The Influence(89)
Thump!
Thump!
Thump!
There was pounding on the door behind her, strong enough that she could feel it through the wood, and she let out a scream that would have done Linnea Quigley proud. Jumping away from the door, she dashed over to the phone and dialed 911, an automatic response, though she knew there was no police, fire or sheriff in town and the call would go through to Willcox.
Behind her the door crashed open.
She should have called a neighbor. Not daring to look behind her, scrambling to get out of the way in case the scarecrow was right on her heels, Jeri ran through the den to the back door. It took several agonizing seconds to get it unlocked and open—seconds in which she was sure the scarecrow was going to grab her—but then she was outside, in the back yard.
Where three scarecrows blocked her way.
Sobbing, she sank to the ground, even while a part of her brain was exhorting her to fight back, call for help, run away, duck, dodge, find a way out. She closed her eyes, hearing rustling movements louder than her own cries, then feeling strong rough fingers of hardened dirt tighten around both arms and pick her up. Screaming now, but unable to resist the urge, she opened her eyes, staring into two deep black holes in a brown mud face, straw hair sticking out far enough to poke into her forehead.
She had never seen any of the scarecrows actually move, but as she was twisted sideways, as one of them grabbed her legs, as the one holding her arms opened its mouth to reveal teeth made from jagged chunks of rock and broken pieces of bottle glass, she finally did, and the sight terrified her into silence.
Her last thought was a complete non sequitur: Who’s going to deliver the mail now?
****
Vern Hastings made himself a ham sandwich for lunch, using the curved knife he’d utilized for the sacrifice to smear mustard on the toasted bread. The knife had been washed several times since then, but he liked to think that there was still some DNA on the blade.
Putting the knife down, he bit into the sandwich, chewing slowly to enjoy the taste.
Rose walked into the kitchen. “You’re eating a sandwich? I thought we were going to—”
Vern picked up the knife and stabbed his wife in the throat. Blood gushed out, but it gushed out cleanly, and a ring of yellow was still visible along the upper edge of the wound where mustard from the knife had wiped off on the skin. Collapsing on the floor, she grabbed her neck with both hands, desperately trying to stem the flow, but blood continued to pour down her neck and seep through her fingers.
Vern calmly took another bite as she thrashed about, made loud gasping gurgling sounds, then twitched once and lay still.
He thought about who would replace Rose during services, who would assist him. Old Etta Rawls, maybe. Definitely not that fat pig Tessa Collins. In fact, it might be time for Tessa to be punished for her gluttony.
He would be happy to do the honors.
Popping the last bite of sandwich into his mouth, Vern looked down at the mess Rose had made. Blood was everywhere, and the last thing he wanted to do was clean it up. There was no one else to do it, however, and, sighing heavily, he went out to the laundry room to get a bucket and rag, resenting the angel for making him kill his wife.
TWENTY NINE
Stupid! Jill berated herself. Stupid! Both her email and answering machine were full of messages. She hadn’t made any telemarketing calls—or even checked in with the company—for nearly two days, though she’d promised to put in at least six hours during that period. Listening to the messages, she discovered that two different supervisors—one from her group and one from the tier above him—had attempted to contact her to make sure nothing had happened.
The stress was on, and before calling back she tried to come up with a reasonable excuse, an explanation that sounded legit and would account for her not checking in, but would not make it sound as though she’d purposely blown off work. She finally decided to go with the generic “family crisis,” and since she was such a bad liar, she responded by email. Immediately afterward, she clipped on her headset, logged onto the command center, signed in and started making calls from the list she was given.
She called for six hours straight, without a drink, food or bathroom break, and it was midafternoon before she finally signed out, logged off and removed her headset. She was dead tired, but she’d made up her time. It had also been an impressive stretch and, hopefully, that would counteract her unexpected period of inactivity.
Wearily, she glanced down at the open sketchbook on the table in front of her. She tended to doodle when she talked on the phone, and sometimes her subconscious came up with images and ideas that she expanded on in her work. This time, however, there were only endless drawings of the monster, standing and lying in various positions, its body in assorted stages of decomposition and…metamorphosis. The doodles were much more detailed than her usual random scratchings, and they caused her to look over at the new canvases she had leaned against the wall. On each of them, she had painted the same creature—which was why it had been so easy for her to depict what Ross had described—and she wondered again how she could have so perfectly imagined exactly the same beast that Ross had seen before hearing any details of its appearance.