The Town Page 9

  He hadn’t planned on bringing it up, but Scott said, “This place is creepy at night.”

  Adam played it cool. “Yeah,” he agreed.

  “It’s supposed to be haunted, you know.”

  Goose bumps popped up on Adam’s arms.

  “A long time ago, two miners were supposed to’ve gotten into a fight. One killed the other one, and before the sheriff could get out here, a lynch mob hung the killer from a tree.” He gestured around. “Supposed to be one of these trees here in the park. Ever since then, people’ve said this place is haunted.”

  “You ever seen anything?”

  “No. But I’ve never been here at night before, either.”

  There was a sighing in the leaves at the top of the closest cottonwood.

  Scott leaped off the picnic table. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  Adam quickly followed suit. “Wise decision.”

  They ran back out to the sidewalk and hung a left, slowing down only when they were safely in front of buildings again, past the periphery of the park.

  Scott bent down, breathing heavily. He grinned. “I didn’t want to say anything,” he said. “But you felt it, didn’t you? There was something there.”

  Adam nodded.

  “I just wanted to test it. I was too chickenshit to go there myself at night, but I figured with two of us . . . well, I didn’t think I’d get that scared. And I knew I’d get an honest reaction from you, especially if I didn’t say anything about it.” He looked over at Adam. “You were freaked, weren’t you?”

  “Yeah,” Adam admitted.

  “Cool.”

  They remained in place for a few moments, catching their breath. From somewhere far off came the sound of a car engine, followed by the sequential barking of dogs up the canyon. Adam felt good. This was more fun than hanging out at the mall or going to a movie any day. This was exciting. He thought that maybe he’d ask his parents if Roberto could come and visit during Christmas or Easter or next summer. He knew Scott and Roberto would get along, and he knew that Roberto would think this place was totally kickass.

  He glanced over at Scott. “So what now? What’s the plan?”

  “I don’t know. We could—”

  Scott broke off in midsentence, his head jerking to the right, and Adam quickly followed the direction of his gaze.

  There was movement in front of the mining museum across the street.

  His heart jumped almost all the way up into his throat, and his first thought was that it was a ghost, a vampire, a monster, but he saw almost immediately that it was only a group of high school students, hanging out.

  There were no lights here, no streetlamps, merely light from the moon and dim illumination from inside the closed assaying office next to the museum, but that was enough to see by, and he noticed now that a group of tough-looking teenagers about Sasha’s age were leaning on the oversized mining implements arranged in the small open space in front of the building. The four girls all looked the same: dyed black hair, black clothes, black lipstick, pale skin, broad white-trash features. Of the three boys, one had long, stringy hair and was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, one was bald and shirtless and heavily tattooed, with pierced ears and nose, and one had a spiky punk haircut and was wearing a creased leather jacket far too heavy for this weather.

  He and Scott started slowly forward, moving up the sidewalk the way they’d originally been headed, away from the park, away from downtown, trying to be inconspicuous, trying not to attract attention.

  A loud male voice rang out from the direction of the museum. “Well, well, well! What do we have here?”

  Caught.

  Adam looked at Scott, who stopped, turned around. They both faced the building across the street.

  The bald pierced guy laughed loudly. “If it isn’t the pussy posse!”

  The rest of the high schoolers joined in the merriment. “Get ready to run,” Scott whispered.

  Adam’s mouth was suddenly dry, and panic threatened to rise within him. “What?”

  “Just follow me.”

  Scott moved into the street, into the open, away from the shadows of the buildings, and held up a middle finger. “Fuck you!” he called. “And fuck your mama, too!”

  He took off, dashing back onto the sidewalk and up the hill, darting into the small space between the hardware store and an arts and crafts shop. Heart thumping crazily, Adam chased after him.

  There was the sound of running feet behind them, boots pounding on pavement.

  “You’re dead, fucker!” one of the boys yelled, and a girl laughed drunkenly. “I’ll kick your ass so hard your fucking sphincter’ll be pressing out your lips!”

  Scott kept running, and Adam followed, moving as fast as he could, feeling the night air burn into his lungs, the muscles of his legs straining so hard they threatened to cramp at every step. He had never been this close to actual danger, had never physically pushed himself to this extent, and the irrational thought occurred to him that he might keel over from a heart attack.

  But he knew he couldn’t stop. He had to keep going, and he was right behind Scott as the other boy slid down the rocky slope that led from the back of the downtown stores to the dry wash at the bottom of the canyon.

  There was no noise directly behind them anymore, but from the top of the slope came an angry male voice. “I’ll get you, you little shit!”

  The two of them scurried through the darkness of the canyon floor, occasionally bumping into rocks and brush but not slowing or stopping for anything. Scott was little more than a gray blur in front of him, and they ran for what seemed like an hour before reaching a road that crossed the wash and led up to McGuane’s east residential district.

  They waited for a moment, listening to discover whether they were being followed, but Adam could hear no noise above the ragged sounds of their breathing, and he sat down on a rock to rest. Scott plopped onto the sand.

  “What’re we going to do?” Adam demanded.

