Rockinghorse (5 page)

“That's impossible!”

She shook her head. “I don't know about that. What I do know is, this place is
weird.”

“Yeah.”

Deputy Simmons drove slowly past on his return trip. He looked at the kids on the veranda. From where they sat, Jackie thought she could see something evil on the man's face. Something
dirty.

* * *

While Lucas bought a lockback knife with belt sheath and slipped it on his belt, he told Jim about his run-in with Lige Manning.

Jim thought it so funny he had Lucas tell it again. “Ol' Lige, huh?” Jim laughed. “I'd have give a hundred-dollar bill to have seen that. I bet you scared the livin' crap outta him when you popped that cap. That'll get around, Lucas. Them folks so inclined to steal will think twice now that the city fellow has shown he ain't gonna take no crap from nobody.”

Lucas blushed with embarrassment. He had reviewed the incident in his mind several times and now felt—in his city opinion—that it had been a silly, rash thing to do. “I'm sorry I did it, Jim.”

Jim shook his head. “Don't be, Lucas. This ain't the city. What you did was establish who is boss right off the bat, and with somebody like Lige, that's important. You probably won't have a minute's worth of trouble out of him from now on.”

“I would have preferred a written agreement,” Lucas said drily.

“A handshake is still more important to country folks, Lucas. It's changed some over the years, but a man's word is still his bond in many parts of the country. But,” he held up a warning finger, “white trash don't pay no mind to gentlemen's agreements, Lucas. And that's all Lige is, trash.”

“I have heard the expression,” Lucas said, his ingrained New York City liberalism sending creeping doubt into his voice.

Jim laughed at him. “I know where you're coming from, Lucas, Believe me.”

Jim bought them both Cokes and they sat outside on a bench in front of the station. Jim propped his cowboy boots up on a railing. “Country folks, Lucas, especially Southern country folks, don't think like big-city folks. Especially Northern big-city folks; especially
New York City
folks, I know. I lived in New York City for a spell.”

“You
what?”

Jim got a big laugh at the amazement in his new friend's voice. “Oh, yeah. I graduated from college with a degree in business and a minor in advertising. Went to work for an agency in Atlanta. They discovered I had a flair more for advertising than for business. They moved me to L.A., and from there I went to New York City. Stayed four years in the Big Apple. I made big money, joined up with the ‘right people,' ran with the ‘in crowd,' got me an ulcer, and got mugged twice. The last time I whipped the livin' daylights out of that punk; stomped his face in and kicked his balls up into his belly. The goddamn cops arrested
me
and the goddamn punk—who had a knife, by the way—sued me for damages.
And won!
I knew—I knew all along—that a country boy ain't got no business livin' in the big city. We think different. I told my wife—she was a city girl—we was pullin' out, heading' back to the country. She told me to take off, that she was stayin'. I said fine and pulled out back to the south. Ain't seen hide nor hair of her since then.”

“Except for a word or two from her lawyer,” Lucas said with a grin.

“How true are your words.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Nineteen hundred and seventy, ol' buddy.”

“Then you wouldn't know anything about Lige Manning? ”

“Oh, I was born on a farm about twenty miles from here, Lucas. My parents died when I was just a kid.”

“We have that in common.”

“Oh? How old were you?”

“Sixteen.”

“I was a little younger. Anyway, I know about Lige. I know things even the cops can't find out. Lige was in the army for a time, but they kicked him out. He don't deny it. He didn't come back here 'til his daddy passed. Didn't hardly nobody remember him—so I'm told. I was gone by then. He's not a bad one, Lucas, Not bad in that he's never killed anybody. But he's a sneak thief. Just can't nobody prove it. And he's a window peeper. You keep that in mind. Collects all sort of filthy books and pictures, too. So I'm told. Lots of folks suspect he's messed with some kids—but that was a long time back. He mostly just stays by himself and don't mess with nobody no more. I guess that has to do with the town changin' some.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, nothin' a man can put his finger right on. Subtle changes. Town went from solid Baptist to Fundamental/Faith Healin'/Holy Rollin'. Them that didn't start whoopin' and hollerin' and speakin' in tongues right off just stopped goin' to church altogether. And there's some strange folks livin' out not too far from y'all.”

