Demon Read online

  12

  Lori is in bed. She is very woozy. The Doctor has given her a shot and she is moving in and out of consciousness. A close call, the Doctor has said, but in the end, no harm done. A fright. Rest is what she needs. Rest and sleep. She’ll be right as rain in the morning.

  She comes to. Or does she? Lori doesn’t know whether she’s awake or asleep now. Only that he is there, sitting on the bed beside her, holding her hand.

  “How did we do?” he says.

  “How did we do?” she repeats, incredulously. “I nearly drowned, for heaven’s sake.”

  He scowls, drops the hand, stands and moves away from her, looking in the mirror, smoothing back his already smooth, fair hair.

  “Some people are never satisfied,” he says to his reflection.

  “I should be satisfied because I nearly drowned?”

  “More than one way to skin a cat, Lori” he says, turning and gliding back to the bed. He moves the same way he swam, all sinuous grace. “Perry has broken up with Tracey hasn’t he? That’s what you wanted wasn’t it?”

  “Sure. But I didn’t mean...”

  “Personally I thought it was a stroke of genius,” he says, sitting back down, taking her hand again. “It alienated the lovers and gained you the sympathy vote, all in one fell swoop. But don’t thank me, will you?”

  Lori is contrite. “Thanks,” she says. “I just didn’t think...”

  “Most people don’t,” he says. “Most people imagine they just have to ask for something and bingo, it’s all plain sailing. No effort on their part. Well it doesn’t work like that. It’s not all hearts and flowers, Lori. There’s usually a price to pay.”

  Lori feels her skin prickle in apprehension.

  “I don’t understand what you mean?” she says.

  “I mean nothing is for nothing. I mean you should be careful what you wish for. Fame and fortune, size eight and Perry thrown in for good measure. That was the gist of it, right?”

  Lori nods.

  “OK. But you didn’t say HOW, did you Lori? And you didn’t think of the downside. Take Perry for example. I could give you Perry but then arrange for him to have an accident. Would you love him as much if he was confined to a wheelchair? If you had to spend your life feeding him with a spoon?”

  Lori grasps his hand in panic. “Don’t hurt him,” she says. “Please.”

  “Don’t worry,” he says. “That’s not part of the plan. I’m just explaining the system. Size eight. I could make you size eight by giving you terminal cancer.”

  He laughs at the expression on Lori’s face.

  “Relax, babe,” he says. “I’m not going to do that either. It wouldn’t be a surprise now. Where’s the fun in that?”

  “You have a weird sense of humour,” says Lori.

  “So sue me,” he says. “All I’m saying is that when you wish for something you need to be sure you’ve checked out both sides of the equation. And you need to be specific. Take your mom. She wanted security and she ended up with Ted Morrison.”

  “You leave my mom out of this,” says Lori.

  “Your wish is my command,” he says, with a sly smile.

  Her mom comes in now. She is carrying an enormous bunch of flowers. He gets up and moves out of the way to allow her to sit down. Then he stands back, arms folded, in the shadow thrown by the curtain in the fading light and watches as Marge leans forward and strokes Lori’s head.

  “How’re you feeling, honey?”

  “Tired.”

  “I’m not surprised. Those boys. They ought to be horsewhipped.”

  Lori smiles weakly, looking over her mother’s shoulder at the silent figure by the window. Marge, oblivious, holds out the bouquet. Roses and carnations. Red and white.

  “From Perry,” she says. “The Doc said you shouldn’t have any visitors. But he sends his love. So something good came out of it. You want I should put them in water?”

  “Please.”

  Marge moves to the window and pulls the curtains against the dusk. Lori stiffens, holding her breath. The figure in the shadows shifts, ever so slightly and her mom hesitates, shivers, then comes back to turn off the bedside light.

  “You warm enough?” she asks. The evening is hot as Hades. “Suddenly felt cold to me.”

  “I’m fine. Thanks Mom.”

  Marge leans over to kiss her daughter ‘good-night’. “Sleep well, baby,” she says and tip-toes out quietly, closing the door behind her.

  “She didn’t see you,” Lori says, as the sound of her mother’s footsteps dies away down the stairs.

