Root Magic

By Philip Bosshardt

In April 1965, a U.S. Navy attack submarine, the Tulsa, sank off the coast of Brazil, during routine maneuvers. Six men survived, one of them Bart Millen, the captain. A reluctant hero for saving the other six, Millen is haunted with guilt over what happened. He moves to Bayville, South Carolina years later, to get away from the press. What Millen doesn’t know is that there was another survivor. His executive officer, Nathan Caden, managed to make it to shore and, nursed back to health by Amazonian sorcerers, now thirsts for revenge against his former commanding officer, whom he believes deliberately left him for dead. Caden follows Millen and his family and sets himself up deep in the pine woods and swamps of Bay County, biding his time until he can put into action a plan to discredit and destroy Millen. Adopting the guise of a renowned white witch doctor, long thought dead and gone, Caden terrorizes Bay County and the Millen family for months, until the reluctant son of a local black root doctor helps Millen turn the tables and defeat Caden’s plan.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Philip Bosshardt
• Release date: Mar 2, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310762406

Philip Bosshardt

Philip Bosshardt is a native of Atlanta, Georgia. He works for a large company that makes products everyone uses...just check out the drinks aisle at your grocery store. He’s been happily married for over 20 years. He’s also a Georgia Tech graduate in Industrial Engineering. He loves water sports in any form and swims 3-4 miles a week in anything resembling water. He and his wife have no children. They do, however, have one terribly spoiled Keeshond dog named Kelsey.For details on his series Tales of the Quantum Corps, visit his blog at qcorpstimes.blogspot.com or his website at http://philbosshardt.wix.com/philip-bosshardt.

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Root Magic

Published by Philip Bosshardt at Smashwords

Copyright 2015 Philip Bosshardt

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Prologue

The surf was pounding white and heavy when the body first broke the surface of the water. Three hundred yards offshore, it bobbed like a black dot in the foam of the breakers, disappearing for a few moments in the trough of a building wave, then riding high over the crest before crashing down again into the ocean. The sunburned fishermen half a mile further north along the shore didn’t see it at first; they were tacking the other way, their jangada scudding across the waves as the two men wearily hauled on their seine nets. The body showed no signs of life.

It was hot, late afternoon, and none of the villagers of Cururupu paid any attention to the oily pieces of metal debris that the tide was bringing in. Soon dusk would be upon them and the men would be bringing their log-boats up the beach to the edge of the forest, bearing whatever they had wrestled from the sea that day. The first strong whiffs of smoke from the cooking fires had already started curling over the tops of the mangrove trees.

The surf brought its cargo relentlessly closer, until the outlines of the man’s black wetsuit and diving gear could be seen. From the edge of a clearing by the shore, a scrawny dog was snarling at a small turtle scraping its way down to the waterline. The dog looked up and saw the diver’s body driven onto the pebble-strewn beach. He started barking furiously at the sight, ducking in closer for a sniff of this new object, then backing away in terror, yelping all the way back up to the mangrove thicket.

The force of the surf pushed the body further and further up the shore, eventually rolling it over on its side. A low groan escaped the diver’s lips and his arms convulsed for a second, gripping his sides in a spasm of pain. The dog swallowed a growl and warily paced up to within a few feet of the man’s head. It sniffed for a minute, perking up its ears, then whined and moved a little closer. Another spasm of pain came and the diver nearly doubled over, coughing and vomiting while clawing at his mask. The dog ran back but not as far this time, only a few dozen feet. The diver groaned and lay back on the beach, his twin air tanks dented and covered with an oily scum that seemed to be everywhere on the afternoon tide. The dog strolled back.

A small girl came skipping out of the forest, looking for her dog. She was thin and dark-haired, wearing a dirty yellow grass skirt and seashell earrings, and she stopped by the edge of a low mound of sand, staring wide-eyed at the prostrate diver.

Pepe, she called to the dog. The dog squatted beside the man, ears perked up, waiting for his next move. Even from the edge of the forest, the girl could see the man trembling. She looked up the beach and saw the snout of her father’s jangada nosing around the sandy headland. Pepe! She picked up a shell and threw it at the dog, hoping to drive it off from the man. Then she heard her father’s voice, yelling at her from the boat. He had seen the body on shore and he waved at her to stay back. She stepped back a few feet and leaned against the side of a screw pine tree, frowning.

