Demon Page 13

  Lori whirled around, suddenly furious. The anger rose in her throat like bile. Dangerous. Uncontrollable. Rushing across the room, she leapt at the source of all her problems. The person who had promised her the earth and delivered only a hellish version of it. The liar. The cheat. The dealer in dreams. She beat his chest with her fists, pulled off his shades, reaching her clawed hands up to scratch out his evil yellow eyes.

  “What are you doing?” she screeched. “Why are they taking Perry away?”

  He grabbed her wrists, holding her at arms length easily and effortlessly, his expression one of faint amusement. But when he spoke, his voice had a midwinter menace. Nothing amused about it.

  “You’ve been talking to the Coyote,” he said. “I warned you not to, didn’t I?”

  “You can’t tell me who to talk to,” said Lori, defiantly. “You don’t own me.”

  “Silly girl,” he said, lips curling into the chilling smile, pointed incisors white as bleached bone. “Of course I own you. I own you body and soul. You belong to me. Now Tracey is dead and the Sheriff is dead and it’s all your fault.”

  Lori went limp with shock.

  “Tracey is dead?”

  He nodded, letting go her wrists, retrieving his glasses. “As a Dodo,” he said, giving them a quick polish before putting them back on.

  “Poor Tracey,” said Lori, but really thinking ‘poor me’, remembering how Miguel had told her that all the deaths would be chalked up to her on the day of reckoning.

  “Poor Tracey my foot,” he snorted. “This time last week you were wishing the tortures of the damned on her.”

  “Be careful what you wish for,” said Lori, under her breath.

  “Precisely. And since somebody’s going to have to pay, Perry is the obvious choice. After all, they found her body next to his car.”

  “Where you put it.”

  He smiled his inscrutable smile, saying nothing, saying everything. Then he strolled over to the jewellery box, retrieving the Dreamcatcher, dangling it from his finger, placing it back on the bed-knob where it whirled and twirled like a blind devil doll. No face in the cat-gut now. The genie out of the bottle. Smirking. Cleaning his nails with a cactus spine.

  “Why are you doing this?” Lori said, hopelessly. “This wasn’t part of the bargain.”

  “Don’t talk to me about bargains,” he hissed. “You broke the bargain first. Besides, you needed a lesson. A deal is a deal. No get-out clauses, Lori. Time you realised who’s running this show.”

  The doorknob rattled and Lori jumped as Marge’s voice called from the hallway.

  “You OK, honey?”

  He looked at her over the rim of his glasses, holding a finger up to pursed lips to warn her ‘shhhhh’.

  Lori gulped. “I’m fine,” she said. Sure, fine. Damned to all eternity but otherwise, fine.

  “Why’s the door locked,” Marge rattled the knob again. “You got somebody in there?”

  “What?” Lori playing for time.

  “I thought I heard two voices.”

  “Just rehearsing, mom,” said Lori, improvising. “Learning my lines. I was reading the other part so’s I could remember the cues.”

  Silence. Marge thinking about this. Wondering whether to push it? Strange time to be rehearsing. Perry being dragged off. Body count rising. Maybe Lori was losing it?

  “I’m off down the farmer’s market,” she said. “Get something for lunch. Anything you fancy?”

  “No thanks, Mom. I’m not hungry.”

  Again with the not hungry? Anorexia? A modicum of control in an uncontrollable world. Keeping the demons at bay. Marge rattled the knob again, concerned now. “Let me in, Lori,” she said.

  Lori went to the door, opened it a crack.

  “I’m OK, Mom,” she said. “I’m just upset. You know. About Perry.”

  “Stands to reason,” Marge pushed past, into the room, catching a glimpse of a shadow of a shadow at the end of the bed. Imagination? Trick of the light? Nothing there. But the room cold. She wrapped Lori in a fierce hug.

  “It’ll be alright, honey,” she said. “I’m sure Perry had nothing to do with this mess.”

  “I know he didn’t,” said Lori, burying her head in her mom’s shoulder, wishing she could stay there, let Marge kiss it better like she had when Lori was younger and had fallen over. Hopeless. Hopeless. Couldn’t put a plaster on a lost soul. She started to cry, great uncontrollable sobs wracking her body. Desolate. Abandoned.

