Dastardly Bastard (16 page)

Scott pulled something silver from the catchall. The prongs of the utensil shimmered like liquid in the candlelight of the kitchen. The boy gripped the fork white-knuckle tight, holding it out in front of himself, staring at it.

“I just can’t see any more.” Scott shoved the fork into his eye.

Everything was spinning. The world became unhinged. When it righted itself, she was standing in an office. The boy’s father sat across a desk from a man in a white lab coat. The coated man looked emotionless behind his curly black beard. His bald head reflected the bookcases behind him.

The father asked, “What can we do for the child?”

Scott
, Justine thought.
His name is Scott. And you ignored him, you bastard.

“We can only watch him and make sure he doesn’t do anything like this again. We’ll medicate him. See that he is sedated.”

“I have so much going on right now. I wasn’t paying attention. He’s troubled. I know that. There’s the new logging company coming in, that chasm we found, the state moving about like crazy, trying to steal that land right from underneath me. I just didn’t see this being that big of an issue.”

He’s your son!

“You can come by, take him out for day trips. You have to maintain contact. He needs you right now, Mr. Fairchild.”

“I know.”

Fairchild?
The name was familiar, but where had she heard it before?

Justine was whisked away again through a black, seemingly endless void. Her ears popped as the pressure shifted. She felt herself rising, being pulled through time and space, passing through a rift in the world.

She landed in a child’s room. Pictures hung from the walls, abstract charcoal renderings of stick figures with black lines coming off of them. If Justine hadn’t made the same pictures, once upon a time, she wouldn’t have realized the wavy black lines were shadows. That was how they looked, at least to a child’s eyes. Dark, wispy threads emanated from people, evil pouring off them, clinging to their bodies, stretching to heavens the world should never see. The older Justine got, the less she saw them. Before she was ten years old, she’d seen them everywhere, on everyone she passed in her life. Her room had become a sanctuary from the horrors of the world.

At the highest point of the picture pyramid was a piece of parchment filled with a child’s scrawl. She read the words aloud.

“The Dastardly Bastard of Waverly Chasm did gleefully scheme of malevolent things. Beware, child fair, of what you find there. His lies, how they hide in the shadows he wears. ‘Cross wreckage of bridge is where this man lives. Counting his spoils, his eye how it digs. Tread if you dare, through his one-eyed stare. This Dastardly Bastard is neither here, nor there.”

She felt sick inside. Cold.

When she stepped forward to get a better look at a certain picture, she noticed the texture of the walls. They were padded.

“He can’t see you when you’re inside, you know.”

The boy spoke from the middle of the room. Legs crossed under him, he was bent over, coloring a piece of paper in big black swirling motions. That black hole terrified Justine.

“But I do,” he finished.

“Who is he?”

The boy shrugged.

She had to go about it in a different way. “My name’s Justine.”

“Scott.” The boy went back to his drawing.

Justine noticed he wore the eye patch again, the aftermath of his self-inflicted wound. “You know, they can’t hurt you. The shadows, I mean.” Justine knew the comment wouldn’t help, but she had to try something. She needed his trust. She needed answers.

“But they do.” The words were final.

Justine realized the boy was further gone than she had ever been. She’d had Nana Penance, a beacon in the dark, an understanding soul who had helped her cope with her visions. The boy, he’d had nothing like that. No one believed him. The shadows had won.

“I’m so sorry.” Justine’s voice cracked, filling with emotions she hadn’t seen coming. “My God, I’m so very sorry, Scott.”

The boy just shrugged again. He looked back to the page he was working on, and continued coloring.

She was looking at a lost soul, one who had given up all hope of a normal existence. Justine thought about Nana Penance and what her life would have become without her help. Was the boy what should have become of her? Was he the embodiment of the outcome Justine had skirted? She thought so. When Nana Penance had died, Justine had dived into Trevor wholeheartedly to bolster the wall between her and the shadows. But what did she have left? Trevor was gone. Yet his memories remained, just enough of him left to hold up that wall.

“I have to go.” She didn’t want to leave Scott, but she needed to find a way out of the nightmare. The boy, the sad, pitiful soul, was gone. Whatever time he had lived in was now past, left behind by a world moved on.