The diver tried to sit up and wriggle out of his tank straps. But he was in terrible pain—the girl could see that—and when he was only half out of the harness, he clutched his stomach and bent forward with a deep groan. Pepe started barking and circling, scattering sand everywhere, snarling as the man tried to finish ditching his tanks. But he couldn’t and with a violent shudder, he sagged to the dirt and rolled over face down. Pepe barked wildly for a few minutes more, then trotted up the beach to greet the two men shoving their boat onshore. The girl soon followed.

It was dark, several hours later, when the diver finally regained consciousness. He lay on his back, eyes closed, on what felt like a bed made out of straw and leaves. For a long time, he lay quietly, letting the sounds and smells of the night come to him. His nerve ends were on fire, the nitrogen bubbles of the bends still pinching and squeezing like a thousand dull tweezers, pricking here, cramping there, a big claw ripping his insides out. He winced, then moaned and tensed up waiting for the next wave of pain to hit. It was then that he knew he wasn’t alone.

He opened his eyes to a slit and let the dim light reveal his surroundings.

It was night—as he had thought—a warm, muggy, fetid night and his skin was soaked with dried sand and puffy from scores of painful bites, all festering and swollen. He was out of his diving gear, thank God; in fact, he was naked and completely uncovered.

Rolling his eyes around, still held down to a slit—he didn’t know what might happen when he let them know he was awake—he could barely make out the faces of his audience, a complete circle of them, watching him from behind the flickering flames of a ring of torches. They were like masks—no bodies, just faces, floating in the dark, expressionless, painted and decorated it looked like, though it was hard to tell in a squint. Behind them were trees…and vines, thick and tangled and shadowy and seemingly moving. He closed his eyes again and sucked in his breath, ready for the next wave of pain. Deep in the throes of the tremor, he heard voices murmuring, low cautious voices and above that, the shrill cackling of a howler monkey, somewhere in the distance. He grimaced and opened his eyes again, this time a bit more.

They were closer, they had moved in a few steps, and it startled him. There was a woman kneeling at his side when he rolled his eyes the other way. She was dark-skinned, nearly naked, and her face was lined with loops and swirls of painted circles, like so many interlocking beads. She bent forward—he heard her necklaces clacking as she moved—and he opened his eyes more fully for a second, to look into hers. They were black, reflecting his own battered face, yet soft and sympathetic. She reached out to touch his skin and found one of the bites. He jerked.

"Mucium," she murmured. She touched the bite again.

The diver winced and pushed her hand away. He grunted in pain. Goddamn chiggers. The sound of his voice sent a rustle of whispering trough the group. The woman reached behind her and placed a small clay cup to his mouth, indicating with a gentle nod that he should drink. He tasted the liquid with his tongue, then nearly choked when she began to pour it down. It was sour and hot and it scalded his throat. He pushed the cup away and coughed hard.

The woman pursed her lips and stuck the cup back in his face, a determined set to her face. "Melao-de-sao-caetano," she said.

Before he could take another sip though, a shadow fell over the woman’s face. She looked up and quickly withdrew the cup, scuttling away on her hands and knees. The diver turned his head.

There above him on the other side was an older man, much older. He was short and stooped and deeply wrinkled, with a sponge of white hair on his head and the fierce stare of someone accustomed to authority. He was wiry and festooned with ornaments and amulets from his face to his toes. From each ear hung a heavy wooden earlobe disk. A gaudy nose plume of red and black feathers pierces his nostrils. He held a stick in one hand, misshapen, but stout nonetheless and wrapped with colored feathers. The others called him Pai.

Pai stood still for a long time, simply studying the man lying at his feet. The diver withered under his glare and soon looked away, closing his eyes. There was a hush in the tiny clearing as Pai stooped down beside the man. The sound of his knee joints cracking filled the air.

Pai lay his stick carefully in the dirt and then gently rubbed a spindle-shaped ornament hanging from a wire around his neck. He licked his lips and extended one hand, trembling, to the diver’s face. He touched once, and withdrew, ten more boldly, pressing in the flesh of the diver’s cheek. There was a murmur from somewhere behind him.

