Coven. Part 22

Half hour later, Wade was back at the center, drenched. He stopped midstep when he entered the supply room.

Tom McGuire was sitting on a lab counter, drinking a beer.

"Wade, my man! I've been waiting for you."

"I..." Wade said. Tom looked sick. His face was...gray. "Jesus, Tom. You look like s.h.i.+t."

"I know," Tom agreed, "but I feel great. Come on, let's get out of here and throw back a few cold ones."

"I can't. I have to finish up here."

"Nonsense," Tom scoffed. "You're only young once, believe me. You want to waste the day scrubbing toilets?"

"Well, no, but-"

Tom's smile turned sad. Suddenly he was pointing a pistol at Wade. "Just do what I say, Wade. I'll explain along the way."

Holy s.h.i.+t, Wade thought slowly. Tom led him out to the loading dock, the gun barrel at Wade's back.

"How do you like the new paint job?"

Wade dumbly approached the Camaro. Tom's beautiful white lacquered car had been haphazardly painted black. "This is no paint job!" Wade exclaimed. "The run's ruined! I could do better work than this with a can of spray paint."

"That's what I used," Tom said. "Spray paint."

Using ordinary spray paint on this Chevy masterpiece was like touching up The Creation of Adam with El Markos. But the reason came quickly to Wade. Camouflage, he thought. Tom's "Eat Dust" vanity plates were gone too, replaced by normal plates.

Stolen plates, Wade realized.

"I made it look like s.h.i.+t on purpose," Tom said. He threw Wade the keys. "Get in, you drive."

Wade s.h.i.+fted out of the back lot. "You painted your white car black," Wade stated. "You put on stolen tags. You know the police are looking for you."

"Yep. The cops know my rod on sight, but they won't give this a second glance. Pretty slick thinking, huh?"

"Yeah, slick," Wade said. "So you did rob the liquor store."

"Dumb move, but what can I say? I was thirsty."

"You also stole a bunch of medical files from the clinic, mine included. And last night you murdered Dave Willet."

Tom seemed mildly impressed. "You're a smart boy, Wade. How'd you know about Do Horse?"

"Jervis saw the whole thing through a telescope. He also said he saw someone...eating the guy."

"It's true, partner, but it wasn't me. It was one of the sisters. That b.i.t.c.h ate half the meat off Willet's bones. I can't figure out where they put it all; they eat like pigs. She even ate the guy's c.o.c.k" -Tom chuckled- "and that was one big meal, let me tell you. They didn't call him Do Horse for nothing."

Wade turned off campus, steering stiffly. Little point remained in asking for reasons. Wade was no psychiatrist, but he felt fairly certain that confessing to murder and holding your best friend at gun point in a camouflaged car with stolen tags was a pretty clear sign of some psychological problems. Tom was crazy- And Wade was scared.

"You'll understand it all once you've become part of the family, Wade. But I know what you're thinking. You're thinking I've gone nuts, that I've turned into some sort of psychotic criminal." Tom pointed quickly to the exit. "Take Route 13 south."

Wade did so, wondering. He a.s.sumed Tom planned to flee the state, but 13 south would take them away from the state line.

"I'm no criminal, Wade," Tom went on. "And I'm no psycho."

"What are you, then?"

Tom's pallid grin reached its peak. "I'm a myrmidon-a holy gofer. I'm the shoes.h.i.+ne boy to the G.o.ds."

No, you're crazy, Wade thought.

"Let's get off these grim topics," Tom suggested. "We're still friends, it's just that the circ.u.mstances have changed a little." He pulled a couple of beers from a cooler in back, a Spaten for himself and an Adams for Wade. He removed the non twist off caps with his fingers. "A toast," he proposed, and raised his bottle. "To destiny!"

"Yeah, to destiny. Whatever you say, Tom."

Their bottles clinked.

"Hey, Wade. You ready for an old one?"

"Sure, why not?"

"You know what they say about Liberace, don't you? He was great on the piano, but he sucked on the organ."

