CHAPTER THREE
We stood in the dark at the top of the levee, looking down. The air smelled of fresh grass and cow manure. Overhead, the moon rushed through stringy clouds. At the bottom of the slope, near the fence, a herd of cattle lay in a circle, a couple of them raising their heads as they sensed our presence.
“See?” Stan said. “He isn’t here.”
I looked down at the gravel road, barely discernable in the night. To the left, a quarter-mile away, toward town, was the boxy outline of Bergeron’s store, with no lights showing. The Bergerons had long since gone to bed. To the right, at the end of an oak avenue that began at the River Road, was the inky form of Windsong’s big house, now a decaying ruin. And to the side of the entrance, strategically placed to guard the property, was the cabin of Rufus Sikes. It was dark, too.
There were no lights at all, until I saw something half a mile away, in the center of one of the fields. At first I thought it was my eyes playing tricks and I nudged Stan.
“Do you see something over there?”
“Where?”
I pointed. The light seemed to blink and then waver.
“I see it now,” he said. “‘But why is somebody in the middle of the field at this time of night?”
“It’s the old graveyard,” I said.
There was a cemetery on Windsong, where several generations of black laborers were buried. I’d never been there but I’d had the place pointed out to me when we’d been riding down the River Road looking for a place to shoot tin cans. It was at the end of a dirt road, a quarter of a mile back in the fields, and cloaked by cedars.
“Jesus, Colin, you’re right. But why?”
“What if it’s Toby? What if he’s in trouble?”
“What the hell would he be doing in a graveyard?”
“I dunno. But why would anybody be poking around down there at midnight?”
We stood silently for a moment.
“Look, I say we go down and check it,” I said.
Stan hesitated. “Maybe it’s something that’s none of our business.”
“Like what?”
“Like maybe it’s just some guy knocking off a piece. What we gonna do, go up and shine a light in his eyes?”
“That’s a flashlight,” I said. “‘You think they’re outside screwing on the grass? People screw in cars.”
“I still don’t think it’s Toby.”
“We’ll never know if we stand here with our thumbs up our asses. And if it turns out it really was Toby and we didn’t do shit, you wanna live with that?”
“What the hell would we do if it was? Make a noise like a siren?”
“We got my .22.”
“That’s what I figured you’d say,” he said miserably.
I started forward and a second later he followed.
“Okay, hold up, I’m coming.”
Later I wondered what would have happened if I’d listened to Stan and not gone.
It took us twenty minutes of walking along the levee top to get to the place where the little trail led off the main road. In that time the dancing light had vanished and a couple of times Stan lagged, suggesting we turn back, but I’d refused. Now we stood looking down at the rutted track.
“I don’t see anything,” he said. “Let’s go.”
The moon ducked under a cloud and the fields lapsed into darkness.
“Look.” I halted. There was movement below and as we watched a light-colored car without with its headlamps off bounced over the ruts and swung onto the gravel in a spray of dust that rose up like a fog, obscuring vehicle and driver. By the time the dust lifted the car was barely visible, headed in the direction of town.
“Did you get a look?” I asked Stan.
He shook his head. “It may have been a Ford. Or a Chevy. It was in a hurry, whoever it was.”
I started down, toward the road. “Where you going?” he called after me. “He was running from something. Maybe he saw us.”
“Nah. He took off from the cemetery. He wouldn’t have seen us from there.”
“You think it was Toby?”
“Why would he be taking off like that?”
Stan hesitated. “Let’s go back.”
“No. I want to see why he was leaving in such a hurry.”
“But that’s the graveyard.”
“You scared of ghosts?”
“Shit, no, But maybe it’s something else.”
“Like what?”
He shrugged in the darkness.
I reached the fence and motioned for him to separate the top and middle strands while I ducked under.
“You’re really going to the cemetery?” he asked.
“Hell yes. Look, why don’t you stay up here with the rifle and cover me. If the boogie man comes chasing after me, you can knock him off from the top of the levee. How’s that?”
“You don’t want me to come?”
“I want you to stay right here, okay? I’ll be fine.”
“You think you’re Paladin,” he accused.
“No, I’m the fucking Lone Ranger and you’re Tonto.”
“Fuck you. Tonto means stupid, Señorita Gloria says.”
“Like I said.”
“Asshole.”
“Just cover me.”
I hurried across the road, my steps exploding like gunshots on the gravel. When I got to the cemetery track on the other side I stopped, listening.
But there were no sounds except for a far-away boat horn on the river.
The way ahead was a black tunnel, between straggly trees that lined the sides of the little trail. A quarter of a mile. Two city blocks. No sweat.
Paladin had a hand-crafted revolver, though, and a hideout Derringer. I had a flashlight and a friend who was scared of his shadow.
I walked forward, wondering if I was being stupid: Stan couldn’t see me after a certain point. I turned to look back at the levee, to see if I could make him out at the top, silhouetted against the sky, but I couldn’t be sure.
What if there really was something at the end—something that was watching even as I walked?
The trees on each side seemed to lean toward me, narrowing the tunnel as I went. I thought about turning on the flashlight but decided against it: If there really was somebody—or something—at the cemetery it would be able to see me long before I knew it was watching.
Suddenly a hand grabbed my ankle and I gave a little yell. Then, as I flipped on the light, I realized I’d tripped in a rut.
Shit. So much for surprise.
I switched off the light, moved to the side of the trail, and waited.
Silence.
It was crazy to be scared. There weren’t any werewolves or vampires or bogeymen. Only characters like Rufus Sikes, and there was no reason for him to be down here at this time of night.
Was there?
Screw Sikes. I was almost there. A few more yards and I’d be to the graves and I d shine my light around, probably see a discarded Trojan from the guy in the car, and then I’d walk back and tell Stan what a pussy he was.
For some reason my heart was beating loud enough to shake my body.
I sucked in a couple of deep breaths. I could see it ahead now, the cemetery with its pale white stones. Nothing unusual, nothing out of the ordinary.
And then I heard it.
At first I thought it was a dog howling far away but then I realized it was a moan.
I froze.
It was coming from the graveyard.
Oh Christ.
And suddenly it was rising up in front of me, a white form congealing out of the stones, wavering like ectoplasm against the darkness, long, liquid hair, skull-white face, hands beckoning like talons.
I ran and I didn’t stop until I could see the levee. I looked over my shoulder, half afraid it was coming after me, but there was nothing.
“Stan?” No answer. “Stan, goddamnit, where are you?”
Nothing.
Jesus, had something gotten him while I was down there? Terror started to shake me like a rag doll. What if I was alone? What if he’d been plucked away and I was to be next?
I slipped under the barbed wire, tearing my shirt on the top strand, and ran up the side of the grassy slope to the top of the levee.
“Stan!”
He was crumpled in a heap just on the river side, his head on his arm, and the rifle across his legs. I began to relax when I saw that his breathing was slow and regular.
“Stan.”
His eyes opened and he sat up.
“I guess I fell asleep.”
“I guess you did, asshole.”
“Did you see anything?”
“I…” Sure, a ghost. That would make me the laughing stock of everybody at school.
“No,” I said. “I didn’t see anything at all.”
211 p. Academy Chicago, paperback, $16.95.
ISBN: 9780897335836