Demon Page 11

  “Poor Wayne.” she said, dully.

  “Poor Barney,” said the biker. “The only person Barney ever hurt in his life was himself. His death was my fault.”

  “Then you killed him?” Lori shrank back against the tree. “Are you going to kill me?”

  “Don’t try to act the innocent, Lori.” There was scorn in his voice. “You know who killed him. And so do I. I know all about it.”

  “About what?”

  “About the Dreamcatcher and the voice and the weight-loss and Perry. About the wishes and the dreams. And the nightmares. About all of it.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I know because I’m ‘the seeker’. It’s my job to track this thing down and destroy it.”

  Tracey knew where they were going long before they got there. She recognised the road. She’d been there often enough with Perry. Once she heard the motorbike engine cut out, she parked the roadster and went the rest of the way on foot, so they wouldn’t know anyone was following.

  She crept along the unmade track that led down from the highway to the swimming hole, hugging the bushes until she came to a point where she had an unrestricted overview of the area.

  Then she hid behind a rock where she could hear what was going on and settled down to eavesdrop.

  “Where is it?” asked Miguel Coyote.

  “Somewhere safe,” said Lori.

  “Safe?” Coyote gave a harsh laugh. “Nothing’s safe while that thing’s on the loose. Where have you put it? Barney said it was hanging on the end of the bed. He must have gone back to get it when...”

  He paused and Lori put her hands over her eyes, trying to blot out the memory of Barney lying on his back, of what had been done to him.

  “If it had been there when I came in tonight I would have taken it and left, no questions asked,” said Coyote. “But it wasn’t. Where have you put it?”

  He took Lori by the shoulders, squeezing hard enough for it to be painful.

  “Tell me, Lori,” he said. There was an edge of menace in his voice. “Tell me before anybody else gets hurt. Before you get hurt.”

  “You’re hurting me now,” said Lori. She was afraid. This boy was strong. And dangerous. Why should she trust him?

  Coyote saw the fear in her eyes and relaxed his grip.

  “Sorry,” he said. “But this can’t wait. I know about the Dreamcatcher. I know you have it. I know its powers. I know it promised to make all your wildest dreams come true. That’s why you can sing. That’s why you’ve lost all the weight. That’s why Perry is in love with you and not with Tracey. But it’s a double edged sword, Lori, people get hurt in the process.”

  “I know,” Lori blurted, bursting into tears. “I didn’t mean for any of it to happen.”

  “I know you didn’t.” Miguel sat down beside her and put an arm round her shoulders. “Just tell me where it is.”

  “I hid it in a drawer,” sniffled Lori. “The top drawer. In the sideboard. In a brown envelope. In our front room.”

  Bingo.

  Tracey eased herself away from the rock and started to retrace her steps back to the car, stumbling over ruts and falling into potholes in her haste. She was seething with excitement. She had to get back to Lori’s house before anybody else did and find the charm.

  It was magic.

  “I KNEW it,” she muttered to herself. “I KNEW there was something weird going on.”

  But this was better than anything that she’d anticipated. A Dreamcatcher that made all your wildest dreams come true. She’d steal it and she’d wish herself rid of this allergy thing and she’d get Perry to be besotted with her again. And then she’d dump him. Serve him right. And make a million dollars. And become a supermodel. And get her own back on stupid Lori Morrison.

  So people got hurt in the process? Tracey couldn’t care less. In fact, it made the whole thing even better. Tracey could think of a lot of people she’d like to get hurt in the process. Mr Quentin for not giving her the part. Sheriff Watson for coming into her room when she’d told him to stay out. That wet-back kid in the next block who kept whistling at her when she went by. Mary-Lou for looking at her as though she’d crawled out of a drain. She’d like to give them all a twinge or two. And make Lori Morrison scream. Really scream. In agony. She’d wish something totally dreadful on her. Buried alive. Eaten by crocodiles. Or a long, painful, incurable disease. Something that would really make her suffer.

  And she could do it.

  It was within her power.

  Or would be.

