The Traveling Vampire Show (19 page)

Left hand on the grip, she raised the bow. Then she reached up over her shoulder with her right hand and slipped an arrow out of the quiver. She brought it down silently in front of her and fit its plastic nock onto the string.

At the end of the long, pale shaft was a steel head that looked as if it were made of razor blades.

“Watch my back,” she whispered.

I drew the hunting knife out of its sheath. Rusty opened the blade of the pocket knife. We followed Slim out of the room.

Much of her back was hidden behind the quiver of arrows. The quiver was brown leather and nicely tooled. She’d won it by taking first place in a YWCA Fourth of July archery contest a couple of summers earlier. Most people hadn’t expected a fourteen-year-old girl to win it, but I’d known she would.

Just a week before the archery contest, we had hiked out to Janks Field for a secret practice session. It was the end of June, a hot and sunny afternoon. The desolate expanse of Janks Field, scattered with a million bits of broken glass, sparkled and glittered in the sunlight as if someone had sprinkled gems over its bare gray earth. Even with our sunglasses on, we had to squint as we walked onto the field. There wasn’t so much as a hint of a breeze. The air felt heavy and dead. It smelled dead, too. Or something did.

“What’s that smell?” I asked.

“Your butt,” Rusty said.

“Something’s dead,” said Slim.

“Dwight’s butt,” Rusty explained.

“Huh-uh.” Slim shook her head. She was thirteen that summer and calling herself Phoebe. “It’s bodies.”

“Dwight’s ...”

“I bet they never found ’em all,” she said. “You know, the stiffs. The corpses. And you know what? It always smells like this.”

“Does not,” Rusty said. He would argue with a rock.

“Yeah, it does,” Phoebe said. “I smell it every time we’re here. It’s just worse sometimes, like on really hot days.”

“Bunk,” Rusty said.

“I think she’s right,” I said.

“Oh, yeah, she’s always right.”

“Pretty much,” I said.

Grinning, Phoebe said, “Right as rain.” “Where do you want to shoot?” I asked her.

“Here’s fine.”

I’d carried the target all the way from home. We’d constructed it that morning in my garage: a cardboard box stuffed with tightly wadded newspapers, an old Life magazine photo of Adolf Eichmann taped to one side.

I set the box down on a mound of dirt so that Eichmann’s face was on the front and tilted upward at a slight angle.

Phoebe paced off fifty feet.

Rusty and I stood slightly behind her.

With her first arrow, she put out one of Eichmann’s eyes and knocked the box askew.

That’s when I knew she would win next week’s archery contest.

She held fire while I straightened the box and came back.

Her second arrow poked through Eichmann’s other eye. He looked as if his big, black-rimmed spectacles had come equipped with feathered shafts.

Though the impact had twisted the box, she managed to put her next arrow into Eichmann’s nose.

Then someone called out, “Well, if it ain’t Robin Hood and his merry fags.”

Even before turning around, we recognized the voice.

Scotty Douglas.

When we did turn around, we saw that he wasn’t alone. Scotty had his sidekicks with him: Tim Hancock and Andy “Smack” Malone.

Smack got the nickname because it was what he enjoyed doing to kids like us. But he was no worse than Scotty and Jim.

Sneering and smirking, the three guys swaggered toward us like desperados on their way to a gunfight.

Nobody had any guns, thank God.

Their empty hands dangled in front of them, thumbs hooked under their belts.

Slim had the bow.

Rusty and I appeared to be unarmed, but we both had knives in our pockets. So did Scotty’s gang, probably. Except their knives were sure to be bigger than ours, and switchblades.

In big greasy hair, sideburns down to their jaws, black leather jackets, white T-shirts, blue jeans, wide leather belts and black motorcycle boots with buckles on the sides, they were a trio of Marlon Brandos from The Wild One, half-baked but scary.

Scotty and Tim were older than us by a couple of years, and Smack was at least a year older than them. Bigger, too. In spite of his hood costume, Smack looked like an eight year old balloon boy somebody’d pumped up till he was ready to burst. Hairy, though. His belly, bulging out between the bottom of his T-shirt and the belt of his low-hanging jeans, was extremely white and overgrown with curly black hair that got thicker near his belt.

Smack was in the same grade as his buddies because he’d gotten held back once or twice. He wasn’t exactly a sharp tool. Neither were Scotty or Tim, for that matter.

