Tangled Thing Called Love (23 page)

Sometimes she even scared herself.

Muttering about crabby old aunts, the boys sullenly got in the truck.

“I’m going to go look for Ben,” she told them. “I’ll be back in a minute. Stay there. Keep the doors locked.”

All wounded male pride, they folded their arms across their skinny chests and refused to look at her. She set off down the trail leading to the creek, clutching the truck keys, because she would no more trust the twins with the keys than with a flamethrower.

Ben had explained how he wanted to do the videotaping. Mazie would be Fawn as she got out of the truck—Scully’s beat-up Ford being a stand-in for Fawn’s piece-o’-crap Chevy. Then he’d film her from the back as she set off down the trail leading to the creek. For the last segment, he’d stand in the creek so he could get the right perspective as she emerged from the woods into the clearing. By then, he’d estimated, it would be nearly dark, and her appearance would be kind of ghostly. If there was mist, so much the better.

In the fading light, Mazie tried to see the world from Fawn’s perspective.

I’ve just been crowned Miss Quail Hollow. Maybe I’m still wearing my crown, holding my bouquet. I’m feeling excited but exhausted. Damp leaves brush my bare arms, thorns snag my dress. The ground is wet because it’s late April and my heels sink into the mud. The night is alive with sounds—night birds calling, frogs croaking, things rustling through the brush. Maybe the moon is out, shedding a pale light on the woods
.

But what am I doing out here? It’s nearly midnight and the adrenaline rush that carried me through the pageant is wearing off, leaving me feeling flat. But soon
he
will come to meet me here. And we couldn’t meet anywhere else because … because he’s a married man?

Mazie reached the clearing at the edge of the stream. No Ben. The water seemed to be sucking up the last of the light, leaving the woods dark and shadowy. A final, feeble ray of sunlight poked through a gap in the trees and fell on Fawn’s memorial rock, lighting it so that it resembled a half-buried skull, eye sockets gaping.

“Ben?” Mazie yelled.

He’d been here. She could see his footprints in the mud. Could he have crossed the stream, maybe decided to explore the woods on the other side? Very unlikely. She bent and touched Fawn’s stone, still faintly warm, as though it could give her answers.

A sound came from behind and she whirled around. It had sounded like a steppedon twig.

“Ben?” Mazie said, instinctively lowering her voice. It might be the boys, staging a revenge scare on their bossy aunt, but if they were there they’d have been unable to keep
their giggling under control. The swamp had settled into an unnatural silence. The sun slipped below the horizon, leaving the woods in murky gloom.

Get out of here now!
All Mazie’s senses screamed it. Wishing she hadn’t worn the cumbersome gown, she started back toward the road, hurrying now, her shoes making
glup glup
sounds on the muddy ground, her long skirt snagging on sticktights and burdocks. More snapped-twig sounds. Something was there just off to her left, moving parallel through the woods, stealthily pacing her. A bear, a feral hog? Some people claimed there were cougars in the woods. Fear spiked down into her, making her heart gallop and her breath come in wheezing gasps.

Now the thing was no longer bothering to be stealthy; it was crashing through the brush, and there was no question—it was stalking her! Veering off the path, Mazie found herself fighting through a thicket of alder and chokecherry. She was completely turned around, no longer even sure in which direction the road lay. Every clump of pine, every birch sapling, looked exactly the same as every other one. Finally blundering into a clearing, she hoisted her skirt to crotch level and full-out ran.

The thing was behind her now, so close she could hear it panting. A smell reached her nostrils—something sulfuric, like cat piss and rotten eggs.

The Coulee Devil was supposed to have a sulfur stink
.

But that was a myth! There was no such thing as the Coulee Devil, explained the logical part of Mazie’s brain; it was a figment of someone’s imagination, like Sasquatch or The Man with the Hook. But her reptile brain was shrieking:
Yes, there is too a Coulee Devil and it wants to eat you, so move, you moron!

Somehow it had gotten ahead of her. It was flanking her, trying to cut her off, drive her deeper into the woods, and now it was so close she could glimpse it through the trees, a tall, shadowy form with—were those pointed
ears
she had just glimpsed?

