NINETEEN

THINGS UNEARTHED

Behind a layer of clouds the color of corpse flesh, the sun burned, scorching the earth, browning grasses and bowing trees, searing away shade and lying like a fiery weight across Neely Ames's shoulders.

The stench of the landfill had risen up around him, enfolding him in a sickly-sweet grip. It was a wide, barren plain of dirt heaped with garbage of every description, the large mounds breeding black flies that circled hungrily around Neely's head, darting in to taste the trickles that ran down his face and arms, finding the salt taste good, circling again. Far across the landfill there were several trash fires, and from them an acrid, grayish smoke had wafted with the stagnant breeze, clinging to Neely's work clothes and making his eyes tear beneath his glasses. When he walked, his boots stirred up clouds of dust, and he stepped carefully over widening cracks in the ground, like the remnants of sudden earthquakes. God only knew how many tons of garbage lay buried beneath the ground; now it seemed to be shifting, the layers and layers of filth expanding under the fierce summer sun. At one place he could stand and peer down almost six feet at an incredible morass of rotting garbage, old bottles, baby diapers, even discarded clothes and shoes. Beneath the landfill's surface was a hideous muck emitting a stench that turned Neely's stomach inside out. Passing a mound of pasteboard boxes and glittering glass shards, he heard a high squealing from a nest of rats; he'd seen them before, usually in the early morning when it was a fraction cooler, dark shapes scurrying from garbage mound to mound in search of scraps of food. He hated this place because it was as filthy and vile as Bethany's Sin was beautiful and spotless.

And now he carried a plastic garbage bag with a half decapitated gray cat in it. He'd shoveled it up from where it had been stuck to 219; a truck had probably barreled right over the thing during the night, and the driver in his high cab had felt only the slightest jarring of a tire. The carcass had already been bloated by the time he'd gotten to it in mid-afternoon, and of course the flies had gathered in sheets. As he walked on, taking the garbage bag to a trash mound deeper within the landfill, his boot crunched through weakened earth and plunged ankle-deep. Neely cursed and staggered forward a few feet before he could regain his balance. Through the thin pall of smoke he could see cracks zigzagging crazily across the plain; he envisioned holes opening at his feet and sucking him quicksand-like down into the mire of accumulated garbage, where he would die choking on the refuse of Bethany's Sin. He quickly shrugged the image off and tossed the plastic bag on the trash mound; rats squealed and ran. The stench here was infernal because here was where he dumped the carcasses of animals - dogs, cats, squirrels, once even a good-sized bobcat - struck down by cars either on 219 or in the village itself. It was a grisly job, but he'd signed on to do it and that was that. As Wysinger had reminded him several times.

He took a handkerchief from his back pocket to clean his glasses of specks of ash. Wisps of smoke swirled around him; he could taste it at the back of his throat. Bitter. Like the aftertaste of Mrs. Bartlett's tea. He suddenly shivered, though the sun was burning his face. Something began to surge in his memory - dark shapes standing over him, eyes like pools of bluish flame, hands reaching for him from the blackness - and then it slipped away before he could grasp it. All day something strange had been haunting him, shadowy images that flashed through his mind and then vanished, and though he was left with a feeling of dread, there was also a...yes, a feeling of strong sexual desire. He couldn't remember dreaming; in fact, it seemed that the world had gone dark after Mrs. Bartlett had left his room. He'd probably just rolled over and fallen asleep like a dead man until dawn. But when he'd awakened, his body had ached, and he'd thought for just a moment that the lingering aroma of female musk lay on his bed. No, no. Only wishful thinking.

But one thing did bother him. While he was showering he'd noticed scratches on his thighs. He'd tried to think where he could have been scratched. Possibly, when he was sawing that dead tree to pieces, the limbs had scraped across his legs without his realizing it.

But funny he hadn't noticed those scratches earlier. He put his glasses back on, his eyes stinging from the smoke, and started walking across the landfill toward his pickup truck. He stopped to peer into that hole his boot had made. Jesus Christ! he thought. This whole damned place is slowly caving in. No telling how many years the locals have been using it as a dump; no telling how many tons of garbage lay underneath there. He kicked at the dirt; it was bone-dry and loose, and the hole widened.

And within it something glittered. Neely bent down, peered in, brushed dirt and filth away. A tiny squarish object, silverish. Other things, yellow white. He picked one up and looked at it closely for a moment, trying to decide what it was.

