9

“I figured you left town,” said Derek.

There was something in the way he said it—not just with surprise, but eagerness. He was excited to see us again. He’d been looking for us.

“You went back to the drive-in,” I guessed.

“What happened last night?” asked Brooke.

I wished she hadn’t said that, exposing her lack of memory, but Derek seemed to misinterpret her meaning.

“I just wanted to see if you were still there,” he said. He was sitting on the culvert—a big cement opening leading out into the ditch. His feet were up on the metal grate at the mouth of the hole, but as he spoke he shifted his weight, leaning back toward the hollow space I couldn’t see on the far side of the culvert. If it were me, I’d have a weapon hidden there. Did he?

“Paul wanted to call the cops,” he continued. “But he’s an idiot, and once we convinced him he was too drunk to talk to any cops, we got him back to his house and in through his bedroom window. Corey told me to leave you alone, but he’s always telling us what to do, so screw him. By the time I got back there you were gone.”

“What did you want?” I asked.

He just smiled and rapped his knuckles on the cement culvert.

How quickly had he come back? That would tell me everything I needed to know; if it was quick, then he’d been trying to catch us before we went to sleep, either because he thought we’d be making out or because he wanted to finish the fight I’d almost started. If he’d waited a few hours and come back when he knew we’d be asleep … well, there were several things that might mean and none of them were good.

“My name is Marci,” said Brooke, though I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why. Was she actively trying to tell him she had mental issues? I said the first thing I could think of so she wouldn’t keep talking.

“Did you have a gun?”

He didn’t answer, and I knew that he had. He’d come back looking for us, drunk and angry and armed. I saw myself stabbing him again, like a strobed image flashing in my mind, and took a deep breath to calm myself. I put my hand on Brooke’s arm, subtly guiding her back out of the tree. “Let’s go.”

“You want to see it?” asked Derek.

Brooke froze, and I looked back at Derek. His guilty smirk had turned into a wicked grin and he reached behind the culvert and pulled out a hunting rifle—not a handgun but a full, meter-long rifle. It seemed insane, but I supposed it was the only gun he had quick access to. He worked the bolt action, showing a long, bright bullet in the chamber, then pointed it at us. “I killed four deer last year; two does and two buck. Had to tell the ranger they were my dad’s, because that’s over the limit for a youth license and I was still just seventeen.” I watched his eyes, wondering if he felt the same thrill in killing that I did, but I saw was nothing there but anger. His lips curled back in a sneer as he spoke, trying to terrify us with his monologue. “One of the bucks was four points,” he said, “but the other was twelve point, one forty-two net score, so it’s not quite trophy level, but we hung it on the wall anyway. I skinned them myself, and we’re still eating the meat nine months later. You ever skinned a deer?”

“No,” I said simply.

“There’s way more blood than you think there’s going to be,” he said. “I was drenched in it. So please, don’t assume for one second that I’m too squeamish to pull this trigger right now.”

“Please don’t,” said Brooke.

I shrugged. “He won’t.”

“I told you,” said Derek angrily, “I’m not afraid of some little pissant with a knife.”

I thought about the knife and how much I wanted to use it right now, but I calmed myself. Scaring him would only give him the excuse he needed to pull the trigger. If I didn’t give him that excuse, he’d never dare. He didn’t want to kill us, just freak us out.

So instead of scaring him, I got to make fun of him. And I was ready to tear something apart.

“I don’t think you’re afraid to do it,” I said. “As much as it shocks all three of us to hear this, I think you’re too smart.”

He raised the gun a bit, scowling. “You want to say that again?”

“You’re too smart,” I repeated. “Maybe not smart enough last night, drunk and embarrassed and out in the middle of nowhere, which is why you’re lucky we were gone, or there’d be a cop collecting forensic evidence right now, tracing the bullets in our corpses right back to your rifle. Lucky for all of us, then. But now, today, in the middle of this bustling metropolis, not twenty yards from the nearest house, even you of all people are too smart to shoot us. They wouldn’t even have to collect forensic evidence because this whole town would see you running from the scene. And you wouldn’t be able to argue self-defense because we’re unarmed and just came from church. So no, I don’t think you’re smart enough to have thought this through, and I don’t think you’re smart enough to have avoided this situation without my help, but now that I’ve explained it all in short, easy words, yeah, I think you’re smart enough not to kill us.”

