Bad Moon Rising

Chapter 18

(1)

Mike got home at nine-thirty and he pedaled around back to see if Vic’s truck was there. It wasn’t, but he did not know if that was good news or bad. He chained his bike to the side-yard fence and went inside. The house was quiet and still. It had an empty quality. He went into the kitchen, took the orange juice out and drank half of it from the carton, put it back. As he turned to go he heard a sound. He stopped, looking at the door to the basement. Mike had never been down there; it was Vic’s domain and more than once Vic had promised the world’s worst beating if Mike so much as thought about going down there. Mike never thought about it. Pissing off Vic was not a hobby.

But there was that sound. Like a muffled grunt. Not of pain or effort. Just a human sound, like someone might make walking into a chair. A kind of oomph. Then nothing.

He moved closer to the door and listened. Vic’s truck wasn’t out back, and he was sure Vic was not home. Vic never lent his truck to anyone, either. Mike pressed an ear to the wood and as he did so the door shifted. He stepped back like he’d been burned and looked at it. The door was closed, but it wasn’t locked and now that he was paying attention to it he could see that the lock was broken. There were splinters of wood sticking out—small ones, but telltale. More splinters littered the floor. The door was closed, but there was no lock to hold it firm, so it had swung out on its hinges maybe a half inch, and Mike’s leaning against it had made it thump back against the frame.

Mike quickly backed away, not liking this at all. Either this was some new trick Vic was playing, a trap to make him break the house rule about going downstairs, or else someone had busted that door. Mom? Would she have done that? Could she have done it? Even had she been sober Mike doubted it, and Mom was never sober. Besides, she’d told him yesterday that she would be in Doylestown all day today, something about a craft show that started early.

Then what was left? A burglar?

He almost smiled at the thought. Here in Pine Deep, after all that had happened, a simple breaking and entering seemed comical. The smile almost took root on his face, but didn’t. This was Pine Deep, after all, and nothing was ever that simple. Certainly not something like this.

A tingling sensation began behind his eyes. It was like the feeling he had when one of his headaches was coming on and a hairy ball of sick dread began forming in his throat.

No, this was bad. Whatever it was, whatever it would turn out to be, this was bad.

Without making a sound Mike backed away, backed out of the kitchen. When he was in the hallway he spun and sprinted for the stairs, taking them two at a time. He raced to his room, yanked open a drawer, and pulled out clean underwear, a sweatshirt, jeans, and socks and stuffed them into a nylon gym bag. He opened his window and dropped the bag down into the side yard, closed the window quietly, and then went into the bathroom. He stuffed a deodorant stick into one pocket and his toothbrush and toothpaste into another. Then he crept back down the stairs, all the time listening for sounds from the basement.

For an agonizing moment he wondered if maybe that was his mom down there, that maybe she hadn’t gone to Doylestown. That maybe whoever this was down there had come in before she left and…

No. His instincts—perhaps his fears—said no to that. Mike was pretty good about reading the energy at his own house. He knew when Vic was home, knew when his mother was home. Always. None of what he sensed at home felt like Mom’s energy. Everything just felt…wrong.

Mike opened the front door very quietly, slipped outside, and then raced to grab his gym bag and his bike. He’d stop on the way to school and pull on his sweatshirt to hide the blood, then clean up in the boy’s bathroom. If anyone asked, he would say he fell off his bike on the way to school and had a bloody nose. He’d change, drift into homeroom, and pretend this had never happened. Let Vic sort it out. That sounded good, sounded like a plan, even though he knew it was all total bullshit. He raced away into the morning.

(2)

Ruger heard the kid moving around upstairs. He could smell blood on the kid’s clothes and it made him smile. Lois heard him, too. When Mike was upstairs, while Ruger was paused in an attitude of listening, face turned toward the ceiling, Lois had tried to make her move.