Abruptly, he stood up, found a stick lying nearby, and probed the hole. Dirt cascaded down the sides in sheets. Flies circled him, greedy for what he might uncover. But there was nothing; only dirt and clots of filth and garbage. He threw the stick aside, wiped his hand on his trouser leg, and looked again at the object he held.

He knew what it was, and seeing it made his heart hammer in his chest. What the hell was it doing out here, in the garbage dump?

Unless...Jesus, no! He wrapped it in his handkerchief, bent down and looked for the others. He found two more, and then he stepped back from that hole and walked quickly to his truck.

On McClain Terrace, Evan stood up from his typewriter and stretched. he'd finished about a third of the new short story he was working on, and he needed a break. Beside the typewriter there was a half-cup of tepid black coffee and a couple of chewed pencils; he took the cup, went upstairs to the kitchen, rinsed it out in the sink, and put a pot of water on the stove to boil. As the ring heated he thought about what was ahead for him: soon, he knew, he'd have to find within himself the guts to start a novel. It would be about the war, about the scarred and maimed veterans who came home and found that they'd only left one battleground for another. And here, in this broader, fiercer battleground, there was no recognizing friend from enemy until it was too late. Here the enemy wore many faces: the VA doctor explaining how in time the scars would fade; the psychiatrist with an ill-fitting toupee who said you must not blame anyone, not yourself, not those who sent you to fight, not anyone; the smiling employment agency lady who said sorry, we don't have anything for you today; people like Harlin who fell upon you and leeched your blood as a transfusion for their own tormented, decaying souls.

All that would have to come out someday.

But not now. No, now it was enough to write these smaller cries in the dark and hope that someone heard them and understood. Now it was enough to try to control the battle that waged within himself: the fight against his fears and his often unreasoning anger, the fight against those premonitions that he realized now had done so much to shake his life apart.

The pot began to whistle. He took it off the ring and then happened to glance through the window.

He could see a figure at a window toward the front of the Demargeon house. It was Harris, in his wheelchair, peering through the curtains at the street. The man's eyes looked like dark holes in his pale flesh. In another moment the curtains fell back and the figure was gone.

He could imagine what Mrs. Demargeon had told her husband about that night Evan had let his fears and suspicions grind him under. That Evan Reid's losing his mind. Took a toy I bought for his little girl and made something...terrible out of it, when I only meant to be kind. I tell you, I don't believe we should associate with those people anymore; that man's too unstable.

Evan switched off the eye of the stove. Unstable. Yes, that was probably right. And now, inadvertently, he'd hurt Kay again by cutting off other people. Mrs. Demargeon would probably never speak to her again. Jesus! He shook his head at his own stupidity.

No. I can make it right. I can go over there and apologize. Right now.

Hc hesitated for just a moment, and then he was going out the front and along the sidewalk to the Demargeon house. The car wasn't in the driveway, but at least he'd have a chance to talk with Harris, to try to explain that sometimes he lost control of himself, let his fears and premonitions rip parts of him away. But your wife shouldn't blame Kay, he'd tell the man. She wants friends; she wants to be a part of the village.

He stepped up onto the Demargeons' porch and rang the doorbell. Waited for a moment. There was silence within the house, and he was beginning to think the man wouldn't answer the door. He rang again, and then he could hear the quiet squeak of the wheelchair slowly approaching.

The door came open, latched by a chain. Harris Demargeon's eyes widened very slightly. "Mr. Reid," he said. "What can I do for you?"

"Well, I...was hoping I could come in and talk to you for a few minutes."

The other man didn't move. He said, "My wife's away."

"Yes, I know," Evan said. "But I thought...perhaps you and I could talk."

Demargeon looked at him, seemingly hesitant to let him in. I don't blame him, Evan thought. After all, everybody knows war vets are killers. Crazy killers, at that. Jesus! The man's really afraid of me!

But then the man reached up. There was a click! and the latch fell away. Demargeon wheeled backward, and the door came open.

"Come in," he said.

Evan entered. The harsh glare of the sun had filled the living room with stale heat.

Demargeon wheeled across the room and then sat watching Evan. "Please," he said quietly. "Close the door behind you. And put the chain back on."

Evan did. "I saw you from my kitchen window, and I thought now would be a good time to apologize."

The other man motioned toward the sofa, and Evan sat down.

"Apologize?" Demargeon asked. "What for?"

