Demon Page 8

  Miss Sanders took in the dark hair, the red bandanna, the surprisingly blue eyes. “I think there’s something in the archives,” she said. “I can’t let you take it out, of course. Unless you’re a resident?”

  She left the sentence open. She didn’t want to be nosy but she was sure she hadn’t seen this boy before. Miss Sanders, who lived with an aged and invalid mother, didn’t socialise much. But in a town like Backwater Ridge, a boy like this, obviously a native American cross, would have stuck out like a sore thumb.

  “That’s fine,” Miguel was non-committal. “Can I take notes?”

  “Certainly.”

  Miss Sanders let herself into the closed section through a small gate that wouldn’t have kept out a three year old, (just supposing some three year old had wanted to raid the library), and ran a hand along one of the shelves until she came to a sparsely stacked section marked ‘Historical’. Lifting the steel rimmed ‘granny’ glasses that hung round her neck on a chain, she peered through them at the titles, eventually selecting one and bringing it over to Miguel.

  “We don’t have much,” she said, placing the heavy tome in front of him. “But this should give you some information.” Her curiosity got the better of her. “May I ask what you want it for?”

  “Research,” said Miguel. Might as well keep to the same story he’d told the Sheriff. “For my thesis. UCLA. I need some details on a particular battle.”

  Miss Sanders nodded. A college boy. That would explain it. Someone half civilised for a change.

  “Do you have a pen?” she asked. And when Miguel said he had, producing a biro and a loose-leaf notebook from the inside pocket of his leather jacket, she added, sharply. “You won’t mark the book will you?”

  To Miss Sanders anyone who wrote notes in the margin or, even worse, turned the page down to remind themselves where they were, was no better than a vandal and ought to be hung, drawn and quartered. She’d had to speak to Wayne Maxwell about it more than once and...well...she pursed her lips...look what had just happened to him.

  “Of course not,” said Miguel. “I’ll be very careful.”

  “Fine.” Miss Sanders indicated a table in the corner with a chair and a reading lamp. “You can sit over there.”

  “Thank you.” Miguel took off his jacket and hung it round the chair back. Then he sat down and opened the book.

  Miss Sanders noted that he had nice broad shoulders before turning on the computer and setting in motion the few things that would prepare her for another Monday and the sparse string of those few old faithfuls who hadn’t been seduced away from the printed page by the dreaded ‘box’. Then she settled herself down with Jane Austen and Mr Darcy and left her lone customer to get on with it.

  Miguel was soon absorbed, leafing through page after page of infamy in which the US Cavalry had systematically eliminated his ancestors. The Native American side anyway. The other side was Norwegian, stemming from a female settler ‘rescued’ from a burnt out cabin when her husband had been killed in a raid. Hence the blue eyes.

  He was almost three quarters through when he found what he was looking for. Not much considering. A half page insert under a posed photo of a troop of Cavalry, stiff in their dress uniforms, all looking inordinately proud for a group of men who had just wiped out an entire settlement. Not just the young warriors but women, children, and even domestic animals. Everything from old men on crutches to babies in cribs. Anything that moved. They had fallen on the peaceful encampment and butchered every living thing. Without mercy. Without conscience. Except for the old medicine man and the young half-caste boy who had been helping him gather healing herbs up in the hills. The two had watched the massacre helplessly, hidden behind an out crop of rocks, while the soldiers, drunk on blood, had taken their victory scalps.

  Miguel could still hear the screams.

  He ran his finger along the list of names of the participants in the outrage that was known as the Battle of Honey Creek. Ezekiel Mason, Jeremiah Johnson, Murphy McGee, Walter Sanders, Milt Watson...and so on through to the end. But there was no Morrison. He tried again. No – he hadn’t missed it. Quickly, he noted down the names that were there, hesitating when he came to that of the Captain who had led the charge. Jonas Barnes. He stared into the face of the man who had given the fatal order to attack and wondered what had made him tick? Although tall and handsome in his military uniform, his broad-brimmed hat set at a rakish angle, his hair, like Miguel’s, shoulder length, he had the eyes of a vulture and an impressive moustache that didn’t quite hide the cruel curve of the mouth.

