He pulled over onto the soft shoulder and said, ‘Stop it!’
‘I won’t!’
The kid yanked at the handcuff again and Sheridan saw the metal strut bend a little more.
Christ, how could any kid do that?
It’s panic, he answered himself. That’s how he can do it.
But none of the others had been able to do it, and many of them had been a lot more terrified than this kid by this stage of the game.
He opened the glove compartment in the center of the dash. He brought out a hypodermic needle. The Turk had given it to him, and cautioned him not to use it unless he absolutely had to.
Drugs, the Turk said (pronouncing it drocks) could demmege the merchandise.
‘See this?’
The kid gave the hypo a glimmering sideways glance and nodded.
‘You want me to use it?’
The kid shook his head at once. Strong or not, he had any kid’s instant terror of the needle, Sheridan was happy to see.
‘That’s very smart. It would put out your lights.’ He paused. He didn’t want to say it — hell, he was a nice guy, really, when he didn’t have his ass in a sling — but he had to. ‘Might even kill you.’
The kid stared at him, lips trembling, cheeks papery with fear.
‘You stop yanking the cuff, I put away the needle. Deal?’
‘Deal,’ the kid whispered.
‘You promise?’
‘Yes.’ The kid lifted his lip, showing white teeth. One of them was spotted with Sheridan’s blood.
‘You promise on your mother’s name?’
‘I never had a mother.’
‘Shit,’ Sheridan said, disgusted, and got the van rolling again. He moved a little faster now, and not only because he was finally off the main road. The kid was a spook. Sheridan wanted to turn him over to the Turk, get his money, and split.
‘My Popsy’s really strong, mister.’
‘Yeah?’ Sheridan asked, and thought: I bet he is, kid. Only guy in the old folks’ home who can bench-press his own truss, right?
‘He’ll find me.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘He can smell me.’
Sheridan believed it. He could smell the kid. That fear had an odor was something he had learned on his previous expeditions, but this was unreal — the kid smelled like a mixture of sweat, mud, and slowly cooking battery acid. Sheridan was becoming more and more sure that something was seriously wrong with the kid . . . but soon that would be Mr. Wizard’s problem, not his, and caveat emptor, as those old fellows in the togas used to say; caveat fucking emptor.
Sheridan cracked his window. On the left, the marsh went on and on. Broken slivers of moonlight glimmered in the stagnant water.
‘Popsy can fly.’
‘Yeah,’ Sheridan said, ‘after a couple of bottles of Night Train, I bet he flies like a sonofabitchin eagle.’
‘Popsy — ‘
‘Enough of the Popsy shit, kid — okay?’
The kid shut up.
Four miles farther on, the marsh on the left broadened into a wide empty pond. Sheridan made a turn onto a stretch of hardpan dirt that skirted the pond’s north side. Five miles west of here he would turn right onto Highway 41, and from there it would be a straight shot into Taluda Heights.
He glanced toward the pond, a flat silver sheet in the moonlight . . . and then the moonlight was gone. Blotted out.
Overhead there was a flapping sound like big sheets on a clothesline.
‘Popsy!’ the kid cried.
‘Shut up. It was only a bird.’
But suddenly he was spooked, very spooked. He looked at the kid. The kid’s lip was drawn back from his teeth again. His teeth were very white, very big.
No . . . not big. Big wasn’t the right word. Long was the right word. Especially the two at the top at each side. The . . . what did you call them? The canines.
His mind suddenly started to fly again, clicking along as if he were on speed.
I told him I was thirsty.
Why would Popsy go to a place where they —
(?eat was he going to say eat?)
He’ll find me.
He can smell me.
Popsy can fly.
Something landed on the roof of the van with a heavy clumsy thump.
‘Popsy!’ the kid screamed again, almost delirious with delight, and suddenly Sheridan could not see the road anymore — a huge membranous wing, pulsing with veins, covered the windshield from side to side.
Popsy can fly.
Sheridan screamed and jumped on the brake, hoping to tumble the thing on the roof off the front. There was that groaning, protesting sound of metal under stress from his right again, this time followed by a short bitter snap. A moment later the kid’s fingers were clawing into his face, pulling open his cheek.
