The Devil Crept In Page 23

  Stevie couldn’t speak, at least not yet. He was too busy gulping in air like a marooned fish, his eyes fixed on the menagerie of stickers Dunk had slapped onto his computer’s lid. There were sports teams—the Trail Blazers and Seahawks—athletic logos like the Nike swoosh; even a few skateboard company logos despite Dunk never having set foot on a board in his life. Stevie recognized those from Jude’s magazines.

  Jude. His attention veered back to his brother’s pissed-off face. Jude is gotta be Jude, is not-a-be . . .

  “I . . .” He gasped, trying to suck in enough air to form a coherent sentence. “I—I—I n-need your, your, your . . .”

  “Nuh-nuh-need my what?” Dunk glared at him, as if daring his kid brother to make some sort of ridiculous request. Stevie needing something from Duncan? Fat fucking chance he’d get it. “Wait.” He sniffed the air. “Is that . . . Did you piss yourself?”

  “. . . help . . .” The word just about squeaked out of him. “Please . . . help . . .” A breathless plea. If Dunk had ever felt bad for being such a douche, this was his chance to make up for it. Stevie waited, afraid that all he’d get was a demand to vacate the denlike confines of a room that stunk of corn chips and farts. But to his surprise, his brother actually looked a little concerned.

  “Help with what?” Duncan asked. “Is it King Fuckface?” Dunk narrowed his eyes, as if imagining their stepfather chasing Stevie through Deer Valley Woods with an ax, finally having had enough of family life, ready to submit to his true calling: psycho killer.

  Stevie shook his head. “J-Jude.”

  “The Jewd?” Dunk looked dubious. “What, did he miss his bar mitzvah? What is it, boy? Is the Jewd stuck in a well?”

  “No, he, he . . .” He what, turned into a monster in front of Stevie’s eyes? Chased him with full intent to bash his head in, only to give him a wink and a nod and run back into the forest? What the heck was he supposed to say to get Dunk to listen, to keep him from kicking Stevie out of his room?

  Stevie’s eyes went wide. Mr. Greenwood. That was it! He needed to go back and see Mr. Greenwood. That old man was quite possibly the only person who would help him.

  “C-can I ask you something?” The question came out staggered and wheezy, interrupted by huffs of air.

  “You just did, nutsack.”

  “I—I—I mean . . . something else.” Stevie heaved.

  Duncan raised a single shoulder in ambivalence. “It’s a free country, dude. As long as you don’t hyperventilate, ’cause you’re not getting another ambulance ride. And don’t, don’t, don’t do that fucking repetition shit.” As though Stevie could control it.

  “Did you, you”—Stevie paused, slowed down, held it together—“have a dog, once?” Stevie’s breaths started to even out. “W-when you were little? Before I was born?”

  “Yeah . . . why?” Dunk looked suspicious, almost as if Stevie had something to do with whatever had happened to that canine; it didn’t matter that Stevie hadn’t existed yet.

  “What . . . was its name?”

  “Noodle.” Dunk rolled his eyes.

  “What hap-happened to him?” Stevie asked. “Did he run away?”

  “Yeah, like a million goddamn times. Dad kept reinforcing the fence in the backyard, but somehow the stupid idiot kept getting out. I told Dad that he was jumping over the fence, not just digging under it, but he swore on a stack of Bibles that the fence was too damn high. But I saw that little fucker jump over that thing with my own two eyes. He just got a running start and—bam!” Dunk slapped his palm against the top of his laptop. “Right over. And it’s, like, what, am I just seeing things? I’m not the one who’s fucking crazy, man.” Dunk gave his kid brother a look. You, on the other hand . . .

  But Stevie was hardly paying attention to Duncan’s judgy stare, because rather than picturing a dog scrambling over the back fence, he was picturing that thing. It had leapt up and over quick as anything, and just the next day, Jude had pulled the same trick.

  “Why didn’t you just t-tie him up?”

  Duncan’s smirk shifted into a sneer. “I did, moron. But I had to let him loose when the little shit nearly choked himself to death. He wanted to get away so bad that he just kept pulling at the rope until I couldn’t hack it anymore, like he’d rather have killed himself than be my dog. So fuck that guy . . .”