She drove her elbow back and into his stomach as hard as she could, slamming it into him with a terrible and desperate fury, and lunged forward, trying to break free of his arms, kicking away from the lounge chair. She was fast, she was vicious, and she wanted to hurt him as much as she wanted to try and warn Mike. She almost made it, but Ruger was much, much faster, and the blow had only surprised him. It hadn’t hurt him at all. As she lunged forward he snaked out a hand and caught her by the wrist, locking his icy white fingers so hard that she was snapped back and spun around and came crashing back down on top of him. Air whooshed out of her as she collapsed down, and before she could scream Ruger clamped a hand over her mouth, bending forward fast and close.

“Make a single sound, you silly bitch, and I’ll kill your boy.” His voice was a reptilian whisper that froze her heart. His mouth was smiling, but his eyes told her the truth of his threat. Black eyes with no whites, no color other than red shadows. “I’ll use him worse than I used you, sweetheart, and I’ll make you watch.”

Lois felt the world tightening around her like a noose. “No…” she whispered. Just a faintness of a sound. “God, no.”

Ruger pulled her closer and ran his cold tongue up her throat and over her chin. There was blood on her face and he licked it off. “Smart move, sweet piece.”

Lois closed her eyes. They were naked, entwined in an ugly way on the lounger. She had blood on her face and throat and breasts. Blood streaked her thighs and buttocks. Her pale skin was splotched with the livid outlines of his open hand. Her nipples were torn and there were bite marks on her hips and stomach. Ruger had not taken much, just a taste here and there, drawing it out, making it last, loving the terror he tasted on her skin and the disgust he saw in her eyes.

The rape was bad enough, but Lois lived with Vic and he had never wanted anything she gave willingly. He had always taken it, enjoying the fight, the win. Hard and vicious use had become her life, and mostly the gin could blunt it. But Ruger was not Vic. By contrast Vic was almost kind. He was cruel and brutal, but he was a man.

What Ruger did…what he forced her to do…was beyond anything Vic could do to her. The thought of Ruger turning those appetites on Mike was too horrible to even think about, and Lois’s soul collapsed in on itself. “No,” she kept saying, over and over again, a mantra against Ruger’s hungers. She lay still and they listened to Mike’s footsteps upstairs and then heard the front door. Above them the house settled into empty stillness.

Ruger pushed Lois off him and she landed hard on palms and knees as he rose to stand over her. His skin was so white it was almost translucent and he stood above her, naked, indomitable, relentless.

“Hey,” he said, “want to learn a new game?” But since she didn’t answer he showed her anyway. Now that the house was empty it didn’t matter that she screamed. And screamed.

(3)

Vic stood in the doorway to the cellar and watched Ruger stand up and, without cleaning any of the blood from his skin, begin slowly pulling on his clothes. All the while Ruger smiled. Ruger picked up Lois’s robe and tossed it over her, the bulk of it covering her face and chest, leaving the rest of her exposed to Vic’s stare.

The gun in Vic’s hand hung there, a dead and forgotten weight at the end of his arm, barrel pointing at the floor. Vic could have killed Ruger right then, shot him point-blank. The special loads in that gun would have snuffed Ruger out like a candle, yet the gun just hung there as Ruger tucked his penis into his pants and zipped up the fly. He took his time about it, too, staring at Vic, smiling with bloody lips.

It wasn’t Ruger’s smile that hurt Vic so deeply. It wasn’t even that Ruger had broken his house rules, had taken what belonged to him. Had taken his wife. It wasn’t that as much as it was the steady, slow, very soft laughter that echoed in his brain. His laughter. Not Ruger’s. His.

“Penance is a bitch,” Ruger said as he buttoned his shirt. He started to turn away and then paused, looking down at Lois. Then, glancing up at Vic as he did so Ruger sucked up a mouth full of bloody phlegm and spit on Lois.

And still Vic did not, could not, lift that gun.

“It’s a new world, pal,” Ruger whispered with his graveyard voice, “and it must be a real kick in the nuts—especially after all these years and all you’ve done—to realize that you’re on the wrong end of the food chain.” Ruger tucked in his shirttails, then licked his fingers and used them to smooth back the hair from his widow’s peak.

“Griswold is my god,” he said, and turned away.