Bad Moon Rising Page 30

Page 30

 

  He had no idea what time it was. It looked like morning, but that was ridiculous. His last clear memory was biking toward the hospital to visit Val, but…had he gotten there? Mike wasn’t sure. Everything was weird, and his head felt like it had been ransacked, all the drawers pulled out and dumped, everything just thrown onto the floor.

  He plucked at his shirt, saw that it was crusted with dried blood, but he couldn’t find any cuts on his body. Some bruises, sure, but not even a scrape on his arms or legs or body. Could that much blood have come from a nosebleed? He doubted it, but when he touched his nose it felt eggshell fragile and sore. Some blood caked around the nostrils, though not as much as he expected to find. More blood on his chin and throat. He flexed his hands, pressed his fingers against bones and ribs. There was pain just about everywhere, but nothing seemed broken. Except maybe his head, because that pounded like a psychopath doing a drum solo.

  Mike climbed carefully to his feet, swaying a bit, watching the field tilt and whirl like a carnival ride; but after a moment it slowed, steadied, stopped. There was a rustle behind him and he turned to see a crow standing in the grass a dozen feet away. Without knowing why Mike smiled at it. The crow cawed softly. Mike thought he heard music on the breeze, but ignored it. He always heard music. He figured it was just part of being crazy.

  On unsteady feet, Mike trudged over to his bike, picked it up, spun the wheels to make sure they were true, and walked it back to the road. He stood there for a moment, looking up and down A-32. There were no cars this early and in the dips and hollows of the road there was the faintness of a dwindling fog. He swung one leg over, wincing with the effort, then turned and looked back to the field. He felt—on some level knew—that he should be more worried about all this than he was, but he couldn’t make himself care about it. His head hurt too much. The strangeness of it all made it hard to think.

  “Vic will kill me,” he said, and the crow cawed again.

  Vic’s house rules didn’t allow him to be late, let alone out all night, but that wasn’t something he could control. It would mean a beating, but that was okay. He’d had plenty of beatings; he could handle another. He pushed off and began his slow, creaking way back to town. With each mile it became less and less important to try and remember what happened.

  5

  The Bone Man sat on the wooden rail of the farm fence and watched Mike ride by. He wasn’t sure if the boy was able to see him now. The boy probably could, the Bone Man considered, because from what little he knew of ghosts from his days down in the superstitious South the dying were supposed to be able to see the dead. Death was a window, his aunt had told him. He was pretty sure Val Guthrie had seen him that night in the rain, but not since; maybe she’d had one foot on the ghost road and then stepped off. He knew for certain Henry Guthrie had as he lay dying in the rain.

  The kid looked bad as he biked by. Sick and thin, bloody and gaunt. He looked mostly dead now, but he never even turned his head toward the Bone Man, so the point was moot.

  The last crow came over and perched on the rail next to him, and the Bone Man stared into its black eye for a long time. “I wish you could talk, little brother,” the Bone Man said. “I’ll bet you know a lot more about this than I do. ”

  The bird opened its mouth and gave a nearly silent caw, almost of agreement.

  “Least now I can know whose side you’re on. ” He smiled. “It ain’t no good to be alone all the time. ”

  The bird rustled its wings. They both turned to look down the road.

  The Bone Man knew full well that Griswold had not sent the Raggedy Man to hurt Mike—that would have been suicidal—but he wasn’t sure why it was sent at all. Maybe some kind of test, an attempt to gauge how strong Mike was. Well, he mused, I wonder what he’ll make of what just happened. “Bet you didn’t expect that to happen, did you?” he asked the wind, hoping Griswold could hear him. Now Griswold really had something to think about.

  So, he realized, did the Bone Man himself, because what he just saw didn’t fit into anything he knew about what a dhampyr was or could do. Maybe dhampyr wasn’t even the right word to use anymore. Maybe there just wasn’t a word to describe what Mike Sweeney was becoming.

  That thought sat uneasily on him as he watched the figure vanish into the distance. A dhampyr was something he understood, and a dhampyr had hope built into it, but if Mike was becoming something else, then maybe the last little of bit of hope Pine Deep had was going to leak down the drain. Maybe there was nothing standing between the Red Wave and Pine Deep. Beside him the bird cawed again; the Bone Man looked at him and frowned. Or…maybe there was.

  Chapter 18

  1

  Mike got home at nine-thirty and he pedaled around back to see if Vic’s truck was there. It wasn’t, but he did not know if that was good news or bad. He chained his bike to the side-yard fence and went inside. The house was quiet and still. It had an empty quality. He went into the kitchen, took the orange juice out and drank half of it from the carton, put it back. As he turned to go he heard a sound. He stopped, looking at the door to the basement. Mike had never been down there; it was Vic’s domain and more than once Vic had promised the world’s worst beating if Mike so much as thought about going down there. Mike never thought about it. Pissing off Vic was not a hobby.