“He’s waiting for you.” Scott met her gaze with his one good eye as he finally looked up from the picture. “He’s going to get you. This Dastardly Bastard is neither here, nor there.”

The boy held out the picture. The charcoal drawing began to swirl, collapsing in on itself. Justine felt herself being pulled forward.

“Stop! I don’t want to do this anymore!” She curled into a fetal position, wrapped her arms around her knees, and shook violently. Her mind was cracking. She was being flooded by feelings and emotions not her own. They shouldn’t be there. She willed them to leave.

“Do you give up?” The voice was everywhere. Justine thought she could hear it laughing.

“No! You’re nothing more than what we make you!” Her words felt right, comforting, though she had no idea where they came from. This thing, whatever it was, was feeding off of her. If she chose, she could maintain control over it.

She found a focal point, a blinding white light in the darkness—Trevor’s eyes as he had woken up in the tent that morning. His calming baby blues, the serenity in those pools, would be her salvation. She swallowed hard, the lump in her throat protesting, but finally dropping away.

Rising from the darkness, Justine found that a soft glow shone on her, bright enough to make her squint against it. “Where is everyone? You’re hiding them from me. I want them back.”

“You will die, child. Find them or not, your fate is sealed.”

“Damn that. I want them back.”

“Then come. But be warned. I can be very unforgiving, child.”

The light around Justine continued to grow until she held the back of her hand to her eyes to shield them. From the retreating black came three sullen figures, walking toward her, arms at their sides, eyes looking straight ahead. They shambled like the undead, their movements jerky and forced. Justine remembered the pictures on Lyle’s cell phone, the shadowy puppeteer while he played with the group. As each one stepped into the light, she began to recognize them. Not knowing what else to do, she went to the smallest body and laid her palms on the sides of his face. Kneeling, she forced him to look at her. Something moved in his eyes, a flame. She thought it could be candlelight. Above the flicker of fire, an Asian woman looked back at her. Justine somehow knew the woman was a key. What the key would unlock, Justine had no idea. Still, she needed to try it.

Justine moved into the memory, ready to fight.

30

THE MONSTER WAS GAINING ON him. Donald struggled to increase his speed. He could feel the thing behind him. He rounded a curve and ran right into a stalagmite. He bounced off the calcium deposit and landed hard on his back, knocking the wind from his lungs. As he strained to sit up, a cold hand pushed him back down. The creature seemed to be upside down. It peered into his eyes, gnashing its teeth, saliva dripping.

Donald recognized the decaying face even though death had not been kind. Her thin hair still held particles of grave dirt, and the body was clothed in its funeral garb.

Donald looked into those chocolate eyes that had been untouched by death. “Sunne?”

“Don’t…”
Huff.
“Call…”
Puff.
“Me that!”

“It’s me… Donald.”

“You let me die!” Wretched breath, smelling of age and decay, flooded his face as Sunne wailed.

“I’m sorry. There were too many of them.”

“You were small. Useless.”

“There was nothing I could have done. Please believe me.”

“You could have died with me!”

Donald looked across the table at Sunne. He tried his best to seem taller by keeping his back straight, but his tailbone was beginning to ache.

Sunne smiled. “This is nice place.”

“I’ve been a couple of times,” he lied. Chez Martinique was well above his price point, but he’d saved a little chunk away for college, and scoring that scholarship had freed up a bit of his money.

“Never been to so nice a place.”

“It’s all right.”

“So, you born here?”

“In America?”

“No.” She laughed. “In New York.”

“Oh. No, I was born in California. Fresno area.” Donald sipped his wine. It was bitter, but he pretended to like it.

“Never been to California. I like to go, but maybe you take me?” Her eyes sparkled in the dim lighting of the restaurant, and Donald felt himself flush.

“I’d like that.” Once again, Donald had lied. He’d never go back there.

The dinner courses came and went. Talk about home and life and different cultures changed to more intimate conversation about wanting kids, where they’d like to live, and marriage.

“Do you think…?” She paused, looking nervous. “That kids will be small?”