She zagged toward the right, thrusting through a cluster of blooming hawthorn. Good—hawthorn grew along the fringes of roads, which meant she must be close to the lane. The undergrowth thrashed as the thing forced its way through, growling now, its smell stronger, and she could see yellow eyes glinting in the dark. And a snout! And fangs jutting from a snarling mouth!

Whimpering, her breath coming in panicked gasps, Mazie abruptly cut to the left,
thrusting through thorny brush, feeling her feet sinking into something cold and squishy. It was the water-filled ditch that ran alongside the road, and now the woods opened up and there, just ahead, was the turnaround! Feeling as though her aching ribs were about to break loose and spear into her heart, Mazie burst through the trees and pelted toward the pickup, running so hard that she smacked into the side of the truck and bounced off.

“Open the door!” Mazie screeched, banging on the windows. She wrenched at the passenger door. Locked. Where were the keys—oh, God, had she dropped them? No—here they were, still clutched in her hand. But where were the boys—the truck was empty!

Something exploded out of the underbrush. For the first time in her life Mazie understood that people really could die of fright. A seven-foot-tall werewolf was charging at her, snarling, fangs bared.

No time to unlock the door—she dived under the truck and squirmed beneath the undercarriage. The back of her gown caught on the drive shaft. Sobbing, cursing, she tried to squirm free, but she was pinned, unable to move forward or to bend her arm to yank the fabric free. The werewolf—the Coulee Devil; whatever it was—flung itself to the ground, thrust its arm beneath the truck, grasped Mazie’s left ankle, and pulled. Her backbone scraped painfully against the truck’s underbody as she was dragged out, feeling like a clam being extracted from its shell, about to be tossed down a bivalve lover’s gullet. She clawed into the dirt, trying to slow the momentum, breaking her nails, but she was no match for the thing. In seconds she was out, being rolled onto her back in the dirt.

The monster rocked on its knees, panting and wheezing, catching its breath, and Mazie used that moment to lunge at it, thrusting upward with her splayed-out truck keys. A pathetic swipe, but the thing jerked backward in surprise, loosening its grip on her leg for the sliver of a second it took her to lurch upright.

Reeling to the rear of the truck, Mazie sprang onto the bumper and heaved herself into the flatbed, but the werewolf was a hairbreadth behind and vaulted up after her. She picked up a fence post and tried to kneecap him, but he just kicked it out of her hands. Sobbing, staggering for footing amid the junk, she scrabbled backward, lobbing anything that came to hand—a roll of barbed wire, a tin bucket, a wrench, a potato.
Potato
?

“Get away from me!” Mazie screeched. “Take off that dumb mask—you’re not scaring anyone.”

A fib. He
was
scaring her. She knew this was just a guy in a mask and long overcoat, but part of her brain insisted that this was a half-man, half-animal monster. She could see now that the guy’s eyes were actually in his jaws and that the mask was designed to make him seem a foot taller than he actually was. Her groping right hand seized something long and narrow—a crowbar! She swung awkwardly, hitting him with a glancing blow to his midsection. Something in his pockets clunked and sloshed and his hands flew protectively to whatever it was. She lashed out again, using both hands in a baseball bat–style swing, but he snatched up a shovel and smashed it down on the crowbar, breaking her grip and making her arms vibrate all the way up to her shoulder blades.

Tossing aside the shovel, he came at Mazie, and suddenly there was a knife in his hand. He lunged at her, slashing the shoulder of her gown, making her scream. He pinned her against the cab, his snout thrusting into her face, his stench stinging her eyes, his knife nicking her throat. He spoke in a hoarse whisper, his voice distorted by the mask. “Time I get done with you, beauty queen, you’ll be so ugly you’ll have to wear a mask too.”

Chwfft!
A weird sound came from a nearby thicket. Something whizzed past Mazie’s head and slammed into the werewolf’s chest. He jerked away, grunting in pain just as a second missile smashed into his torso. There was a sharp crack, a
whumpff
, and suddenly a white fireball erupted, burning itself into Mazie’s retinas, blowing her back with its searing heat. The werewolf was on fire!

Chapter Twenty-seven

His whole upper body was blazing. Screaming, he staggered backward and fell off the truck. Then he did the worst possible thing—instead of rolling on the ground to smother the flames, he jumped up and began to run, a human torch stumbling into the woods.

Joey and Sam hurtled out of the bushes, whooping in triumph, brandishing the potato cannon. “Oh, man—that was so awesome! We got him! Did you see that, Aunt Mazie?”