  “What do you mean?”

  “What if they see me walking home from school or something? What if—”

  “They didn’t see you at all. And they won’t even recognize me in the daylight.” He waved a hand dismissively. “I’ve done this a thousand times.”

  Adam wasn’t sure he believed that, but he wanted to, and he was willing to let his friend have the benefit of the doubt. In his mind he went back over every second of the incident, and the more he thought about it, the more convinced he was that Scott was right. Hell, the high schoolers hadn’t even chased them down the slope. They’d only run across the street and behind the buildings before stopping. It had been nothing more than a laugh for them, a joke.

  Most of them were probably so high they wouldn’t even remember it tomorrow.

  Scott let out a wheezy, winded laugh. “Had enough exercise for one night?”

  “I’ve had enough for a month.”

  They both laughed and sat there for a few moments longer, breathing heavily, not saying anything but remaining unmoving, looking back down the canyon floor to make sure no one was coming, until their breaths grew more shallow and finally faded into normal silence.

  “What time is it?” Adam asked. “You got a watch?”

  “No. Why? What time do you have to be home?”

  “Now, probably.” Adam stood. “Come on, let’s head back.”

  Scott got up off the ground, brushed the sand off his pants, and the two of them started up the curving road toward the tiered rows of houses above.

  “You heard about what happened to Mrs. Daniels, didn’t you?” Scott asked as they reached the first home.

  Adam shook his head. “Never even head of her.”

  “She was pregnant and she went into labor, and she was supposed to have a little girl.” His voice lowered ominously. “But it wasn’t a girl.”

  “What was it? A boy?”

  “It wasn’t even a baby.” He pointed toward the next house up, a small wood-frame hom
e with darkened windows. “It was right there, man. Right in that house.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “It was a cactus. She gave birth to a cactus.”

  “No way!” Adam said.

  “That’s what happened. They’re trying to keep it secret and not let anyone know, but she had a saguaro instead of a baby. A little saguaro cactus with a baby’s face.”

  “How do you know?”

  “My dad’s friend is a paramedic, and I heard them talking about it. He said it was the freakiest thing he’d ever seen.”

  “Was it . . . alive?”

  “I guess not. But she was all cut up, and it came out of her, and it had, like, little feet and hands and a face.”

  “Jesus.”

  They were silent for a moment as they walked past the house.

  “This whole fucking town’s haunted,” Scott said.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  There was a pause.

  “Your house is haunted.”

  “No way.”

  “Way.”

  “Really?”

  Scott nodded. “No one’s been able to stay there more than a few months. The people who lived there before, the original people, were all murdered. The dad offed the rest of the family while they were sleeping and then wasted himself. Ever since then, people only last a little while. They get scared off.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

  Scott shrugged. “Didn’t think you could take it.”

  “So they, like, see things and hear things? Like ghosts and stuff?”

  Scott nodded. “You ever see anything?”

  Adam thought about mentioning the banya, but he didn’t feel like talking about it right now and decided to save it for another time. He shook his head. “Not yet.”

  “You will. Take my word for it. Your house is haunted.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “I’m not lying.”

  Adam looked at him, and the corners of his mouth slowly turned up in a smile. “Cool,” he said.

  Six

  1

  “Shit,” Paul said softly.

  The stage lights had fallen during the night, the troupers they’d spent all yesterday rigging. Not only had they fallen, but they’d broken—every last damn one of them.

  They stood looking at the damage, the dented casings and shattered glass, the overturned tables and cushion-ripped chairs. Gregory bent down, picked up a bent bracket, examined it.

  “You must’ve put them in wrong,” Paul said.

  Odd shook his head. “We installed those according to spec and added a few new specs of our own. There’s no way this could’ve happened.”

  “Well, it did happen, obviously.”

  “Someone musta broken in.”

  “No one broke in.” Paul kicked at the broken glass with his boot. “Jesus, it looks like a damn earthquake hit this place.”

  “A couple of these bolts sheared off,” Gregory said. He held up the bracket and two bolt heads. “This might not have been the cause of it, but even if this bracket bent on its own, the bolts should’ve been able to handle the extra pressure. They’re supposed to be designed for these things.”

  Paul sighed. “I don’t need this crap.”

  Gregory forced himself to smile. “No problem. We’ll just replace them. I’ll drive over to Tucson and—”

  Paul shook his head. “I can’t let you do that. You’ve already wasted enough money on this. It’s my place and my responsibility. I’m thinking we’d be better off to bag the whole project.”

  “Bullshit. You didn’t let me finish. I’ll drive to Tucson, explain what happened, show them what we have, and if they won’t replace everything, then I’ll buy new lights. The way I see it, this whole thing is the fault of poor workmanship on their part. We installed a faulty product. I’m going to emphasize that people could’ve been killed, tell ’em I’m going to report them to the Better Business Bureau and whatever other agency I can think of. I think they’ll fork over a new set.”

  “But do we want a new set?” Odd asked. “You’re right. I think this here’s a faulty product. I think we should try to get our money back and buy something else.”

