Part 22 (1/2)

When they came to a hub where several paths intersected, Matthew had to ease off the gas and take consideration. His s.h.i.+rt flapping, Matthew cleaned his hornrims with a ten dollar bill then restored his vision.

The sky threatened rain, and sooner than later.

He thought about raising the car's ragtop, but was unsure of its mechanism or how long it would take. s.h.i.+elding his face from blown debris, ignoring Tizzy who had begun to s.h.i.+ver, Matthew plumbed his memory. There were no signposts here, none at all, only a rock cairn ahead, piled alongside the ruts the Packard was traveling. This looked like the spur he was looking for. But he remembered an old water tank. Were those wormy crossties all that survived of it, over there rotting in the laurel? To his left, a rust-eaten tractor cha.s.sis was dry and drowning; half-sunk into a mudbaked bar ditch.

It was an offwinding spoke of road. A charred dogwood bent over the narrowing spoke as its rut rose quickly, swallowed by forest.

That looked familiar. He was six years old, in fact, when they'd toted him up here to see Cousin Wert. His Pap bought some s.h.i.+ne and a special witching rod off Cousin Wert. But Matthew didn't want Tizzy to know it had been so long. His memory was good. This was where you left the trail, he was pretty sure. Why, when he was six it seemed like Pap's truck reached it even sooner. Matthew cranked the wheel, guiding the reluctant Packard under charred dogwood. Tizzy watched the sunken tractor float by.

They hadn't gone far before killer had his doubts. This roadspur was poor; this was more like a gully they were twisting and pus.h.i.+ng through. The root-tangled sides rose and fell. More than once Tizzy had to lift a pinebough by hand. Matthew knew she was cold and starting to vex. Better not vex, he said. Vexing never rang the bell, he said. Got to push forward, he said, so they did. Long after Matthew had quit searching, dredging, vexing for something to say next--the furrowed trace leveled off, without warning, into a short bl.u.s.tery stand of black gum. They were huge trees. Many of the giants were just hollow sh.e.l.ls, blackened cinder bark. From wildfires, he thought. Then Matthew saw a glint of fire just ahead.

The mossy log shed pressed back against a claybank. Outside in the wind, a kneeling man held a torch over a small hole in the ground. The thin, spidery figure was jabbering something, into the hole, unhinged when he heard them coming. Whoever it was, covered his hole quickly, leapt up and scurried inside as Birdnell and Polk drew near. Parking his brake, the boy hailed the log shed.

”Feller in the house--?!” he shouted through cupped hands.

Tizzy fought the shakes, chilly paws held betwixt her knees. She forced her teeth to stop chattering as Matthew got out. But he did not stray far from the Packard.

”In the house--,” he repeated, ”--sure didn't aim to skeer ye!”

Matthew looked back at her, uneasy; ready for anything, ready for nothing. Ready to take off. Then the mossy log door cracked open.

”Hit ain nunner mah done...”

This garble came from within the quarters.

”What--?” Matthew asked the flickering doorcrack.

”Hit ain nunner mahn...” the spidery man echoed, hidden by the door. His voice was clumsy and thick, suffering from disuse.

”Ask him again, Matthew.”

”Lemme handle it--say there, ole boy--?” He beckoned, keeping the gun from sight in his back pocket. ”C'mon on out hyere and talk to us. Don't mean no harm, we jist lookin fer family.”

After a moment, the door creaked and the man tiptoed out, like he was sneaking on somebody. He brought the flaming pine torch with him. The air threw a ghastly pall, a clinging twilight that was perverted, but nowhere near dark enough for most folks to need a torch. As he approached, the flicker danced across his face and they saw who he was. He was a Lych.

The eyes were almost webbed shut with what appeared to be scar tissue, the underlying skull misshapen. His left cheek seemed to have melted long ago, as if wax and ash commingled too close to flame. Only four fingers and a partial on each hand. His red, watery eyesacks glinted back at them.

”Doncher tell, doncher tell, doncher tell,” he babbled, distraught and shaking. Something like a smile stretched on his face, revealing a couple of brown teeth. ”...peehee.” It was almost a laugh.

”Matthew lets go--” Tizzy gripped her doorhandle, reaching across for Matthew's sleeve.

