Bestial (35 page)

Karen went to the bars of the man’s cell, getting a good look at him. “Dr. Dinescu,” she said.

The doctor slumped against the wall. He slowly lifted his head to reveal the purple swelling around his half-closed left eye. Blood dribbled from a swollen cut on his lower lip. His shoulders and chest rose and fell with his breathing and his mouth hung open.

“Dr. Dinescu, it’s Karen Moffett,” she said urgently. “We met last night, in the Emergency Room.”

His head dropped down again, chin resting on his chest.

“Jesus, he was
there
,” George said. “In the ER. He seemed really angry about something. I think he was pissed at the deputies, judging by the way he talked to them.”

“Looks like they showed him how they felt about that,” Gavin said, frowning through the bars at the doctor. He turned and went to George. “Can I use your phone?”

“Sure.” George took the phone from his pocket and handed it between the bars. Gavin took the phone, opened it, then closed his eyes for a long moment.

“What’s wrong?” Karen said.

“I’m trying to remember Burgess’s phone number.” Karen recited the ten digits and Gavin punched them in. He waited a few moments with the phone to his ear, then said, “It’s Gavin. We’re in trouble and we need help. Now listen up.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Domestic Problems

After nearly four hours of searching for the cane, Bob was exhausted. It was not in his mother’s bedroom and it was not in the walk-in closet in the hall. He and Royce had spent most of their time searching the garage, where they already had spent forty minutes working with the sterling silver serving tray and the broom.

Using a hacksaw, Bob had cut a six-inch spear-head from the tray, edged it on his dad’s old grinding wheel until it was very sharp, then drilled two holes in the center of the tang in line with the tip. Royce had cut a three-foot segment from the broom handle. Then they’d fastened the silver head to the broom handle with a couple of bolts and nuts. The result was too short to be a spear—it looked more like a Zulu’s assegai.

It was hot and stuffy out there, and the two of them had been soaked with sweat in no time as they worked. Then, after searching the master bedroom and the hall closet, they’d gone back out there for more stifling heat to continue hunting for the cane.

Mom and Grandma had been shouting the entire time. Mom was trying to slice cucumbers at the kitchen counter and was angry because not only were Bob and Royce creating a mess with their search, they were distracting her from her task. Grandma was upset because she wanted to know what Bob intended to do with the cane she had given her son.

When they came out of the garage and into the laundry room, Bob and Royce were dripping with sweat, their wet hair flat against their heads.

“Well, that was fun,” Royce said.

Bob turned to him and said, with genuine regret, “I’m sorry for putting you through this, Royce, but I don’t have anyone else.”

Royce smiled wearily and nodded once. “I know you don’t. That’s why I’m here.”

Bob suddenly wanted to hug his friend—his
only
friend. Mom and Grandma had been terribly abusive toward Royce for four hours, and yet Royce had held his tongue. Bob knew how difficult that was for him to do. Royce had spent those hours diligently searching for the cane without a word of complaint, without a single joke about werewolves. Bob knew that couldn’t have been easy, either—he was well aware of how crazy he’d been sounding that day. He’d known Royce all his life, but he’d never felt such an overwhelming rush of love and affection for him as he did at that moment.

Bob reached over and squeezed Royce’s shoulder. “I appreciate that. You don’t know how much.”

“I suppose you’ve messed up the garage now, too, huh?” Mom said from the kitchen counter, where she continued to slice cucumbers. “Like you’ve messed up the whole house?”

Bob sighed as he led Royce out of the laundry room and into the hall. “Mom, the garage was
already
a mess.” He raised his voice a little and became more irritated when he added, “And since
I’m
the one who cleans the house, I don’t know what
you’re
worried about!”

From the kitchen, Grandma shouted, “Don’t you talk to your mother that way, young man! And you still haven’t told me what you want with that cane. I gave that cane to your
father
, not to
you
, and I’m not going to stand by while you—”

Bob said, “Grandma,
shut up
!” He turned to Royce. “The only other place it might be is the attic. I’ll get the ladder from the garage.”

