The Good House Part 41

Corey couldn't see through his tears. The stink of Bo's fright a.s.saulted him, a smell that was both primal and unearthly. He felt shudders as Bo's body jerked downward, and Corey was pulled over into a stoop as he struggled to keep his grip. Bo's arms thrashed, scratching Corey's face, grabbing a handful of his hair.How could this be happening?

"I got you! I got you!" Sean was saying, and Corey prayed it was true, but it was a lie.

Sean didn't have Bo. Only the mud had Bo.

"G-get me out!"Bo said, losing his breath. He had sunk to his chest. He tried to use his arms to leverage himself up, his muscles straining to pull onto solid soil, but everything Bo touched turned to mud. Corey felt his foot sucked downward into warm mud, and he pulled it free with a panicked shout. His shoe came halfway off his foot. The mud smelled like a waterlogged graveyard, worse than mere rot. Worse than death.

Bo's gasping became horrible. The mud reached Bo's neck, but his hands were above his head, grabbing at whatever he could. Feeling Bo's frantic hands clenching his jersey, Corey realized he and Sean were about to get sucked down, too. They couldn't rescue Bo. They could only die trying. Sobbing on phlegm and spittle, Corey tried to pry Bo's fingers away.

To leave him to die.

"Help!"Sean cried from the other side of Bo. In his panic, Bo had flung an arm around Sean's neck in a headlock, and Sean was on his knees, bending over, his face precariously close to the mud. The mud was climbing above Bo's nose, silencing him at last except for a frantic bubbling sound, but Bo was hanging on to Sean with all his strength.

Corey slid out of his s.h.i.+rt, freeing himself from Bo. He went to Sean, pounding his fists against Bo's rigid arm, trying to straighten it enough for Sean to slip away. For endless, terrible seconds, he thought he would have to watch both of them get sucked down. Bo's head was buried, vanished from sight in the pool of sludge, but his arm wasn't loosening, as if in a death-grip.

Then, at last, Bo's arm snapped open before it was yanked into the muck. Bo had either pa.s.sed out, given up, or set Sean free.

The black Raiders jersey was visible for a moment, half-buried in the mud, and Corey reached for it, hoping it could be a lifeline to Bo if he and Sean pulled together.

An inch from his fingers, the fabric dove from Corey's sight, under the mud. Gone.

Corey and Sean screamed together.

They patted the ground, searching for the place where Bo and the s.h.i.+rt had sunk. Their digging fingers met dry soil and nothing else. The ground was unchanged, as if Bo had never been. Corey and Sean flung themselves away from the hexed spot, sobbing so hard their bodies heaved even as their shuddering cries were silent, their clothes soaked by what was left of the phantom mud.

It was nearly dawn. Light was coming.

All Corey remembered was digging. And more digging. He had a shovel in his hands, and his palms were so raw that cracks in his skin bled. His shoulders and back screamed with each new pitch of the earth. There were holes all over this side of The Spot, most of them several feet deep, as if land mines had ripped the ground to pieces, bringing Bo's war games to life.

When possible and impossible had first switched places, Corey had thought if they got shovels and found Bo right away, they might be able to save him. Now, that logic felt dumb. In a full-out run, stumbling in the dark, it had taken him and Sean more than ten minutes to make it to Sean's house, and ten minutes back. Bo would have suffocated by the time they were halfway there. Before then. Bo had suffocated before they stopped clawing at the ground with their fingers, trying in vain to find him somewhere in the soil.

But what else should they have done? Called the police? To dowhat?

Maybe he could try another spell, Corey thought. A spell to bring Bo back.

He'd thought of that right away, of course. He thought of that before he thought of running back for a shovel. But the first time it had occurred to him to try to resurrect a corpse, the thought had made him vomit, and he'd never been far from vomiting since.You don't bring back dead people, he told himself. Even if he hadn't readPet Sematary three times, he knew better than to try something like that. It was wrong. More wrong than killing someone. The dead belonged to G.o.d.

And hehad killed someone. He had killed Bo as surely as if he'd shot him with a gun.