  “There, there,” said Marge, rocking her, stroking her hair. “Let it out,” she said. “That’s it. Let it all out. You’ll feel better afterwards.”

  And Lori did, weeping until there were no more tears, until she was totally empty and a strange calm descended on her. And at last she knew what she had to do. Give up. Give in. Stop fighting the inevitable. She was doomed anyway. Best not take anyone else with her.

  How on earth had she got into this mess?

  She looked up, staring over her mother’s shoulder at the still figure on the bed. Her nemesis. Her worst nightmare. Stared and stared, until at last he turned away. Staring him down.

  Marge wiped Lori’s eyes on the sleeve of her blouse and kissed her on the forehead. “Better now?” she said.

  Lori nodded.

  “How about I bring some avocados?” said Marge, heading for the door. “Make guacamole? And nachos. You always like nachos?

  Nachos. As though nachos could cure what ailed her. Lori smiled. “Nachos would be great,” she said.

  Marge, relieved, headed out the door.

  “Junior’s at school,” she said, over her shoulder. “So he’s not going to bug you. But your dad’s in the kitchen. If you need anything just holler. OK?”

  “OK.”

  “Shouldn’t be more than a half hour.”

  Marge’s voice faded off down the stairs and Lori turned reluctantly back towards the figure on the bed. Elegant. Handsome. Deadly.

  “How touching,” he sneered, “Mother and child. I may throw up.”

  “Go away,” said Lori. “I hate you.”

  He flinched, recovered. “Hate is good,” he said.

  “No it’s not,” said Lori. “It’s pointless. You can keep it. And you can keep all the rest of it too. I’m not going to play this game any longer.”

  “Game? This isn’t a game, Lori. This is for real.”

  “It IS a game,” said Lori. “You’re playing with me. You think I’ll jump when you say jump. But you’ve overplayed your hand. You think I’m afraid of you. Well, I’ve got news. I’m not afraid any more. I’ve got nothing left to lose. Do your worst. I don’t care.”

  “My worst? Really?”

  A terrible pain shot through Lori’s pelvis, hitting her like a hammer-blow, bringing her to her knees. She gasped as another jolt ran along her spine. Liquid fire, electrifying all the nerve endings, forcing a cry from her throat as she collapsed in a crumpled heap on the carpet.

  “You like that, Lori? There’s more where that came from. More. And worse.”

  “You might as well kill me,” said Lori, sweat standing out on her forehead. “I won’t play.”

  “You’re playing now,” he sneered. “Playing against type. Playing the martyr. But I can play too. Play dirty. Look.”

  Lori looked, couldn’t help herself, her head twisting towards the blank grey face of the TV screen as the set burst into life, flashing a picture out at her. A series of pictures. Each one worst than the last. Her mom mowed down by a passing car on the way to the market, her chest crushed, flailing against the weight of the vehicle, great gouts of blood pouring from her mouth and nose. Her brother, falling from the first floor of an abandoned building where he’d been warned not to play, impaling himself on a wooden spike, writhing and screaming. Perry, strapped down in the electric chair, a hood thrust over his head, his body juddering as the shocks tore through his system.

  “I can do all that,” he said.

  Lori closed her eyes against the visi
on. “I know,” she said. “But I won’t help you.”

  “I’ll do it anyway.”

  “No you won’t,” said Lori. “Without my reaction it won’t be any fun for you. Anyway, Miguel Coyote will find you soon. Maybe you won’t get the chance?”

  “Shut up,” he snarled, losing his customary cool.

  And at the end of the bed something horrible started happening. The elegant frame wavered as if something else was trying to come through. The unacceptable face of the tempter. Blonde head swelling, eyes popping out all over his face as the dark glasses fell to the floor. Evil yellow eyes, blazing with fury and spite. A hint of a cloven hoof peeping from beneath the black linen slacks.

  “Lori, Lori,” the forked tongue flickered momentarily from the widening mouth. “What a shame. I had such plans for you. But it seems I was wasting my precious time. When push comes to shove, you’re just too”....he paused, searching for an epithet vile enough to describe what she was, and finding it, spat it at her like a curse.... “too HUMAN,” he said.

