Boone Page 13

  The church had quieted. Only a few lamps were lit. Vince had curled up in a cot and was snoring, but Peter couldn’t get comfortable. There was something about Vince, he thought, the storm, the constant thunder that kept him awake. The picture Vince had shown him of Jasmine was still fresh in his mind. He’d fallen in love with that picture, and he understood what Vince had been talking about, what he’d tried to tell him. Vince believed Jasmine was waiting for him. At least that was the message he got, and he was proving his devotion. Slightly melodramatic to Peter, but maybe that’s exactly what kept Vince going.

  Peter couldn’t help but look at him. It wasn’t that he felt sorry for Vince. Just the opposite. Typecast as the town drunk, but probably the most devoted and caring man he’d ever met. If he ever fell in love, if he ever turned out to be anything, he hoped he’d be like Vince. Not a drinking man, but a man genuinely at peace with who he was and the choices he’d made. That, to Peter, was the definition of solidarity.

  There was a window to his right. The streetlamps and rainy night were visible. The streetlamps were still lit, and for a second they darkened perceptibly. It took a second before Peter realized a shadow had just moved across the window.

  Someone was outside.

  Peter threw the covers off and sat up in the cot. Vince was sound asleep. His mother and father, too. He got up and tiptoed across the floor in his bare feet and pajamas. He took note of each family, some on the pews, some on the stage, most along the sides against the windows.

  The story of Boone had spooked him. There was no denying that. He wondered if some prankster was outside, someone trying to play a joke. After all, no one was calling for help. No one was knocking on the door.

  It could have been anything. A deer, a car driving by.

  But it wasn’t a car, and it wasn’t a deer. He knew that.

  Miss Dangle was still asleep in her rocking chair, a puddle of drool on her shoulder growing wider.

  Thunder rumbled overhead again.

  Peter made his way down the middle aisle and to the rear of the church where the front door was. He always thought it funny that the front door of the church was in the back, and the backdoor in the front.

  “Peter?”

  He turned around. Vince was up on his elbow, looking at him.

  “You all right?”

  “I think someone’s outside,”

  It was awkward, whispering across the church while families slept and the rain poured.

  “What’s that?” Vince asked. He looked disheveled. Peter figured the booze was fogging up his brain.

  He hurried back to where Vince and his parents were. “I think someone’s outside,” he whispered. “I . . . I couldn’t sleep. I thought I saw a shadow. It moved across the window.”

  Vince frowned. “Petey, that could be anything . . . a deer . . . even a car.”

  “I just . . . thought I’d see if someone was trying to get in from the rain.”

  Vince nodded. He yawned and shook his head. “They’d probably knock, Pete. But if it makes you feel any better, I’ll get up and check with you. How’s that?”

  “Thanks, Vince.”

  Vince rubbed his face and stood up. Everyone else was sound asleep.

  “Good Lord, I could use a glass of water. Don’t start drinking, Petey, all right? Promise me that, will ya?”

  Peter couldn’t help but smile. “I promise, Vince.”

  Vince got up and put his shoes on. He seemed out of sorts. “The things I do for you kids,” he said. He was being a good sport, and he smiled to let him know it. “Let’s go see what’s going on, shall we?”

  “Thanks, Vince,” Peter said.

  Without disturbing anyone, Vince and Peter meandered through the church pews. Lightning flashed so bright, it illuminated the entire interior of the church. A quick clap of thunder followed.

  Peter led him to the back of the church and the front door. He paused for a second, then opened it. The rain grew noisome instantly. They looked out into the night, streetlamps lit along Hoboken Street.

  “Hello?” Vince called. “Is anyone there?”

  Nothing. Just the rain.

  “Hello?” he called again.

  Vince looked at Peter. The boy had freckles, a deep patch across his face and nose, a real Howdy Doody sort of face. Maybe he would grow more handsome the older he got, but he was a good kid, trying to do the right thing, and there was nothing wrong with that.

  Vince stepped out onto the porch. “Hello? Is someone there?” He turned and looked at Peter. “You sure you saw someone?”