  “We could,” Gregory agreed. “But the point is, we shouldn’t overreact. This is only a temporary setback. It isn’t the end of the world, and we shouldn’t let it derail our plans.”

  Odd nodded. “Exactly.”

  “Of course you guys say that, but I’m the owner,” Paul said gloomily. “I’m the one who pays the insurance bills, and it’s my ass if someone gets hurt because of this.”

  “No one’s going to get hurt,” Gregory told him.

  “By the time we’re through,” Odd promised, “kids’ll be able to use this thing for a jungle gym and it won’t even sway.”

  Gregory took a deep breath. “I could chip in for insurance if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  Paul waved him away. “I’m not looking for a co-owner.”

  “And I don’t want to be one.”

  Paul picked up one of the broken spotlight casings. “Look, let’s get this cleaned up, call the lighting company, and see where we go from there.”

  “All right,” Gregory said. He went with Odd to get broom, shovel, and dustpan from the maintenance closet between the men’s and women’s rest rooms, and after taking Polaroids of the overall damage and close-ups of the broken bolts and bent brackets, the three of them spent the better part of the morning cleaning up. The outside tables and those closest to the counter and register weren’t affected, and Paul cordoned off the area of damage with yellow rope so that the morning’s customers would not be inconvenienced.

  The place had potential, Gregory thought. The café’s space was easily big enough to accommodate forty or fifty people, and Odd had done a great job of building the small stage against the wall to the left of the counter. Despite Paul’s worries and reservations, they’d gone too far to turn back now, and he knew that his friend would not pull the plug on the project at this point.

  Besides, Gregory had already been to the printer and arranged for a whole bunch of flyers to be made up. He was planning to slap them up around town—on the bulletin boards in both markets, in the office windows of the gas stations, in the windows of the bookstore and the hardware store and as many of the other shops as he could. He would put one up on the Community Calendar board in the post office and tack up the rest on various telephone poles around town. That should get the word out. If it didn’t, he was prepared to buy a full-page ad in the newsless mixture of Chamber of Commerce PR, high school sports photos, and garage sale announcements known as the McGuane Monitor.

  He had faith that people would come, though. They were going to start with a Talent Night, an open-mike evening in which anybody who wanted to could come up onstage and do anything he or she wanted. Singers. Guitarists. Storytellers. Bands. Comedians. From there, they’d offer slots to the better performers.

  It was a seeding of the grass roots, an outlet for local talent previously denied an opportunity to perform in public, and it was precisely that alternative ethos that appealed to him. They were giving people a chance. Providing a potentially receptive audience for garage bands who until now had only annoyed neighbors with their noise and offering exposure to sensitive singer-songwriters who’d been practicing in front of mirrors in their bedrooms.

  The café might be dead now, but he would turn that around. He’d build a clientele for this place, build an audience for these performers. This was an exciting opportunity, and he was determined to make the most of it. He had never really pondered what it would be like to have a “career” before. He’d always just had a “job.” But he could see himself as a latter-day Bill Graham—booking name acts, performers on the way up or on the way down, discovering talent, managing careers. Eventually, the café might even have to expand into the hair salon next door. They would need some type of dressing room or backstage area if they we
re to lure professionals to their venue.

  They finished righting the tables and sweeping the floor and taking the debris to the stockroom in the back.

  Odd picked up a hanging socket. “I still say that someone did this. Vandals. There’s no way these lights could’ve fallen on their own. Not after the way we set them up.”

  “I don’t understand it either,” Gregory admitted.

  From behind them came the sound of footsteps, a clearing throat. They turned. Paul stood in the doorway, looking around at the tangled jumble of lights and cords and cables. He took a deep breath. “You think you can rig new lights that won’t collapse and kill people?”

  Odd answered, “Of course.”

  “By Saturday?”

  “No problem.”

  Paul nodded. “All right,” he said, turning away. “All right.”

  Odd looked over at Gregory. He grinned. “I guess we’re back in business.”

  2

  Julia stood in front of the library, not sure if she wanted to go in. She’d finally decided to volunteer, to assist in shelving or checking in books or whatever the library needed done, but she was having second thoughts. There was no rational reason, just a vague feeling of apprehension within her, but if a vague feeling was enough to scare her in her own home, there was no reason one couldn’t just as legitimately steer her away from this.

  No. She was neurotic enough as it was. She needed to set her mind to something and do it, follow through with the promises she made to herself and not just flit from one failed intention to another.

  She grasped the handle, pulled open the glass door, and stepped inside.

  The McGuane Public Library was big enough to be serviceable but small enough to be picturesque. In place of the impersonal bank of computer screens that had supplanted the card catalog in most Southern California libraries, there was an oak filing cabinet set against the far wall, between two open windows. Four reading tables adjoined the two racks of magazines and a glass display case filled with old photographs and mining tools. Fully stocked bookshelves took up the middle two-thirds of the well-lighted room, and a wooden bookcase marked BESTSELLERS AND NEW RELEASES was located just to the right of the checkout counter, where a friendly looking overweight woman was sorting through what looked like a stack of overdue notices.