"For my bad manners toward your wife a few nights ago." He paused, watching for the man's reaction. He didn't seem to know what Evan was talking about. "She bought my little girl a toy bow-and-arrow set." He shrugged. "I don't know. I was rattled, I associated that toy with...some things that had been bothering me, and I'm afraid, I lost my temper. As he talked, he studied Mr.

Demargeon. White, short-sleeved shirt, dark trousers, black wingtips. His face a pale, pasty color. His eyes dark and darting. "So, anyway, I didn't mean to hurt your wife's feelings," Evan said. "It was very kind of her to sit with Laurie, and very kind of her to buy that toy, too. I don't know what came over me...I just lost control. I hope you understand."

Demargeon was silent.

"Of course you have a right to be angry," Evan said, knowing he deserved everything he was going to get. "I can see you're upset.

But please, my wife likes Mrs. Demargeon very much. I wouldn't want to see their friendship - "

"Get out of here," the man whispered.

Evan wasn't sure he'd heard him. "What?"

"Get out of here," Demargeon repeated, his voice hoarse and strained. He wheeled forward and then stopped, and Evan could see his eyes were wild. "Take your wife and your child and get out. Now. Today"

"I'm sorry," Evan said. "I don't understand what you're - "

"Get out of Bethany's Sin!" the man said in a half-shout, half-sob. "Don't worry about your clothes, or your furniture, or your house! Just take them and go!"

Evan, staring into the man's frenzied eyes, felt the gnawing chill of fear rising within him. He still didn't know what Demargeon was talking about, but he thought in that instant that the man looked like a hideous, animated corpse.

"Listen to me!" Demargeon said, visibly trying to keep himself under control. He was trembling. He wheeled closer to Evan, his eyes wide and pleading. "You don't know. You don't understand. But what you're feeling is right; you don't see that yet, but it is! Now, for Christ's sake and all that's holy you've got to save your wife and child and yourself - "

"Wait a minute!" Evan said. "What the hell are you - "

Demargeon looked sharply to the door, as if he'd heard something. His face set into a rigid mask, he swallowed, and then looked back to Evan. "'Ìhey know you think something's wrong," he said. "They're watching you, and they're waiting. And when they come for you they'll come in the night, and then it'll be too late - "

"Who?" Evan said. "Who'll come?"

"Them!" Demargeon said, his hands trembling on the chair's gray armrests. "By God, haven't you seen that no man walks the streets of Bethany's Sin after nightfall? Haven't you seen?"

"No, I - "

"They killed Paul Keating in the night," Demargeon said hurriedly. "And they took his body where they take all the bodies. I heard the war cry after they killed him; I heard it and I tried to cut my throat with a kitchen knife but she wouldn't let me, she said no, no I wasn't going to get away from them like that and oh God her eyes oh Jesus God her eyes burned me..."

He's crazy, Evan realized. Or been driven crazy. And what was all this about Keating? What was this man talk ing about...?

"They'll come for you! Oh yes they'll come for you just like they came for me!" A thread of saliva had broken from the man's lip, and now it hung down over his chin onto his shirt. "In the night!

They'll come in the night when the moon's strong and full and they'll take you to that place - God, that awful place!"

Evan shook his head, started to rise from the sofa to move toward the door.

"You don't believe me!" Demargeon said. "You don't understand!" Something dark and hideous flashed through his eyes.

"I'1l show you. I'll show you what they'll do!" And then he was rolling up one leg of his trousers, tugging at the cloth. His breathing was harsh and ragged, his muttering too jumbled for Evan to understand. His trouser leg ripped. Then his fingers fumbled, pulling at the knee. Evan could see sunlight glinting off plastic.

Demargeon's fingers worked at a strap. Then, the exertion showing on the man's face, he kicked out with one knee. The leg slithered out and lay on the floor beside the wheelchair. And then Demargeon was ripping the cloth away from his right leg, his teeth gritted, a sheen of sweat on his forehead. Another strap. He kicked out, breathing hard. The right leg fell to the other side of the chair, and the empty, tattered trouser legs dangled from Demargeon's mutilated torso.

Evan was on his feet, backing toward the door. His mouth was open but he could find no words; he stumbled, almost fell backward over the coffee table.

Sweat streaked Demargeon's face. The prosthetic legs lay akimbo, black wingtips gleaming, dark socks around plastic.

Demargeon raised his haunted gaze to Evan's.

