All The Bells on Earth (17 page)

He picked one up and looked closely at it. Something lay in the bottom. He illuminated it with the flashlight. It was a tooth, a human molar with a silver filling. He set the jar down and picked up another, this one containing a lock of hair, curled together and bound with a single strand. He shone the light into the tin box now. All the jars were the same: each apparently contained nothing but a single small remnant of a human being—a fingernail paring, eyelash hairs, a tooth, a leathery little patch of skin.

Shutting the front of the bread box, he carried two of the jars toward the shed and ducked in out of the rain. He dropped the umbrella, shoved a couple of rusted trowels off onto the ground, and set the jars on a wooden shelf. He laid down the flashlight and picked up the first of the jars again. The ring twisted off easily, but the lid was tight. He pushed at the rim of the lid with the edge of his thumb but couldn’t move it. Someone had done a fair job of canning….

The idea of these things having been canned horrified him and he set the jar down, his mind returning to the empty room in the burned house, to the iron hooks in the ceiling, to the foul picture on the floor in the living room. He laid the edge of the jar lid over a protruding nail head and pried at it. There was a slight pop, followed by an exhalation of escaping air and what sounded unmistakably like a human cry, small and immeasurably distant.

And just then, out of the corner of his eye, Bentley saw a light moving through the trees. He switched off his flashlight, then hurriedly screwed the lid back onto the opened jar. It was raining hard enough now so that the house and the trees beyond were obscured by a gray veil of drops. The moving light swung in a misty arc, two barely visible shadows hunching along behind it.

Making up his mind, Bentley moved away from the shed, pocketing his flashlight and carrying the two jars and his closed umbrella. He looked behind him. Whoever it was had stopped near the house. Their light swung his way, illuminating the path. He hurried the few feet to the bread box, picking it up and darting away again, crouching behind the fallen outhouse. Opening the front of the bread box, he tilted it back and replaced the two jars inside. The light was moving again, darting out along the little path toward the garden shed.

Bentley crept backward through the mud on his hands and knees, dragging the box and the umbrella along with him. His foot kicked the trunk of the big walnut tree, and he scuttled around behind it, peering out past the trunk. The two men had stopped to look over the shed. They’d see the trowels knocked down, rainwater on the wooden shelf, footprints in the mud….

Sure enough, here they came, bent over and casting the flashlight beam in front of them, looking for him. They both wore hats pulled low over their eyes. One was big, heavy, but Bentley couldn’t make out his features in the darkness.

“What the hell’s this?” the smaller one asked. He played the light along the edge of the outhouse, then shone it on the hole in the dirt. Bentley looked behind him. The shadows of eucalyptus trees loomed overhead, and the wire fence, choked with oleander, blocked his retreat that way. Wait them out, he thought, bending over and grasping the handle at the top of the box. If he had to, he’d run for it. He was in plenty good enough shape to get away—from the big one, at least.

“Empty,” the small man said, looking into the hole. “Full of shit, just like you.”

“That’s right,” the other one said tiredly. “This hasn’t been used for years, and it wasn’t knocked over last night, either. This is what we’re looking for, but someone got here first.”

“Yeah, well, I think we’re chumps, out here looking around for something nobody don’t even know what it is. Let’s just bring him a goddamn bag of walnuts.”

“That’s a
good
idea,” the big man said. He swung the flashlight slowly, aiming it into the trees. “I think he’s still here, whoever it is. The snoop. Look at this.”

He shone the light on the ground now, the two of them bending down to have a look at something—footprints probably, or the depression made by the bread box in the mud. Bentley nearly got up and ran for it, but he held on. What lengths would they go to in order to stop him? He thought of poor Simms, dead, and he knew the answer.

The thought of Simms galvanized him, and something stirred within him—a wild gladness, a righteous fire kindled out of nowhere. This was
it
. This was what he was
paid
for. Push had come to shove. He’d spent countless Sundays warning people about the Dragon; now it was damn well time to skewer the bastard!