"Hilarious, Tom."

"Aw, come on, buddy, cheer up," Tom said, and chugged some of his Spaten. "You'll feel different once you're in."

Wade drove on stoically. This whole thing was madness.

"Besser will be mighty p.i.s.sed that the cops are onto me," Tom said. "At first we had to be real careful, but I don't think that matters now. We'll be gone in a couple of days."

Wade blinked. "What does Besser have to do with this?"

"He's my supervisor. Winnie Saltenstall too. They're called nativeemissarials. I'm just a productionva.s.sal. And the sisters are like...project managers. We all work for the Supremate. It's a family. And what's best is you get to join the family too."

Wade followed the wooded bends of the road. He still didn't know where they were going, nor was he compelled to ask. Even if a cop pa.s.sed, it wouldn't matter. They were looking for a white Camaro, not a black one. The only vehicles to pa.s.s were periodic semi rigs, which dangerously used the Route as a shortcut to the interstate.

"Hogs of the road," Tom remarked as one big rig blared past, blowing its horn. The truck roared by them. "G.o.dd.a.m.n truckers think they own the Route. Be careful around these bends, man."

"I have driven the Route before, Tom."

"I know, just be careful. If I don't get you to the labyrinth in good shape, my a.s.s is gra.s.s."

"The labyrinth? I'm not even going to ask."

"Besser will tell you all about it. We're going back behind the agro site, in case you're wondering. That's where the labyrinth is. I can show you our little graveyard back there."

Off and on, Wade glanced over. Occasionally Tom rested back as if listening to something in his head. Probably instructions from G.o.d, Wade thought. Or Son of Sam's dog. Tom's hair seemed to be thinning-Wade could see a b.u.mp of some kind. Then there was always the upside down cross around his neck. Hadn't Wade noticed Besser with an identical cross on his first day at work?

"What's that thing around your neck?" he finally asked, and swerved through the next bend. "You in a satanic cult or something?"

Tom chuckled. "That's a good one. Don't worry about it." He tossed his empty Spaten. "You ready for another?"

"Sure," Wade said. Getting loaded seemed as good a way as any to deal with this. "Here's an idea," he offered. "Let's turn around right now, check you into the hospital, and we can go to the labyrinth tomorrow. Sound good?"

"Sounds bad," Tom said. "Just keep driving."

Another semi roared by, horn blaring. Wade swerved.

"I'm serious, buddy," Tom complained. "Be careful around these bends. If you got killed, I'd be neck deep in the Supremate's s.h.i.+t."

"I'm impressed by your concern for my well being."

"Just be careful around these bends."

Wade tried to concentrate on his driving. Once they got to the agro site, he presumed Tom, in his delusions, would kill him. He'd mentioned a graveyard, hadn't he? Wade needed a plan, and fast. His only chance seemed to be wrecking the car-drive into a ravine or spin out, and hope to escape in the confusion.

But one second later, fate provided its own plan.

What seemed to transpire over minutes actually took place in a few heartbeats. Wade pulled through the next bend. Tom shouted: "Careful around these-look out!" An oncoming car was suddenly in their lane, a black Fiero with two obviously s.h.i.+t faced occupants. "We're gonna wreck!" Tom shouted. Wade swerved, lost control as he jerked the wheel. The Camaro shuddered off the road and plowed into a good sized tree. Wade, on impact, shot forward and snapped back. He was wearing his seat belt. Tom, however, was not.

Tom's head burst through the winds.h.i.+eld; inertia pulled his body down, and Wade saw something bounce across the road.

Tom's body fell back in the seat, headless.

Holy holy holy s.h.i.+t. Wade hauled himself out, jarred, dizzy. The Camaro was totaled, and so was Tom.

The Fiero had skidded to a halt, its driver looking back.

"You f.u.c.khead drunk motherf.u.c.ker!" Wade bellowed.

"Tough luck," the driver muttered. The Fiero sped away.

Jesus Jesus Jesus, Wade thought, and blundered across the road. I just got Tom killed. Jesus Jesus Jesus.