  Then he growled, a nasty grating sound that ran through Lori like a cold shiver. Mesmerised, she watched him adjust his image, pulling in his horns, smoothing his blonde hair, realigning his features, the eyes melting back into the flesh until only the two remained.

  “Looks like it’s back to the drawing board,” he said, gazing down at her with something like regret. “Better end this disappointing charade right now.”

  He raised a pale hand in benediction and simultaneously the window blew in and the television blew up, showering Lori with shards of broken glass, almost shattering her eardrums. Behind the explosion came an acrid stench of singeing flesh and burning hair. Then smoke started to filter through the floorboards, scorching, choking.

  Lori tried to get up but found herself paralysed, pinned to the floor, unable to move a muscle. Helpless as a baby. Flames began to lick under the door, reaching with hot red fingers towards her face. She was coughing uncontrollably now, tears pouring from her eyes as the fumes hit her lungs.

  The figure on the bed started to laugh.

  “Better get used to it Lori,” he crowed. “This is your future. For ever and ever. Fire and brimstone. Until the end of time.”

  “No,” pleaded Lori. “No.”

  “It could have been so different,” he said, sadly. “You and I could have conquered the world. But the best laid plans of mice and.....”

  “And monsters,” Lori spat.

  “Whatever...” The flames swirled up around him, under-lighting his handsome features with a demonic glow. “Bye now...” he said.

  And Lori passed out from the heat.

  26

  Miguel Coyote crashed through the front door and rode up the stairs like a bat out of hell, hair streaming behind him, red bandanna wrapped around his lower face to keep out the smoke. Flames licked round the Honda, threatening to ignite the petrol tank as a large section of roof collapsed onto the landing, missing him by inches.

  Lori lay comatose on the floor of her bedroom. Without stopping to get off, Miguel bent and scooped her up. He flung her over his shoulder, swivelling the powerful machine round for a quick exit, spotting the Dreamcatcher as he did so, reaching for it, missing it by a hairsbreadth as the entire bed fell through the floor leaving the bike balanced precariously on a shelf of wood over a yawning chasm.

  Miguel slapped the Honda with his knees and it sprang forward like an Indian pony, leaping over debris, flying down into the hallway as the stairs disintegrated like falling dominoes behind. Then they were out in the street, in the fresh air, Lori lolling against his back, more dead than alive, Miguel almost blinded, eyes streaming from the fumes.

  Another enormous explosion rocked what was left of the building, folding the walls in like a house of cards, sending up a shock-wave of dust and sparks. Neighbours were running from their houses now, shouting and waving their arms. Helping hands appeared, lifting Lori from his back, stretching her on the grass verge where she lay, eyes closed, pale and still.

  Miguel, half deafened explosion number two, ripped off the bandanna, shouting over the noise and confusion that someone should call an ambulance. Dismounting, he pushed the curious crowd aside and knelt beside Lori to take her pulse, giving a grunt of relief when he discovered there was one. His breath smelled of charred wood, his eyes behind the Raybans, were stinging. He took off the glasses, wiping away the grit with the bandanna, clearing his vision. Then he wrapped the cloth round his head to keep his hair out of the way before leaning down to give Lori the kiss of life.

  When Lori came round she thought she must be dreaming again. Miguel Coyote was kissing her. It was not an unpleasant sensation. Then he pulled back and started massaging her chest. This she could get to like. His face, hanging over her, was full of concern, his singular eyes were not just blue now, but multicoloured, the whites dyed to a day-glow pink. Very strange. He bent to kiss her again and she relaxed, letting it happen, enjoying the sensation. A stray lock of his black hair fell across her eyes in a soft tendril, blotting out the sky. He smelled of hickory smoke.

  Then he moved away and started to pound on her chest again. And through the numbness of the waking dream she became conscious of a tearing sensation in her lungs. It rose like a whirlwind into her larynx and, before he could kiss her again, she began to cough. And to remember. The explosion, the flames, the demonic laughter. With the memory came pain in earnest, a rending, as though the lining was being torn away from her rib-cage. She coughed and coughed, trying not to, each spasm tearing a sob of agony out of her aching throat.