  Maybe Trooper Morrison had been sick on the day of the photo shoot? Miguel skimmed through the index but there was nothing there. No further record to show that this wasn’t the full compliment. He looked up.

  “Do you have anything else?” he asked.

  “That’s it, I’m afraid.” Miss Sanders set aside her novel as Miguel brought back the book. “The Bugle might have something?”

  “The Bugle?”

  “The Backwater Bugle. Local paper. Down the end of Main Street. But I doubt whether their records go back that far.”

  Miguel smiled. “Well, thanks anyway,” he said. “I appreciate your help.” He looked down at the novel. “‘Pride and Prejudice’”, he said. “One of my favourites.”

  Miss Sanders looked startled, then her face creased in a broad smile that made her look almost pretty. A twin soul. A kindred spirit. Such a handsome boy too. If only she was twenty years younger.

  “And mine,” she said and, as Miguel retrieved his jacket and went out into the sun-bright morning. “Good luck with the research.”

  Marge, alerted by the sound of the horn, emerged from the kitchen just in time to see Lori fly out the door.

  “Don’t wait supper for me Mom,” she shouted. “I’ve got a read through after school.”

  Marge followed her down the hall, reaching the door just in time to see the red roadster drive off. Perry was looking at Lori as though he’d like to eat her. And no wonder. Her hair, glinting in the sunlight, was hanging round her shoulders like a silk waterfall and her skin had an almost luminescent glow. She had on a pink shirt and, as she rose slightly to throw her schoolbag in the back, Marge noted that instead of wearing it loose, like she usually did, to hide the bulges, she had tied it in a knot at her waist. She actually had a waist. And unless Marge (who had kept her figure and was still a size ten) was very much mistaken, she had borrowed her best new Levis.

  Marge shook her head in astonishment. “Wonders,” she said. “Will never cease.”

  Miguel’s trip to ‘The Bugle’ didn’t take more than ten minutes. As Miss Sanders had predicted the records didn’t go back further than the middle of the nineteenth century, twenty years after the Battle of Honey Creek.

  Apart from that, the proprietor, Jes Molton, was busy writing a gory leader on the recent drowning of Wayne Maxwell, and had given Miguel short shrift. Backwater Ridge wasn’t exactly the hub of the Universe. Normally Jes had nothing much to cover but traffic violations and school prize-givings. This was the first real story he’d been able to get his teeth into since Milt Jackson had accidentally shot himself in the foot back in ’97.

  It’s an ill-wind.

  However, on turning to leave, Miguel’s attention was caught by a framed photo which hung, in pride of place, between the two big plate glass windows. It featured a really stunning red-head, wearing a great big smile and a blue swimsuit with a scarlet sash draped across it, on which the legend ‘Miss Cactus County’ was printed in large gold letters. He looked at the inscription under the picture. Marjorie Mason. Miss Cactus County. And the date.

  Jes Molton looked up from his computer.

  “Marge Morrison,” he said. “Waitress down the drive-in. Changed a bit now, of course. Looker, wasn’t she?”

  Miguel agreed that indeed, she had been.

  “Almost made it out of here,” Jes said to the boy’s retreating back. “Almost...but not quite.” And then as
the door closed, shaking his head, remembering. “Best legs the town ever produced.”

  Outside, Miguel climbed onto the Honda, fishing in his pocket for the loose-leaf notebook and the list that he’d scribbled down in the library. There it was, the very first name. Ezekial Mason. He’d been right after all. Except for one thing. The line came down through Lori’s mother.

  Marjorie Mason.

  Ted Morrison had nothing to do with it.

  15

  It was a strange, subdued kind of a day at Backwater High. Wayne Maxwell’s death hung over the school like a shroud.

  The heavy atmosphere wasn’t helped by the presence of Sheriff Rube Watson, who arrived as the first bell was sounding and systematically took statements from everyone who had been in or around the swimming hole the day previous.

  Had they seen anything unusual in the water? Were there any fights? How many people were there? Who did what to whom?