  Stevie frowned. “Pulling at the rope,” he whispered to himself. It sounded awful; bad enough to explain why, despite his pleas for a pet, his begging had always been met with a resounding No. It’s why Jude had a lame fish as a pet; why the only dogs anyone saw around Deer Valley were off leash and roaming the woods rather than in yards, chewing on rawhide bones and lounging in the sun.

  “So, one day,” Dunk continued, looking strangely forlorn now, “after hours of hearing Noodle choking himself out in the back, I couldn’t deal. I walked out there and untied him. He didn’t even stop to look at me. No Hey, thanks for keeping me from murdering myself. No Fuck you, dude, you’re the worst dog owner ever. He didn’t even bother to piss on my shoe or drop a steaming pile in front of my face. He just took off, leapt over that fence like a goddamn gazelle.”

  “A-a-and he didn’t come back?” Pulling and pulling and pulling.

  “Nope.” Dunk shrugged again, as if to say he couldn’t have cared less, but Stevie could tell he was still hurt by Noodle’s departure. It must have been hard to care for something that didn’t seem to care back. Kind of like Mr. Greenwood trying to take care of that rag-and-bones cat; like trying to be someone’s friend when they didn’t seem to want to be yours.

  “He wasn’t always like that,” Dunk said. “We got him at a pet adoption place outside of town. A pound or whatever. When we brought Noodle home, he was cool, but after that first time he got out . . . I guess he just really liked living in the goddamn woods.”

  Stevie chewed on the pad of his thumb. He couldn’t decide whether to keep his mouth shut or spill everything in a rush of possible delusion. He wanted to tell Dunk everything. How he’d been chased. How that monster thing had been screwing around in Terry’s crap. How he knew he had weird stuff going on in his head, but this wasn’t that, this wasn’t this wasn’t that, he was sure.

  “That old, old house,” Stevie said. “The old abandoned one out on that road, out there on that road, all alone. D-do you know that house out there?”

  Dunk was staring at the top of his computer, probably still mulling over the memory of his long-lost dog. Stevie waited for him to acknowledge his question. It took a second, but Dunk finally looked up again. He didn’t reply, but he knew the place. The way Duncan was looking at him assured Stevie that his brother had been out there with Murph more than a few times. He’d probably driven Annie out there, too; stuck his hand up her skirt and latched on to her neck like a sucker fish, Annie staring at that farmhouse through a dirty, bug-smeared windshield. Some wicked dark thing that she hadn’t seen staring right back.

  “Jude is out there,” Stevie said, a chill crawling down his spine as soon as he made the confession. “He loves it. Loves it.” Because while Jude’s affinity for that place had always made Stevie uncomfortable, his cousin’s fascination hadn’t ever seemed as menacing as it did now.

  Duncan furrowed his eyebrows at the statement. “What, you mean like he walks out there?”

  “It isn’t that far. You cut through the forest.”

  “That’s probably why Mom is all pissed off at you, huh?” Dunk asked. “You told her you were going out there?”

  “What’s the big deal?” Stevie asked. “It’s just an abandoned place, r-right?”

  Duncan laughed to himself, as though Stevie had just said the dumbest thing he’d ever heard.

  “What?” Stevie asked.

  “No, nothing,” Dunk said. “Just that you’re more clueless than I thought.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re nuts, that’s why.”

  “No, why? Why the house?”

  “What?”

&n
bsp; “The house!” Stevie yelled it. “Jude goes there and he loves it and he’s there and why the house, why the house in the woods house, why that, Dunk, why?”

  Duncan sighed and opened the lid of his laptop again. “Because that place isn’t fuckin’ abandoned, dumbass.”

  “But it looks—”

  “Yeah, yeah, it looks . . . But people have seen her.”

  Stevie swallowed.

  “You know,” Dunk said. “The creepy old lady?”

  Stevie’s face flushed hot. The stench of his brother’s room suddenly hit him head-on, threatening to double him over right there, only a few feet from Duncan’s bed.

  “Dude, if the Jewd goes out there like you say he does, he’s seen her for sure.”

  Yes, Jude had seen her. Mother. He had hissed it, and grinned wide, his mouth nothing but a cavern of graying teeth.

