With a blighted touch, p.11
With a Blighted Touch, page 11
The radio squawked. “Sheriff, this is Givens. Do you copy? Over.”
Owens picked up the mic. “Go ahead, Regina.”
“Just thought you’d wanna know. The autopsy on Laura just came back. The ME also sent over a prelim on Eleanor Davenport.”
“That was quick. All right, we’re heading that way. Anything I should know about?” Sheriff Owens backed into the street.
“Yeah, but I don’t know if you’re gonna believe it or not.”
Agent Mack looked at him with a frown.
“Come on, Regina. I’m not in the mood,” the sheriff said.
“Sure, sorry. Laura’s cause of death was exsanguination, just like we suspected, but there was less than five ounces of blood left at the scene. Now here’s where it gets even freakier. There are three different sets of child-sized bite marks all over the body. Although how or why kids could do that much damage—”
“Anything else?”
“Yeah, there were traces of blight in the wounds.”
Sheriff Owens shot a sideways look at Agent Mack. “What? There were a few small patches of it on the far side of that field, but none anywhere around the crime scene.”
“We found those kids’ footprints leading back and forth across the field,” Regina continued after a burst of static. “Maybe they walked through those patches on the way to the road?”
Owens sighed. “Yeah, maybe… Okay, I’ll look at it when I get there.”
“One more thing,” she said. “The prelim on Eleanor Davenport? Exsanguination and a few ounces of blood at the scene. And the doc says there’s traces of blight in her wounds too.”
“Okay, thanks.” Sheriff Owens replaced the mic and shook his head. “This is getting stranger by the day.”
“Fishy central,” Agent Mack said as he watched houses and trees go by through the window.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Kit set his guitar aside. He had been playing for an hour. Blues mostly. He needed something to take his mind off the argument with Albert earlier in the evening. As usual, it had revolved around his life choices.
“Boy, you’ve got to land somewhere. You can’t keep running the roads, hoping to make a living with that guitar. You need to get a real job. Look at you. In your forties now and nothing to show for it. People your age should have good jobs, a house, money in the bank. You need to make something of yourself.”
Kit was well acquainted with the deficiencies of his lifestyle when compared to his peers, but he had never cared what other people thought. He had never been one for chasing dollars and climbing ladders. He enjoyed seeing new places and meeting new people, and there was nothing in the world that could compare to standing on stage, the music flowing out of him, knowing that the audience was cheering and clapping and dancing because of something he was creating.
He would take that over a regular job any time. The nine-to-five routine just wasn’t for him. George Thorogood had it right—find a band and some good songs and party every night. Of course, the all-night partying had vanished once Kit had hit his thirties, and his bad habits had kept him from ever being able to take the next step musically. If he didn’t get his life straightened out, he was looking at more of the same. Near misses and squandered opportunities. And he certainly wasn’t getting any younger.
It sickened him to know that in a roundabout way, Albert was right at least partially. Kit had no place to settle down. He had no prospects for improving his future. He was still living hand to mouth and making no progress. Kit was just existing—no plan and no clue how to get one.
“Not everyone is cut from the same cloth,” he had told his father. “Everybody follows a different path.”
Albert, his breath like an ashtray, had brushed Kit off. “That’s an excuse, boy, for not manning up and taking responsibility.”
“No, it isn’t! Just because you spent your life working at the factory and being part of the union doesn’t mean that everyone has to do that.”
“You trying to imply that factory work is beneath you?”
“I didn’t say that. Don’t put words in my mouth.”
“But that’s what you meant, ain’t it?”
Kit sighed. “No, that’s not what I meant! I’m not denigrating what you did for a living or anyone else for that matter. I’m just saying there are all kinds of vocations. You did your job at the factory. Great! Other people work as nurses or salesmen or teachers. Those jobs are important. Necessary. Being a teacher isn’t a lesser kind of work just because it’s not in a factory.”
Albert wagged his finger. “But you’re not a teacher, are you, boy? Or a salesman or a nurse. No, you traipse through life under the delusion that you can just play music and people will support you.”
“That’s not true. You know—”
“What I know is that you ain’t amounted to nothing in forty-two years because you won’t get your head out of the damned clouds.”
It had gone on like that for another fifteen minutes before Kit had stormed upstairs, just like when he was a kid. At least now Albert couldn’t charge up the steps and knock him around.
After putting his guitar in its case, Kit unrolled the plastic bag and upended it. A pitiful flurry of white powder slipped out. This was it, his last snort. Maybe this was a good time to quit. He wasn’t addicted, not in the sense that he had to have it all the time. He felt he could quit whenever he wanted.
This was his first since the drive up here. That had been…eight days ago? Over a week. He hadn’t had any withdrawal symptoms, so he knew he wasn’t hooked. If he really wanted to turn his life around, this was a great way to start. He could certainly use the money he would save. As he inhaled what little remained, he made the decision that this would indeed be his last.
With the window open and crickets serenading him, he drifted off to sleep, feeling good about his decision.
Kit bolted upright in bed. Had he heard something, or had he been dreaming?