  Miguel Coyote lifted her then, holding her very close until the coughing subsided, stroking her back, calming her down.

  “You’re alive,” he whispered into her hair, as if it mattered, as if he cared. “I made it. I wasn’t too late. You’re alive.”

  Marge rounded the corner, a bulging brown bag under one arm, the dog panting behind her on a makeshift lead. She took one look at what remained of her home and stopped dead in her tracks, dropping both bag and lead at the same time. Avocados spilled over the pavement in a green torrent and the dog, true to form, took off on a barking fit.

  The group of people, huddled round something on the grass verge opposite what had once been her front gate, scattered before the onslaught leaving Marge with a clear view of the biker and the limp shape in his arms.

  Lori.

  The dog was growling now, lips drawing back from sharp white teeth, threatening to bite. As Marge stumbled towards them, calling for the animal to quieten down, Miguel Coyote reached out to place his thumb and forefinger on the dog’s forehead and it collapsed in a heap, like an ox felled by a hammer blow.

  Marge sank to her knees and Lori looked up at her with a weak smile.

  “Hi mom,” she said.

  And Marge, overwhelmed with relief, said the first thing that came into her head. The one thing that nobody had thought to ask before.

  “Where’s your father?”

  Ted Morrison was incinerated where he sat, didn’t even have the satisfaction of seeing his team win before he was instantly transported to the great stadium in the sky. So complete was his obliteration that they couldn’t even find enough bone shards to fill a thimble. His funerary urn held a mixture of adobe and wood-shavings.

  Ted wasn’t widely mourned, except by Ted Jr who had always been a chip off the old block. The funeral would be a sparse affair, the turn-out consisting of the immediate family, Rube Watson, newly discharged from hospital, and a few fair-weather cronies from down the pool hall. The biggest wreath would come from his bookie, who, since he’d saved a bundle on his non-payment of Ted’s final winning bet, figured it was the least he could do.

  As to the cause of the conflagration. The insurance company reckoned it was a leak from a gas canister. But insurance companies can be wrong. Whatever, Ted Morrison was worth a lot more dead than he had been alive.

  The last time Lori saw Miguel Coyote was when he came to the hospital to bring
her some flowers and say ‘good-bye’. Lori thanked him for saving her life, asked him what he was going to do now?

  Miguel told her he didn’t know.

  “Time for me to move on,” he said, “See new places, meet new people. For the first time in my life I can relax. The hunt is over.”

  “You got the Dreamcatcher then?” Lori, asking the question that had been haunting her not only her dreams but her every waking hour, tried hard not to sound anxious.

  Miguel shook his head. “Never found it,” he said. He’d done his sand and salt ritual on the ashes of the burnt out house, just to be on the safe side. “But you can rest assured it’s destroyed. Nothing could have withstood that heat.”

  “So I’m off the hook?”

  Lori felt suddenly light as a feather. A whole new world, a whole new life seemed to be opening up before her. She reached out and took Miguel’s hand, squeezing the strong brown palm between her paler fingers.

  “Couldn’t you stay for a while?” she asked.

  But Miguel didn’t get a chance to answer.

  “What’s he doing here?” Perry, newly arrived, strode over to the bed and stood, arms akimbo, giving the biker the fish eye.

  Miguel rose.

  “I was just leaving,” he said, smiling, sliding his hand from Lori’s grip. The bright blue eyes seemed to be looking right into her soul. “Take care of yourself, Lori. Promise?”

  “No need to worry about Lori,” said Perry. “She’ll be fine. I’ll be taking care of her from now on.”

  And Lori wondered why this didn’t make her feel quite as happy as it ought to have done.

  Miguel Coyote made one more quick stop before he left the hospital. To check in on Rube Watson, who was resting in another room just down the corridor. Satisfied that the Sheriff was on the mend, he got on his Honda and rode off into the great blue yonder, secure in the knowledge that he had saved two lives in Backwater Ridge at least and that the Dreamcatcher had finally been put out of action.