  “Of course not. Only you can see me, Lori. It’s our little secret. You and me. That’s what makes it so...delicious.”

  He sits down and take her hand again, turning it over, stroking the palm with his thumb. She looks up at him through half-closed lids. She is so very sleepy. And he is so very handsome. Older than Perry, of course, more sophisticated, more man of the world. And hers. Her own personal....secret. She smiles. He smiles back. A smile of complicity.

  “Don’t go away, will you?” she says, her eyes closing as the drug takes hold.

  “Never,” he says. “Never” and then, under his breath. “For lo, I am with you always. Even unto the end of the world.”

  Lori sighs. Content. “Anyway, I’m still alive,” she murmurs sleepily. “But somebody should teach that Wayne Maxwell a lesson.”

  He looks down at her face. So innocent. So corruptible. And he smiles again. But the smile has a cruel edge to it, now that he knows she can’t see.

  “Now that you come to mention it....” he says.

  Barney was sitting on Mrs Moody’s step when Miguel Coyote rode up. He was trying to whittle a stick with a dangerously shaky hand and whistling tunelessly through his two remaining teeth. The sun, setting behind Backwater Ridge, threw his elongated shadow across the pavement and into the gutter. Miguel parked on top of it.

  “I seed it,” said Barney, struggling to his feet. “Almost had my hand on it.”

  Miguel, climbed off the Honda. “Come up to my room,” he said. “I’d rather we didn’t talk in the street.”

  He led the way into a bright hallway that smelled of lavender floor polish and something a good deal more appetising.

  “You eating in tonight?” Mrs Moody stuck her head round the kitchen door. “Turkey fritters and sweet potato pie.”

  “Sounds great,” said Miguel. “Mind if I bring a friend?”

  “Not if he’s sober.”

  “As a judge Mrs M,” Barney assured her and Mrs Moody said, in that case welcome.

  “On the table in twenty minutes,” she added to their retreating backs, while wondering what on earth a kid like Miguel could see in an old reprobate like Barney McGee?

  “Shoot,” said Miguel, as soon as they were settled.

  “I done like you said,” said Barney. “Offered my services. Marge was only too glad. Not surprised, state of that back yard. Did about an hour. Then HE came downstairs. Heard them rowing in the kitchen. Said he didn’t want no winos stinking up the place. She settled him down finally. Made him some chow. And I says to myself, Barney, it’s now or never. So I knocked on the door and made out like, as how I needed to take a leak.”

  “Good thinking.”

  “Yeah. Nearly didn’t work though. Ted said I should go piss in the street like I usually did and Marge said not to be vulgar and told me, go ahead, up the stairs, second on the left.”

  “And that’s when you saw it?” Miguel prompted. He had a feeling this story might go on for a while and he wanted to get to the end of it before suppertime.

  “Well, first I had to find her room. Tried two before I got to it. Couldn’t hardly see the walls for pictures of that kid, whatsername, Chesney something.”

  “Pace.”

  “That’s it. Pace. Guess Lori’s a fan. So I snuck in and I had a look on her night-table and such. No sign. Was just about to give up the ghost when I saw it.” He chortled. “Right in front of my
nose. If it’d been a dog it would’ve bit me. Hanging there on the knob at the bottom of the bed. Little round thingummy-jig with feathers dangling off it. Just like you said. And I tip-toed over and I almost had my hand on it.” Barney paused, shaking his head.

  “And?”

  “And then Ted Morrison yelled up the stairs was I having a bath or something? Nearly gave me heart failure. Shouted he was going to search me on the way out, make sure I wasn’t stealing the family jewels. I would have chanced it. Reckoned I could’ve stuffed it down my pants. Didn’t think he’d look there.” He grinned a gummy grin. “But suddenly all hell broke loose. That blonde kid screeching up in the car with Lori in the back, dripping wet and looking half dead. And next minute the room was full of bodies and I’d missed the moment. Sorry son.”

  Miguel looked disappointed, sighed. “That’s OK.”

  “I could try next Sunday?” Barney volunteered.

