Boone Page 11

  And he would find them.

  He looked around. He was sweating.

  He walked out of the living room and out the front door. He stepped onto the porch. He could see the night, the rain, and above each house, no matter how far away, some sickening, twisted revolving television, rotating over each abode like some strange abstract spaceship.

  He had only gotten started, but he could see them, emitting light, emitting noise, and they were easy to locate. There were hundreds of them. Thousands. It would take him all night and into the morning. But he would do it. He had no choice.

  Boone would kill them all.

  ~

  Miles came out onto the porch, paying no attention to the woman in the wicker chair. The rain made a noisome sleet of water dripping on the steps.

  Something happened in the time he’d seen Boone, driving out here to the hospital, and now standing on the porch of the asylum. He couldn’t pinpoint what exactly, but a shift had taken place. He was in a daze. The Miles he’d been back at Boone’s house was not the same person standing here now.

  Several teenagers were alive in the juvenile wing, a few children. There was a drowned girl in a pool of rainwater just to his left.

  Why the kids had been spared, Miles didn’t know. It was hard to imagine Boone sparing anyone, but there were survivors here.

  He’d found several patients in their beds, heavily medicated. He would have to call someone, but his thoughts were not in order.

  He simply stood staring at the rain.

  The Boone Trail, he thought. Here, in Booneland, where all your dreams come true, and all your fears come alive.

  He was on some dark carnival ride, moving through a labyrinth of twisted passages, detours. In it, he could hear the sound of screaming. He saw an axe on the wall, a whirlwind of silver blurs.

  There was a young girl, maybe fifteen, with her arms outstretched on either side of her, under a nearby elm tree, her face turned toward the sky, smiling. Miles wondered if she was on medication.

  No, he answered himself. She’s here. Safe in Booneland.

  He looked around him, thinking about the hospital. Years ago, they’d been called sanitariums, asylums. Boone, he realized, would refer to it the same way. It had never been a hospital to Boone.

  Wally would find out about the patients and what had happened here. For now, Miles had a mission of his own. His own light was beginning to shine here, the reason for his existence. He was on a pilgrimage, too, he realized. To know and understand, to love and protect Boone and become a part of history.

  In Booneland, where all your dreams come true.

  Miles hurried down the porch steps, forgetting about the patients, the storm, the slaughter. He got in the car and drove away, following a different trail.

  ~

  From the moment Boone first stepped off the porch and into the rain, the real squawking began. He could hear it all over town. All the houses along the way, hovering over them, were the same twirling, old-fashioned television sets he’d just demolished. Each one showed a different picture, what was happening inside the house.

  Or so it seemed.

  But there was one he could see from afar that looked familiar. It was above the First Presbyterian Church, a couple of miles from where he was standing. The church was a sizable but simple chapel, painted white with black shutters along the windows. There was a weathervane on top and a cupola. Boone could hear a loud congregation from inside, people gathering, the fools, hypocrites, and Pharisees.

  Boone headed in that direction.

  Chapter 8

  Peter Capstone thought things had gotten out of control for Burt and Mira Radcliffe. Members of the First Presbyterian Church for most of their lives, they’d suffered the ill gains of their parents and their parents’ parents, and so on down the line for as long as they’d been in the Grove. They were genuinely good people, Peter thought, but like any good place, the epithets and hate had flown. Stone throwers. They’d been called judgmental by those equally hypocritical.

  The Radcliffes didn’t allow their children to watch rated R movies, or rated PG-13 movies, for that matter, and the kids, Stephen and Veronica, had been made fun of and bullied at Granger Elementary because of it. Veronica, now 11, and Stephen, 8, had been called sissies, pansies, Bible-thumpers, do-gooders, and so on until one or both of them cried in outright humiliation. One boy had called Stephen, Frosty the Snowman, and his sister, Snow White, in reference to their ‘purity.’

  Peter hated it because the Radcliffes were good people.