He growled. “You don’t know anything about me—”

“What?” I asked, cutting him off. “Were you about to argue with me about how you actually are that stupid? Go ahead—I’m excited to hear this. Tell us all about how stupid you are—”

The gun fired, and my bravado turned to mindless terror in an instant, deafened by the blast. I scrambled backward through the willow branches, hands and feet churning the wet grass to mud. Brooke was already outside of the tree when I got there, running for safety, but she turned around to help me to my feet. We ran, too scared to stop and check ourselves for injuries, and all I could remember was Derek’s face, laughing and laughing.

In hindsight, I didn’t actually think he was going to chase us. He shot once to scare us, probably confident that, with no bodies or actual damage, he could talk his way out of whatever trouble he got into, saying it was only an accident. Or maybe people shot off guns in this town all the time and he wouldn’t get in any trouble at all. But in the moment I was too scared to think clearly, still coming down from the emotional overstimulation I’d been going through all day, so we ran straight to the first safe haven we could think of: 42 Beck Street.

“Wait,” said Brooke on the porch, grabbing my hand. She was bent over, her other hand on her knee, gasping for breath, and I had to stop and do the same. She looked behind us. “He’s not chasing us. Let’s take a minute.”

“Be quiet then,” I whispered. I studied the front of the house. “She’ll hear us and come out.” I hated Derek so much in that moment I could have screamed.

Boy Dog had somehow kept pace with us and now he was prowling back and forth across the porch, growling and darting his head at every new sound. He was just as scared as we were.

The house was smallish. It had a wooden porch big enough to hold a pair of rocking chairs and windows on either side of the door. There was car in the driveway, which hadn’t been there when we’d passed the place earlier; it was old, and the brownish paint was flaking off in a pattern that looked surprisingly organic, like an alien beast crouching in the shade.

“This is someone from church?” asked Brooke.

I nodded. “Sara Glassman. She…” I paused, suddenly remembering something. “Those three dirtbags last night mentioned a Ms. Glassman; they said she had relatives in town.”

“So?”

“So today when she invited us she said she’d made a pie and that she didn’t want to eat it alone. If she has relatives in town she’s not alone, so someone is lying.”

Brooke panted a moment longer, then shook her head. “About a pie?”

“I’m … just nervous, is all. It’s probably nothing, I know. But if I jump at enough shadows I’ll eventually jump at something real and save our lives.”

“Is that why you just mouthed off to an asshat with a rifle?”

I peered at her more closely. “Marci?”

She shook her head. “Still Brooke.”

“You don’t talk like that very often.”

“I don’t get shot at very often.”

I nodded. “Considering how often our lives in danger, that’s pretty surprising.”

“Don’t go back and hurt him,” she said.

“What?” I straightened up, finally breathing at a normal rate. “Why would I go back?”

“Because he hurt you,” said Brooke. “And you don’t like it when people hurt you.”

It wasn’t me that I worried about, it was her. For daring to threaten her I’d cut Derek into a thousand pieces, I’d stab and slice and chop and mince until there was nothing left, nothing even recognizable as a mammal, let alone a human, but …

 … then what? What would I do after his danger was gone, and another rose up to take its place. Just kill again? And what after that? I couldn’t just murder my way to peace. There would always be another danger.

What would I give to just disappear back onto the road? To stick out my thumb and be gone again, leaving only a fading memory of Those Weird Kids Who Came To Church.

We’d had nothing but trouble since we’d gotten here. Since Marci had gotten here. I took a deep breath, then shook my head. “It’s free food,” I said, addressing my own doubts out loud. “We’ll take that wherever we can get it; no sense running. And it can’t be any worse than anything else that’s happened today.”

Brooke nodded. “What kind of pie?”

The door opened, and Ms. Glassman beamed from the doorway. “I thought I heard voices out here! Come on in, I’m so glad you came! Oh, and you brought your adorable dog!”

“Thank you,” said Brooke, smiling politely. We passed inside while Ms. Glassman held the door. The house smelled delicious.

“Did you get your medicine okay?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Brooke, lying better than usual. “I’m feeling much better.”

Ms. Glassman crouched to scratch Boy Dog’s head. “What’s his name?”

“Boy Dog,” I said. “We didn’t name him.”

“Ha! You can leave your packs on the couch,” said Ms. Glassman, pointing to a sagging sofa. She bustled into the kitchen, and I took the chance to study the room—art on the walls, mostly nature scenes, and a pair of old black-and-white photos hanging over the mantel. There were no other photos. “Is it a mental thing?” she called from the other room.