He strained his ears. The nocturnal insects were quiet. That was odd. He glanced at the alarm clock. The green numerals read 3:32 a.m. He was about to lie back down when he heard it.
Tap, tap, tap.
It was faint. No wonder he had mistaken it for a dream. Or is it the coke? He tilted his head, trying to identify the sound.
Tap, tap, tap.
It was coming from downstairs. Was his father up? Did he need something? Albert did well most of the time considering he had COPD, high blood pressure, and heart failure. He was good about taking his meds, although he still smoked too much. Could he have fallen? Was he trying to get Kit’s attention?
Throwing the sheet back, Kit padded across the carpet. He had left his door open since it helped pull air in through the window. He paused on the landing and listened. The house was quiet.
He crept downstairs and walked to his father’s room. Cracking the door, he peeked in. Albert snored gently. Maybe it was a water pipe? Could the refrigerator be getting ready to go out? Kit had no idea how old it was.
Tap, tap, tap.
Kit almost came out of his skin. Heart racing, he closed Albert’s door and looked down the hallway. The sound came from the living room.
What’s in there that could be causing it?
He stepped into the living room. The streetlight at the end of the driveway cast a silvery aura through the drawn curtains, emphasizing the shadows that lurked throughout the room. He looked for anything that might be the source of the noise.
Tap, tap, tap.
Once again, he jumped. It was coming from the front door. Someone was knocking.
Who the hell?
He pressed his face to the wood and peered through the window.
The porch was empty, but there was a peculiar odor. Sour. Rancid. Adrenaline picked up speed in his system. It was what he had smelled out on County Road 501—the stink of the blight.
Tap, tap, tap.
Kit leaped back from the door as if he had been electrocuted. He clamped his hand over his mouth.
The sound came from the lower half of the door, and he thought he heard a soft voice.
What did it say? Something about…coming out?
The doorknob rattled.
A shadow moved on the wall opposite the front windows.
Kit watched, petrified.
Silhouetted by the streetlight, a small figure moved in front of the windows, the shadow mimicking its movement on the wall. The figure stopped. The head came close to the glass. Two hands cupped the sides of the face. The intruder was blocking out the light to get a better look inside.
A chill scurried down Kit’s spine. He watched the small form against the window. It was searching for something. For someone.
His heart galloped like a racehorse. Why was he imagining that the person was searching for him? That made no sense. Who would come looking for him at this hour? And why was he still smelling blight?
Tap, tap, tap.
The knob twisted from side to side.
Then he heard the voice again. High, singsong but garbled, as if the speaker had a mouthful of ice cubes.
“Come out and play.”
Kit’s blood froze.
The figure in the window hadn’t moved. Kit knew somehow that it was imperative he was not seen. He flattened himself against the wall to the right of the front window behind the door. The smell was getting stronger. Kit could almost taste its foulness coating his throat. He peeked out the window in the door again. The primal part of his brain bellowed for him to flee, but he looked down instead.
A little girl stood in front of the door.
Tap, tap, tap.
The soft rapping sounded like hammer blows since he was so close to the door. Sweat broke out on his back and neck.
The little girl raised her head slowly and looked straight at him. “Come out and play.”
Glistening round eyeballs stared up at Kit from lidless sockets. In the ethereal illumination from the streetlight, he could see that her hair was long but patchy. Wispy. Her flesh had an albino aspect and was mottled with gray blemishes. Her skin reminded him of white sponge cake or moldy ranch dressing.
BANG, BANG, BANG!
“Come out and play!”
He managed to hold back a scream as he tore his eyes away from the thing on the doorstep. Leaning against the wall, Kit held both hands over his mouth as if his breath might try to escape. Feet padded across the porch to the front window.
A second shadow moved across the living room wall. The little girl tried to peer through the window as the other figure was still doing.
Kit slid down the wall behind the club chair. It was easy to do since his legs had turned to cooked spaghetti. He needed to make himself as small as possible.
The hazy gray forms crept to the end of the porch and returned. The doorknob moved back and forth once more. Then nothing.
Silence thundered in his ears. The smell dissipated. Kit waited, the sweat drying on his skin. His heart felt like it would burst. He looked around the shadow-filled living room, down the hall—
The back door! Jesus, is it unlocked?
Scrambling to his feet, he ran to the kitchen. He threw his weight against the door. He breathed a sigh of relief. The dead bolt was already in place. Kit risked looking through the window. He saw a small shape—smaller than the girl—standing in the backyard.
Two child-sized figures appeared from either side of the house. The little girl and a boy. Both appeared to be dressed in tattered rags.
Have they been in an accident? Maybe they need help. That would explain the ghastly visage he had seen moments before.
The third figure, a toddler, joined the boy and girl. They stood side by side. Almost as one, they turned their heads, looked up at the back of the house, and walked forward.
What are they looking at? Something about the toddler reminded him of the figure he’d seen in the alley across from the Mexican restaurant and he shivered.