  All she had to do was get hold of the Dreamcatcher.

  Top drawer. Sideboard. Envelope. Front room. Right.

  Sniggering under her breath, Tracey slid behind the wheel and drove off in the direction of Backwater Ridge.

  “Did you hear something?” Miguel Coyote cocked his head, listening.

  “What?”

  “I thought I heard a car.”

  “People come out here all the time – to pet.”

  Lori wiped her eyes. She could have screamed, she thought. There had been someone around after all. Aloud, she said...

  “Where did the Dreamcatcher come from? How come I found it?”

  “It’s a long story,” said the biker. “Evil has always existed in one shape or form. And as for why you...?” he sighed... “Let me try to explain...”

  He told her how, once upon a time, almost two hundred years ago, a troop of US Cavalry, looking for glory, had fallen on a peaceful Indian encampment and slaughtered everything in sight. Except for the Medicine Man, Yellow Dog and his young assistant. They were up in the hills, collecting herbs to cure a sick child.

  When Yellow Dog saw what the soldiers had done, the things they’d done, he swore revenge. But he was an old man, not a warrior. And the boy was too young. So he turned to magic to fulfil his oath. He conjured up a great demon and trapped it in the Dreamcatcher. Dreamcatchers are white magic, Coyote explained. They protect babies in their cribs from harm. Hold their good dreams. Send their nightmares back into the void. But this Dreamcatcher did the opposite, promising dreams, turning them into nightmares. Black magic. The blackest. Then Yellow Dog laid a curse, not only on the men who had done the deed, but on their bloodline for a hundred generations. Finally he let the Dreamcatcher loose to do its worst.

  “That’s where you come in, Lori,” Coyote finished. “The Dreamcatcher hones in on anyone connected to the massacre. After nearly two hundred years that’s an awful lot of people. Not counting the innocent bystanders who get caught in the crossfire. Hundreds of prospective victims. Scattered all over the continent. Willing victims. Because almost everyone has dreams.”

  “Like me,” said Lori, numbly.

  “Just like you. Although some of them have less conscience. Some don’t care who gets hurt along the way. Until the time comes for them to pay. Then they’re sorry. Very very sorry.”

  “Why? What happens?” Lori hardly dared ask.

  “Every bad deed they’ve ever done comes back to haunt them, counts in the payback. None of the deaths are pretty. But some...are less pretty than others.”

  This time Lori put her hands over her ears. She was doomed. A horrible death. And afterwards...a fate worse than...for all eternity. She didn’t want to hear any more. But Miguel prized her hands away, making her listen.

  “The thing about Backwater Ridge is that it seems to have a high concentration of the descendants of the original troop. So the force is very strong here. At first I couldn’t make the connection between you and it. There weren’t any Morrisons in the original command. But one of the soldiers was Ezekial Mason. And your mom’s maiden name was Marjorie Mason. It’s using you to get at a lot of other people. You’re just the catalyst. You’ve let it out in the open. All their deaths will be down to you.”

  “Oh no,” said Lori. “What am I going to do?”

  “You can’t do anything. I have to do it. I have to find the Dreamcatcher and destroy it. When Yellow Dog was dying he real
ised what he’d done. In calling up the demon to revenge that one settlement, he had called down bad luck on the rest of the tribe. Until the Dreamcatcher is located and destroyed that bad luck will continue to rebound on the whole nation. So he sent a ‘seeker’ to find it and get rid of it. Send it back to the dimension from which he’d conjured it.”

  “How?”

  “Certain rituals. Sand. Salt. Incantations. You wouldn’t understand. But I have to find it first. And the seeker’s powers are limited. He can’t undo what’s already been done. He can only exert a certain amount of damage control. And the demon is clever. And the demon has many faces. While I only have one.”

  “But this happened two hundred years ago,” said Lori. “So there’s a new seeker for each generation, right?”

  Miguel Coyote looked at her obliquely and she felt the goose-pimples rise on her skin.

  “Something like that,” he said.