“Strange?”

“Best way I know how to put it. Now don't get me wrong; they buy their gas here and don't pass no bad paper nor give me no trouble at all . . . but they're weird. Two men and two women livin' in the old Gibson house 'bout four mile from your place, through the woods.”

“What do they do?”

Jim looked at him, a flat look in his eyes. “Well, some folks around here say they worship the devil.”

Tracy spotted the lockback in leather attached to Lucas's belt the instant he walked in the house. “Aren't you carrying the country-living bit just a little too far?” she asked.

Patiently, he hoped, he explained why he bought the knife.

“Well, at least you didn't come back wearing a pistol.”

Now was not the time, he concluded, to tell her about the .45 he had hidden in his toolbox.

The sounds of a motor running caught his ear. “What's that?”

Tracy brushed back a lock of hair and smiled. “That's Lige. Ever since you left this morning he's been working like a beaver. Takes a five-minute break on the hour and that's all. It's amazing what he's done in so short a time.”

“He's too old for a lot of sustained work,” Lucas said. “I'll tell him to take it easy.”

“Lucas, he's not as old as we first thought him to be.”

“Oh?”

“I heard him humming a song earlier. It sounded familiar, so I asked him what it was. He said it was a song popular back when he was about seventeen years old. Then I remembered it. An old Pat Boone song. I recalled the movie it came out of. Back in '57 or '58.”

“Well, now. Then that would make him about . . . forty-three or forty-four years old.”

“That's the way I see it.”

“Wait a minute, Trace. That doesn't jell. He said he remembered Ira. But that would make him and Ira about the same age.”

“I hadn't thought of that, but you're right.”

Lucas tried to envision Lige without the beard and long hair. He gave it up. “Trace, Lige has probably been lying about his age for years. That and a lot of other things. We'll get to the bottom of it while we're here this summer.” He looked around him. “Where are the kids?”

“I told them they could explore around the edge of the forest, but not to go into the woods.”

Lucas nodded. The kids would obey their mother. But just to be on the safe side, he thought, he'd take a walk around the grounds and check on them; make certain they understood the boundaries. And he'd see what Lige had accomplished thus far.

* * *

“God, it's spooky in there,” Johnny said, peering into the tangle of brush and vines that clung to the dark clammy-appearing ground around the thick timber.

“Don't go in there,” Jackie warned.

“Don't worry about that. God, I bet there really is a bunch of wild animals in there.”

“All the more reason to stay out here. Come on, let's walk around the edge some more.”

The kids walked on past the darkest tangle of vines and brush and timber. They walked right past without noticing the eyes that watched them from the edge of the forest. The eyes were savage, filled with hate and fury and bloodlust. The tongue snaked out of the mouth and licked the thick lips. The lips pulled away from yellow teeth in a semblance of a smile. The watcher remained in his silent crouch, watching, waiting.

Jackie looked back over her shoulder. She appeared nervous. The small of her back twitched and sweat dotted her shirt.

Johnny caught the quick backward glance of his sister. “What's wrong with you now?” he asked.

“I don't know. I mean, I just . . . well, I just kind of felt like someone was watching us. It gave me a funny feeling, that's all.” She once more looked behind her at the dark timber. The forest remained mute and still.

Johnny laughed at her. “You're imagining all that,” he said. He walked on ahead of her.

She hurried to catch up with him.

The eyes shifted, following the boy and girl. The eyes were unblinking as they watched the pair.

Some primal fear touched Jackie with a damp hand. She could not explain the sudden fear, knew only that it was very real. Something moved from within the dark woods. Whatever was in there was pacing the boy and girl as they walked. Leaves rustled softly and a hissing sound reached them.

“Johnny!”

“I heard it. But what is it?” Johnny had stopped and was looking into the darkness of the forest. Neither boy nor girl could see anything.

A very foul odor slithered out of the darkness, touching the brother and sister. Fear touched them both, causing young hearts to pound and palms of hands to turn sour with fear-sweat.