He looked forlornly down at Tom's head, which lay face-up in weeds. If Wade had been more careful, none of this would've happened. He might've talked Tom out of his madness, gotten him to a shrink, gotten him fixed up. Instead, he'd gotten him killed.

Jesus Jesus Jesus. Look what I've done.

Wade glanced up. He thought he'd heard a sound. A car door?

He peered across to the smashed Camaro. Tom's body was getting out of the car-without the benefit of a head.

Wade stood limp, staring.

The headless corpse stood upright, even closed the door behind it. One of its hands still gripped a Spaten Oktoberfest. It faced Wade, or would be if it had a face. Wade's bladder voided then, as the headless corpse of Tom McGuire began to confidently cross the road.

A horn shrieked, along with tremors and a roar like thunder. Instantly a log loaded eighteen wheeled Peterbilt barreled through the bend with no chance of stopping for the perplexed thing that stood in the middle of the road. The ma.s.sive front grille mowed Tom's body down with an ear splitting whap!, then fed the crumpled corpse into its axles. The body tumbled like a doll in a dryer and eventually became lodged by its legs in the truck's spare tire rack, trapped. Wade noticed Vermont plates on the rig's loaded trailer. Tom's body was going for a long ride. As quickly as the truck had appeared, it was gone.

Wade remained limp at the shoulder, half in shock and easily doubting his own sanity.

He looked down again at Tom's head.

Its eyes flew open, and its lips spoke: "G.o.dd.a.m.n it, Wade! I told you to be careful around those bends!"

Wade screamed, kicked the head into the woods, and ran.

CHAPTER 21.

White's office was locked, which worked out for the best. Lydia was determined to tell him nothing until she'd acquired enough evidence on her own to make a case, and not just this business with the hewer, but the break in at the clinic and the Erblings' dorm. Something was seriously wrong around here. Lydia didn't trust White. She didn't trust anyone.

She'd pa.s.sed the exhibits many times, never taking any notice. Colonial relics weren't exactly a turn on for her. But it was a large, impressive display, she saw now. She remembered glancing at it yesterday. Now she roved the gla.s.s cases. Of course, she hardly expected to find a hewer's display s.p.a.ce vacant. No one was that lucky. Musket barrels, bent bayonets, and squashed powder horns-here they all were, as Fredrick had promised. Tools and edged weapons occupied the latter cases. Lots of trade axes, froes, and scythes. There were bog scoops from Ma.s.sachusetts Bay and gla.s.s pincers from Williamsburg. Big deal, Lydia thought. Lots of swords too, and an entire case of Conoy arrowheads and tomahawks. The last cast displayed some hewers, but none looked as large as the kind she sought.

One label read: "Hand hewer, Roanoke Island, circa 1587." But it was puny, like a Cub Scout hatchet.

Next: "Pole hewer, Jamestown, circa 1610." Much bigger, but the plane of the blade was concaved, not straight.

Here it is, she thought. "Beam hewer, St. Clement's Island, circa 1635." But the hewer's display s.p.a.ce was... vacant.

Lydia's expression drooped. No one was this lucky?

In seconds, she was in White's office, dialing the phone. Her excitement rushed her words. "Professor Fredrick, this is Lydia Prentiss again. Who has access to the archaeology exhibits?"

"What?" Fredrick asked. "Access? You mean keys?"

"Yes, sir, I mean keys. Who has the keys?"

"Well, I do, of course. It's my department."

"Who else has keys to the display cases? Janitors? Security?"

"No," Fredrick said. "I'm afraid the only other person on campus with keys is the college public relations executive."

"Who's that?"

"Winnifred Saltenstall."

Lydia gripped the phone so hard her knuckles whitened. "What legitimate reason would she have for taking an artifact?"

"Well, I don't know. If she'd donated it to a museum, she certainly would've notified me first. She may have loaned it to a historical society, or perhaps to an archaeology journal. Why don't you ask her yourself?"