  He held her gaze for a few moments more while she felt the blood drain from her face, then he stood and reached down to pull her to her feet.

  “Beware of what you wish for, Lori,” he said, softly. “For your wishes might come true. Now let’s go get this thing.”

  “But what about me,” said Lori, desperately. “What’s going to happen to me? I sold him my soul. If you destroy the Dreamcatcher does that mean I’ll go to hell?”

  “If I DON’T destroy it you’ll go to hell,” he said. “You and a lot of other people. Tracey Barnes for one. One of her ancestors led the charge. You can bet the demon has something very special lined up for Tracey. Unless we get to it first.”

  22

  Tracey parked the car where she’d found it, leaving the incriminatory note on the windshield. Then she scurried up the front path of the Morrison house and tried the handle on the front door.

  She was in luck. It wasn’t locked.

  Easing herself into the hallway, she closed the door gently and stood for a moment with her back against it, allowing her eyes to become accustomed to the gloom. Just as Barney McGee had done not many hours before. She tilted her head, listening for stirrings from the upper floor. Still time to rush out and escape. But there were none. Just the sound of her own rapid breathing and the thud of her heart thumping in her chest.

  The door to the front room stood open, a crack of light from the street-lamp outside squeezing through the drawn curtains. Tracey wished she had a torch. But then again, perhaps better not? She tip-toed into the room, pulling the door too behind her. Then she crossed to the window and drew the curtains. Pale gold light flooded in from the street, etching the furniture in a ghastly glow. And there it was, right beside the window. The sideboard.

  Tracey slid the top drawer out. Slowly, slowly, in case it might squeak. It was crammed full of all sorts of things. Rubbish mostly. But she knew what she was looking for.

  A brown envelope.

  At first she couldn’t see it. But then she spotted the corner sticking out from under a ball of string where Lori must have shoved it out of the way. Taking the point between her forefinger and thumb, she pulled it towards her. She was shaking as she opened the flap and emptied the contents out.

  The Dreamcatcher fell into her hand with a sound like a sigh, the feathers floating down round her little finger, her palm clearly visible through the cat-gut tracery of the circular centre.

  But there was something else there too. A face, looking at her through mesh. A black and white photograph. One of those cheapo ones you get from a slot machine. A head and shoulders shot. Tracey pulled it out, squinting in the half light, pushing back the hood of her tracksuit to get a closer look. A young man, early twenties, with a handsome, narrow face. Blonde hair slicked back. Dark glasses. The collar of his snakeskin jacket was turned up and, just showing beneath it, a string tie fastened with a scorpion pin.

  A faint rustle somewhere in the room threw all her senses into overdrive. Then a voice behind her said....

  “Hello, Tracey. My, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?”

  Tracey almost jumped out of her skin. As her head snapped up, she caught sight of herself in the window - startled, pop-eyed, mouth wide. A sight for sore eyes indeed. Puffy pock-marked features, patches of bald head showing through wispy hair. Gross. And behind, looking over her shoulder, another reflection. The same face that she’d just seen in the photograph. Smiling slyly.

  Swift as a striking snake, the reflection stepped forward and gripped her upper arm. With the movement, the scorpion tie-pin caught the light from the street lamp and seemed to wink at her. Tracey’s knees gave and she dropped the photo.

  “Who are you?” The words came out in a hoarse whisper. “What do you want?”

  The reflection’s smile widened. White teeth, the incisors slightly pointed. Not a pleasant smile.

  “I’m your worst nightmare, Tracey,” he said, and he giggled, as though he’d made a very clever joke. Then he half dragged, half pushed her out of the room and towards the front door.

  “What are you doing?” squeaked Tracey, as he marched her along the path. His grip was like iron, no chance at all of getting away.

  “You and I are going for a little drive, my dear,” he said, levering her into the front seat of Perry’s car. “And if you’ll pardon another B movie cliche – ‘there’s only of us coming back.’ ”

  Two things woke Marge. The dog barking in the back yard and the sound of a car starting up. She lay rigid in the hot sticky darkness until she got her bearings. Ted lay on his back beside her, mouth agape, snoring. She was drenched in sweat.