“Listen!” Johnny whispered, his voice shaky and breaking as dread filled him.

A shadow fell across the old weed-filled path. Jackie turned toward the darkness and began screaming.

* * *

The painted-on eyes of the old rocking horse glowed in the musty, cobwebbed-filled attic. Amid the boxes and trunks and old furniture, its painted-on grin changed into the very essence of evil. Slowly, almost painfully, the wooden horse began to rock back and forth. It creaked and groaned on its curved runners. The dust-filled tail began to twitch with life. Faster and faster it rocked, kicking up pockets of dirt in the dark attic. The wooden hobbyhorse whinnied softly, just loud enough to be heard past the littered confines of its self-imposed corral.

But its cry could be clearly heard in the depths of the dark forest. Shadowy forms began to move as silently as the walk of death. They glided effortlessly through the tangle of vegetation, moving toward the Bowers home.

* * *

“Jackie!” Lucas said, raising his voice to be heard above the girl's screaming. “
Jackie!”
He grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her. “Now calm down, girl—what happened?”

“Something's in there!” she said, pointing into the murky shadows of the timber. “It's been following us. It stinks and it hisses.”

“Now, kids,” Lucas said, fighting to hide his smile and hoping he was keeping doubt from his voice. “Just calm down. Both of you. You're letting your imaginations run wild.”

“She's telling the truth,” Johnny defended his sister. “I heard it, too, Dad.”

Lucas shifted his gaze to the boy. He knew the kids were not story-tellers. They had been raised to tell the truth; lying got them spankings while the truth meant a less severe punishment, regardless of the minor offenses.

“I thought she was just imagining it, too,” the boy said. “But then I heard it and smelled it myself.”

Gripping his sturdy new walking stick, Lucas didn't know whether to laugh it off or take them at their word. He decided on the latter. “Go on back to the house, both of you. Yell out when you get to the clearing. Tell your mother I'm going into the woods. Now take off.”

The kids needed no further urgings. They cut out at a flat run. Lucas watched them, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He listened until he heard them shout that they were clear. Then he turned to the dark forest.

He stepped into the bewildering wall of tangle. Making his way cautiously, looking for snakes—the sound could have been a rattlesnake—he walked into the silent humid forest.

Humid,
that word came to him. The forest should be cool, not humid. This wasn't swampland, this was rolling hill country. These same woods had been cool when he was a boy. He remembered when his father had taken him walking through these same woods. Birds had sung then—but not now. There had been wild flowers growing in profusion—but not now. The forest had smelled
alive
then—but not now. Now it smelled dank and . . . and unfriendly. Hostile. And he could not recall all this mad tangle of vines and underbrush.

He walked deeper into the silence. He experienced the uncomfortable sensation of time slowing, almost stopping. But why? he questioned his mind. Why should I feel that?

Impossible.

But the feeling of being an alien in a strange new world—a very unfriendly world, at that—would not leave him.

Silly!
he mentally chastised himself. Don't be silly, Lucas.

He thought he heard a shout behind him, but it was very faint, as if, the disturbing thought came to him, nothing human could penetrate into this wall of stillness.

“Lucas,” he muttered. “Now
you're
letting
your
imagination run unchecked. “Cool it, old man,” he cautioned. “Just cool it.”

Ground creepers clutched at his ankles, seemingly in a deliberate gesture to trip him. Irritated at that thought, he kicked them away. Snakelike vines dangled and seemed to move like reptiles, tickling his face as he walked deeper. He brushed them away. They returned to dance lightly at the back of his neck.

He stopped, listening. For what, he didn't know. Then he heard it.

It.

A low sound. Not a growl from an animal. Not a human moan or groan; but more like an . . . an unearthly sound. He listened more intently. There it was again. No doubting that. He tried to locate the direction. To his left. He had entered the north edge of the woods, and had been working his way north by northwest. Keep that in mind, he thought, planting direction and landmarks in his brain. It's been a long time since you had any dealings with the outdoors, and these woods run for miles without a break. Awfully easy for a city fellow to get lost in.