Taking a deep breath, Pai reached for the man’s eyelids. With his thumb, he rolled the lid back and bending forward, stared into the socket. For an instant, Pai and the diver peered into each other’s eyes, unblinking. Then another jolt of pain erupted from inside the diver and he jerked away, gagging and writhing.

Pai staggered back and sat down hard, startled. He scrambled to his feet, then motioned for the group to kneel, then followed them to his knees. Working furiously with the catch to the wire necklace, Pai managed to undo it and pull the spindle-shaped pendant off. Nervously, he dangled it in front of the squirming diver, waving it back and forth through the air. The tips of the spindle began to glow a bright red.

"Yemanja!" Pai cried out, waving the spindle faster and faster through the air. The diver’s convulsion began to subside.

"Yemanja! echoed the people in the clearing. Yemanja!"

The diver lay back out of breath just as the pendant burst into flame.

Chapter 1

1.

It had been a month, maybe more, since Bart Millen had taken his family out sailing. The Simple Sturgeon was his last remaining connection with the Navy now and he found himself drawn to the little sloop more and more these days. She still needed a little work on her rigging to perform the way he wanted her to but that was the challenge of it. He had always needed a challenge to keep from remembering too much.

Bart steadied the Sturgeon for a moment as his wife Sarah stepped off the deck and onto the pier. Here, I’ll take that, he said. She had a grocery sack full of goodies they hadn’t eaten and nearly dumped them into the river before her husband came to the rescue.

Sarah clung to the railing and said, Next time, we’ll need a winch. We brought enough to cross the Atlantic and back. She headed up to the car and Bart followed.

Where’s Dean? he asked, lowering the sack into the trunk of his Chevy.

Back at the boat. He and Julie are changing into some dry clothes.

Bart shook his head. Those two would be late for their own funeral. I’ll get them. He glanced over and saw his other daughter Kim staring listlessly out the rear window at the river traffic going by. She had been awfully quiet and withdrawn the last few weeks--not that that was unusual for Kim—but Bart worried about her. He reached in the window and squeezed her shoulder affectionately. She shrugged off his hand and continued staring. You’re not going to pout all day, are you? A fine day like this?

She shrugged and said nothing.

Kim, answer your father when he speaks to you. Sarah’s sharp voice brought her daughter’s head around.

I’m tired, that’s all, she murmured, and returned to her staring. She hunched over the window, arms folded, and glowered out at the other boats lining the quay of Bayville’s public marina.

You’ve been grouchy for days, Bart said. Maybe we ought to see about taking you to Dr. Rice.

Kim said nothing, earning a frown from her mother. Sarah shook her head. I’ll straighten her out. You get the rest of the crew.

Bart shrugged and went back down to the pier. He squinted in the sunlight to see if he knew any of the other families coming back from a day’s outing. Everybody flocks to the river on the weekends. He thumbed a line of sweat from his eyebrows. And why not? It was sure hot enough.

He didn’t recognize anybody right off, except for Looby Pitts, of Hedrick’s Marine, helping cast off a fine racing sloop a hundred yards down the quay toward the Byron T. Presser Memorial Bridge. They really hadn’t been in Bayville long enough—it would be a year this October—to know too many people on sight. The cottage that good old Wally Voss had sold them out on Sandy Creek Road was only now beginning to look a little lived in. But it would come, he knew it would. He and Sarah and the kids had gotten used to a lot of things over the years. They were a plucky group, every one of them, and he was proud of them. And like Looby had told him that very morning, when he’d come walking down the pier to help Bart get the Sturgeon ready, Bayville, South Carolina was a good place to light after a long career serving Uncle Sam. Yessa, said Looby, it surely is a good town. Bart wondered. He hoped Looby was right.

He soon spied his other two kids loping up from the dock. Julie was eighteen now, slight like her mother, with brown curls and a few freckles that she detested. Dean was going on eight, wiry and proud. Like his Dad. Bart smiled as they came up the steps to the pier two at a time.

You two put on a show for the people down there? He swatted Dean’s backside as he went by.

Julie pouted. Daddy, really. She followed her brother up to the car.

Bart laughed. Let’s go see what Emma’s making for supper.

They all piled into the car and Bart navigated them out of the tiny parking lot. They turned onto Bay Street and headed home through heavy Saturday afternoon traffic.