  “No,” said Miguel, sharply. “Leave it alone. It’ll be too dangerous now. He’s out. Out of her head....”

  “Who’s out of their head?” Barney looked confused.

  “Never mind,” said Miguel. “Thanks, Barney. You did your best.” He patted the old man on the shoulder. “I appreciate it. I’ll just have to try something else.”

  13

  Lori woke with a jolt. She was drenched in sweat.

  She’d been deep in a dream, in the swimming-hole, drowning again. He’d swum towards her, like he did before, but this time he was propelling himself with his feet. Because he was carrying something in his arms, hugging it to his chest like a brown bag full of groceries. She couldn’t see what it was through the murk. But as he came closer he held it out to her, as though offering her a very special present. It was a human head. She’d opened her mouth to scream and water rushed in.

  Then Junior was shaking her, jigging up and down beside the bed in excitement, the dog panting beside him.

  “Guess what?” he shouted, his face ablaze. “It’s on the news. They just found Wayne Maxwell. Bits of him anyway. No head. And his body bit clean in two. The Sheriff’s closed the swimming-hole. Says there’s some kind of a monster fish down there.”

  Marge came charging into the bedroom, carrying Lori’s breakfast on a tray. She set it on the bedside table before whacking Junior smartly round the head and propelling him out of the room.

  “Take your time, honey,” she said, before she closed the door. “You don’t have to go to school today if you don’t feel like it. ”

  Lori listened to her mom dragging her brother down the stairs, emphasising every other word with a clip round the ear.

  “Are you CRAZY? (whack). You sister almost DIED in that swimming-hole yesterday (whack). She’s supposed to be RESTING (whack). And get that blasted DOG (whack) OUT OF THIS HOUSE (whack, whack, whack).”

  Lori waited until she heard the kitchen door close on Junior’s protestations and the dog’s yelp, before she spoke. She felt sick to her stomach, nearly paralysed with fright.

  “Hey?” she whispered. “Are you there?”

  No reply.

  The curtains were still drawn from the previous night. Except for a single ray of sun that had crept, like a thief, through a crack in the blinds, the room was as dim as an underwater cave. Lori shuddered.

  “Where are you?” she said, her voice coming out in a croak. “I need to talk to you.”

  But all was silence.

  Not ordinary, tranquil, peaceful silence. More an absence of sound. Sinister. Menacing. She knew he was there. Could sense him. Smell him. Acrid and sweet. He was playing with her. It gave her the creeps. She pulled herself together and directed her next sentence at the charm, knowing and yet not wanting to know the answer before she’d even framed the question.

  “Did you kill Wayne?” she said, urgently and then, because he wouldn’t come when she called, because there was still no reply, because she was angry and frightened and frustrated beyond patience, she tore the Dreamcatcher from the bed-post and went to hurl it across the room. It ignited in her hand, flames licking round her palm and between her fingers. She dropped it like a hot potato.

  “Naughty, naughty,” said the voice in her head.

  Lori stared at the Dreamcatcher in horror. It had gone back to normal in a twinkling. No sign of fire now, the feathers not even singed.

  “What have you done?” she said in desperation. “I never asked you to kill anyone.”

  “Specifics, Lori,” said the voice in her head. “You said someone should teach him a lesson. Can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs.”

  The sunbeam, pointing across the room, fell like a golden finger onto the breakfast that her mom had made for her as a special treat. Mushroom omelette. Her favourite.

  And Lori was left with the sudden horrible realisation that she’d probably bitten off a good deal more than she could chew.

  Downstairs, Ted Morrison shovelled hash-browns into his face and figured the odds.

  “Think I might sue,” he said.

  “Sue? Sue who?” Marge wanted to know.

  “Those boys. The one’s threw her in. Families all got money. Mental cruelty. My little girl. Bit of luck the parents’ll settle out of court. Could mean big bucks. Better chance now, with Wayne dead.”

  Marge curled her lip.

  “You are the dregs, Ted Morrison,” she said. “Since when have you given two cents for your ‘little girl’? But now that there might be money in it...”

  Ted was unperturbed.