  Students were taken out of class one at a time and grilled in Principal Session’s office which had been made available for the purpose. Brad, who’d been attempting to look cool all day, had to be practically assisted from the room when his turn came. He’d gone a kind of green colour and his legs didn’t appear to be working properly. There was talk of him being expelled but since the incident hadn’t taken place on school property there didn’t seem to be any legal grounds for such drastic action. However, in Principal Session’s morning address, the subject of which was ‘bullying’, he and the other three boys involved were severely castigated in front of the entire school. Assembly finished with a three minute silence in memory of the dear departed, after which all four were avoided as though they had the plague.

  As for Lori, she was definitely the most important and talked about person in the school. She featured in just about every conversation. Not only to her face but behind her back. Even though nobody had rushed to her assistance at the time, anyone who had been in the vicinity when she’d been thrown into the swimming-hole came to offer their sympathy (just so she’d know that THEY had had nothing to do with it) and went on to tell her how great she was looking. Lori, thoroughly enjoyed the attention, playing the situation for all it was worth. Especially when it came her turn to be questioned. Her portrayal of the injured innocent was so convincing that she felt she deserved an Oscar. Although at one point she almost overplayed her hand, when, adopting her best ‘hang-dog’ expression, she’d begged the Sheriff not to be too hard on ‘the boys’ as they’d only been horsing around. Rube Watson had raised a cynical eyebrow and remarked to Principal Sessions, within her ear-shot and as she was leaving the room, that if he didn’t know better, he’d say ‘that child was too good to be true’.

  All the bad press was reserved for the absent Tracey Barnes who had suddenly plummeted from being Miss Popularity Plus, to become Public Enemy Number One. The only one of her hangers on who remained loyal was Mary-Lou, who spent a fruitless day fighting a loosing battle in defence of her idol’s honour.

  Nobody was surprised that Tracey hadn’t turned up to school. Everyone figured she was too ashamed of herself to appear.

  They couldn’t have been further off the mark. Tracey was far from ashamed. On the contrary, she was absolutely furious. Especially when Rube Watson, who made his appearance as soon as he’d finished at Backwater High, insisted on seeing her (sick or not) to question her personally about Wayne’s death.

  She was defiant to the point of insolence, refusing to accept any responsibility for Lori’s ducking or Wayne’s drowning. She even told the Sheriff that if he was going to charge her with something, he should go ahead.

  “My opinion?” he remarked to his Deputy, Sam, when he got back to the Station House, no wiser than he left. “They threw in the wrong girl.”

  And Tracey, back in her bedroom, refusing to come out, or eat, or see the lawyer that her mother wanted to call for her, stared at the spot on her nose in the mirror and swore a great swear. That somehow, some way, she was going to get Perry and her figure and her own back on that stupid, fat, useless, talent-less, idiot Lori Morrison.

  And find out what was REALLY going on.

  If it was the last thing she ever did.

  “I need a favour, Mrs Moody.”

  Miguel Coyote had spent the day reviewing his options, which weren’t too many. But he knew he had to do something. And soon. Wayne’s death and his new-found information made the whole scenario that much more urgent. If he didn’t move quickly things were bound to get worse before they got better.

  He came to the eventual conclusion that regardless of the risks, the only answer was to go directly to the source of the problem. Lori. With this in mind he headed for the Backwater High only to discover the Sheriff’s car parked out in front. It was recess and Lori was right in the centre of a crowd of well-wishers, the big blonde kid from next door, keeping the more effusive one’s at bay like a bodyguard. No chance there then.

  Retreat and rethink.

  Next stop, the diner, where he figured he might enlist Marge’s help in retrieving the Dreamcatcher? Not tell her why, of course. He didn’t want to be removed to the State Mental Institution. Spin her some yarn about needing it for his project. Maybe offer her money? It was a long-shot but it was worth a try.

  But he was out of luck. Marge’s shift didn’t start until six.

  While he was finishing his soda, the Sheriff turned up with a sheaf full of notes and a bleak expression and ordered a slab of cherry pie, a large black coffee and three aspirins. They’d exchanged pleasantries and Rube asked Miguel how the research was going?