  It was an ugly situation, and he had, on more than one occasion, stepped in to defend the both of them, or in some cases all four of them. An act that made Peter’s parents proud, but hadn’t won him any favors on the playground.

  Mira’s father had been known to pilfer from the collection plate, and it only stood to reason—according to some in the congregation—that being his daughter she must do the same. Burt’s mother had been promiscuous while raising three kids, prostituting herself out to whatever willing participant offered to pay, even if she did take that money to buy her kids food and clothes. Her husband had left her for a woman half his age and moved to California, and he had been the breadwinner.

  The best thing might’ve been to move out of town, but that hadn’t been an option with Burt’s job as an assistant manager at Simple Pawn, which, many claimed, was filled with more hawked items than the black market. Mira was still working on her degree through Internet courses.

  Much of the Presbyterian community had found plenty to point their fingers at, other than call the rest of the Grove impossible-to-save sinners. There’d been contention in the church, and it had been spreading outward into the community, the schools, and neighborhoods since Miss Jellious Dangle saw David McSweeny put his hand on Kelly Jorgenson’s thigh, a girl half his age. He’d done it while Grayson had been giving the sermon.

  But Peter Capstone, a thirteen year old boy, and only child to Gregory and Anastasia Capstone, knew there was more to it than that. He’d been a young follower of God since he could remember. It had never been a question: the proof of God, let alone his own faith (some people were just born with it), so when he saw Burt and Mira being mistreated, even as an observer and an outsider (the Capstones had moved to the Grove six months ago) he knew it was wrong, and he wanted something done about it. He’d seen Miss Dangle talking to Burt and Mira as though she were their personal judge, casting the heathens and devil worshippers into the fire. She’d seen David McSweeny walk through church trying to corrupt every young girl who attended, using his wolfish leer, which, in this case, was his silver 2014 Jaguar.

  The Capstone’s weren’t Presbyterian. They were non-denominational, but the Grove was small, and like his father said, “We go for the community and worship. Not to judge those attending, and if we do, we should take a good long look in the mirror, Peter.”

  His father had been trying to build tenure in the school systems, and the Grove had offered him a position as a history teacher at Valley River High, which didn’t pay all that well, but had been a no-brainer once they’d visited.

  “They’re using God for their own gain, Dad,” Peter brought to his attention after they’d finished dinner and had been talking about Burt and Mira around the table. “They’re using God to get what they want.”

  “They’re not the only ones, Peter,” his dad told him. “It happens more than you know.”

  “But . . . ” Peter was getting so red and flustered, he didn’t know how to reply. “But that’s so . . . wrong!”

  “Welcome to the twenty-first century,” his dad said, which surprised Peter. It was as if the man didn’t even care.

  “Dad, it’s not fair. The Radcliffe’s are nice people. I’ve talked to them before. I’ve shoveled their walk. I’ve helped watch Stephen.”

  “I know, Peter. I know.”

  “But can’t we do something? Do we have to just sit around and watch it happen? It’s . . . it’s like casting
stones! It’s not accepting, forgiving or anything. That isn’t what Jesus talked about. It’s the exact opposite, and they’re doing it in God’s name!”

  “Good golly, what’s going on in here?” His mother came into the room, and Peter blushed madly. His dad was reading National Geographic.

  “Peter’s just sitting at the right hand of God, wanting to help Burt and Mira.”

  “Oh, they’re nice people,” Anastasia said.

  His dad chuckled. “With a raw deal.” He put down his magazine.

  “Peter, you can’t always jump to conclusions,” he explained. “You have to understand something. Small towns have their own sort of mentality. We come in here, start throwing our weight around, huffing and puffing, and the next thing you know, we’ll be the ones having stones thrown at us. We don’t know the whole story. Maybe Burt and Mira brought it on themselves. Maybe the minister’s corrupt.”

  “I don’t know if I believe any of that,” Peter’s mother said. “It sounds to me like they’ve been wanting to have their place in a church community, and certain members are abusing that privilege. I think that Miss Dangle is the whole problem. She’s like an old war horse.”