  “Trouble with you, Marge,” he said. “You got no vision. You want to be a short-order waitress all your life?”

  Lori opened the curtains and scraped the omelette out the window. The dog panting in the yard below, wolfed it down before it even hit the ground.

  She decided that this had got to stop. She didn’t know how but she had to call a halt to it. Once and for all. All she’d wanted was to be rich and famous. Was that a crime? No mention of anybody getting hurt. Nothing was worth....not even...

  Then she turned back into the room and caught sight of herself in the mirror in the full light of day.

  She looked absolutely fantastic. Her face was clear, her hair was thick, her eyes bright and shiny. And she’d lost more weight.

  She jumped on the scales. Another five pounds. She’d lost fifteen pounds since Friday. She looked like a different person. Almost as good as Chesney Pace. Better than stupid Tracey Barnes. What was she going to wear? She didn’t have anything in the wardrobe that fit. And she’d need to be careful. Pretend she’d been dieting for weeks under her lumpy clothes. Otherwise people might talk. Wonder anyway. Mustn’t have that. Play the innocent. Especially with the Sheriff. A ball of ice formed in her stomach. What if he asked her about Wayne? What would she say?

  “Wayne’s dead,” said the voice in her head. “Nothing you can do is going to bring him back. And there’s nothing to connect you to his death. You were miles away when it happened. Anyway, who cares? The Wayne’s of this world are expendable. The only person you need to worry about is you. And you are looking incredible. Perry Johnson won’t be able to keep his hands off you.”

  Lori admired herself in the mirror. Too true. Wayne was dead. But Perry was alive. And Wayne had been pretty horrible to her. She cinched her hands round the waist that she’d never had. Fifteen pounds. Where had all that weight gone?

  Tracey Barnes, swung her legs out of bed and vowed revenge on Lori Morrison. That fat cow, she thought viciously. She’d make her pay for this.

  Shrugging out of her baby dolls, crossing to the wardrobe to get her wrap before going for a shower, she was suddenly confronted by her reflection in the full length mirror. My God. What was happening? She looked like she’d put on weight. A LOT of weight. Her thighs, still slightly pink from the coffee scald, were puffy with cellulite and there was a definite tyre around her waist.

  What had she eaten yesterday? She must be allergic to something. Something that was blowing her up like a balloon.

/>   She moved closer to the mirror, stared at herself in horror. There were bags under her amber eyes and oh-my-god, was that a spot on her nose? It was. A big, red, throbbing spot, right on the end. And what had happened to her hair? It looked lank and yukkity yuk, greasy. She ran a hand through it, distractedly. When she took the hand away, a clump of hair came with it.

  Tracey made a noise, halfway between a squawk and a shriek.

  “You OK, Tracey?” It was her mom calling from downstairs. “Breakfast is ready. You’ll need to hurry if you want your Dad to give you a lift to school.”

  Tracey rushed to the door and locked it. She couldn’t let anyone see her in this condition. Not even her mother.

  “Could you phone in for me, mom?” she called through the keyhole. “I don’t feel very well.”

  “Want me to get the Doctor?” Mrs Barnes sounded concerned. Her beautiful daughter was usually the picture of health.

  “No thanks,” said Tracey. “It’s just...you know...the usual.”

  “OK honey,” Mrs Barnes, relieved, went back to her breakfast. She’d been a martyr to ‘the usual’ herself when she’d been younger. One of the joys of puberty.

  And upstairs her now not quite so beautiful daughter, sat down on the side of the bed, with a sinking feeling in the pit of her bulging stomach, and wondered what in blue blazes was going on?

  14

  Miguel Coyote was waiting on the front step when Miss Sanders came to open library. She looked at him in surprise. She would have looked at anybody in surprise who was waiting on the step so early on a Monday morning. The citizens of Backwater Ridge weren’t known for their reading capacity. Miss Sanders, a devoted bibliophile and confirmed spinster (not necessarily in that order) normally didn’t have a great deal in the way of custom.

  “Can I help you?” she said, unlocking the door and leading the way into the dusty interior.

  “I’m looking for something on the Indian Wars,” said Miguel.