  26

  * * *

  THERE WAS A cop talking to Mrs. Lovejoy just shy of Main—Stevie considered approaching, but stopped when he watched the old woman lift her hand and point an accusing finger Stevie’s way. There he is! Stevie kept his distance, running as fast as he could until he reached Mr. Greenwood’s shop. He had to stop along the side of the store for a few seconds before going in, a wad of chewed-up breakfast waffle threatening to make an encore appearance.

  Pulling the crummy banana-yellow watch from the pocket of his shorts, he glanced at the time. It was already past eleven. Stevie had scarfed down an Eggo and gone over to Aunt Mandy’s with the Monopoly game around nine. Lunch was at twelve. That’s when his mom would knock on his door, push it open without waiting to be let in, and discover an empty room. She’d go to Aunt Mandy’s and learn that he wasn’t there, either. Noon was when Stevie would change from a real boy into toast.

  And what about Jude? He’d run back toward that house. Someone had to go find him before he vanished again. It’s why Stevie had wanted to bolt toward the cop, to scream about how Jude had gone off again, how they had to send the search party to grab him before it was too late. But old batty Lovejoy had screwed that up, and now . . . now there was no telling what was going to happen. He had to talk to Greenwood. He had to figure this out fast.

  Luckily, Mr. Greenwood was behind the counter. Unluckily, he was helping someone sort through coupons, a stack of them as thick as the Deer Valley phone book—which wasn’t that thick, but still. Stevie shuffled to the side of the front counter, staring at the old-timey glass jars of candy just beyond the counter’s perimeter. He bounced impatiently from foot to foot, hoping Mr. Greenwood would not only notice him but also realize he was in a hurry. Except, his back-and-forth jig wasn’t working. Mr. Greenwood didn’t look Stevie’s way.

  Frustrated, he searched for another way to garner attention. He reached into his pocket, felt around that broken watch, and brought out two quarters, which he slapped onto the glass countertop. Paying customers were a priority, and Mr. Greenwood was more likely to give him the time of day if he saw those coins. As Terry liked to say, Money talks, bullshit walks. Today, Stevie really hoped bullshit wasn’t part of the deal.

  It took a minute—one that seemed to last an hour—for Mr. G. to ring up the lady who was vegetating at the register. Stevie kept pulling out his watch and peering at the digital readout. There wouldn’t be enough time to relay Dunk’s story about Noodle, let alone hear Greenwood’s response. And how was he supposed to get home in time to not get into trouble and go after Jude? This wasn’t going to work. He had to turn back. He’d beg his mom to listen, or ask Dunk to drive him out to that house. Hell, he didn’t know, but he had to figure it out.

  Clenching his teeth in defeat, Stevie placed his hand over the two quarters and began to slide them back toward the counter’s edge. It was then, as if sensing that he was about to lose a cool fifty cents, that Mr. Greenwood stepped over to where Stevie stood and gave him a curious look.

  “Mr. Clark,” he said.

  Stevie blinked up at the old man, surprised to see him there after being sure he was being overlooked. For once, Terry was right. Money did talk.

  “Oh,” Stevie said. “H-hi.”

  “Hi,” Greenwood echoed back. He hovered behind the counter, seeming both patient and irritated all at once. Patient because here was Stevie Clark, best friend of Jude the Once-Missing. Irritated because here was Stevie Clark, a local kid with half a buck, about to waste his time figuring out which piece of candy he wanted when Mr. G. had better things to do, like stock shelves, or eat egg salad sandwiches, or drink his bottle of grape soda. Old people stuff.

  “Um . . .” Stevie slid the two quarters back to the center of the counter. “J-just some chicken feet, please.” Chicken feet? Jude was probably missing again, and all he could do was ask for some gummies? But it seemed weird to just say, Hey, remember how you asked me about my brother’s dog?

  Mr. G. slid the coins into the palm of one craggy hand and turned away, grabbed a small cellophane bag off a shelf, and moved over to the glass container filled with red and yellow candy shaped like disembodied talons. He doled out a few ounces and sealed the bag up with a twisty tie, then turned back to face Stevie, placed the bag of candy between them, and raised an eyebrow in inquiry.

  “That all?”

  “Um, yes, thanks.” Stevie immediately hated himself for his answer. Chicken feet? He imagined Jude smirking. More like chicken shit. Got a pair, my ass. And then he’d wink. And smile. And run into the woods.