  She’d been dreaming about Lou.

  She swung her legs over the side of the bed, digging Ted in the ribs, telling him to ‘pipe down’. He grunted and turned over on his side, his breathing quieting to a nasal purr. Marge stood up, stretched and set off down the stairs to quiet the dog and get a glass of water from the kitchen. She stopped outside Lori’s bedroom, reached for the handle, thought better if it. Best leave the child to sleep. She’d had a hard day. So what else was new?

  As she got to the bottom tread she noticed the band of light falling across the hallway from the drawn curtains in the front room. Funny. She could have sworn she closed them before she’d come to bed. As she padded through to close them now, she saw the drawer. It was wide open. On the floor the brown envelope and, beside it, the photograph, lying face down on the carpet.

  Her heart gave a painful lurch.

  Her first thought was ‘burglars’. Maybe that was why the dog was barking? But when she turned on the light, she could see that nothing had been ransacked. The only thing out of place seemed to be the drawer and the envelope. And the curtains.

  Her second thought was still ‘burglars’. The dog must have had disturbed them and they’d left before they’d had a chance to steal anything. Not that there was anything worth stealing. Unless....

  Her third thought was an altogether more chilling one. What if whoever had killed Barney McGee had left something behind that might incriminate them and had come looking for it?

  Marge moved swiftly through to the front door and locked it.

  Better late than never.

  Then she went back to the front room and picked up the photo. She should have got rid of it years ago. Silly to keep it. Sentimental nonsense. Last thing she needed was for Ted or the kid to find it. Ask who it was? Or worse still, Lori. Better get rid of it. She looked at the face, etched in her memory, no need of a photo to remind her.

  Lou.

  She’d met him the first week she’d been in Hollywood, fell for him hook, line and sinker. He’d been so different from the boys back home. Clever. Sophisticated. He’d had class. Style. And he was an agent to boot. Marge couldn’t believe her luck. He’d promised her the moon. Told her they were going places, that he’d make her a star. In the event, the only place they’d gone was to bed. And the only thing he’d made her was pregnant. When she’d hurried round to the office to tell him, he’d disappeared. No forwarding address. The old sad story. />
  Marge picked up the envelope and put it back where it came from. Then she closed the drawer, turned out the light and pottered into the kitchen. Opening the back door, she hunkered down on the step and patted the dog’s head, calming him down.

  “Good boy,” she said. “Good boy. But you can quit now. Whoever it was, they’ve gone.”

  The dog settled down, stopped straining against the chain, dropped its head on its paws and closed its eyes. And Marge went back inside, poured herself a glass of water and took a last long look at the photo.

  The weirdest thing was that after he’d gone nobody could ever remember seeing him. They’d always met at his place. Lou Pesadilla. Pesadilla. Such a romantic name. Italian, she’d guessed. Until her Mexican room-mate had dashed what was left of her illusions. It wasn’t Italian after all. It was Spanish.

  Spanish for ‘nightmare’.

  Marge set down the glass. By rights she should stuff the photo down the incinerator. Good riddance to bad rubbish. But looking at it, remembering fondly what had probably been the happiest few weeks of her life, she couldn’t find it in her heart to do it. Lou may have done her wrong but he’d certainly showed her one helluva time.

  “Serves me right,” she said, tucking the picture in the pocket of her robe. “Nobody to blame but myself.”

  Wearily, she went back upstairs and climbed into bed beside her husband. Ted Morrison wasn’t much. But at least he was there.

  Marge rolled over on her side, noticed that the sky was lightening behind the curtains. It would be dawn soon. Something was niggling in her head. She couldn’t quite grasp the thought. Then, just before she fell asleep, it hit her. When she’d taken the glass from the cupboard she’d noticed something was missing from the food side. A jar of honey. She wondered vaguely whether Lori had started comfort eating again? She wouldn’t blame her. Under the circumstances, she wouldn’t blame her at all.