  “Positive.”

  “Stay here. I’m gonna go make sure.”

  “I’m sorry, Vince.”

  “Hey. Don’t apologize. Better safe than sorry, right? If someone’s out here, you might get your picture in the Gazette. You know, for being such an upstanding citizen of the Grove. Probably give you the keys to the city.”

  Peter beamed at this, but shifted from foot to foot.

  “I think maybe an umbrella,” Vince said.

  Peter looked around and noticed several by the door. The families had come well prepared.

  “You ever seen them umbrellas you can wear on your head?” Vince asked.

  “No,” Peter said.

  “They’re dandies. Like those hats with the propellers on them. You ever seen those?”

  “Only on t.v.”

  “They don’t really work, you know?”

  Peter frowned. “Say what?”

  “They don’t work. You can spin that propeller and spin it, but it doesn’t lift you off the ground.”

  Peter stood staring at Vince, a confused look on his face. “But . . . ”

  “Apparently, not all my jokes hit home.”

  “Oh,” Peter said, finally getting it, “because it’s supposed to make you fly?”

  “That’s what I always thought,” Vince said. “Stickin’ a propeller on there should make you fly. It’s false advertising.”

  “Maybe you just need a bigger propeller,” Peter said.

  “My thoughts exactly,” Vince told him. “Anyway, let me see that.”

  Jokes aside, Vince took the umbrella and opened it, putting it over his head. The rain was loud.

  “Gosh, this storm is something, ain’t it?” Vince said. “There must be several inches of water on the ground already. This is brutal.”

  Peter stood, nodding.

  “What’s going on out here?”

  They turned. It was Miss Dangle, a tired, crusty look on her jowl-filled face.

  “Go back inside, Miss Dangle. Peter thought he saw someone. I’m just checking it out.”

  “At eleven o’clock at night?”

  “Well, people need help at all hours, Miss Dangle. You, of all people, should know that.”

  She grunted and waddled back inside.

  “Hard to believe she’s never been married,” Vince said, grinning. “Ain’t it?”

  “Maybe you could take her out sometime,” Peter said.

  Vince stared at Peter much as Peter stood staring at him moments before. Then he burst out laughing. Peter was standing on the porch, the rain pouring from the gutters in sheets. He had a huge grin on his face.

  “Boy, I didn’t know you had it in you,” Vince said. “You’re a mile of surprises.”

  Peter chuckled. “I think I get it from my dad.”

  “I’d say that’s a safe bet. Wait here. I’ll do a quick search around the church. Hey! I just made a rhyme. ‘Search around the church.’”

  Vince, with the umbrella, hurried down the porch steps and into the rain. Peter stood on the porch and heard Vince calling out: “Hello? Is anyone there?”

  Peter stood waiting on the porch, hopping from one foot to the other, while Vince disappeared around the side of the church.

  “Vince?” he said, and waited. There was no reply. “Vince?” He looked out into the rain. “Vince, are you there? Do you see anyone?”

  But there was only silence. Pet
er turned, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. It was cold on the porch, and he’d been thinking of getting a blanket to wrap around him when he heard the screaming from inside.

  His blood turned to ice.

  “Vince!” he shouted.

  He turned to the doorway, which had been left open, and by the light of several flashlights and burning lamps, he saw people scurrying around the stage. He had no idea what was happening, but he could hear his mother: “Peter! Where’s Peter?”

  “VINCE!” he shouted again, and stepped through the door. The screaming had turned to bedlam. People were scattering, but with all the cots, tables, and pews, they only got in each other’s way.

  Peter turned. Vince came around the side of the church and up the porch steps. His eyes were wide. “What’s going on, Pete?”

  “I . . . I don’t know,” he said, truthfully, and turned back to the church.

  He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. His dad was trying to help his mother. Her leg was stuck on the army cot somehow. Half a dozen people or more were screaming. Several had already been killed. A man with an axe was by the pulpit, and he was swinging it like the hammer of Thor.