  “Really?” Mr. Greenwood leaned in, as if to smell the lie on Stevie’s breath. Stevie sniffed out something, too; onions, or maybe garlic. “You must really be fiending for candy, running all the way over here the way you just did.”

  “What?” Stevie squinted. “How did you . . .”

  “You came in panting like a dog, hovering like a fly, and checking the time on that watch of yours like a man living out his last day. Did you talk to your brother?”

  Stevie’s eyes widened at the old man’s observations. He could probably learn a thing or two from Mr. G., stuff that could help him with his future in detective work. But there wasn’t time for that CSI stuff now. He was on a mission.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Took you long enough,” Mr. G. said. “Why’d you wait so long?”

  “Becau-cause . . .” Stevie stammered, not able to remember why he hadn’t talked to Duncan right away. His thoughts tripped over themselves before the reason came stumbling back. “I tried. But Dunk wasn’t home, and then he ignored me even though I left a note, he ignored me. And then Jude came back and I forgot because he came back so I forgot.” A happy ending. Case closed.

  “That’s right,” Mr. Greenwood said, as if suddenly recalling something himself. “Mr. Brighton, the missing boy who miraculously reappeared on his front doorstep. Saw that on the news. Big story. Mr. Brighton’s made us famous. Everyone’s heard of Deer Valley now.”

  But he’s gone again. Stevie wanted to scream it, wanted to reach across that crummy old counter, grab Mr. G. by the front of his polo shirt, and beg him for help. But instead, he simply stammered, “I—I—I guess . . .” His watch was itchy in his pocket. He could feel the seconds ticking away against his thigh.

  “So?” Mr. Greenwood asked.

  “So?” he echoed Mr. G.’s question to himself. “So?” Glancing down to the candy in front of him, he was pretty sure Mr. G. had given him more than two quarters’ worth. “So?” Finally realizing what the old man was asking, Stevie cleared his throat. “So . . . Dunk had a dog named Noodle,” he said.

  “And what happened to Noodle?” Mr. Greenwood asked, apparently realizing that unless he propelled the conversation forward, there would be no conversation to be had. Stevie was too distracted to focus. His brain was tripping over a million thoughts at once.

  “He ran away,” Stevie said, looking up from the bag of candy. “He kept jumping over the fence.” Jude ran away. Over the fence. He’s gone again.

  “And where did Noodle run off to?” Mr. G. suddenly looked st
ern, as if everything hung in the balance of Stevie’s next response.

  The cabin. The house.

  “The forest?” Stevie formed it as a question, unsure as to why.

  “Like my cat,” the old man assessed.

  Stevie squinted at the abstract reflections in the counter’s glass. He didn’t see what that sickly cat had to do with anything. Cats and dogs weren’t anything alike, and they certainly weren’t anything like Jude.

  “Mr. Clark,” Mr. Greenwood said. “Do you know why there’s no veterinary office in town?”

  “Huh?”

  “There’s no veterinary office in town,” Mr. G. repeated, as if to hammer the point home. “I’d like you to take a guess as to why that is.”

  A riddle? Stevie hated those more than he hated math. The gunk inside his brain made both riddles and arithmetic problems almost impossible to solve. As if jump-started by his loathing for puzzles, a realization occured: time was running out. How long had he been standing there? Jude was gone, and here he was, clutching a bag of candy, and—

  “Mr. Clark?”

  “I—I—I d-don’t know,” Stevie said, having half forgotten what the heck they were talking about, groping for the busted watch in his pocket. He had three minutes before he’d have to start booking it back to the house.

  “Gotta run?”

  “Yeah,” Stevie said. But he couldn’t leave. Not before Mr. G. told him the answer to the stupid riddle. “Why? How come there’s no vet?”

  Mr. Greenwood’s expression morphed into something akin to sad amusement. He looked a little disgusted, too, as though Stevie’s unwillingness to figure it out for himself made him dumber than the average bear. But the old man leaned in rather than stepping away, and he murmured across the counter so that only Stevie could hear. It didn’t seem to matter that Mr. G.’s customer had left minutes before, or that they were alone together in the store.

  “Because there aren’t any pets in Deer Valley, Mr. Clark. None beyond a few gerbils and Mrs. Lovejoy’s little dog. And Mrs. Lovejoy has that ball of fur attached to her hip. She never lets it out of her sight, which is the only reason it’s still around.”