The Tea Party - A Novel of Horror (11 page)

“Funny,” Bud said at last, trying to keep his eyes away from the blood-stained arm that had slipped from under the sheet. He reached out, tucked it back in, and wiped his hands on his knees.

“What is?” the man asked, then introduced himself and asked the question again.

“Nothing. Nothing really. It’s just been a funny week.”

“I know,” Davermain said eagerly. “As a matter of fact, there was this weird little guy, called himself Parrish, he—”

“Parrish?” Bud said. “You know Eban Parrish?”

“In a way,” said Clark, almost shrugging.

Liz groaned, her head beginning to drift from side to side.

“He is funny, a little,” Bud ventured in a whisper.

“I could tell that.”

“Came up to me and my lady on Monday, said he had a client who wanted to buy out my store.” He shook his head at the wonder of it all. “Weird, y’know? Wouldn’t say anything but made me an offer that almost blew my mind. Christ, I couldn’t make that much bread in fifteen years.”

Clark asked if he were taking the offer.

“Are you kidding? Leave Deerford? No way, Mr. Davermain. No way in hell. This is where I want to spend the rest of my life.”

FOUR

1

Keith had changed from his coveralls to his jeans, had taken his ten-speed from the garage, and was gone before Davermain drove up in his Mercedes. He didn’t want to see this guy, didn’t want to stick around so that his dumb sister could boss him when Mom was gone. There were important things to do, things Heather would never understand as long as she lived. All she cared about was talking about boys and standing in front of the mirror and combing her stupid hair. She was okay, he supposed, but boy was she dumb.

He rode to the end of the block, bounced up over the curb and onto a narrow bike trail that led across the pasture stretching behind Meadow View. In the distance, almost at the near horizon, he could see the darkening farmhouse, barn, and silo that belonged to the man who had sold Meadow View’s land. A barbed wire fence marked the boundary, and when he reached it he swerved right toward a narrow stand of trees.

The Gang was already there, waving as he skidded up and leapt from the saddle, letting the bike tip slowly over.

“Mohawks,” he said as he dropped cross-legged to the ground.

“Mohawks,” said Dirk Snow, the skinniest kid in the world with the most hair Keith had ever seen.

“Mohawks,” muttered Artie Mancuso, plucking at grass and dropping it on his fat belly. This was a guy Keith knew he had to watch.

“Yeah, Mohawks,” said Ian Backster eagerly. At nine, he was the youngest member of the Gang, the only one with glasses, and the only one who sunburned like a lobster instead of tanning like a human being.

“Gotta plan,” Dirk said, stretching out on the ground, his chin on the backs of his hands.

“Who cares,” Artie grumbled, and plucked more grass.

“Oh shut up,” Keith said. “What’s the plan?”

“Well, there’s two, really, and man, are they both excellent. The first, see, is that we leave the bikes here and go on back, get into Sitter’s house and—”

“No,” Artie said, thick lips pursed in derision. “That’s dumb. I mean, that’s really dumb. Really dumb. I mean, who the hell cares about that crazy old fart, right?”

Dirk shrugged the bones that passed for his shoulders. “Okay, then why don’t we go to Winterrest and break a few windows?”

“All
right,”
Artie exclaimed. “Now you’re talkin.”

“No!” Ian said. “No, we can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“ ‘Cause it isn’t right, that’s why. Tell him, Keith. Tell him it isn’t right.”

Keith rubbed the back of his head patiently while Artie laughed and Dirk whistled shrilly. When they were quiet again, he looked to Ian and wondered how many times he was going to have to explain this before the runt understood—that the Mohawk Gang had been formed to do a lot of good things around town so people would smile at them when they rode by, pat their heads, and say good things to their mothers. Like the time they wasted a whole Saturday helping to paint the Depot, or the time they mowed the church lawn for nothing, or the time they went around taking branches off the streets after a windstorm last fall. Good stuff, that made people like them.

Then, when they really wanted to have fun, no one would believe that the Mohawk Gang had done it.

He had seen it on TV; it worked there, and it was working here. No one, but no one believed they had painted the Shade Tree windows red last Halloween, or let the air out of the ambulance tires in back of the Depot, or threw enough cherry bombs on top of creepy Parrish’s office roof last month to start a small fire that had the whole town running around like it was at war or something.