“Depression,” said Brooke. “It comes and goes, but I’m okay now.”

“I’m sorry to hear it,” said Ms. Glassman. “My aunt was like that, but this was back in the day, when they didn’t consider things like depression to be a condition. It was just a thing that you felt and got over. I’m just guessing, of course, but I kind of wish she’d had some of the modern medicines like yours. Coke or apple?”

“What?” I stepped into kitchen and saw her setting the table with thick ceramic dishes.

“To drink,” she explained. “My brother buys this apple soda all the time, and I’ve still got some in the fridge. But I have Coke, too, if you’d rather.”

“Apple sounds great,” said Brooke.

“Just water for me,” I said.

“Absolutely,” said Ms. Glassman. “You can wash up in the sink there.”

We obediently washed our hands, and I counted the settings at the table: only three. I still couldn’t help myself from looking around the house for more people.

“Have a seat,” she said, dishing some kind of green vegetable from a saucepan to a serving dish. “You said you were vegetarian, so I made beet greens. It’s a southern thing, which we don’t do a lot of in these parts, but I used to have family out that way, so I picked up a few recipes.” She set the dish on the table and sat down, licking her fingertips. “Ready?”

“Is it just the three of us?” I asked.

“Just the three of us,” she said. “Were you expecting more?”

“One of the kids in town told me you had relatives visiting.”

“You make friends quickly,” said Ms. Glassman. “But don’t worry—Luke left yesterday. And he’s a total bore, so you’re lucky.” She started dishing out beet greens, and Brooke did the same with a bean salad in the center of the table. There was ham as well, though I didn’t take any, and warm rolls and a green salad that seemed like it was mostly just lettuce and cucumbers. I wondered how the rolls could be warm—she hadn’t had time to bake them since church, and it seemed strange that she would have baked a whole batch just for herself, before she’d even invited us.

“Marci,” said Ms. Glassman kindly. “Would you say grace?”

“Of course,” said Brooke, and bowed her head and asked for God’s permission or forgiveness or whatever you’re supposed to ask for in a prayer. Ms. Glassman put a slab of ham on a plate for Boy Dog, and then we started eating, but I couldn’t concentrate on my food—all I saw was their forks jabbing into the ham, their knives slicing it open, the flesh separating under the blades, and I thought about Derek and everything I wanted to do to him.

I needed to burn something. It was my only release valve when the pressure built up like this.

“Dillon is lovely,” said Brooke.

“Thank you,” said Ms. Glassman. “Most visitors complain about how tiny it is, but we love it. What else do we need, anyway?”

“We come from a small town as well,” said Brooke. “Not this small, but still. I couldn’t wait to get out when we were in school, but now I miss it.”

I looked at her while I chewed, trying to guess if she was talking about Clayton or some medieval village lost to time.

“Small towns are the best,” said Ms. Glassman. “Big cities are noisy, they’re dirty, they’re full of crime.” She punctuated each word with a short stab of her fork. “I drove through Tulsa once and thought I was going to get mugged at every stoplight. I can’t even imagine going to a bigger place like New York.”

“It’s not as bad as people say,” said Brooke. “Yes it is.”

I looked at her again, wondering if she had just switched personalities in midsentence.

“Ha!” laughed Ms. Glassman. “I know how you feel, I argue with myself all the time. David, honey, how are those beet greens working out for you?”

“They’re delicious,” I said and I meant it. Either she was an excellent cook, or I was starving. Probably both. I took another bite, feeling even hungrier now that my body remembered what it had been missing, but as I chewed I started preparing some questions. This is why we’d gone to church in the first place, and now it was time to cash in that goodwill we’d earned and get some information.

I swallowed. “Every town is dangerous, though,” I said. “Even Stillson had a crime problem.”

“Not Dillon,” said Ms. Glassman. “Last year I lost the key to the library so I couldn’t lock up, and after freaking out all afternoon I decided to just close the door and pretend I was locking it and hope. Nothing happened. I didn’t find that key again until the carpet cleaner moved my desk three months later—the front door was just unlocked for three whole months—and we didn’t have a single break-in.”

“Do people ever break into libraries?” asked Brooke. “You get the books for free anyway.”

“And most of this town isn’t even interested in that,” said Ms. Glassman, slicing off another bite of ham.

