Sacrifice (19 page)

“Much as I’d like to babysit one of you,” Marc said, “I’ve got a target at home I need to watch, at least until my uncle picks him up tomorrow morning. The Woodsman isn’t getting Albert.”

The others nodded in understanding.

“And I’m immune,” Dave said. “So that leaves you four to pair up.”

“You and me?” Jeff said to Ken. “Couldn’t actually hurt to study for the physics final.”

Paul gave Bob a sheepish look. “That leaves us.”

“I’ll be there,” Bob said. “My ma won’t care.”

“We’re still only playing half the game,” Paul said to the group. “We’re only running defense. We need to play a little offense.”

“Hampy,” Dave said. “You do realize football idioms don’t actually apply to real life.”

“It does here,” Ken said. “The Woodsman is a lone wolf. We can’t put up enough fencing to keep him out, so we need to hunt him down.”

“We’re going to kill this thing?” Marc said. “Isn’t it already kind of undead? It’s a ghost or a spirit or something. Who knows how to kill that?”

“The closest thing to a paranormal section they’ll have at the library is a worn copy of
Campfire Ghost Stories
,” Ken said. “The PTA even made them pull copies of
The Amityville Horror
off the shelves. I don’t know where we’ll find anyone who knows crap about this.”

“Well, Paul,” Jeff said. “You’re the Catholic. How about you rustle us up an exorcism?”

“You want to exorcise a whole town?” Dave said. “Put a priest with a cross at every corner?”

“I’m Lutheran,” Jeff said. “How would I know?”

Everyone looked at Paul. He looked away.

“The priest wouldn’t take you seriously,” Paul said. “Trust me.”

After a pause, Bob spoke up.

“I think I know someone. She’s out Nesconset Highway. She knows about the supernatural.”

“She’s some kind of researcher?” Ken asked.

“A psychic,” Bob said.

“The fortune teller out by Port Jefferson?” Dave said. “The one who’ll paint your astrological chart for $5.99?”

“We’ll we’re out of other options,” Bob said. “You have a better idea?”

Dave gave a resigned shrug.

“Let’s do it after school,” Ken said. “I’ll go with you.”

Whitman High’s warning bell called them all in for the last day of school before Finals Friday. The six distracted seniors went through their morning classes in a daze, the only students with bigger problems than upcoming exams and graduation.

Chapter Forty-One

“You were supposed to call me last night,” Katy said. She and Jeff were doing the fourth period stroll between classes.

Jeff cursed himself silently. He’d spent the night reading
A Century of Sagebrook History
since Ken was done with it, and he’d lost track of time. He stopped in front of a row of lockers and pulled her out of the student rush.

“Sorry. I was studying for finals and before I knew it, it was after eleven and I know better than to call at that hour. I woke your mother up once, and you remember the results.”

Katy gave him that patented sideways stare that said she wasn’t buying it.

“Seriously, hours of physics, a mastery of the endocrine system for health and several chapters
The Great Gatsby
.”

“I’m thinking you were out doing something with your stupid friends,” she said.

“No way. Ask my mom. I was home all night.” For once this week he wasn’t lying about not being out with the Half Dozen. He felt an undeserved sense of superiority.

Katy kept up the stare, as if searching for a shred of deception. When she blinked, Jeff knew he’d passed. He put his hands at her waist.

“Look, you know I have to study. My admissions hang on a thread and I need to ace these finals. I can’t have you up at Albany alone this fall.”

She gave his chest a playful slap. “Hell, no. You’re my ride there.”

“Katy, we finish finals, then go to the prom.” Jeff gave her a quick kiss. “On Sunday we graduate and then it’s smooth sailing.”

“It just seems like something’s up with you,” Katy said. “Something with your friends. And not something as dumb as the water tower stunt.”

Jeff pulled away in surprise.

“Yeah,” Katy said. “I know you painted the tower. Who else would? But you are into something else, something dangerous.”

Jeff toyed with the idea of telling her. He trusted her more than anyone. She might believe the story of some spirit hunting down kids in Sagebrook.

But she might not. Sane people wouldn’t. And if she did believe him, and she got involved, and she got hurt… No way.

“Katy, seriously. There’s nothing like that.” Jeff prayed she didn’t turn the lie detector back on.

The class bell rang and everyone in the hall scampered. Katy pulled away to get to class.

“You’d better not be lying,” she said. The twinkle in her eyes said she didn’t think he was.

“Cross my heart,” Jeff said.

He had to leave off “and hope to die.” A few too many people had already done that.

Marc didn’t share his suspicions about the charms with the Half Dozen that morning. He wanted to make sure he was right. It was after band practice when he made his move. As the students filtered out from class, he managed to fall in beside Veronica. She always tied her hair back into a ponytail when she played. She pulled it free and fluffed it as she hit the hall. Marc caught a whiff of jasmine. He noticed her lips had the faintest red lipstick.

His palms broke out into a nervous sweat. He wondered what he had been thinking when he hatched this plan. He only knew Veronica from band, and they had rarely spoken. Now out of the blue he was going to ask her…

Half the time between classes was gone. He couldn’t follow her all the way to her next class and still make history on time. Now or never.

“Hey, Veronica.”

She turned and smiled when she recognized him. “Marc!”

“Yeah, I wanted to get the whole band to sign my yearbook,” Marc said. He cringed inside. Smooth intro. Make Veronica feel like she’s nothing special. “Do you mind?”

She dropped her flute case to the floor. “Love to! Great idea.”

Marc handed her his book. She flipped to her picture. “I hate this picture. I look sick.”

“That’s a great picture,” Marc said. He meant it. She had on one of the black blouses she wore for performances, and she’d put a nice curl in her hair. His eyes went from the picture to Veronica. She had such soft brown eyes.