Suddenly, Grandma was in front of Bob and swinging her right hand through the air. Her palm connected with Bob’s left cheek with a loud
smack
.

Mom cried out sharply in the kitchen and something clattered to the counter.

Bob recovered from the slap, and his eyes grew wide beneath a frown. He moved close to Grandma, his fists clenched at his sides, as he breathed hard through clenched teeth. He thought of every cruel thing the old woman had ever said to him, every self-righteous accusation and finger-pointing condemnation, and anger rose in his throat like a sour gorge. But it passed rather quickly, like the stinging pain in his cheek. His breathing slowed and his face relaxed. For one quick, white-hot heartbeat, he had been tempted to slap her right back. But he realized that nothing he possibly could do would inflict more damage on her than she’d already inflicted on herself. She was a bitter, hateful old woman who used her religion to justify that bitterness and hate. Other than Mom and himself and that ugly, long-dead woman in the old pictures on the wall, that stern, judgmental, uptight “prophetess” she admired so much—”That vinegar-swilling
huckster
!” Royce would say—Grandma was alone in the world with no friends, no life, no happiness, and nothing to look forward to but the grave. In that moment, he saw something in her that chilled him to the marrow of his bones—he saw his future.

In that instant, Bob was hit hard by the certainty that he had to move in with Royce and look for a job, and he had to do it as soon as possible.

“Look at you!” Grandma said, a slight smile appearing at the corner of her wrinkle-stitched lips. “Look at the anger in your eyes! That comes from
Satan
, boy! From hanging around with wicked people!” She turned to Mom as she pointed a finger at Royce. “See?
See
? I told you this Satanic troublemaker was a bad influence on our boy. I
told
you!”

“
Now
look what you made me do!” Mom shouted. She stood at the kitchen doorway with blood dribbling down her right wrist from her thumb. “I cut myself!”

Grandma stepped over to Mom and frowned at the thumb. “That’s a deep one.”

Sounding offended that he had ignored her, Mom said, “Bob! I cut my
thumb
!”

Rob turned to her and said, “Well, you know where the Band-Aids are, Mom. I’m busy.” He turned to Royce again. “Let’s get the ladder.” They went back out to the garage as Mom and Grandma ranted on and on.

Five minutes later, Bob climbed up the ladder they’d positioned under the entrance in the hallway ceiling, which he unlocked with a key and pushed open. Royce followed him up to the attic. It was as hot and stuffy as the garage. Bob tugged on the chain that lit up the bare bulb in a socket on the low, slanted ceiling, then wiped away the sweat dripping from his forehead.

“They drive me crazy sometimes,” Bob whispered with a sigh.

“With good reason,” Royce said. “But they’re Adventists, Bob, which explains everything. Like I’ve told you hundreds of times, Adventists in Nazi Germany
loved
Hitler and praised him as a man led by God—which isn’t surprising given the fact that they think that lying drunk Ellen White was having personal conversations with God and his angels over Postum and Little Debbie snack cakes. What do you
expect
from such nutbags? Your mom and grandma are typical. They’re
insane
—it’s practically a baptismal
requirement
for Adventists. They don’t even—” He stopped, closed his eyes, held up his hands palms-out, and said, “Ah-ah-ah. Don’t get me started.” He dropped his arms at his sides and let out a long sigh. “You’ve
got
to get
out
of here, Bob. Come live with me for awhile until you can find a place of your own.”

Bob considered that for a moment. Slowly, as if reluctant to speak the words, he said, “That’s sounding more and more appealing.”

“Well, you’re always welcome. You know that.”

As they searched through the clutter of boxes and bags and dusty family relics, Mom and Grandma continued to voice their anger and indignation below. Twenty minutes later, Royce said, “Is this it?”

Bob turned to him, brightened when he saw the cane, and said, “Yep, that’s it. Let’s go. Back to the garage.”