Scotty raised his hands. “Don’t shoot,” he told Phoebe.

Though she lowered her bow, she kept an arrow nocked and her hand on it. “We were here first,” she said.

“So what?” Scotty asked.

“So maybe you can go somewhere else till we’re done.”

“Maybe we don’t wanta.”

“Maybe we like it here,” said Tim.

Grinning like a dope, Smack glanced at his two pals and said, “Anyways, she didn’t use the magic word.”

They laughed. Smack was such a card.

“Please, Phoebe said, even though she knew the magic word would work no magic on these three losers. We all knew that. We knew they wouldn’t simply go away. Not until they’d had their “fun” with us, whatever that might be.

Scotty, Tim and Smack came to a halt about four or five paces away from us. They smiled as if they owned us.

Flanked by his buddies, Scotty asked, “Please what?”

“Please go away and leave us alone.” Though she must’ve been shaking inside, she seemed very calm.

“What’ll you give us if we do?” Scotty asked.

“What do you want?” Phoebe asked.

Pursing his lips, Scotty stroked his chin with his thumb and forefinger and frowned as if giving deep thought to the matter. “Wellllll,” he said, “let me seeeee.”

“You guys better leave us alone,” Rusty said, a whine in his voice. “Dwight’s dad’s the police chief.”

As if they didn’t already know that.

“As if we give a shit,” said Scotty. Fixing his eyes on me, he asked, “You gonna tell on us?”

“No,” I said.

“That’s what I thought.”

Rusty glanced at his wristwatch. Then he looked surprised. “Oh, gosh, I have to get home.”

“To your mommy? ” Smack asked. He gave his pals a hopeful glance, and looked disappointed when they didn’t laugh or even crack smiles over his wit.

“Go home if you want,” Scotty said.

“Really? You mean it?”

“Sure. Go.”

Trying again, Smack said, “You don’t wanta keep your mommy waiting.”

Rusty acted as if he hadn’t heard that. To Scotty, he said, “You really gonna let us go?”

“Gonna let you go, fatso.”

“ Me?”

“You.”

“What about them?”

“What about ’em?”

“You gonna let them go, too?”

“What’s it to you?”

Lips twisting all crooked, Rusty said, “I don’t know.”

“You going or aren’t you?” Scotty asked.

“I don’t know.”

“He don’t know much,” Smack said, and chuckled.

“I’ll give you till three,” Scotty said. “You’re still here, you get what they get. One.”

Rusty’s mouth fell open. Appalled, he glanced at me, at Phoebe.

“Two.”

He raised a hand and blurted, “Wait! Wait! What’re you gonna do to them?”

“Whatever we want,” said Tim.

“Three.”

“WAIT!” Rusty cried out, tears coming to his eyes.

“Missed your chance, lard-ass.”

“Did not! It was a time-out!”

“That’s what you think.”

Tim spoke again. “Missed your chance, porky.”

Scared as I was—and I was straining not to mess my pants—it occurred to me as peculiar that these two skinny snakes were making cracks about Rusty’s weight when their own pal, Smack, was about a ton heavier than Rusty. Showed how much they cared about their buddy.

Suddenly in tears, Rusty pleaded, “Gimme another chance. C’mon. Please? It ain’t fair.”

The three creeps thought that was funny. They laughed and glanced at each other and shook their heads.

I didn’t find it very amusing.

“Let him go,” I said.

Scotty smirked at me. “Gonna tell your daddy on us?”

“Just let him go, that’s all.”

To Rusty, he said, “You wanta leave?”

Sniffling and sobbing, Rusty nodded.

“Okay, you can leave.”

“Th ... thanks.”

“But first you gotta suck my dick.”

For half a second, I thought he was kidding. But then he unzipped his jeans. Walking toward Rusty, he reached into his fly and my stomach sort of dropped because this was getting worse than I’d ever thought and if they did perverted sex stuff to Rusty they’d do it to me and Phoebe, too, and then maybe they would have to kill us so we wouldn’t tell on them.

About two steps away from Rusty, Scotty whipped out his tool and said, “Get on your knees and open wide,” and Phoebe shot an arrow into his leg.

It punched through Scotty’s jeans and thunked deep into the side of his right thigh. He squealed, jerked up his leg and grabbed near where the arrow had entered. On one foot, he twisted away and hopped a couple of times. Then he fell sideways. He landed hard on the ground and squealed some more as the pieces of broken bottles jabbed into him.