Sarah sank back into the seat with a deep sigh. What a day. I’m beat.

It does you good to get out, Bart said. That’s why we hired the maid, remember?

I remember. She groped across the seat for her husband’s free hand. I guess we can afford to congratulate ourselves a little bit.

On what?

On making a successful transition to civilian life.

Bart smiled at his wife, appreciating the way she looked in her pink tank top, chestnut curls fluttering in the breeze. It was a lot easier for you than me.

Don’t I know it. I thought I’d never get you away from those subs.

You didn’t really. I’ve got a little toy submarine sitting right on top of my shower stall.

That’s what I was afraid of. I’ll bet it even shoots missiles at the soap.

Bart smiled again, more broadly. He took a deep breath. You’ve been happier this year than I’ve ever seen you, honey.

Why shouldn’t I be? I’ve got my family back together. I like my new house. I’ve got a budding career.

When is Wally Voss going to give you your real estate exams?

In a few weeks, I think. He says I should do a little more studying on financing, the state laws, Bay County ordinances, things like that. But it’ll be soon.

Bart drove them across the Presser Bridge and past a dilapidated public housing project now choked with kudzu vines and rotting tree limbs. The road plunged into dense piney woods on the other side. Sturdy live oaks hung their moss-decked branches well out over the pavement, trailing in the faint breeze like a sheer gray veil. Traffic wasn’t too heavy along this stretch of U.S. 21 and they were grateful for whatever shade the oak and pine trees could provide; the sun was high and bright and the reflection off the asphalt blinding hot.

I know one thing, Bart said. If you sell a few houses, that extra income sure will come in handy. Seems like my pension gets smaller every month.

Wally said not to get my hopes up too high. The market’s tight at the moment. He told me last Wednesday that the only thing that’s keeping him in business is the rental cottage trade.

Even so, you sell a few houses and we could probably think about adding that extra room you wanted behind the garage.

They said nothing for a few minutes, as Bart turned them up Sandy Creek Road.

Speaking of money, Sarah said, "what about that Post reporter’s offer? What was his name--?"

Hamilton Dodd. Bart frowned thoughtfully. He calls me at the store practically every day.

What do you tell him?

That I’m thinking about it.

Sarah rolled up her window to cut down the breeze. Well are you?

Bart shrugged. It sounds lucrative enough. The interviews would take about three months, he said. The book itself, maybe another year. He says he’s got a few publishers already interested.

I heard him say something about a movie.

Bart snorted. That’s a big if. Sarah, I’m not real sure I want to open up that set of memories again. You know, it—

I know, honey. She placed her hand over his and squeezed.

The money would be good—hell, it sounds great, but still— He shook his head and stared out at the road. I don’t know.

You don’t have to do it, you know. Your hero days are behind you now.

I know that. He glanced up in the rear view mirror and saw Dean squirming restlessly in the back seat. They were all getting hungry. "On the other hand, the public never has heard the full story. ‘Heroic captain rescues six men from sinking submarine. Tells all in exclusive scoop.’ I can see it already. Trouble is, I’ve been trying to bury that memory for so long, I’m not sure I could remember enough to make it worth Dodd’s while. He wants juicy quotes, you know."

You have to do what you think is best, Sarah told him. That’s all you can do.

I know. That’s what bothers me. That and the package that came this morning. Somebody’s got a sick sense of humor in this town.

It’s nothing, Sarah said. A tasteless prank, that’s all. Forget it.

You’re right. Enough morbid talk for today. Anybody but me starving for a grilled cheese and bacon?

The kids came alive in the backseat.

I am, Dean said.

Julie shook her head. I’m stuffed, Daddy. I don’t think I could eat for a week.

Suit yourself. But Emma won’t like it. If I know her, she’s probably gone and baked a cake while we were out.

It was after five o’clock when the Millens got home. Bart pulled into the driveway and cut the engine. Everyone was exhausted from the day’s sailing.

Everybody out, he said. Supper’s in thirty minutes.

Can we eat out on the porch? Dean asked. He waited impatiently while Sarah loaded him down with two bags of trash.

If your Mother’s up to it and you help set the table.

Me? Dean pouted. That’s for girls.

Bart led the way up to the front door. Says who? Besides, the Captain’s pooped. You’re outranked.