  “Fine.”

  “Hear you were in the library this morning?” said Rube, and when Miguel, slightly ruffled, had asked whether the Sheriff was spying on him, he’d added...

  “Don’t have to. Small town. Not much goes on around here, I don’t know about.”

  Miguel thought that Rube didn’t know the half of it, but he just asked how the Wayne Maxwell investigation was going, was told it was going nowhere and, as soon as was convenient, left the disgruntled cop to his cherry pie and aspirins and headed back for the High School.

  He parked discreetly round an adjacent corner and when the final bell rang, waited across the road for Lori to emerge in the after-school rush.

  And waited. And waited. And waited.

  At last, he grabbed one of the stragglers and asked if he’d seen her, only to be told that she wouldn’t be out for an hour or more.

  “There’s a rehearsal,” the kid said, looking Miguel up and down as though he were a Martian. “What do you want her for?”

  Miguel hadn’t answered. He’d just turned on his heel and headed for the Honda and home.

  “What sort of favour?” Mrs Moody asked.

  “I need to get a message to Lori Morrison,” said Miguel. “Could you give her a note for me at rehearsal?”

  Mrs Moody dashed his hopes anew. “I’m not going to rehearsal,” she said.

  “I thought you played piano for them?”

  “I do. But it’s just a read-through tonight. They’re not doing music til tomorrow. Why don’t you speak to her yourself? They’ll be out by eight.”

  Miguel wracked his brains.

  “She’ll have her boyfriend with her,” he said, trying to look sheepish. “It’s sort of a ‘private’ note.”

  Mrs Moody, one of Miss Sander’s regulars in the ‘romantic fiction’ department, smirked knowingly.

  “Like that, is it?” she said. “Alright. It’s Bingo night down the Church Hall. I’ll drop it in on my way past.”

  Miguel handed the message to his co-conspirator with a wry grin. “Thanks, Mrs Moody.”

  “My pleasure.”

  Mrs Moody, who hadn’t seen Lori since Friday’s auditions, took the supposed ‘love-note’ and secreted it in her handbag, delighted to be part of an intrigue but noting, with some disappointment, that the envelope was sealed so she wouldn’t be able to take a peek at the contents.

  “Love makes the w
orld go round,” she said to herself with a sigh. But privately, she wondered what on earth a good-looking kid like Miguel could see in a mousy little thing like Lori Morrison?

  16

  Tracey paced her room like a caged tiger. She’d hung a sheet over the mirror because every time she caught sight of herself, she seemed to look worse. She couldn’t be seen in public until whatever she’d got, died down. But she was practically foaming at the mouth with frustration at being left out of the information loop.

  She couldn’t phone anyone in class time, it was against the rules, but as soon as she knew school was out, she put in a call to Mary Lou on the mobile.

  “What’s happening?” she hissed, without even giving her friend a chance to say ‘Hello’.

  Mary Lou, who’d been cast as the good witch, was caught on the hop. She was in the gym and the read-though was in full swing.

  “Mary Lou.” Mr Quentin spoke up sharply as the ring tone interrupted the proceedings . “Have some consideration. Take that thing out of here,” adding, “Sorry Mrs Patten. I didn’t mean to interfere.”

  Mr Quentin was only directing the musical numbers. He was at the read through solely in his capacity as Baskerville’s ‘minder’. The dog was sitting on Lori’s lap as she read. Neither of them looked too happy about it.

  “Not at all, Mr Quentin,” said the Head of the English department. “I couldn’t agree with you more. If you must take calls during rehearsal time, Mary-Lou, at least have the courtesy to do so outwith the building.”

  And Mary Lou beet-red with embarrassment, had slunk outside.

  “Did you cut me off?” snarled Tracey.

  “No Tracey,” said Mary Lou. “Of course not.”

  “What’s happening?”

  “Well, rehearsals are going fine. Read-through should be finished....”

  “Not rehearsals, you idiot,” spat Tracey. “Who cares about rehearsals? I mean what’s happening about Perry? Where’s Perry?”