  He was huge, with long black hair. His features were intent. He was moving like a machine, a force pulling him along to commit one murder after another.

  “Peter!”

  He turned and saw his dad. He was urging his mother toward him. The man with the axe was swinging in every direction, moving fast. People were stumbling, getting in each other’s way. The man looked like a colossal whirlwind, wielding his axe like some medieval warrior. Blood flew in all directions.

  Miss Dangle purposefully tripped both Mira and Burt in the main aisle, along with their kids, who were screaming. Miss Dangle was on the other side, putting the family between she and the man with the axe. She used her rocking chair to fend him off.

  Vince looked back at him. “Peter, go!”

  He pushed Peter toward the door. Vince moved in and tried to reach his parents, who were trying to climb up and over the pews toward the door.

  But the man was fast. He took out every person on the stage, including Burt and Mira. The children hid under the pews, and Boone was now smashing the rocking chair to get at Miss Dangle. She threw her hands up, crawling back across the floor, screaming the entire time. The man raised the axe and brought it down.

  The shouting, the chaos was a blur to Peter’s mind. The man was on a mission. To Peter’s horror, he was now moving toward his parents.

  It was Boone. He knew that.

  The big man reached out, taking Miss Dangle’s rocking chair, and tossed it aside. Grayson’s body lied face down on the stage, his arm out in front of him.

  The storm continued. A cold wind blew in from outside. Thunder cracked overhead.

  “Please! Dear God!” his father shouted.

  Boone swung the axe into his belly. His dad folded to the floor. Boone took his mother next, but not before she called his name again: “Petey, run!”

  Vince stood in the center aisle and faced Boone. He looked ridiculous with his striped umbrella, the only thing he had to fend off the man.

  Vince turned and looked at Peter, who still stood with the door open, the rainy night beyond: “You gotta run and hide, Petey. Find someplace place. But just get out.”

  “No, Vince!” Peter said, and started to cry. “I can’t . . . I can’t leave you here.”

  “There’s no time to argue, lad.”

  “But what about you?”

  He couldn’t believe it, but the man actually smiled. “You think of one thing for me, okay, Petey?” Vince said.

  Peter nodded.

  “Jasmine of the Sea,” Vince said. “Now run, goddamnit!”

  The tears came. He ran out onto the porch and into the rain. He did not hear anything from inside. He put his hands over his ears, not wanting to hear Vince scream.

  ~

  He didn’t know where to go, and he couldn’t stop crying. The rain was cold, and there was silence all around him.

  Peter ran across the street. He hid behind the bole of a tree and watched the entrance of the church. It yawned like a giant mouth. Everything had happened so fast, he was still trying to comprehend it.

  He shivered against the chill, barefoot, his glasses beaded with moisture.

  Boone emerged, stepping onto the porch. He looked around him, covered in blood, and held the axe in his hands. Boone looked his way, and for a moment, his eyes rested directly on Peter.

  But then Boone turned, looking east, toward downtown. He walked down the steps, moving along the sidewalk, and disappeared in the overhanging trees and shadows.

  Peter waited several minutes before he hurried across the street, up the porch, and into the church. He didn’t want to see what he knew was there, but he didn’t have a choice.

  Vince was on the ground, facedown in a pool of blood. He heard the sound of crying and found Stephen and Veronica, huddling together under the pews. Peter managed to get them and pulled them out. He held them until Stephen calmed down. He took their hands and led them outside.

  “Don’t look,” he told them, as they walked by the bodies.

  Peter grabbed one of the umbrellas by the door and directed them down the steps. He couldn’t stop the tears, and he was surprised to find he was mourning Vince as much as his parents.

  He held onto the kids’ hands and stood on the porch where Bone had been just moments ago. He was standing in bloody footprints.

  “What do we do now?” Veronica asked.

  Peter shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said.

  He closed his eyes and said a silent prayer, but it seemed useless.

  He had two kids, no parents, and no idea what to do.

  ~

  It was growing quieter, but like the asylum, the church had been troubling him since his pilgrimage began.