  “See, Dad.”

  “Well, what do you want me to do about it?” his father asked, adjusting his glasses.

  “Do something.”

  “Sure. I’ll do something. I’ll go have a little chat with Grayson and everything will be just fine.”

  Surprisingly, Grayson had listened, shown a bit of sympathy, even admitted to falling under the same spell as those so-called ‘stone throwers.’ His answer had been simple. With the storm coming, and a big one, maybe it would be a good idea to hunker down in the church and bring the community together for food and games, worship, and prayer circles. They could get some cots from the surplus store and make a night of it. They could have scripture study, or just play games. They could bring potato salad and burgers or whatever they wanted. It would be a nice way to wait out the storm and come together as a community, show a bit of understanding and acceptance, and start fresh.

  Gregory had been floored, to put it mildly. He stared at Grayson with wide eyes.

  “I wasn’t expecting you to be so understanding,” he’d said.

  “Well, maybe we all have a bit to learn,” Grayson said.

  The gathering was open to all in the community, not just church members, and many had gathered on that Sunday evening to wait out the storm. Many brought food, games, blankets, cots, sleeping bags, lamps, and flashlights. The church was sizable enough, and the guests of honor were Burt, Mira, Stephen, and Veronica, and though Miss Dangle looked upon the entire gathering with disapproval, she’d still decided to show. Most had breathed a heavy, frustrated sigh that she was there at all.

  Vince Laguna had come by as well, the town handyman and reputed drunk, crawling up into the attic to check things out, and making sure the roof was sealed up tight. There was Gerta, Betty, Matilda, Avery, and Zane, the senior widows. There was Chester, Luke, Corey, Hank, and Felix, the senior widowers, and there were plenty of others from the nearby community lending a hand.

  The church was in the lower regions of the valley, west of the Miramac, but it had been built on a high foundation. The main floor was in no particular danger, but the windows along the garden level and the garden area were another story. Vince Laguna made sure the windows were bolted and sealed. There was a backup generator, but the power, for the moment, was fine.

  Vince, after the day’s labors, was nestled in and teaching Peter the finer arts of blackjack. They were using poker chips. It was not sitting well with Miss Dangle, who’d decided crocheting was better suited for the Lord.

  “Minister Grayson, do you see what’s going on over there?” She was an older woman, mid fifties, Peter guessed. She’d conned one of the church members to bring in her old wooden rocking chair from home. She sat with an afghan over her legs, crocheting something pink and yellow, and her curly, iron gray hair sat on top of her head like a bunch of spiky wires. Her face had that scrunched up look of a bulldog. A small dribble of drool waited to descend from her lip, but never quite made it. Peter shuddered just looking at her.

  “Yes, a friendly card game,” Grayson Banks said, nodding and smiling. “Maybe you should join in, Miss Dangle. You could learn something besides crochet.”

  “Why, I . . . This is certainly most reprehensible, Mr. Banks. Most reprehensible.”

  “What’s reprehensible was allowing her inside,” Vince said, under his breath, and Peter burst out laughing.

  Miss Dangle looked at him and frowned. When she turned away, Peter asked Vince, a tall, thin man with receding black hair, why she acted that way.

  “Because she’s a fanatical nut-ball.”

  Peter smiled.

  Vince said this without batting an eye and in the most serious tone he could muster.

  “Mr. Laguna, please,” Banks said, frowning.

  “Sorry, father,” Vince said.

  “It’s minister, not father.” Banks looked just as upset and walked away to check on the others. Vince looked at Peter and winked. “Do you want another card, Petey?”

  “No, I’ll stay.”

  “I’ll take one more.”

  Vince dealt the card. He had seventeen and drew a six of clubs. “Busted. She’s yours, young man. Another?”

  “Sure.”