Mazie was shaking too hard at the moment to say a word. Sinking down in the truck bed, Mazie put her head between her knees. She needed to call for help, but her phone was in her purse, which was locked in the truck, and she’d dropped the keys somewhere in the flatbed’s jumble of junk.

“He’s getting away,” Sam yelled. “C’mon, let’s get him.”

“No!” Mazie roused herself. “Do not—”

But the twins were off, recklessly charging into the underbrush, Sam shouldering the gun and Joey holding a flashlight and their sack of potato ammo. Mazie crawled out of the truck and staggered after the boys, yelling at them to come back, but they ignored her and continued their pursuit, crashing through the brush as though they had night vision goggles.

It wasn’t hard to follow the werewolf’s trail. He’d flung his badly singed coat to the ground. Scorched leaves showed where he’d blundered through the woods, glass shards lay scattered on the ground, and the sulfuric smell hung in the air. Gingerly Mazie picked up one of the glass shards. It wasn’t glass—it was plastic! She squinted at the lettering in the dark and managed to make out
Spri
. This was part of a two-liter soda bottle—a Sprite!

Suddenly she understood what had happened. Her attacker had been carrying a portable meth lab in his pockets! The druggies in prison called it the
one-pot
method. Shake a handful of pseudoephedrine cold pills into a bottle, add a cup of lye or drain cleaner, and carry it around with you. Your body movements gently mixed the chemicals, your body heat cooked it at a low temperature, and a few hours later you had instant meth,
ready to snort.
Shake ’n’ bake
, they called it. No muss, no fuss—just the risk that your head might catch on fire.

How dumb would you have to be to go running around the woods with a shake ’n’ bake meth lab in your pockets? Answer: very dumb. It explained why the guy had held back when she was chucking things at him—he was worried that she might accidentally knock out his portable laboratory.

A yell came from nearby. It was Sam’s voice. Her heart in her throat, Mazie raced toward the sound, fought through a patch of devil’s walking stick—shredding what was left of her dress—and emerged to see the boys squabbling over the werewolf mask. Mr. Shake ’n’ bake must have ripped it off as he ran. It was scorched, melted around the edges, and stank of burned rubber and fake fur. Naturally, this made it even more desirable.

“Look at the teeth,” said Joey, in the reverent tones one might have used upon discovering an extinct animal brought back to life. “They’re plastic, but they’re actually sharp!”

“Is that real blood on the gums?” Sam asked.

“Nah, it’s paint, but, like, if it was a real werewolf it would be dripping blood, and maybe pieces of ripped-out organs would be hanging down.”

“Werewolves don’t eat the organs,” Sam explained. “They just slash open the chest and eat the heart.”

“Like, while it’s still in the victim’s body, or does the werewolf first pull it out of the chest and then bite off the veins and stuff?”

“Stop it—you’re making me sick,” Mazie said.

Joey pulled the mask on over his head, hunched his shoulders, and growled. He started loping around, hands curled into claws, chasing Sam. He tried to howl, but it came out as more of a muffled screech. “It’s hard to see with this thing on,” he said, banging into a tree trunk. “These eyeholes are too far apart.”

“My turn!” Sam made a grab for the mask.

Joey ran toward Mazie. Her heart convulsed. It was just a short person in a wolf mask, but for a moment she experienced the same terror as when the thing had burst out of the woods. Which reminded her that they weren’t out of the woods yet, in any sense. The guy might still be out there, pain-crazed and vengeful, sneaking up on them. And where, in
God’s name, was Ben? Claws outstretched, snarling, Joey careened into Mazie. She snatched off the mask.

“Hey!” he protested. “That’s mine.”

“Is not!” Sam yelled. “I picked it up first.”

“This is evidence,” Mazie said, holding the mask high, out of their reach. “You shouldn’t even have touched it. The police will need it to get fingerprints.”

“Mmmrrrrgghhh.”

All three of them whirled around. The sound had come from the underbrush nearby, where something was lurching through the bushes. Instantly the twins sprang into action, Sam spraying Aqua Net into the barrel while Joey dropped to his knees like a guerrilla fighter, bracing the gun on his shoulder. Sam swiveled the barrel toward his target, then pressed the release button.