  The church had been shouting at him like some whistle-blowing train. It had grown worse as the minutes ticked by, voices in the dark, whisperings he couldn’t locate. Other sounds came from all around him, loud, thumping bass, the rattle of a metal frame, the buzz in his ear, like a horde of bumble bees.

  More was coming from downtown, where the land rose to mini-malls, restaurants, and streetlamps. He could hear the shrill of electric guitars, bass, and percussion.

  Boone headed in that direction now.

  Chapter 10

  The Kid was in trouble. He knew that, but there wasn’t a lot he could do about it. Sometimes things just got out of control. You had to move on, no matter how much you hated it.

  Jesse Gabol, The Kid, was in a similar situation. Though it was a name he’d given himself, most people (those at Valley River High anyway) laughed at him for it. It wasn’t as if everyone at school called him The Kid, or that he had many friends to begin with.

  Like most teenagers, Jesse Gabol, at seventeen, felt misunderstood. In a land of entitled, self-absorbed, narcissistic teens, no one bothered to inquire. That was the world for you. He’d settled in quite well, though, or so he thought. So what if he wanted people to call him The Kid? What was so bad about that? So what if he wore leather jackets that came straight out of the fifties, slicked back his hair, cuffed his jeans, and wore white T-shirts? You saw kids dressing like hippies because they wanted to be hippies. They wanted to be part of the peace movement, pretend they’d been the first to hear “Time of the Season” by the Zombies, but you didn’t see the fifties craze. You didn’t see the eighties craze either, probably because no one wanted to wear day-glo fabrics with jelly shoes, and let’s face it, some decades were better left forgotten, but the fifties . . . that was an era where rock and roll was about going to the hop and simple melodies were the groove. Jesse loved that groove. The first time he’d heard Dion and the Belmonts sing “Teenager in Love,” he’d fallen in love. Or how about “Runaround Sue,” or “Runaway,” by Del Shannon, or what about Elvis? There was nothing like it. Jesse wanted to relive it, experience it and go
back in time.

  That was the trouble, because he was a teenager and he was in love. That song just barely made it into the fifties in March of 1959, an oldie but a goody. His old man had given him all his records, including the 45s, and he’d listened to them on the turntable until the needle had worn out. Good sounds, solid sounds, sounds defining another generation altogether, another time and place. It was like a whole ’nother world, and that was good.

  He’d fallen in love with the movies, too, especially James Dean, God rest his soul. Hollywood had stylized the American icons for the silver screen, which was better than the soulless garbage they were churning out these days: movies on an assembly line, Jesse thought, making millions and easily forgotten. That was the trick. No heart and soul, just big budgets and lots of explosions. The American audience was easily entertained.

  But people were still watching James Dean movies. They were still watching Rebel Without a Cause, and East of Eden. They were still watching The Blob, and Attack of the Fifty Foot Woman. Or so he hoped.

  Jesse “The Kid” Gabol was thinking of James Dean now cruising downtown Shepherd’s Grove in the rain. He was not in a Porsche Spyder, of course, but in the 1971 Dodge Challenger his father had helped him restore, a flat black piece of muscle machinery. She was a beauty, sounded beautiful, revved beautifully, and blended into the rainy night like a phantom shadow. It might not be close to James Dean’s Little Bastard, much larger in fact, but it was Jesse’s Black Beauty. James Dean would be proud. It looked like Jaws next to the Spyder, a gas-guzzling road hog, but she was a demon on four mag-wheels. His dad had helped him reupholster it. It had cost plenty, and there was still work to do, but it was a purring beast.

  His grandmother’s inheritance from the lucrative jewelry business had helped out quite a bit. It turned the Charger into a gem. His dad found it used for only a thousand, and it was in decent enough shape. His dad was always on the lookout for used cars, elbows deep in axle grease and alcohol, the reason his mother had left. His dad was a good man, but he stank of booze day and night, and he’d recently lost his job at the auto shop, showing up drunk. Now he spent his days drinking the inheritance and letting Jesse run the house.