Matthew's mouth was trying, but nothing came out; his brain riveted on the Lych before him. Finally, his mouth made good, ”--I--I's a-lookin fer Wert Birdnell's place. I'm kin. Matthew. His cousin Wilbur's boy. Ain't--ain't sure if this hyere's the way--”

Like a thousand volt jolt shot through him, the Lych went rigid and his arm flew out. His triple-jointed finger pointed up ahead, up the road; stiff as a dead limb it pointed.

Matthew felt himself backing away, retreating to the car as Tizzy reached for him, six eyes of s.h.i.+ning fear.

”Up ahead, ye say--?” managed the boy, his gla.s.ses askew.

The Lych dropped his arm, aquiver again, disturbed and spooky about it. Suddenly, the torch seemed to loosen in his hand, he was drooling, and they were simply no longer there to the Lych. He sat on a stump. ”...nunner....nunner mahn...” he began again.

She pulled Matthew into the Packard. Were those tears puddling on those ravaged Lych cheekbones? They didn't linger to find out. Matthew released the brake then hustled off into the wind, Tizzy turning to gander back at the sadly torn creature.

As they disappeared up the black gum grove, the Lych looked down at his covered hole, a mad tongue forking his lip.

”Hit ain...hit ain nunner mah done...” he spake to the hole.

”You think he's right,” she asked, ”yer uncle's on up here?”

”I hope so,” Matthew supposed, steering out over a cavernous ravine. The ledge was tight. And Matthew had begun to vex aplenty himself. Especially as the trail cut back into the mountain, leading them inward, twisting deeper into wild forest. He didn't care to get stuck out in Riddle Top country after dark. It was forbidden, thought he, as far back as his recollections went. Tizzy must have heard tales. Tizzy would not take to such darkling adventure.

”Matthew--?”

She was fixing to bawl, he just knew it. She'd ask him questions he couldn't answer. Questions about spidery Lychs while ice spiders tapdanced down Matthew's spine.

”--shuddup!” Matthew wheezed back. It was hard enough getting this buggy over this hardrock creek bed without having to wetnurse a baby. Yes, he was worried. His eyes weren't so good at night. Matthew nudged his gla.s.ses. ”We're pert near there, I know he lives close. Cain't ye feel it? I kin feel it.”

He hit the headlamps and lit up the wolf--or was it a panther?--it was so fast. Both beams flashed back from two feral eyes, white hot ingots--an indistinct blur, big, hairy--a shadow streak bounding into the woods-- --Matthew veered sharp in the narrow trace--to avoid the beast. He braked hard.

And the Packard slid backward.

Tizzy squealed; her rear fender buried itself in a side gully.

This left the car at a peculiar angle, lights shooting up into the towering pine around them. Things got desperate. Matthew spun the wheel, goosing the pedal, but the Packard wouldn't move. After he'd burned sufficient rubber into the hillside to convince himself, Matthew quit.

He slammed the door. ”What manner o'h.e.l.l's varmint was that?” he cursed and kicked the running board.

”Matthew, I'm skeered,” she fumbled over to him, slipping a hand in his belt.

”Now don't start frettin er prayin to Jesus on me. I saw a curlycue o'smoke jist afore it jumped us. Didn't you? It'uz right up this woody slope, not too fer a piece.”

She wasn't sure if he was lying to ease her troubled mind. But what difference could that make now? As it happened, he wasn't. Indeed, Mad Dice's eye had caught a tease of smoke just over the treetops, just before he reached for that headlamp plunger.

”You sure, boy? ” she asked anyway, owlish in the grime-grey dusk.

”No doubt about'er. You kin smell it, caint ye? Hick'ry.”

Suddenly, she realized she could. A faint smoky undershade of hickory on the wind.

She dreaded it, but Matthew killed the lights and kept the keys. He took her hand from his belt, gave a squeeze. There wasn't much time. Skrrreeeeekacheeee! Overhead a lost crow thing was flapping, screeching at them. Matthew left the road's furrow, pulling her up through piney wood. It was ingrown and dank here. The musk of fetid earth, clotted vegetation, death on the vine. They climbed a steady slope, Matthew's pistol pushed aside limbs, clearing a rent through the nettles as they searched the bristling, fading sheen. Both were soon winded, breathless amidst swirls of leaf. Tizzy raced to keep up and before she knew it, there was a shack alright.

S T E P 6.

”Is this his place?”