Corey quivered in the predawn breeze, new tears spilling. His face itched from layers of tears and mucus. His eyes and nose were sore, and he was nearly crippled by the pulsing ache shooting between his abdomen and crotch. His body was almost as miserable as his memories. Almost.

Sean looked as bad as Corey felt. Sean's face was grimy, his hair caked with dirt and mud, his eyes as dead as a living person's eyes could be. He and Sean had not spoken a word in hours, working silently to earn their members.h.i.+p into the macabre club they had joined overnight. They made their holes at The Spot, looking for a body Corey was now sure they would never find.

They were all dead now, Corey thought. They were as dead as the charred wood and glowing gray ashes of last night's fire. T. had told Corey his brother died when he had his accident, when he'd hit that pregnant lady, killing her unborn child. T.'s brother hadn't died in the flesh, but he'd died in his head, T. had said.Like my dad says he did in 'Nam, T. had told him.

With daylight approaching, erasing the night, Corey felt remade, too. He'd been sucked down into the earth with Bo and his Raiders jersey, and his new mind was finally waking.

There were things to think about. Things to do.

"You were never here," Corey said to Sean. He no longer recognized his own voice. Now he knew how Mom had felt when p.u.b.erty made his voice change, when she looked at him with such wonder, saying it was as if he'd turned into someone else overnight.

"I'll say I was the only one," Corey said.

"D-Doesn't matter." Sean plunged his shovel deep into a mound of soil, leaning against it with both arms, exhausted. "I can't keep digging. I'm d-done."

"Yeah." Corey dropped his shovel. Despite his aching muscles, giving up hurt more than digging. Corey felt burning behind his eyes, but no more tears would come.

Sean was trembling like an old man. He crossed his arms over himself. "I j-just thought...m-maybe if there was a body...his parents c-could, you know...f.u.c.k. What happened, Corey? What happened?" A crazed quality shook his voice, halfway between laughter and tears.

Corey shook his head. He didn't know. He'd thrown those bones together and tossed some blood over them, making it up as he went. It had been bulls.h.i.+t. It hadn't been a real spell, just something from his head, trying to scare Bo. As if it had happened by itself.

"Maybe nothing really happened," Corey said, hopeful. "Maybe he's okay somewhere."

He had a cloudy memory of the three other boys coming to The Spot after Bo disappeared, all of them dressed for paintball. Maybe it had been too dark for the boys to see their faces-maybe they hadn't heard Bo screaming, although howcouldn't they have heard?-but they'd only asked,Hey, you seen Bo around? And he and Sean must have answered some kind of way, because the boys had left them alone, cursing about Bo leaving them hanging. The boys had not come back. Maybe they had called Bo's house and found him safe in bed.

"He'snot okay," Sean said forcefully. "He's d-dead."

Guilt smothered Corey, d.o.g.g.i.ng his breaths, embers in his lungs. "Yeah. He's dead."

Sean's eyes gleamed with weary satisfaction, as if everything else would grow from that admission. "It's n-not your fault," Sean said. "The Old Testament t-talks about lying. B-bearing false witness. B-because it's evil. It's evil, Corey. You got t-tricked by something evil. Me, too."

Even her name, Becka, sounded like thebaka . She'd been playing with him the whole time. Corey bowed his head, sobbing a rough sob. "You warned me," Corey whispered.

"Yeah, but I thought she was just a freak. I d-didn't know she was..." Sean's voice died.

Corey's eyes rose to gaze at the woods where Becka had come bounding out in her torn dress. He probably would faint in terror if he saw her, but what he felt wasn't only fear; it was fascination, even now. A bruising kind of longing. If he'd been able to, he would have killed Bo with his bare hands because she said Bo had touched her. Becka had taken control of him, like it was no work at all. And he had let her touch Gramma Marie's ring. Corey's skin went cold.

He had to go home and take a cleansing bath. But how could he go home now?

"Finish it," Sean said. "Tonight. We have to."

The thought of another spell made Corey's limbs shake. He sat beside one of the holes he and Sean had dug and felt nauseated again, beyond tired. He leaned over and spat into the hole, clear saliva. His stomach, like the rest of him, was empty.