Then the strange sound seemed closer, more distinct, more west than north. He headed for the source.

What sounded strangely like laughter, taunting laughter, drifted softly but menacingly through the thickness of nature's tangle.

Laughter? Out here?

He heard the faint sounds of a horse whinnying. Lucas spun around as a branch broke behind him. He caught movement to his right. Sudden but furtive motion.

“Who is it?” he called, trying to keep the edge of panic from his voice. “Come on out. What are you doing on this property?”

Jeering laughter was the reply.

The sound of galloping hooves came to him. Coming closer.

Out here? In the thick woods? A horse galloping? Impossible.

But the sound was real.

There was something moving in the brush. Something moving all around him, encircling him. People rushing toward him. He guessed they were people—what else could they be? Jesus Christ! what the hell was going on. Lucas whirled around, trying to bring the elusive shapes into clear focus. He could not. He tried to make some sense of what was happening: the who and what and why of it all. Nothing made any sense. Nothing at all.

Something screamed at him. He swung the heavy walking stick with all his strength—which under the circumstances was considerable—and felt it strike a target. He heard a scream of raw pain.

Lucas's head suddenly exploded in agony. He was pitched into blackness. Falling, falling—would it never end? Would . . .

* * *

“Easy, old son,” Jim's voice reached him, traveling through a black void that seemed worlds away. “You've had a hell of a knock on the noggin.”

Lucas opened his eyes. His head hurt and he could not bring the face into focus. He blinked his eyes and slowly the faces in front of him melted into one face. Jim Dooley. Lucas shifted his eyes and saw Deputy Burt Simmons towering over everybody. A state trooper stood to the deputy's right, Tracy and the kids to his left.

“What in the hell happened to me?” Lucas asked, his voice croaking out of his throat, pushing painfully past his lips. His upper right arm hurt, up close to the shoulder.

“That's what we'd like for you to tell us,” the state trooper said.

Lucas started to sit up, but Jim's hand was on his chest. Lucas pushed the hand away. “No,” he said, “I don't feel dizzy or sick. I just want to sit up.” He did, and felt better for it. He put his hand to the back of his head and gingerly fingered the knot there. He could feel no stickiness under his fingers. When he looked at his fingertips, he could see no evidence of blood.

“Let me call for an ambulance,” Tracy said.

“Take an hour to get here,” Jim said.

“No,” Lucas said. “Not just yet. If I don't feel better in a couple of hours, we'll drive into Rome and go to a hospital. Just let me sit here for a few minutes and collect my thoughts.” He rubbed his arm. Must have fallen on it when he was hit on the head.

After a few seconds, Lucas gathered his thoughts and told the group what had happened, beginning with Jackie's screaming and the kids' stories. “. . . and just a few seconds after I saw the people—I don't know whether they were men or women—something smashed into the back of my head and I had this sensation of falling. The next thing I know, I'm out here looking up at you people.”

“And
you
hit someone with your stick?” the trooper asked.

“Or some
thing
,” Lucas said. “Yes. I'm sure I did. I felt it strike and heard . . . whatever it was cry out in pain. Where is my stick?” He rubbed his arm. He looked at the trooper. “Why did you place the emphasis on ‘you?' ”

“Why do you want your stick?” the trooper asked.

“Because there might be blood on it from whomever it was I hit. If so, I'd like it typed and cross-matched. I'm AB. See what I'm getting at?”

The trooper smiled. “You're sure a lawyer, all right. We'll do that. I've got the stick and it's got blood on it. And some gray hair. You don't have any gray hair, Mr. Bowers. Not of the length found on the stick. If I had to take a guess, I'd say you ran up on some of those damned survivalist people. Woods are full of them. Most of them are pretty decent people, but some of them are real yo-yos. And they can be dangerous. We've had reports of them practicing in this area. The dangerous ones are paranoid; think the whole world is out to get them. I'll send the stick off to our lab and get back to you.”

“I'd appreciate it,” Lucas replied, rubbing his arm.

“I think the city boy lost hisself in the woods, panicked, and fell down, hit his head. I think he's makin' all this other crap up,” Deputy Simmons said.