And began to laugh, hysterically, madly. And as he laughed, the tears brimmed in his eyes and dripped down over his cheeks, splattering onto his white shirt. The laugh ringed the room, strident and terrible, the laugh of someone beyond saving. "God, no..." Evan said, shaking his head from side to side, backing away even as Demargeon wheeled toward him. "God in Heaven, no, no, no!

Keys in the door, jingling. The door came open, then stopped abruptly at the end of the chain. A woman's face peered through the crack. "Let me in!Mrs. Demargeons voice, urgent, commanding.

Evan reached for the chain.

"She'll kill me!" Demargeon said, trying to stop laughing, tears still dripping from the point of his chin. "They'll all kill me!"

Evan paused, his blood like ice, fingers inches away from the latch.

"Mr. Reid? Is that you? Let me in, please."

"She'll kill me!" Mr. Demargeon hissed.

"Mr. Reid? The door, please." He hesitated, held by the look of pure terror in the man's eyes.

"I have to see my husband!" Mrs. Demargeon said sharply.

Evan tore his gaze away from the man and unlocked the door.

Behind him, Demargeon whined like an animal caught in a trap.

The woman came through into the living room, carrying a sack of groceries; she glanced quickly at her husband, then at Evan, and set the groceries down on the table. Demargeon wheeled his chair backward, bumping over one of the discarded legs. The man's expression of terror chilled Evan, and brought back a stabbing memory: himself wired to a cot, and a silkily smiling woman holding a small cage over him in which something evil scuttled.

Mrs. Demargeon stood staring at those false legs on the floor.

Very slowly she raised her eyes to her husband's face. "Harris," she said calmly "you've been a very bad boy, haven't you?'

He stared at her, wide-eyed, shook his head.

"What the hell's going on around here?" Evan demanded, realizing his voice sounded strained.

"I'd appreciate it if you'd leave now, Mr. Reid," the woman said, her back to him.

"No! I won't leave until I know what's going on!"

Finally she turned toward him, regarded him with hooded, intense eyes. "My husband is a sick man," she said. "I don't think you're helping the situation."

"Sick?" Evan echoed incredulously. "He's...mutilated! His legs are...missing at the knees!"

"Mr. Reid!" Mrs. Demargeon said, her eyes flaming.

Beyond her, Harris Demargeon was trembling, his mouth moving but making no noise. She paused a moment, put a hand to her forehead and closed her eyes. "God," she said quietly. "Mr. Reid, you don't understand the situation."

"You're damn right I don't understand it! I was told by Mrs.

Giles that your husband was paralyzed, not carved up like a slab of meat!"

She looked at him with a flat, stony gaze that made his flesh crawl. "All right," she said. "All right. Come out to the porch with me." As they left the living room he heard the man begin to sob openly.

"My husband was...hurt very badly in a car crash on the King's Bridge Road," Mrs. Demargeon said on the front porch. "Only he wasn't paralyzed. His legs were destroyed." She frowned and shook her head. "Ever since that accident Harris has been slipping away. A gradual and terrible process, and very painful to have to watch. But what can I do?" She looked up at Evan. "I couldn't have him put in a hospital; I couldn't have him locked away."

"He acts more afraid than insane," Evan said.

"Sometimes it's worse than others. But I don't like to leave him alone, you see. When he's alone he acts like...what you saw in,there."

Bullshit! Evan thought. Total goddamned bullshit! "Mrs. Giles told me he was paralyzed from the waist down."

"Mrs. Giles doesn't know everything!" the woman snapped.

"You know how you reacted! Do you think I want everyone in the village to look at my husband as if he's some kind of damned freak?

Well, do you? Jesus Christ, I've gone through enough agony!" She paused for a moment, getting herself under control again. "After the accident he was taken to a hospital in Johnstown. He stayed there for months. And when he came home I decided it was best not to talk to anyone else about his...injuries." She looked into Evan's eyes. "I hope 'll respect my feelings."

You're a liar, he thought. But why? He nodded. "Of course."

"Good. I'm sorry I lost my temper, but the shock of seeing that...I know, I should be used to Harris's moods by now, but it's still difficult." She moved toward the door. "I'd better take care of him now. Good-bye." And the door closed. He heard the chain being fastened. Heard her voice, muffled. The squeaking of the chair's wheels. He left the porch, his head pounding and dread like a sickness deep in his stomach, and walked quickly back to his house.

And all the time something that frightened, half-crazed man had said echoed in his brain like an oracle's warning:

They'll come for you in the night.

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