“See, how nice of you,” Veronica said. “Just like everyone says.” She clicked a pen and started to write.

He wondered who said he was nice. Then he realized Veronica thought so. “Nice” wasn’t “sexy” but he’d take it. He watched how gracefully she looped the letters in her inscription. He shook himself back to the reality of his mission.

“I loved your baby picture. What was the charm on your wrist?”

“A family heirloom,” she said as she signed her name.

“You don’t wear it now.”

“It was funny,” Veronica said. “My mother wouldn’t let me dress without it for years. Then when I started school, she wouldn’t let me wear it at all. She was afraid I’d lose it.”

Question answered with time to get to history. A double play.

“Well, thanks,” Marc said. He turned too fast to see the look of disappointment that creased Veronica’s face. He dashed off to the other wing of the school.

It wasn’t until later that night that he read what she had written.

“So you
can
get closer than the strings section! Maybe we’ll play together after graduation.”

He slammed himself in the head with his yearbook. Of all the bonehead missed opportunities…

Chapter Forty-Two

Constable Pickney hated Head Selectman Parker.

Hating your boss was never a good position to be in, but the smug little bastard was impossible to like as far as the constable was concerned. He treated the village like it was his fiefdom and its few employees his serfs. Bad news usually drew a raging rant, and the constable had bad news in spades this afternoon.

Head selectman didn’t sound so prestigious when you knew the position ruled over only four others. That didn’t keep Richard Parker from wrangling an office in the village hall out of the position. He made great fanfare out of assigning slips at the village dock and dispensing parking exemption decals. The constable also had a suspicion that there was some skimming of the public coffers going on. He knew village revenue and when he subtracted his department’s budget, there was a lot more left over than what it took to trim the village green.

Parker’s office door was closed. It always was so people would have to knock and be granted permission for an audience with His Lordship. The constable took a deep breath and knocked on the door.

“Enter!”

Everything about the office shrieked of Parker’s overblown self-importance. The desk in the office was half again too large for the space. A big plaque on the front of the desk read “Head Selectman Parker.” Pictures on one wall were of past head selectmen. All but two carried the Parker surname. The constable wondered if the dimwitted voters in the village thought they had been voting for the same person for a hundred years since the last name never changed.

The little balding man sat behind a desk stacked with more papers and files than could possibly be necessary in such a tiny jurisdiction. He had a body like a beach ball and a round head to match. He looked up at the constable with beady black eyes that would have been at home in the head of a cottonmouth snake.

“Did you get it?” he said.

Constable Pickney closed the door behind him. “It wasn’t him.”

“How the hell could it not be him?”

“I pushed him and he copped to another crime. He had no clue I was talking about the museum.”

Parker threw up his hands. “Stellar police work! I’ve got sources that tell me that kid was at the Mulfetta accident. Remember him from the crime scene?”

Pickney realized that was why the kid looked familiar and wanted to kick himself.

“It’s no coincidence that the kid sees a founder’s child killed and starts a sudden interest in local history,” Parker continued. “We need to know what he knows. See what he and his friends are up to at night.”

“Like tail him?”

“Yes,” Parker said, voice dripping with sarcasm, “like tail him. The last thing we need is for the whole story to unwind in public.”

Pickney nodded and left the office. Yes, it would be bad if the whole story came out. The people hadn’t tarred and feathered anyone in a hundred years, but they might revive the tradition if they got wind of what the founders had kept secret for a couple hundred years.

Chapter Forty-Three

Miles from the subdivisions and strip malls, Long Island still had vestiges of its rural heritage, back when it supplied potatoes and ducks to the citizens of New York City. An old farmhouse sat a thousand yards back from Nesconset Highway at the end of a straight dirt driveway. The fallow fields around it barely had the strength to nurture a scraggly collection of weeds. The one-story cracker box house had been repainted lavender with lime green trim. The hand-painted sign in the yard sported a smiling sun and the promise of “psychic readings” and “true horoscopes”.

That afternoon after school, Bob’s Duster rumbled up the driveway at idle speed. A lit cigarette bounced up and down between Bob’s lips. He hadn’t said a word since he punched up Bob Seger’s
Night Moves
cassette into the tape deck as soon as he and Ken left the school parking lot. The car lurched to a stop in what looked like makeshift parking spaces near the front door. A sign on the door read “Madame Calabria.”

“So, how
do
you know about this place?” Ken asked.

Bob grimaced. He slammed the steering wheel with the palm of his hand. “My ma comes here, OK? I think it’s fucking retarded, but she does it anyway and it makes her feel better. Maybe it’s a crock of shit and maybe it isn’t, but what else have we got?”

“Hey, man,” Ken said. “It’s cool by me. If I thought the idea sucked I wouldn’t have come with you.”

Bob stared out the open window at the farmhouse. “No one else needs to know she comes here.”

There were reasons none of the Half Dozen ever went into Bob’s house, reasons that the few times he’d seen Bob’s mother she had on the same frayed vintage 1960 housecoat, reasons the blinds were always drawn. Bob didn’t talk about them, so no one asked. Maybe they respected that privacy. Maybe they didn’t want to know, didn’t want to open a door to problems they could not fix. Ken wasn’t sure about the reason, but he supported the result.

“Never heard a word of it,” Ken said.

Bob nodded and tossed the butt of his cigarette out the window.

The previous owners would never have recognized the inside of their former farmhouse. The parlor and foyer were now one large room. An antique, stained glass chandelier hung from the ceiling. Strands of thick beads had replaced the doors to the rest of the house. Silk fabric with muted psychedelic designs hung on all the walls like the interior of a carnival tent. Candles burned in each corner, and the room smelled like melted wax and head shop incense.