  But there was that sound. Like a muffled grunt. Not of pain or effort. Just a human sound, like someone might make walking into a chair. A kind of oomph. Then nothing.

  He moved closer to the door and listened. Vic’s truck wasn’t out back, and he was sure Vic was not home. Vic never lent his truck to anyone, either. Mike pressed an ear to the wood and as he did so the door shifted. He stepped back like he’d been burned and looked at it. The door was closed, but it wasn’t locked and now that he was paying attention to it he could see that the lock was broken. There were splinters of wood sticking out—small ones, but telltale. More splinters littered the floor. The door was closed, but there was no lock to hold it firm, so it had swung out on its hinges maybe a half inch, and Mike’s leaning against it had made it thump back against the frame.

  Mike quickly backed away, not liking this at all. Either this was some new trick Vic was playing, a trap to make him break the house rule about going downstairs, or else someone had busted that door. Mom? Would she have done that? Could she have done it? Even had she been sober Mike doubted it, and Mom was never sober. Besides, she’d told him yesterday that she would be in Doylestown all day today, something about a craft show that started early.

  Then what was left? A burglar?

  He almost smiled at the thought. Here in Pine Deep, after all that had happened, a simple breaking and entering seemed comical. The smile almost took root on his face, but didn’t. This was Pine Deep, after all, and nothing was ever that simple. Certainly not something like this.

  A tingling sensation began behind his eyes. It was like the feeling he had when one of his headaches was coming on and a hairy ball of sick dread began forming in his throat.

  No, this was bad. Whatever it was, whatever it would turn out to be, this was bad.

  Without making a sound Mike backed away, backed out of the kitchen. When he was in the hallway he spun and sprinted for the stairs, taking them two at a time. He raced to his room, yanked open a drawer, and pulled out clean underwear, a sweatshirt, jeans, and socks and stuffed them into a nylon gym bag. He opened his window and dropped the bag down into the side yard, closed the window quietly, and then went into the bathroom. He stuffed a deodorant stick into one pocket and his toothbrush and toothpaste into another. Then he crept back down the stairs, all the time listening for sounds from the basement.

  For an agonizing moment he wondered if maybe that was his mom down there, that maybe she hadn’t gone to Doylestown. That maybe whoever this was down there had come in before she left and…

  No. His instincts—perhaps his fears—said no to that. Mike was pr
etty good about reading the energy at his own house. He knew when Vic was home, knew when his mother was home. Always. None of what he sensed at home felt like Mom’s energy. Everything just felt…wrong.

  Mike opened the front door very quietly, slipped outside, and then raced to grab his gym bag and his bike. He’d stop on the way to school and pull on his sweatshirt to hide the blood, then clean up in the boy’s bathroom. If anyone asked, he would say he fell off his bike on the way to school and had a bloody nose. He’d change, drift into homeroom, and pretend this had never happened. Let Vic sort it out. That sounded good, sounded like a plan, even though he knew it was all total bullshit. He raced away into the morning.

  2

  Ruger heard the kid moving around upstairs. He could smell blood on the kid’s clothes and it made him smile. Lois heard him, too. When Mike was upstairs, while Ruger was paused in an attitude of listening, face turned toward the ceiling, Lois had tried to make her move.

  She drove her elbow back and into his stomach as hard as she could, slamming it into him with a terrible and desperate fury, and lunged forward, trying to break free of his arms, kicking away from the lounge chair. She was fast, she was vicious, and she wanted to hurt him as much as she wanted to try and warn Mike. She almost made it, but Ruger was much, much faster, and the blow had only surprised him. It hadn’t hurt him at all. As she lunged forward he snaked out a hand and caught her by the wrist, locking his icy white fingers so hard that she was snapped back and spun around and came crashing back down on top of him. Air whooshed out of her as she collapsed down, and before she could scream Ruger clamped a hand over her mouth, bending forward fast and close.

  “Make a single sound, you silly bitch, and I’ll kill your boy. ” His voice was a reptilian whisper that froze her heart. His mouth was smiling, but his eyes told her the truth of his threat. Black eyes with no whites, no color other than red shadows. “I’ll use him worse than I used you, sweetheart, and I’ll make you watch. ”

  Lois felt the world tightening around her like a noose. “No…” she whispered. Just a faintness of a sound. “God, no. ”