Derek’s heart, parting in two under the blade of my knife.…

“… but I mentioned this story to Bill Taylor, who runs the Terryl’s, and he told me the same thing happened to him the year before.”

“Terryl’s is a … hairdresser?” Brooke asked.

“Grocery store,” said Ms. Glassman. “Same story: not a single thing stolen. Not one grape.”

“Then what about that gunshot we heard?” I asked, using the incident to press her further. There was a Withered in town, or at least there used to be, and though it probably wasn’t Derek I had to get her talking about danger. Something here was dangerous. “Right before we got here? It sounded like a hunting rifle.”

“Oh that happens all the time,” she said. “But folks around here are gun people from way back, and we know what we’re doing. Except for that one time five years ago when Clete Neilson shot himself in the foot there hasn’t been a single gun-related injury since … well since the Old West, I suppose. And Clete was drunk, so it’s his own dumb fault.”

“What about non-gun-related injuries?” asked Brooke.

Ms. Glassman laughed. “My, you two are morbid, aren’t you?”

Brooke laughed, which was perfect, because a laugh was exactly what the situation needed and I could never make it look natural. We needed her to keep talking about this—she was presenting Dillon as some kind of quiet paradise, where nothing ever went wrong, but that couldn’t be true if there was a Withered here. We still didn’t know what Attina could do, or how or why, but even a Withered who didn’t kill—like Yashodh or Elijah—still caused problems. Elijah was an outright good person, and actively tried to help people and avoid problems, but he still couldn’t survive without a constant stream of death. Even if other people caused it, the Withered needed death. They fed on us like parasites, and yet Dillon seemed completely healthy.

We’d come to Dillon because the memories Brooke had gained from Nobody located a Withered here decades ago, but what if it had left? The highway had bypassed the town, just like it had a thousand other little towns across the country, and the population had dwindled. There was no way the tiny population of Dillon could support a drive-in theater today. So the people had left, and the Withered had left with them. Dillon wasn’t a viable food source anymore.

“These rolls are wonderful,” said Brooke. “Did they just come out of the oven?”

“Thank you, dear,” said Ms. Glassman. “That’s so sweet. I mixed the batch this morning and let them rise while I was at church. Then I just threw them in the oven when I got home, easy peasy.”

“But you didn’t know we were coming,” I said. “You didn’t invite us until you were already an hour into church.”

Ms. Glassman smiled. “I’ve been making a fresh batch of my grandmother’s rolls first thing before church every week since she passed. Why do you think I had the ham all ready to go, or the bacon-pecan pie? I trust the Good Lord to put someone deserving in my path, and when he does, I have a lunch all ready for them.”

“Does that happen a lot?” asked Brooke.

“Honey,” said Ms. Glassman, “if you make a pie and ask people if they want to eat it with you, you’re never going to eat alone.”

Was Dillon really this nice? This quiet and peaceful, with nothing under the surface, no evil secrets, no hidden killers?

If it was, then I was the worst person here. Derek and his buddies were awful, but they’d backed down—even three to one, the mere glimpse of a knife had scared them off. They were harmless. I, on the other hand, wasn’t even mad anymore and I still wanted to cut Derek into pieces, nice and slow, until he was in so much pain he couldn’t even scream.

Robberies were one thing, but I needed to know about the real statistics. “How often do people die here?” I asked.

“Don’t,” Brooke hissed.

“That’s a … shocking question,” said Ms. Glassman.

“The last town we visited had a string of cancer deaths that they eventually attributed to nuclear testing,” I said, making up a story as I talked. “They were downwind of a bomb site back in the fifties, and the radiation was still poisoning the water. Every place we’ve visited has had a story to tell, and I think when I get back to college I’d like to write a paper about it.” I looked at Ms. Glassman closely, trying to ascertain if she was hiding any information from us. “So what does Dillon have? Suicides, unexplained illnesses, an abnormally high number of … I don’t know, painting accidents?”

Ms. Glassman raised her hands in a helpless shrug, staring at the table as she tried to remember. “I have no idea. Aside from Clete’s foot, and a boy that fell under a thresher that same year … we don’t have anything. If they didn’t take the ambulance to the elementary school every spring, we’d forget we even had one.”

I looked at Brooke, and she looked back at me.

“Will you be staying long?” asked Ms. Glassman.

“No,” said Brooke. “I think we’re leaving later today.”