Instead of attacking us, Tim and Smack just stood there. They looked at Scotty, then at Phoebe, shock on their faces. They couldn’t believe Mr. Tough Guy had gotten himself shot down. Especially they couldn’t believe the shooting had been done by a skinny little tomboy with a bow and arrow.

Squirming on the ground and whimpering, Scotty cried out, “Get her, guys! Get ’em all!”

By then, Phoebe had another arrow on the string of her bow.

When Tim and Smack turned to her, she drew back the string to her chin and aimed at Tim’s face.

Flinging his hands up in front of his face, he yelled, “No! Don’t! I give!”

As she swept her weapon in Smack’s direction, he gasped something like, “Eeek!” and threw both hands toward the sky.

“Get down,” she told him.

“Huh?”

“Get down on the ground.”

He looked as if he wanted to say something else. Then he shut his mouth and sank to his knees.

“All the way down,” Phoebe said. “Lie down.”

He eyed the ground in front of him. It glittered with bits and chunks of shattered bottles. Also, there were a couple of snake holes in the dirt. If he followed Phoebe’s orders, he would have to lie down on them.

His sweaty face flushed a deeper shade of red than before. “Hey,” he said. “C’mon. I didn’t do nothing.”

“Down,” Phoebe said.

I don’t know whether it was the razor sharp arrowhead a few inches in front of his nose or the look in Phoebe’s eyes, but something convinced him to obey orders. Hands on the ground, he eased his trembling body down onto the dirt and broken glass and snake holes.

“Stay put,” Phoebe told him. Then she turned toward Tim. He cringed away from her.

“I want my arrow back,” she said.

Tim looked down at Scotty curled on his side, the arrow jutting up from his leg. Scotty was quietly weeping, and not moving at all except to gasp for breath. Probably he didn’t want to get cut up any worse by the glass he was lying on.

Wrinkling his nose, Tim faced Phoebe. “Your arrow?”

“That one right there.”

“How’m I suppose to ...”

“Jerk it out.”

“But ...”

Scotty spoke up. In a tight voice that seemed to vibrate with pain or rage, he said, “Touch the fuckin’ arrow and I’ll eat your heart.”

“But...”

“I’ll kill your mom and fuck your sister. I’ll ...”

Giving him a dirty look, Tim bent down and jerked out the arrow. Scotty screamed, clutched his wound and lay there twitching.

Phoebe uncocked her bow and slipped the arrow into her old, raggedy quiver.

Tim handed the other arrow to her. “Thanks,” she said. She waved it toward me and Rusty. The steel head looked as if it had been dipped in red paint. A couple of drops fell to the ground. “My lucky arrow,” she said.

Not bothering to clean Scotty’s blood off its tip, she swept the arrow over her shoulder and dropped it into her quiver.

“You lie down, too,” she told Tim.

Without protest or hesitation, he stretched out on the ground.

To Rusty and me, Phoebe said, “I guess that’s enough target practice for one day. Let’s go home.”

We went to the target first. I plucked the arrows out of Eichmann’s eyes and nose and gave them to Phoebe. Then I picked up the cardboard box.

Scotty, Smack and Tim stayed on the ground.

We started walking away, Phoebe in the middle.

They stayed down.

When we were pretty far away but still within earshot, Phoebe stopped and turned around. She shouted, “We won’t tell if you don’t!”

They never did.

We never did.

In the woods after we got away from them, we laughed nervously, shook our heads, slapped each other on the back. and told Phoebe “Good going” and “Way to go” about a million times.

Then I saw she had tears in her eyes.

When I saw that, my own eyes went hot and wet.

I’m not really sure why either of us got weepy like that, but I suspect there were plenty of reasons. They had to do with fear and loyalty and bravery and cowardice and humiliation and pride. They also had to do, I think, with the joy of survival.

Pretty sure we didn’t spill any tears over damages inflicted on Scotty or his pals.

After that time in Janks Field, by the way, they were no longer pals. They stayed away from each other, and really stayed away from me, Rusty and Phoebe.

They were so scared of Phoebe that they never even dared to give us dirty looks. Many times, in the first few months after the incident, I saw each of them cross streets or start walking in the opposite direction just to avoid us—Scotty with a pretty good limp.

One week after her target practice in Janks Field, Phoebe won the Fourth of July archery contest (junior division) with a final, amazing shot that would’ve done Robin Hood proud.