‘He stole me, Popsy!’ the kid was screeching at the roof of the van in that birdlike voice. ‘He stole me, he stole me, the bad man stole me!’
You don’t understand, kid, Sheridan thought. He groped for the hypo and found it. I’m not a bad guy, I just got in a jam.
Then a hand, more like a talon than a real hand, smashed through the side window and ripped the hypo from Sheridan’s grasp — along with two of his fingers. A moment later Popsy peeled the entire driver’s-side door out of its frame, the hinges now bright twists of meaningless metal.
Sheridan saw a billowing cape, black on the outside, lined with red silk on the inside, and the creature’s tie . . . and although it was actually a cravat, it was blue all right — just as the boy had said.
Popsy yanked Sheridan out of the car, talons sinking through his jacket and shirt and deep into the meat of his shoulders; Popsy’s green eyes suddenly turned as red as blood-roses.
‘We came to the mall because my grandson wanted some Ninja Turtle figures,’ Popsy whispered, and his breath was like flyblown meat. ‘The ones they show on TV. All the children want them. You should have left him alone. You should have left us alone.’
Sheridan was shaken like a rag doll. He shrieked and was shaken again. He heard Popsy asking solicitously if the kid was still thirsty; heard the kid saying yes, very, the bad man had scared him and his throat was so dry. He saw Popsy’s thumbnail for just a second before it disappeared under the shelf of his chin, the nail ragged and thick. His throat was cut with that nail before he realized what was happening, and the last things he saw before his sight dimmed to black were the kid, cupping his hands to catch the flow the way Sheridan himself had cupped his hands under the backyard faucet for a drink on a hot summer day when he was a kid, and Popsy, stroking the boy’s hair gently, with grandfatherly love.
It Grows on You
New England autumn and the thin soil now shows in patches through the ragweed and goldenrod, waiting for snow still four weeks distant. The culverts are clogged with leaves, the sky has gone a perpetual gray, and cornstalks stand in leaning rows like soldiers who have found some fantastic way to die on their feet. Pumpkins, sagging inward now with soft-rot, are piled against crepuscular sheds, smelling like the breath of old women. There is no heat and no cold at this time of year, only pallid air, which is never still, beating through the bare fields under white skies where birds fly south in chevron shapes. That wind blows dust up from the soft shoulders of back roads in dancing dervishes, parts the played-out fields as a comb parts hair, and sniffs its way into junked cars up on blocks in back yards.
The Newall house out on Town Road #3 overlooks that part of Castle Rock known as the Bend. It is somehow impossible to sense anything good about this house. It has a deathly look, which can be only partially explained by its lack of paint. The front lawn is a mass of dried hummocks, which the frost will soon heave, into even more grotesque postures. Thin smoke rises from Brownie’s Store at the foot of the hill. Once the Bend was a fairly important part of Castle Rock, but that time passed around the time Korea got over. On the old bandstand across the road from Brownie’s two small children roll a red firetruck between them. Their faces are tired and washed out, the faces of old men, almost. Their hands actually seem to cut the air as they roll the truck between them, pausing only to swipe at their endlessly running noses every now and again.
In the store Harley McKissick is presiding, corpulent and red-faced, while old John Clutterbuck and Lenny Partridge sit by the stove with their feet up. Paul Corliss is leaning against the counter. The store has a smell that is ancient — a smell of salami and flypaper and coffee and tobacco; of sweat and dark brown Coca-Cola; of pepper and cloves and O’Dell Hair Tonic, which looks like semen and turns hair into sculpture. A flyspecked poster advertising a beanhole bean supper held in 1986 still leans in the window next to one advertising an appearance of ‘Country’ Ken Corriveau at the 1984 Castle County Fair. The light and heat of almost ten summers has fallen on this latter poster, and now Ken Corriveau (who has been out of the country-music business for at least half of those ten years and now sells Fords over in Chamberlain) looks simultaneously faded and toasted. At the back of the store is a huge glass freezer that came out of New York in 1933, and everywhere hangs the vague but tremendous smell of coffee-beans.