”
Greg turned away, hanging his head and dropping his hands to his sides. “I told you you’d tease me.”
Mason sighed and glanced around. When he returned his gaze to Greg, a smile of genuine pleasure was on his face. “You ain’t seen nothing yet, kid.” He took two quick steps forward and shoved Greg to the ground. Then, without another word, he leaped over him and sprinted away through the woods.
“I’m not following you! I don’t want to play with you anymore, Mason!”
Mason sniggered to himself as he ran. Some kids are dense. She’s right—some kids are cattle, waiting for the wolves of the world to gobble them up. He’d done everything she’d told him to, and she’d been right about how Greg would react. He thought about how pleased she would be with him, about how she might reward him, and his smile stretched from ear to ear.
2
A few hours later, all five of the Cantons piled into Stephen’s rented Bonneville and headed into town. One of the local tourist spots made fresh fried chicken and homemade ice cream. It also contained a gift shop of sorts, with a few products made in the area, but junk from China for the most part.
As with kids everywhere, Greg loved the gift shop. Every time they ate at the Chicken Shack, he clamored to visit the little shop. And every time, trying to hide smiles, his parents allowed him to go inside—mostly holding Grandma’s hand, and she’d buy him a little toy before they all strolled over to the restaurant side and ate as a family.
That day, things didn’t go as they usually did.
Stephen, Mary, and Joe stood by the door, just inside the gift shop, watching Greg lead Elizabet through the aisles of stuff. A heavyset woman called out to Elizabet and trundled over, all smiles. She bent and fussed over Greg for a minute or two before asking him something. Greg turned a panicked expression toward his mother as a dark stain spread across the crotch of his jeans. He reddened and ran to Mary, tears streaming down his face.
“What’s wrong, Greggy?” she asked.
His response was lost in his sobs.
Mary cast a worried glance at her husband. “Let’s go in the bathroom and get you cleaned up. What do you say, Greggy?”
Joe ordered their food to go. No one said anything to Greg as they piled back into the car, but as soon as the car door shut, he turned his face to the door and sucked his thumb.
Mason Harper was outside when they came home. He took one look at Greg’s wet jeans and burst into laughter.
3
After Greg was asleep, his parents and grandparents filed out onto the screened porch to enjoy the night air—and to discuss the events of the day.
“I’m wondering if he’ll need to see a doctor,” said Mary.
“Whatever for? He’s fine, dear.”
“Physically, sure. I’m concerned about… This business about the dead lady concerns me, Elizabet.”
Joe packed and lit his pipe, and its orange glow cast warm tones across his face. “It’s the light.”
“The light?” asked Mary.
“Ayup. Overcast as it was, and the lake as deep and dark as it is…” Joe shook his head. “A fella can trick himself into seeing all sorts of things.”
Mary glanced at Stephen and treated him to a minute shake of her head.
“Honey,” he said. “He’s fine. He’s a little shaken up, is all.”
“I don’t know. He was sucking his thumb all the way home, Stephen.”
“He’s still a boy, dear,” said Elizabet.
Mary nodded but didn’t look convinced. “Why would a grown woman ask a boy his age something like that?”
Joe nodded and drew on his pipe and released a cloud of sickly-sweet smoke. “Folks around here…well, we’ve got our superstitions, same as anywhere else. Around these parts, the story’s viewed as about a quarter serious, and three-quarters joke. She didn’t mean anything, and she didn’t know about his scare the other day.”
“I’m sure she thought he knew all about the legends.” Stephen put his arm around his wife.
“Maybe. But why would anyone ask a
boy his age…”
“It’s akin to a campfire story. A—what do you call’em—a ghost story, but a local one. The locals always tell their families these stories and consider it nothing untoward.”
“And he would’ve loved it before his experience the other day,” said Stephen.
“Well, what is this ‘Woman in White?’”
“Joe will tell it,” said Elizabet. “He enjoys the telling.”
Joe turned in his chair and treated Elizabet to a look. “It goes back to a couple hundred years or more. The story says a widow lived on the other shore of the lake, almost right across from this house. She had a teenage daughter, follow? One day during a bad thunderstorm, the daughter says she wants to go down to the lake. She likes the rain, you see? She likes to watch the lightning reflecting in the water.” Joe drew on his pipe and released another cloud of smoke. “Well, you can guess what happens next. That girl never came home. No trace of her. Just gone.”
“And she’s the Woman in White?” asked Mary.
“Nope, guessed wrong there. No, the girl never came home—was never seen again, living or dead. Well, that widow, she set about looking. Every day, she traipsed out and scoured the countryside looking for signs of her daughter. Never found a thing. Sad. She’s supposed to be the creature in the story. Some folks call her the Lady in the Lake, but most around here call her the Woman in White because after her daughter disappeared, she took on religious airs that extended to wearing white anytime she graced the public with her presence.”
“Most claim to see her on misty days,” said Elizabet. “Out walking in the mist, calling for her long-lost baby.”
Joe sat back and nodded. “And that’s it.”
“How… I don’t understand how that story connects with Greg’s dead lady.”
“Remember we said it was about a quarter serious and three-quarters fun? That story was the three-quarters fun version.” Elizabet swatted Joe’s leg with the back of her hand. “Go on. Tell her the other version.”
Joe arched an eyebrow at his wife. “It’s not near as nice.”
“Tell me anyway, Joe.” The flicker of unease in her eyes belied Mary’s firm tone.
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