Sarah swatted him with a towel. They went inside, the girls right behind.

Julie turned on the foyer light for them. I’m so sore I can hardly move.

Dean started to come in but Sarah promptly turned him around. Don’t you dare bring that trash through the house.

Aw, Mom….

Don’t ‘Aw, Mom’ me, buster. You know where the trash can is.

But that’s all the way around back.

I don’t want that inside the house, hear? Put that in the can and come get washed up.

Dejected, Dean backed down the stairs and trudged through the gate to the side yard, muttering to himself. Sarah shut the door.

She saw immediately that there were pieces of newspaper strewn around the den. I thought I told Emma to straighten up and vacuum in here, she said to herself. Usually, their newly-hired, live-in maid was there at the door to greet them. Must be taking a nap, Sarah decided. She went into the kitchen.

Julie was already setting the table. Kim was digging into the refrigerator for something cold to drink.

Okay, crew, Sarah told them, "we’d better get the table set before the Captain eats us for dinner. Kim, go find Emma. She’s probably in her room."

I’ll get the bread, Julie said. She went into the pantry.

Kim sipped at her Coke. I set the table last night. It’s Dean’s turn.

Just do what I say and get Emma. You want to eat tonight, don’t you?

Not especially. She shrugged and shambled off.

Sarah heard a commotion, then a shriek, from the pantry.

"Momma…Mom—Mother!"

It was Julie. She staggered out of the pantry, pale and shaken.

What is it? What’s the matter?

Julie clutched the back of the chair by the bay window. Sarah went to her daughter, helping her sit down. She closed her eyes and choked back a sob, pointing in the direction of the pantry. Sarah took a look.

It was a small pantry, shelves on the walls, cabinets at the back. There were hooks on the ceiling from which Sarah had hung several large pots. But it wasn’t the pots she saw.

It was Emma.

Strung up by her feet and dangling naked like a bloody slab of meat, right in the center of the pantry.

Sarah caught her breath. Oh, my God— she nearly choked.

2.

For the last two and a half hours, there had been only one thing in Private First Class Jimmy Lattimore’s mind, one overriding constant that blotted out all extraneous thought and memory and fastened itself like a leech on his attention. It was simply this: today was the first time in almost a week that he had been allowed out of the stockade, along with a few of his playmates, and if he didn’t get a move on and think up some clever plan for getting the hell out of tis god-awful cesspool of a joint, it might very well be his last chance. It wasn’t out of the goodness of Corporal Steen’s little tin heart that the fine young men of the Second Correctional Brigade, United States Marine Corps, Parris Island, South Carolina, had been given the opportunity to trim hedges along the south parade ground in 105 degree heat this beautiful Saturday morning.

No sir.

It was an order, pure and clean and direct from the Olympic-sized mouth of none other than THE MAN HIMSELF, Major Buddy J. Henley, of Washington, North Carolina—and not the Henleys known far and wide for the raising of plump broiler chickens either, you wiseasses—an order stating that the south and north parade grounds would have their hedgerows neatly trimmed and their blades of fescue grass neatly cut and manicured and edged and all of the loose litter that other Marines on this base so thoughtlessly let fly out of their Camaros and Mustangs picked up, or else each and every one of you will be personally sucked dry of all bodily fluids and left to dessicate in the hot sun under the greedy little eyes of all the turkey buzzards that fly around here.

An order it was and Pfc. Jimmy Lattimore could have kissed the good Major right on his pimply nose, for it gave him the one thing he had hoping and praying and waiting for ever since the Marine Corps had decided his best talents really didn’t lie in the area of selling South American weeds to the men of B Company barracks: a way out. A chance to take a permanent vacation from this Disney World gone crazy.

Lattimore lay the clippers down on top of the hedge and raised up for a moment, to stretch and unpeel his soggy T-shirt from his back. He shot a rueful look at the boy next to him. He was red-haired and named Kirby.

I’m beat, man. I feel like a fucking prune out here.

Kirby kept snipping at the hedge, bent over like an ancient farmer. You better get your butt back to work before Steen takes a bite out of it.

Fuck Steen. Look at his guards over there. They’re both gonna nod off in another minute.