No one believed it because they were the Mohawks.

Ian was a new member, and when Keith had finished he shook his head sadly. “I don’t know, Keith. It isn’t right. My father would kill me.”

“He won’t find out, stupid,” Artie sneered.

“I’m not stupid.”

“The only way your old man will find out is if you tell him, stupid.”

“I’m not stupid!”

Artie pushed his bulk up until he was kneeling; Ian was standing with his fists at his sides.

“Take it back,” the boy said, the sun reflecting red in the lenses of his glasses. “Take it back.”

Artie sniffed and grinned. “Make me.”

“Oh, knock it off, huh?” Dirk said in disgust. “You guys are sick, you know that? Really stupid.”

“I . . . am . . . not . . . stupid.”

“Aw shit.”

“Shut up!” Keith shouted. “Damnit, you guys, shut up!” They stared at him, shrugged, sat again and waited. It was the heat, he knew. The heat did really weird things to people, made them fight all the time, and this time the heat had lasted nearly all week, making you feel like you lived in an oven. Maybe he should’ve stayed home like Mom told him to. “It’s a great idea, Dirk,” he said with quiet enthusiasm. “Really great. But I can’t do it.”

“See?” Ian said.

“Why not?” Artie challenged. “Why not, huh?” Then he pointed. “I get it! Your momma’s not home, right? You gotta be in by dark. You gotta be babysat by your fairy sister!”

Ian couldn’t understand why that was such a big deal, but when Keith, looking sour and angry, didn’t deny it, Artie and Dirk started hooting, rolling on the ground, pulling at the grass, and laughing until their faces turned red.

Keith took it as long as he could, staring at the ground and at the fists on his knees. Then he jumped up with a shout, a shout so loud the others fell immediately silent and saw him standing angrily over them.

Dirk instantly looked shame-faced, but Artie only said, “Uh oh, the chief’s ticked, men,” and stood up, his attitude a dare that Keith desparately wanted to take. He didn’t. He only met the fat boy’s gaze as long as he could before he was chilled by disgust, shook his head, and walked slowly to his bike. This wasn’t fun; the heat was making them all crazy.

“Hey, where ya goin?” Ian called.

“He’s goin home to momma,” Artie explained loudly, shaking off Dirk’s restraining hand. “He’s goin home ‘cause he’s a little pissant, ‘cause he’s chicken.”

Keith froze, his hands already out to grab the handlebars.

“Cluck,” Dirk said softly.

This, Ian understood. “Cluck,” he said gleefully.

Keith turned around. “I am not chicken.”

“Pissant,” Artie said. “Pissant chickenshit.”

“I said I wasn’t,” he insisted, and was ashamed to feel a stinging behind his eyes.

“Okay, then,” Artie said, “I call for a torture.”

Ian’s eyes widened; he remembered the torture he had to go through to become part of the Gang, and he knew that calling for one now meant that Artie wanted to be chief instead of Keith. He hoped they wouldn’t make him try to take something from the Mogas station like he had to—god, Mr. Hallman was a giant, hated kids, and had almost caught him. God, he hoped they wouldn’t make him do that.

Dirk stood beside Artie. “You heard. A torture, Keith. You gonna do it?”

It wasn’t fair. He had started the Gang; it was his idea and they were having a great time. Now that fat slimeball was trying to take it all away. “Sure,” he said as calmly as he could. “Sure, why not?”

“What’s it gonna be?” Ian asked, and Artie said without a moment’s hesitation, “Winterrest.”

Keith didn’t blink.

Artie studiously examined the field, the horizon, then turned his head slowly and grinned mirthlessly at Keith. “You gotta go to Winterrest and bring back something that proves you were there. And you gotta go alone. And you gotta go now.”

Dirk clapped his hands, Ian followed though doubtfully, and Keith knew he was trapped. When he didn’t respond right away, Dirk said, “Cluck,” and Ian yelped, “Cluck-cluck,” and he glared at Artie, sending him a clear warning that as soon as this was over he was going to pay, and pay good.

Artie only smiled. “Cluck,” he said. “We’ll be waiting.”