"He burned it," Corey said. "It has to be on that paper."

"We'll get more paper. Let's do it tonight."

Corey shook his head firmly. Once he left this place today, he could not come back so soon. He might not be able to come back at all. "I can't."

"Youhave to!" Sean said, a roar."Somebody else might die."

"Well,f.u.c.k you! I saidI can't!" Spittle sprayed from Corey's mouth. A horde of wings flapped from the treetops behind them, birds disturbed by the noise.

Corey was more grateful for the dawn light than he could say, but he had to leave here. If he sat here another minute, he might lose his mind. Even with the light making last night feel more dreamlike, he couldsee Bo flailing in the ground, his face beet-red. Mud up to his neck, then up to his nose. He could hear Bo's screams, the hysteria and disbelief and terror all mingled, useless.

He could not come back here tonight. He could not.

"We can try tomorrow night," Corey said. "The Fourth of July."

Sean nodded, satisfied. "Let's fill up these holes and p-pack up our stuff. It's almost six. If we get b-back before seven, maybe we can sneak in before my d-dad gets up...." Mr. Leahy went to bed early most nights, but hemight already know he and Sean had not come home last night.Last night? Last night was a lifetime away. What could they say to him?

For the next half hour, Corey and Sean filled the holes the best they could, sc.r.a.ping dirt into the hollowed ground. Whatever he had done here, Corey knew The Spot had been changed by it. He could tell by the way it looked, wasted and perverted.

He had given thebaka a human sacrifice.

And it would not want him to come back. It would try to stop him.

Corey kicked the crossed chicken bones into the fire-pit. Then he shoved his other ritual items into the duffel bag, taking care only with Gramma Marie's satchel and the papers inside. At least Bo hadn't burned those, too. He collected the index cards and wrapped a rubber band around them, then shoved them into his back pocket. His photograph with Gramma Marie went into his other pocket. Then, one by one, he picked up the three paper bags; the raven feathers, the soil, and the remaining chicken bones. He'd take those bags home with him later today, but he'd leave everything else at Sean's.

"I'm gonna keep most of this at your place," Corey said. "Gramma Marie's papers, too."

"Why?"

Because he didn't trust himself, Corey realized. Because if he couldn't make himself come back to The Spot, he might give up and try to destroy all of it. Gramma Marie said she'd thrown her ring away, and now he understood why. Corey thrust the satchel into Sean's waiting hands. "If something happens to me," Corey said, meeting Sean's eyes, "you have to burn those papers. Understand?"

"Burnthem? But..."

"It's not about your family, it's about mine. I'm the last one. Burn them."

"What about your mom?"

Thinking of his mother, Corey pursed his lips to quiet a moan in his throat. He had tried to convince himself he didn't need Mom while he'd been living with Dad, but he did. She brought out some of the best parts of him, and soothed him in a way no one else could. What if he went straight home, fell on the floor at her feet, and told her everything? What if he could tell her the truth?

She would know her son was a murderer, he thought.

"Gramma Marie kept this a secret from her for a reason," Corey said, deciding. "She kept thebaka away from Mom somehow. Mom says she hardly ever dreams, and I think that's why. I don't think it knows how to find her. Gramma Marie wrote about how some people are more open to forces, good and bad. I'm one of those people who's open, maybe. Mom's closed to it, and that's better for her. I'll give her the ring back. Maybe it'll protect her, and she'll never have to know." It was the most Corey had spoken in hours, and the effort of speaking parched his mouth and throat.

"Nothing's gonna happen," Sean said. "You'll banish it."

"But promise me, Sean. No matter what. Promise me you'll burn the papers, and you'll never tell what happened. You'll never tell what I did, how I..." He couldn't say it, and he didn't want to think about it too long. Bo's screams were bottled in his mind."Promise."

Sean blinked, his gla.s.sy eyes s.h.i.+ning in the faint sunlight. "Promise, man."

They hugged a long time. Corey had never held on to anyone except family that tightly, or ever needed to. "Fourth of July," he whispered, barely audibly, in case thebaka was listening.