Kirby straightened up just enough to take a peek over the top of the hedge. Sure enough, the two guards who had been assigned to oversee the detail were both leaning casually against a lamppost by the sidewalk that surrounded the parade ground, smoking and idly staring off back across the road at a platoon of infantrymen double-timing toward the armory. From the looks of them, they had just come from the Combat Barrier Course at the other end of the base...the last couple of echelons of men were dragging pretty bad.

Scanning the scene, Lattimore noticed he hadn’t see before: a big truck marked DILBEY’S on its side panel, unloading desks and chairs at the inventory depot building a few dozen yards away. The rear doors of the truck were open and a wooden ramp ran right up into that wonderfully cool-looking interior. Lattimore swallowed hard, to keep from drooling.

His thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a shout and some commotion on the other side of the hedge, down at the corner of the sidewalk. He looked over. A fight had broken out between two soldiers, right where the hedge made its sharp ninety-degree turn. Or maybe it was just a wrestling match. He knew one of the men—it was Schockley, tall, horse-faced Schockley—who had once bunked across from him back in the good old days of Basic. Schockley was going at it pretty good with a shorter kid, a black-haired fellow who, even as Lattimore looked on, deliberately yanked Schockley by what there was of his blond hair, and pulled him backwards over the freshly trimmed hedge. That was too much for the guards, who rushed over to separate the men.

Work had stopped for the moment—everyone took advantage of the diversion to take a break and flap themselves cool—and Jimmy Lattimore waited just a few seconds longer, long enough for the men around him to saunter good-naturedly over toward the struggling men, before taking off.

He stumbled and crawled, crouching low and half blinded by his own stinging sweat, running toward the rear doors of the Dilbey Furniture Company truck. At most, it was a hundred yards distant from the edge of the parade ground. It seemed like a million though and Lattimore was sure he’d be spotted before he made it.

But he wasn’t.

He scrambled up the ramp and into the back twisting his ankle as he pitched headlong over a pile of ropes and canvas. He clambered along the wooden floor until he spied a bulky piece of furniture—a chair from the looks of it—draped with heavy canvas, squatting in the back corner of the van.

He didn’t waste a second. He was under the canvas, face pressed hard into the back of a recliner, trying to catch his breath, blood roaring in his ears, in no time. Shifting himself to get into a more comfortable position, his boot scraped the floor with a loud squeal and he froze. They had to have heard that.

But they hadn’t.

And when he had last gotten some kind of control over his ragged breathing, he heard the shouts. Maybe the fight was still going on. Maybe it had gotten bigger. Maybe Corporal Steen had fallen into a crack in the earth. Jimmy Lattimore giggled involuntarily at the thought. Then he heard the door to the cab being opened.

There were several men at the front of the truck. He listened carefully, though it was hard to distinguish anything through the heavy canvas. Twice, he thought he heard the word inventory. There was a district. And something about a billing period. But nothing else. Nothing about him.

He heard the cab door shut and chanced a cautious peel from underneath the canvas. The truck had no rear door; he wondered if the recliner was somehow secured to the floor. He didn’t much relish the thought of being dragged out the back in the middle of the highway. But he had no time to dwell on that. The engine grumbled into life and, before he knew it, they were backing up. He ducked under the canvas when he saw the work detail back at the hedges, everything seemingly under control. No commotion, no panic, no guards stalking the bushes looking for anyone. It was incredible. He hadn’t even been missed.

That cocksucker Steen has the brains of a turnip. He almost wished he could hang around awhile to catch what major Buddy J. Henley would do to the Corporal when muster was taken at the stockade gate. Lattimore grinned at the thought.

He squatted back, clinging to the armrest of the chair as the truck swerved around a series of turns. From time to time, he peeked out, trying to determine where on the base they were, where they were headed. Out, he hoped. Away from this kindergarten, far, far, away.

As if in answer to his thoughts, the truck began to slow down. Lattimore dared a look and had to duck back almost immediately; someone was standing at the back, peering into the dark, right at him. He held his breath, praying he hadn’t been spotted. A minute passed, then another. He heard muffled voices. Clearly, they were now at the gate. And by now, word had probably gotten out. A prisoner was loose somewhere on the base. The gate guard would have gotten their orders quickly: search every vehicle leaving the base thoroughly.

He swallowed hard. And waited.