Keith squared his shoulders and mounted his ten-speed. He rode off with the guys cheering behind him, but he didn’t look back. Winterrest was off limits, and Winterrest was spooky, and if he ever got out of this alive he was going to kick somebody’s ass all the way to the ocean.

He didn’t stop until he had reached Meadow View’s pillars on the highway.

There was no traffic.

The sun was nearing the horizon.

His foot tapped nervously against the pedal, and he held onto the pillar to keep his balance on the bike. On his left shoulder a miniature version of himself paced up and down, demanding that he either get on with it, or go back and admit that he was really pissant chickenshit, just like Artie said. In any case, he had better not be caught here on his own or his mother would kill him.

“It’s scary,” he whispered as a painted van shot past.

Little keith strutted up and down his shoulder, snapping his fingers impatiently.

“Scary.”

‘course it is, stupid, that’s half the fun

A glance over his shoulder. That dumb German shepherd in the ranch house was barking at a crow picking at garbage on the curb, and someone hit a softball a good half a mile from the sound of the crack and the shouts of the players.

“It’s empty,” he said, stroking the shoulder.

that’s right

“Nobody can chase me off.”

right

He could be there in ten minutes, take a look around, come back before they knew it. He would bring the guys what they wanted and they’d never challenge him again.

right again

He smiled, looked around and saw nobody watching.

cluck, cluck, keith, you’re gonna lay an egg

“Shut up,” he muttered, pushed off the pillar, and rode north, his legs pumping as fast as they could, his body leaning over the handlebars as his eyes squinted in the wind. The little keith on his shoulder vanished the moment he began to move, but he didn’t need his buddy now because now he was flying—past the traffic light with a guilty look to his right down Deerford Road to be sure there was no one there who could recognize him and tell his mother, seeing Piper Cleary on the side of the road and praying the old hound dog man hadn’t seen who it was; past Sitter McMahon who snapped out his arm and smiled, while Keith flashed him a grin and hoped he was as crazy as all the kids said he was. If he was, Keith was safe, because his mother would never believe a crazy man who said he’d seen her son, just flying and flying down the road to Winterrest.

Past Hollow Lane, where Mr. Muir lived, a very weird man who hardly ever showed himself in town, and according to Heather built houses made of glass for rich people and crooks who paid him in diamonds.

One of these days he’d go down to the Hollow and see what his place was like. Mr. Muir had a horse that Heather went to see every time she got the chance, but the only other thing that he really knew about him beside the fact that he was an okay guy was that whenever he was walking with his mother in town, and Mr. Muir came by, his mother would grab his hand and nearly squeeze the bones out.

His mother, he thought as he checked the road and crossed it in a blur, was going to marry again. He knew that and wasn’t sure what he thought about it. But his mother better ask him first, or there was gonna be trouble.

The trees ended then and the stone wall began, and he slowed down and stared at the low grass on the other side, and at the house that was set down, plunk in the middle, its windows red from the red setting sun, the greystone almost purple. There were no trees except around the wall’s outer edges. There were no cars, no lights, nothing at all but the house.

He stopped at the gate, leaned the bike against the wall, and gnawed at his lower lip.

cluck, cluck

He glared at his shoulder; little keith was smirking.

cluck, cluck; cluck, cluck

He put his hands on the wall, took a deep breath, and grunted as he clambered over.

2

Sitter watched the boy pedal furiously past him, and fifteen minutes later saw the boy’s mother ride into town in a big white car driven by a stranger. He tugged at his beard, pulled at the hair that barely reached his ear. That’s three not good things that happened in the past two hours, and he didn’t know what to do about any of them.

First there was Piper Cleary walking by on the other side of the road, heading for the Depot, and he didn’t even call a hello, and that meant trouble though he couldn’t figure out why.

Then the little boy whose mother was a lawyer who had helped him keep his chair when some of the development people wanted him to go away. The little boy was going to Winterrest. He didn’t know how he knew that; he just did. And that was bad. Later, maybe, it would be all right. But now it was bad.

Then the mother herself, riding toward town with a stranger in a white car.

A stranger, Piper, the little boy. Sitter was confused. He guessed he should tell Mr. Parrish what was going on, but Mr. Parrish had told him that he was never ever if he wanted to keep his job to call him or go to him or do anything to get in touch until Mr. Parrish himself came around. Once a week. After nightfall.