And itwas listening. It lived here.

"Fourth of July," Sean whispered back, a vow.

But no matter what day he chose, thebaka was not going to allow him to come back. Just as Gramma Marie had described her feelings when she first discovered this place of spirits, Corey knew it in his bones.

Thirty-Two.

FRIDAY.

WHENANGELA HEARD THE FIRST GUNSHOT,her legs twined as she stumbled over a vine-shrouded root on the trail. The second and third reports helped her place the direction of the noise, and she stopped holding her breath. The shots were southeast of her, from somewhere on the other side of the house. Nowhere near Myles, probably.

But near the deputies.

Angela didn't have long to mourn, because she heard swis.h.i.+ng brush behind her on the trail. With a shudder, she remembered the way the pile of leaves had crawled out of Corey's doorway and shot across the floor. But this sounded like someone with two legs, a creature she understood. Someone was running not far behind her.

Angela felt a gulf growing inside of her, something that wasnot her, speaking an undiscovered language in her mind; and that part of her was asking her to let Myles go. The aware creature buried in her psyche did not think Myles could follow her where she was going. Angela prayed it was Gramma Marie's voice steering her, but even if she could have known it forcertain, she didn't think she could want Myles any less.

Without Myles to want, her heart was dead.

Angela couldn't call out, so she hid behind the nearest brush, the fingers of the damp sword ferns caressing her forehead as she peeked out. She reached inside her handbag and found Rob's .38, which was in a separate compartment so it would not disturb thegovi she'd carried from Gramma Marie's altar. She could not allow thegovi to fall or break, not before it was time.

Maybe Tariq was coming behind her. Somehow, that idea scared her less.

"Angie?"

Myles was trying to whisper, but he was still loud. Angela waited until his parka was in sight as he ran from behind the leaning trunk of a fir tree with his bow at his side. Vision alone no longer gave her real certainty, but he smelled right, too. "I'm here," she said, standing up, the instant before he would have pa.s.sed her by. She would have stayed hidden if she had thought he would turn back.

Myles's face was set so hard, his jaw looked like it ached. He didn't smile, but she saw relief in his eyes as he slid to a stop on the mud and fir needles. "There were gunshots," he said.

"I think it's the deputies." She brushed tiny dead fern leaflets from her hair, trying to summon knowledge, but nothing more came. Gramma Marie only showed her what she needed to see.

He eyed the gun in her hand. "Where are you going?"

"I have to face him."

"Please tell me you're kidding. Is this your idea of vengeance for Naomi?"

As soon as Myles said Naomi's name, Angela felt her hand squeeze the gun more tightly. It might feel like vengeance, but it wasn't. This was beyond her, Naomi, or Tariq. And it was beyond Myles, she realized. Shehad to let him go.

Slowly, without speaking at first, Angela aimed her gun at Myles's chest.

Myles's face went harder still, as fixed as one of the centuries-old trees surrounding them. Myles's expression triggered a memory in Angela that was not her own: Red John. No,John, his true name. Angela had reached a similar juncture with this man, or one with a twin soul.

"I won't hurt you," Myles said patiently, believing she was confused. "This is Myles."

Angela's eyes batted away tears. "I know who you are. Go back, Myles."

"Don't point that at me unless you're prepared to do something about it," he said, angry. His voice dared her.

"I am."

His eyes cut into her. "Like h.e.l.l you are."

Maybe it's Dominique, John. h.e.l.l it is.

The memories were chattering voices in the rainfall now. Angela felt a deja vu so vivid that she could see John hidden in Myles's face. John had hunted with a bow, too, skills he had learned from his grandfather. John had hunted in these woods long before he met Gramma Marie, and he was still somewhere here now. So was Gramma Marie, and she was trying to come to her. Gramma Marie's memories were overrunning Angela's, melting time, a feeling as unsettling as it was astonis.h.i.+ng. Angela didn't like relinquis.h.i.+ng control, not for a minute, yet her mind was no longer hers alone. She needed Gramma Marie's memories if she was going to prevail over whatever was driving Tariq.