All three children moved out of Kit’s line of sight. The smell reappeared. He heard a faint scrabbling against the slate tiles, as if someone were rubbing up against the house. What’re they doing? Why’re they looking—
Kit’s stomach dropped. The hair on his arms stood up. His heart shuddered like a prisoner testing a cell door.
My window! his brain roared. It’s open!
He fled down the hallway and bounded up the stairs to his room.
Something moved outside the window.
He scrambled across the room, grabbed the window casing, slammed it down, and threw the latch to lock it.
The waxen, deformed head of a toddler appeared over the sill like an unholy sunrise.
Kit staggered back against his bed.
The toddler looked through the glass. Bulbous eyes found Kit cowering on the floor. He saw a tiny hand reach up and try to open the window. When it didn’t move, the toddler scowled in a way that made the eyeballs seem to pop out of their sockets, then it disappeared from sight.
Kit couldn’t stop shaking. He refused to take his eyes off the window, although he didn’t know if he could handle seeing that cruel, pallid face again. When nothing happened after several minutes, he scooted backward across the carpet and out the door. On the landing, he hauled himself to his feet and nearly fell down the stairs in his haste. He ran to the kitchen and took a knife from the block on the counter. Only then did he check every window downstairs. He didn’t see any children.
Jesus Christ, could they come down the chimney? They were certainly small enough.
Or up through the basement? What the hell are they? He moaned in terror.
Get a grip, get a grip! No, the chimney was blocked off and had been for years, and he had locked the basement door.
Summoning his courage, Kit double-checked the front door. He peeked out through the door’s window at the tranquil night. He smelled nothing. The crickets had recommenced their night songs.
Kit collapsed in the club chair, trembling, with the knife clutched to his chest. He watched the living room window until exhaustion overtook him, and he slept.
“Get up!”
The voice stabbed through Kit’s sleepy brain like an ice pick to the eye. He blinked. Sunlight streamed into the living room, and Albert stood over him.
“I want you out of here.”
“Huh? What—” Kit mumbled, trying to get his bearings.
What am I doing in the living room? Why am I holding a knife?
The events of the early morning rushed back to him. His eyes widened as he looked from the door to the front window.
“Did you hear me? I said I want you out of this house.” Albert scowled down at him. With the oxygen line running from his nose back behind his ears, Albert looked like his head had been bisected.
“Wh-what? Why?” Kit managed to ask as he sat up. His neck and shoulders ached from sleeping in the uncomfortable chair.
Albert pointed his finger in Kit’s face. “I told you when you showed up that I wasn’t putting up with none of your bullshit! I told you no playing that damn guitar at night. Now I find you down here like this. You lied, boy. You’re still on them drugs.”
“No, I’m not. I-I can explain this,” Kit said as he held out the knife.
Albert sneered. “Oh, this oughta be rich. What were you going to do? Slit my throat while I slept?”
“Of course not! There was… Last night, I heard…” His voice trailed off.
What exactly had he heard? Now, as dust motes drifted in the sunbeams and birds chirped outside, he wasn’t sure. Had he been dreaming? Had that last little bit of coke left him with a parting gift of paranoia? God, he needed a nose full right now.
Albert folded his arms. “Heard what, boy?”
Kit looked at the front door. He remembered standing there. He had heard…somebody knocking. That was it! And when he’d looked through the window to see who it was—
Come out and play.
Sweat broke across Kit’s forehead. His body shook as he relived the terror of those dead eyes looking into his, of the doughy skin and the stench. The toddler at his window. He shivered.
Albert thrust his chin forward. “That’s what I thought. You’re strung out on something. Get the hell out of my house!”
“No!” Kit shouted, louder and harsher than he had intended. He didn’t want to go outside, no matter how cheerful the birds sounded. “No, I’m not on anything!”
“Bullshit! What’s that white junk under your nose? It ain’t powdered sugar. Look at you. You’re going through withdrawal.” Albert sounded almost pleased.
“It wouldn’t be withdrawal if I just took something—which I didn’t! I-I heard someone knocking last night. I came down to check. I got the knife just in case.”
“You didn’t hear nothing ’cept them drugs in your head!”
Kit stared at the door. “There was someone there.”
“Who? The cops again? The TBI? Maybe it was Mrs. Ortega from across the street bringing me one of her casseroles.”
“It was kids,” Kit said in a low, haunted voice.
“Kids? Okay, sure. It might’ve been some kids playing a prank. What were you going to do? Stab them?”
“They…weren’t ordinary kids,” Kit said under his breath.
Albert leaned closer. The smell of cigarette smoke drifted off his clothes. “What did you say?”
Kit shook his head. “Nothing. It doesn’t matter.”
“That’s the first damn thing you’ve said that makes sense.” Albert walked to the front door, unlocked it, and yanked it open.
Kit tensed and gripped the knife tighter.
Morning light flooded in. Albert stared outside for a moment, then turned.
“You’re done here,” Albert said. “I want you out of here by lunchtime today. I’ve had all I’m going to take of your drugs and lies. You understand me, boy?”
Kit didn’t reply.
“I asked you a question, boy.”