They ran the gauntlet of hysterical shouting from Mom and Grandma and returned to the garage. Bob used the grinding wheel again, this time on the cane’s jackal-head handle. He began to grind the snout down to a sharp, deadly point.

He heard a familiar sound and stopped what he was doing to listen. The front door had opened and closed. It sounded like there was a third voice in the house. Bob listened until he heard that third voice again. It was Rochelle.

“My sister’s here,” Bob said.

Royce rolled his eyes. “Oh, great. The unholy trinity.”

In spite of the smothering heat in the garage, Bob was overwhelmed by a sudden chill as something occurred to him that he had been too preoccupied to consider before.

“Oh, no,” he whispered. “She was with Deputy Cross... “

Royce frowned, cocked his head. ”What? Who? Your sister?”

Still speaking mostly to himself, Bob muttered, “They were at the Lighthouse Motel last night.”

Royce’s eyes widened. “Your sister and a deputy were at a motel?
Fucking
? What’re you talking about?”

Ignoring the question, Bob said, “If the sheriff is one of those things... Karen said the whole Sheriff’s Department was... oh, no.” He turned to Royce. “It’s sexually transmitted. She’s got the virus.” To Royce, he said, “We’ve got to get out of here.”

Rochelle stumbled across the kitchen and leaned both arms against the dining table, elbows locked. She dropped heavily into a chair, a distressed expression on her face.

“What’s wrong with
you
?” Grandma said. She sat at the table eating crackers with a glass of fruit juice.

“I’m sick, Grandma.”

Mom stood at the counter, where she’d been slicing celery to go with her sliced cucumbers. She went to Rochelle’s side, concerned. “You think it’s a flu bug, or something?”

“I hope you didn’t bring something
contagious
into the house,” Grandma grumbled, frowning as she backed away from Rochelle.

“I don’t know what it its,” Rochelle said, her voice weak. “Mike and Peter were getting on my nerves, so I came over here even though I didn’t feel like driving. I just feel... well, I know it’s weird because I feel sick, but at the same time, I feel...
hungry
.”

“Have you eaten?” Mom said.

Rochelle shook her head. “Nothing tastes good. It’s almost—” She chuckled. “—like being pregnant, because it’s like—”

”
Are
you pregnant?” Mom said.

“No.”

“You’re
sure
?”

Annoyed, Rochelle shook her head and said, “No, Mom, no, I just had my period.”

Grandma clicked her tongue and made a breathy sound of disgust. “Don’t
say
such things out
loud
.”

Rochelle ignored her. “It’s like I’m...
craving
something. But I don’t know what it is.”

Grandma reached across the table and took Rochelle’s hand in hers. “We should pray,” she said. She waved Mom over and said, “Come on, join hands.” Once their hands were linked, Grandma said, “I just hope God hears our prayer while we’ve got that satanic
artist
in the house,” spitting the word “artist” from her mouth like a lump of phlegm. They closed their eyes and Grandma said, “Our father in heaven, we come to thee humbly, in righteousness, with devotion to your word and the word of your prophets. We ask thee to take this affliction from your daughter Rochelle. Cast it from her body as you cast demons from the possessed. We ask this in Jesus’s name, amen.”

Rochelle sighed and fidgeted in the chair, then stood and went to the refrigerator. “Maybe if I eat something... maybe if I figure out what it is I
want
... ” She bent down and examined the contents of the shelves inside the refrigerator. “Nothing looks good, nothing sounds good.” She stood, closed the refrigerator.

Mom stepped over to her with a frown and put the palm of her right hand to Rochelle’s forehead. “Do you have a fever?”

Rochelle’s eyes rolled up to Mom’s bandaged thumb and her nostrils flared as she sniffed. She reached up and took Mom’s hand in both of her, an intense expression on her face. “What’d you do to your thumb?” she said quietly, sniffing the bandage.

“Oh, I was cutting cucumbers earlier and Bob and Royce were making such a racket that I—”