After what seemed like an hour, the truck cranked up again and began rolling out through the gate. No one had come into the van. No one had poked around the furniture in the back. No one had stood at the back, M-1 cocked and ready, saying, Come out now or get your balls blown off. For a few minutes, the relief was so great, that Lattimore laughed softly, then more loudly, his laughter soon erupting into an uncontrollable fit of giggling. You laugh like a damn girl, Daddy had always said. Quit giggling like a goddamned girl. He choked and coughed, trying to swallow it down. Daddy was right. Daddy was always right. Give Jimbo a cherry sucker every time he acts like a man.

Still giggling, pretty sure no one could hear it over the rumble of the truck—they were rocking along good now, must be out on the highway—Lattimore threw back the canvas blinked some dust and sunlight out of his eyes, and glared out the back of the truck. The giggling stopped. He grinned wide at the sight.

The northeast gate was dwindling away in the distance, a Tonka Toy picture of little toy soldiers and toy jeeps, set like a clumsy kid’s playthings against a hazy hot early summer blue sky. His smile grew wider and he tugged happily at his lower lip, enjoying every minute of the view. He threw off the canvas completely and crawled out on all fours, taking a deep exhilarating breath. It tasted good, this new freedom, sort of like the roasted marshmallows he used to wolf down by the dozen when his Dad took him and Mark camping in the woods.

By God, the kid’s gone AWOL, he muttered to himself.

The truck rounded a gentle turn in the road and the cloak of a huge mossy oak covered his last view of the gate. So far as he could tell, they were barreling north, toward what he had no idea. He didn’t really care. He’d been off base maybe once since he’d been here and he’d been drunk-sick the whole time. He could blame Kirby for that, Kirby and all those other jackoffs who doubled up laughing so whenever Corporal Steen called him Zombie, as he was wont to do these last awful weeks. But to hell with them, screw ‘em all. He’d gone and done it and he could just picture them back at the base, milling around the half-trimmed hedges like a bunch of stupid cows. He had gone and done what they had all talked and bragged and dreamed about, lying to each other like a bunch of boys caught lifting Baby Ruths at the grocery store, how brave they were, how they were going to cut out and skip town before the MPs ever missed them. Lattimore snorted. What a bunch of babies. Let’s see: Steen would have them triple-timing around the parade grounds as punishment right about now.

He couldn’t help a big smile.

The only thing was they would come after him soon enough. They wouldn’t let him alone, not ever, not Major Buddy J. Henley. Steen either. Before you knew it, they’d call out of the Army.

Lattimore laughed. Now that’s a stupid thing to say. He knocked himself on the side of the head. Why would the Marines call out the Army? Still, it was something to think about.

He made his way carefully across the floor to the edge at the back and looked down at the asphalt underneath. It wasn’t that he was worried so much, it was just that Henley was like an old dog with his favorite rag—once he had his teeth on you, he was not inclined to let go.

Lattimore estimated they were doing a good fifty miles an hour. And that asphalt looked hard, real hard. It would be a helluva lot worse than the Parachute Training Drop. But he had done that. He’d survived that and a lot of other things as well. Fuck ‘em all; he wasn’t no marshmallow. He could do this too.

Roll with the impact. Distribute your weight over a lot of ground. Keep your head down and your arms in.

He swallowed hard and blinked a few times. It was just a matter of getting up the nerve.

3.

Bart was settling down with the TV sheet in the den when he heard the screams. He got up and went into the kitchen to investigate.

What on earth is going— He stopped when he saw the look on Julie’s face. Kim was helping her mother away from the pantry. What’s the matter with you two?

Sarah sat down heavily. You’d better see for yourself. It’s…I—

Puzzled, Bart took a look. The sight of their old maid, not with the family even a few month, made his stomach turn. He rubbed his eyes in disbelief.

Beside him, Kim swallowed hard. Daddy…is she…is she--?

Bart turned grimly from the door and quickly steered his daughter away from the sight. It looks like it. I’d better cut her down. He went into the kitchen looking for a knife. You stay away from there.

Dean came bustling in from the den. Ain’t dinner ready yet? He stopped short, beside the bulletin board, at the sight of everyone’s faces. I sure would like some— He looked puzzled. What’s going on?

Sarah motioned him over. You’d better sit down, honey.