He almost dropped his wineglass into his lap. “What?”

“Father is small. You are small. You think child from us, together, will be small?”

He could see hope and doubt warring in those brown eyes. He set the glass down, his hands shaking. Fear and anger welled inside him, but he managed to suppress it. “Would that be a bad thing?”

“No.” She sat back in her chair. “I just wondering. Not good subject. I sorry.”

“No. It’s okay,” Donald said, relaxing a little. “Go ahead, get your thought out.”

“It’s hard, and I don’t think you understand.” Her shoulders slumped. “You carry much anger because you so small. My father, also, mad at God. He always say…” Sunne shook her finger at Donald in what he assumed was an impression of her father. “
‘This life is hard, Sunne. People, they hate and lie and make you feel less than human being.’
So, I just wouldn’t like our child to feel that badness.”

Donald looked inward at his own hatred and lies and lesser feelings about the world in general. All the years of mocking and taunts had turned his heart to stone, yet it seemed Sunne held the chisel. He placed an upturned hand on the table, and Sunne leaned forward to lay her hand in his.

“The world’s not so bad,” Donald lied again.

“You remember!” The dead-Sunne thing growled, shaking its head. “You remember what they did to me while you were small and useless. You remember how you were a coward!”

“I tried—”

“You tried
nothing
!” That final word hung on the air, a discarded note echoing off the cavern walls.

Donald’s mind was hopping back and forth, fighting to hold on to reality. He felt if he were to give up his grasp, for just a second, his mind would be lost forever.

“I loved you,” Donald pleaded, his heart bleeding. “Don’t you know that? Somewhere deep inside you know how much it hurt me… to have to watch… to have to be held down… to have you taken like that!”

“You feel
nothing
!”

“I felt
you
.” Donald looked into those dead eyes. They seemed to calm for the briefest instant.

Then, the rage returned. A ghastly hand, bones showing through in ragged patches, wrapped around his throat.

“You remember!”

Donald struggled to breathe. His vision grew an edge, blurring until the world changed, and he was thrust out into the cold.

Sunne, her coat draped around her shoulders, held Donald’s hand as they left Chez Martinique. They walked along in the cool evening, enjoying each other’s company. Neither owned a car—no need to in New York City—and Donald was glad for that. It meant more time spent with Sunne on the way back to her place.

They moved down 42nd Street, Donald happier than he’d ever been in his life. Sunne hummed a familiar song.

“Look at the short shit!” a rough voice yelled. “Little dude’s off to see the Wizard with his Hong Kong Dorothy, I betcha!”

“Ignore them,” Sunne said. She didn’t know just how hard that request would be to fulfill. A wan smile crossed her face, and Donald decided to try.

The crew consisted of three young hoodlums out for a night on the town. They were dressed in white jeans at least two sizes too big and blue tank tops. The clothing screamed of gang colors, but Donald didn’t know enough to judge which gang they might represent. One of the guys was black, the other two white. All of them were walking directly toward Donald and Sunne.

“
Off to see the Wizard! The wonderful Wizard of Oz
!” The guy had a lazy eye. His good pupil glared at Donald, while the other stared at his own nose.

The three fanned out, blocking Donald’s path.

“Excuse us,” Donald said.

The shorter white guy, a wiry, crackhead-looking type, picked at his yellowed teeth with a fingernail, grinning over his knuckles. A long scar ran from his cupid’s bow, over his lips, to the cleft in his chin.

“She’s cute, short round.” Lazy-Eye nodded at Sunne, but kept his eyes on Donald. “Where’d you snag her? Rent-A-Fuck?”

“Just let us go. We no want trouble,” Sunne said. Donald was surprised by the confidence in her voice.

“
Just let us goooooooo… We no want trouble… Me love you long time
!” Lazy-Eye mocked.

The smallest of the group, a young black kid who looked as terrified as Donald felt, said, “Yo, guys… guys, I gotta get home. For real.”

“Beat feet, Bone,” Lazy-Eye replied. “We got shit to do.”

The black kid turned and bolted.

“You let us go,” Sunne said boldly, thrusting her chest out with the comment.