He stepped out from behind the tree, waving his umbrella in the air. “That’s right!” he shouted. “Here I am!” His voice was pitched high, from the excitement. He was giddy. Out of his mind. He shook his umbrella in the air like a Zulu, rainwater blowing into his face.

The two men looked at him, apparently mystified by his behavior, the small one shining the flashlight beam into his eyes and then down to the painted bread box. The big one said something to the small one, who nodded, and immediately the big one set out around the opposite side of the outhouse, clearly thinking to cut off Bentley’s escape. The other one stepped forward, holding out his hand, palm up.

“Hand it over, pops,” he said.

“Absolutely,” Bentley shouted. And then, without another thought, he raised the closed umbrella like a lance and charged at the man, holding it stiff-armed in front of him. The big man turned around and lumbered back toward his partner, who threw both hands into the air in surprise, taking a wild swipe at the umbrella but missing it entirely. The blunt tip struck him in the chest, and the umbrella itself crumpled, its hollow stem bending in half as the ribs flew open, the thin fabric pushing into the man’s face like bat wings as he staggered backward, slipping in the mud.

The fat man lunged toward Bentley, grabbing him by the arm, and the preacher flailed at his face with the open, broken umbrella, yanking backward and shouting scripture into the man’s face, wild verses out of Ezekiel. The man let go of him, treading backward and stepping on the fallen vent pipe from the outhouse, tripping and sitting down heavily across the outhouse door, which crumpled inward so that he sat in it like a drunken man sprawled over the sides of a canoe.

Bentley turned and slapped the destroyed umbrella at the small man again, dancing toward him and stamping at him as if the man were a bug that he could crush underfoot, and the man rolled away into a clump of bare vines, holding his hands over his head and yelling, “Whoa, whoa, whoa!”

Just then the door of the bread box dropped open. Bentley felt the contents shift, felt the weight of the door banging down on its flimsy hinge. He snatched at the box, trying to right it, but the whole passel of jars flew out, into the mud, into the bushes, raining down on the small man, who sat up now, grabbing at the jars. Jars broke against rocks, against each other, and the night was full of the soft sounds of escaping human cries, audible even in the rain and the banging around. The fat man struggled up out of the outhouse, his arms swimming, lurching to his feet and bending forward in a crouch, hands out in front of him now as if he meant to squeeze Bentley in half.

Bentley flung the empty bread box at him, lashed the umbrella at his partner, then bent over and snatched up two of the jars. He turned to run, heading in among the ghostly trees. He didn’t look back, but high-stepped it down the path, squinting against the rain.

They were following! Footsteps pounded along behind him as he wove through the trees, kicking through leaves, heading for the street with a jar in either hand. In school he’d been a sprinter, and although he hadn’t run in thirty years, he poured it on now, putting his heart into it, sucking air into his lungs, half expecting the snap of a groin muscle or the sudden tightening of his heart seizing up. But the sounds of pursuit trailed away behind him. They were giving up.

And then he was out of the gate, into the street and loping down toward his car, running easily now, into his stride. Knowing he was safe, he looked back over his shoulder. No one was following. Why should they? They apparently had what they were after. Thank God he hadn’t recognized either of them; that way they wouldn’t have recognized him either. There was no way Argyle could suspect him.

He flung the car door open and slumped onto the seat, hauling in his legs, turning the key, and throwing the Toyota into reverse, careening backward toward the intersection at Almond, where he shifted into forward again and gunned away toward the Plaza. Then, on impulse, he turned up Shaffer Street, slowing down and switching on the heater, trying to catch his breath. He felt pretty doggone good, considering…. He hooted out loud and slapped the wheel. By heaven he’d given the Devil hell, hadn’t he? Grabbed him by the shirtfront and slapped his silly face for him!

He felt
real
good, was how he felt—better than he had for years. He glanced down at the two jars on the seat beside him, their contents visible in the glow of the streetlamps. In one lay what looked like a severed eyelid, lashes and all. His smile faded, and on impulse he pulled into the parking lot of the Holy Spirit Catholic Church. The light was on in the sacristy.