Kim sat down too. Emma’s dead.

Dead?

Everybody hold still, Bart said. He took a butcher knife and went back into the pantry, squeezing in sideways to avoid brushing against the old woman’s body. You didn’t touch anything, did you, Julie?

Julie shook her head, still sobbing softly. Sarah stroked her hair. Kim, go get her some water. She took a deep breath, willing the image to go away. Not in my house. Why would anybody do a thing like this?

I don’t know, Bart said. They heard some of the pots clanking against each other.

I want to see, Dean said. He jumped up and followed his father through the door.

I thought I told you to stay back.

Dad…

Just go over there and stand with your sisters. I’ll cut her down. Go on. Reluctantly, Dean obeyed and backed out. Bart gripped the knife and took a deep breath. He balanced himself on a lower shelf and went to work.

For the first time, he saw how the woman had probably been killed. She had been hanged upside down, true enough, but more than that, she had been badly mutilated and scarred all up and down her chest and stomach, so much so that Bart couldn’t see what was holding her together. A jagged red slash, now sagged open to a crusty black oval, cut diagonally from underneath her left arm to her right thigh. There were other marks too, stab wounds he surmised, dotted around that big slash, nicely symmetrical as if the killer had wanted his work to show a gruesome sort of aesthetic sense. A piece of intestine oozed out of the gash and hung limply from her stomach. It looked like she had been disemboweled.

Bart heard Julie choking back deep sobs. Sarah tried to comfort her. Kim and Dean looked on dry-eyed, fascinated. It’s horrible…who could do such a thing?

Bart grunted—his nose wrinkled at the putrid smell—and stood up on his tip toes to reach the rope tied around her ankles. God only knows…some crazo, I imagine. I know one thing though: I don’t want anybody touching a thing in this house until the Sheriff takes a good look. He sawed at the rope—it looked like one of his own, stolen from the back of his Jeep—grimacing as the threads gave way one by one. In a minute, he had lowered her body to the floor. The body was still stiff; rigor mortis hadn’t worn off yet. That meant she couldn’t have been dead for too many hours. Her tongue was swollen and purplish.

Sarah met her husband at the pantry door. You don’t think—

Bart stood there with his hands on his hips. The same people who sent the package? Could be.

It doesn’t make any sense.

I doubt if it’s supposed to. He saw Kim and Dean coming up, a little hesitantly. You guys ever hear Emma talk like she was afraid of anyone? They both shook their heads.

Kim brushed a curl of hair out of eyes and folded her arms, shivering. Emma was real quiet, Daddy. She didn’t say very much.

Dean nodded. She used to say she was born with a mop in her hands. What are all those marks on her stomach?

Stab wounds. Why?

He shrugged. Looks like they make a pattern.

Kim hit him.

She’s dead, dope. That’s all that matters.

Don’t hit me—

That’s enough, Bart said. Shut up, both of you. It’s a terrible thing that’s happened but we’ve got to be strong about this. We’ve been through worse, haven’t we?

It was an old routine. The children responded as always.

Yes, sir, said Dean. He glared daggers at his sister.

Kim?

Yes, sir, she murmured.

That’s better. Let’s clear out and don’t disturb anything until the police get here. He herded them all back toward the den and went to the phone in the kitchen.

You kids go to your rooms, Sarah told them. Get washed up and change those clothes before the Sheriff gets here. She helped Julie down the hall herself.

Kim went back into the kitchen for some potato chips. She sniffed a little and daubed at her eyes with a Kleenex. She sat at the counter, listening to her father on the phone, idly scratching her wrist.

Looks like she’s been dead for several hours, Verne, no more than that, Bart was saying. It’s pretty messy but I’ve kept everyone out of there until you could come.

As she listened, Kim became aware of an itch that wouldn’t quit. It was her right wrist and forearm and she held it up to the light to look at it. The skin was pink, inflamed a little and she scratched again. It burned.

She excused herself to go to the bathroom and once she was there, she examined her arm more closely. It looked like a rash, maybe poison ivy or something. She wondered where she could have gotten it. Maybe those berries she was always eating back in the woods. One thing was for sure: Daddy thought she might have known something about who killed Emma. Kim rubbed furiously at the rough, scaly patch of skin on