  Vince was fun and easy to talk to. According to his mother, he drank a lot, and didn’t have a girlfriend, but he did minor repair and electrical work around the community. Peter didn’t care about any of that. The man, even if he was a boozehound, was one of the friendliest guys he’d ever met. He treated Peter like a man, an equal, and he liked that. Vince seemed to have taken to Peter in the same way as well. Even his dad and mom were making friendly conversations with Burt and Mira and playing Yahtzee with Veronica and Stephen. Peter was glad to have this time with Vince. Sometimes a boy managed to bond with an adult, if not for any other reason than because they were of the same ilk. Despite the storm, and the reprehensible Miss Dangle, Peter was glad he’d come.

  Vince had slipped a flask into his backpack. He brought it out now and took a small sip.

  “What is that?”

  “Hair of the dog,” Vince said. “Or in layman’s terms, bourbon.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I’m not sure, to be perfectly honest.”

  “Can I have a drink?”

  Vince raised his eyebrows. He looked over to where Gregory and Anastasia were playing with Stephen and Veronica. He turned back to Peter. “If I gave you a drink, that would be the end of the line for me. No more blackjack. You’re mom and dad would kill me. Maybe later, when they’re in bed.”

  Peter grinned to himself. “I’ve heard you like to drink,” he said, and was surprised and slightly ashamed by how easily this slipped out.

  “All over town already, huh?”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean . . . ”

  “It’s okay, Peter. You’re a young, curious man, and I’m not gonna lie to you, but to be honest, I probably shouldn’t be drinking in front of you, either. Drinking in church, no less, and teaching a kid poker. Straight to one of the nine gates of Dante’s hell, or layers, or rings, or whatever the hell they’re called.”

  “How come you don’t have a wife?”

  “Who says I don’t?”

  “Everyone in town.”

  “Well, I guess that settles it. It must be true.” He winked and smiled at Peter. “Another game?”

  “Sure.”

  Vince dealt. Peter looked at his cards.

  “What do you want, young stallion?” Vince asked.

  “Hit me up with a rubber mallet, good sir.”

  Vince burst out laughing. It was the first time Peter heard him laugh. His mother and father looked his way, and he blushed, looking at his cards. A jack of spades, and a three of hearts. Vince hit him again. A seven of spades.

  “I’ll stay,” he said.
<
br />   “Staying with seven. Dealer takes one. A two of hearts. Dealer takes another. Jack. Bust.”

  “That’s the devil’s work.”

  “What’s that, Miss Two-face?” Vince said.

  “It’s Dangle, you know very well,” Miss Dangle said.

  “Dingle-dangle?”

  “Just Dangle,” she said, glaring.

  Peter hid his grin behind his cards.

  “Haven’t you got anything better to do,” Vince said, “than to harass people all night? It’s a harmless game. What’s the big deal? ‘Exalt yourself and you will be humbled. Humble yourself and you will be exalted.’”

  This stuffed Miss Dangle right into the box she’d created for herself, and for a second, she opened and closed her mouth, not knowing what to say.

  “How dare you talk to me like that?”

  “Like what?”

  “The way you’re talking.”

  “How is that?”

  “Ughh!”

  She stormed off, but Peter had a feeling she’d be back. He was witnessing something he’d never seen before, even from his dad and mom. Vince was dismantling her in a fashion that seemed to come second nature, and using scripture on top of it. Peter looked at Vince with nothing short of admiration.

  “What did it?” he asked.

  Vince looked up. “Excuse me, squire?”

  “I mean,” he said, keeping his voice low so only the two of them could hear. “What did it? Why do you . . . you know?”

  Vince raised his brown eyes, slightly red. He could hold it well. “Drink?”

  Peter nodded and felt a flush rise to his cheeks.

  “You can say it, Peter. It’s no big secret.”

  “Drink.”

  “Sure, there’s a reason for everything, isn’t there?”

  “I’m sorry, Vince. I . . . I just . . . ”

  “What?”

  “Well,” he said. “I . . . think you’re about the coolest guy in the Grove. You just . . . I don’t know. I like you. And I hate hearing people say stuff, and I don’t like to see you hurtin’ yourself.”