“N
OT UNTIL THE CHILDREN
are asleep,” Ivy said, dodging away from Walt. She headed into the bathroom, where she stood at the sink, putting her hair up with a couple of silver clips.

“They’re in bed,” he said. “Snug as bugs.” He put his arm around her waist and wiggled his eyebrows at her.

“They’re not asleep. They’re wound up like tops.” She pushed him out and shut the door in his face.

“They’re beat,” he said, talking at the door. “In a few minutes they’ll be asleep. We have some important business to discuss.”

“You mean monkey business, I think.” She opened the door and stepped out of the bathroom, wrapped in her kimono now. “Listen,” she said.

From downstairs came the sound of a giggle, then the creaking of floorboards—someone walking in the dining room, probably heading for the kitchen.

“
I’ll
handle this,” Walt said, nodding seriously.

“Thanks,” Ivy told him. “I’m about dead. I might wait up for you, though—if I don’t fall asleep.” She winked at him and sat down on the bed, switching on the table lamp and picking up her glasses and her book.

Full of anticipation, Walt headed down the stairs. He’d take care of this lickety-split. Sometimes kids just needed to be
told
what to do—no messing around, no choices. Raising children wasn’t any kind of democracy….

There was a light in the kitchen. He looked in through the doorway. Eddie stood at the sink, trying to twist the chrome plug into the drain. The water was running full blast. Nora had clambered up onto the counter, where she was squirting a heavy stream of dish soap into the slowly filling sink.

“Hi,” Walt said, stepping up to the sink. “What’s up?”

“We’re soaping,” Nora said, smiling big. She showed him the squeeze bottle of Ivory Liquid.

Eddie pushed his pajama sleeves up and dipped his hands into the water, swishing it around to make bubbles.

“Soaping what?” Walt looked around. The dishes were done, the counter entirely cleared off.

“Soap,” Nora said. “See?” She picked up a double handful of bubbles and put her face into them. Bubbles clung to her nose and cheeks.

“That’s good enough,” Eddie said, shutting off the water.

“I think maybe it’s time for bed,” Walt told him. “Why don’t you start on this in the morning?”

Nora’s face fell, and she slumped into a sort of rag doll position, as if most of her muscles had quit on her.

“Let’s go,” Walt said. “Let’s hop into bed.”

Apparently they heard nothing. Eddie swirled his hands in the soapy water, piling the bubbles up into towers. Nora reached into the sink and flattened the towers with her hands. Eddie built them back up again, edging his sister out of the way and blocking the sink.

“Let
me
,” Nora said, trying to elbow her way in again.

Eddie stood there immovable, saying nothing but clearly determined now to keep her out.

Nora pushed him on the shoulder, but he set his feet and pushed back. Nora slapped him hard on the arm.

“Hey!” Walt said. “That’s enough now….”

Eddie dipped his hands into the sink and very calmly flung soapy water at his sister, who froze there on the countertop, her face suddenly full of a cold fury. She slid to the floor, her fists balled up, her pajama shirt soaked. She drew her hand back to slug him, but Walt caught her by the wrist.

“I don’t
care
,” Eddie said, pulling the plug out of the sink. The soapy water swirled away down the drain.

“You
fuck
head,” Nora shouted at him, trying to jerk her wrist out of Walt’s grasp.

“Whoa! Whoa!” Walt said. “Haile Selassie! You can’t talk like that! Not in
this
house.” He turned her around and marched her out into the dining room. Ivy stood on the bottom landing, a look of surprise on her face. He shrugged at her. Nora burst into tears, pulled away from him, and ran into the bedroom, slamming the door. He could hear her sobbing in there.

“Need help?” Ivy asked, widening her eyes.

Walt shook his head. “I’m all right,” he said. “They’re just tired. This isn’t easy on them.”

Eddie stood in the kitchen, drying his hands on a towel. Walt walked in and leaned against the counter. He folded his arms. “Do me a favor, will you, man?”