Margret picked up her phone and dialed the Goodhope police station. She was pleased to hear the new hire, that young officer, Noel, instead of that rude, bossy Dillard, who’d once reprimanded her for picking the flowers growing in front of the post office.
“Goodhope Police Department. Officer Roberts speaking.”
“This is Margret Dotson, on twenty-one Hill Street, over by the Methodist church.”
“Yes, ma’am, what seems to be the trouble?”
“Well, something just stole my newspaper.”
“I . . . see.”
“Yes, I was hoping you could come over here and get my property back.”
“Hmm, yes, well . . . we’re a bit busy at the moment. Maybe—”
“Maybe nothing. It’s standing right across the street. Why don’t you get on over here and arrest it before it runs off?”
“Mrs. Dotson, I’ll be sure to drive by just as soon as I can. Here, why don’t you give me a description of the suspect.”
“Well, there’s six of them. They’re wearing strange outfits, dark faces, horns, and glowing eyes. One of—”
“What? Oh, gosh! Oh, jeez!” the young officer’s voice rose. “Did you say you were across from the Methodist church? The one near First?”
“Why yes, that’s exactly what I said. There ain’t but that one.”
“Ma’am, stay inside. We’re on our way.”
Margret hung up the phone, a smug look on her face. She had no intention of staying inside. She made herself a gin and tonic, walked out on her porch, and watched the group of devils head up toward the front of the church. She took a seat in her porch swing, looking forward to the show.
LINDA SCOOPED THE grilled cheese out of the skillet and onto Abigail’s plate. Dillard entered the kitchen through the den entrance, coming up behind her, not running, just strolling in clutching the ball-peen hammer, in nothing but his black socks and gloves.
Abigail screamed, a shrill, piercing sound, and Linda spun around. Dillard swung for her head. Linda darted back, crashing into the stove. Dillard hadn’t counted on her moving so fast, and the hammer smashed against the counter, the momentum causing him to stumble. A second later, he found an iron skillet coming at him and tried to duck. Linda connected the flat of the pan against the side of his head—a flare went off, all bright light. Sizzling grease splattered across the side of his face, the searing heat causing him to scream and stumble back. He clasped his cheek, dropping the hammer. Through the blinding pain he saw her rear back for another swing. She clutched the panhandle in both hands, her face contorted with disgust and venom, a savage snarl escaped her throat as she brought the skillet round. Dillard threw up his arm, catching the blow with his elbow. The skillet flew from her hand, bounced off his shoulder, and clanged across the floor.
Linda dashed out of the kitchen over to where Abigail sat staring on in shock and horror, grabbed her, pulling her over to the sliding glass door. Linda gave the door a yank; it clacked in its track but didn’t slide open. In her panic, Linda yanked it twice more before realizing it was pinned.
Dillard snatched up the hammer and came after them, tromping into the dining room before she could pull the locking pin loose. Linda grabbed Abigail and fled in the only direction left—the living room. There was no way out of the living room except past Dillard; the only other choice was down into the basement. But this didn’t concern Dillard, because there was no way out of his basement. He had them trapped, only the couch and coffee table standing between them.
Dillard took a moment to catch his breath, to pull himself together. He plucked a clump of cheese from his hair, wiped as much grease from his face as he could. His skin felt as though it were still burning, his headache was back, back with a vengeance.
He threw a leg over the back of the sofa, started to climb over. Linda snatched up the bowl of decorative wooden apples off the coffee table, and threw one at him. Dillard put his arm up, the apple striking his elbow, the same elbow she’d clobbered with the pan, and a fresh jolt of pain shot up his arm. “Stupid fucking bitch!” he screamed.
She threw another, and another, then the bowl, forcing him to duck, and when he did she leapt over and yanked the basement door open. She darted inside, tugging Abigail after her, and slamming the door behind them. He heard their feet drumming down the basement steps.
He hesitated, unsure what she was thinking. It was a ground basement, a cellar. She knew there was no way out other than by the windows, and those were small, set high on the walls, and sealed shut with old paint. There was no way you could pry them open without tools.
Dillard walked to the basement door, pulled it open, and peered down the stairs. He heard something fall over, a creak then a loud clang, and instantly knew where they were. “Shit.” He rushed down the stairs, around the stairwell, to the metal door built into the wall.
What Dillard liked to brag about as his wine cellar was, in fact, a bomb shelter left over from the previous owner, a relic of the Cold War era. It had a very substantial metal door and, like most of these shelters, it latched from the inside. Dillard had removed the decades-old drums of K-rations when he’d moved in, and renovated it along with the rest of the basement, putting in racks, amassing a pretty good collection of wines. He grabbed the latch and gave it a hard yank. It didn’t budge. “Shit!”
He stood there, staring stupidly at the door. This is not fucking happening. He raised the hammer, brought it down hard upon the latch. A hollow bong filled the basement, the sound driving into his head like a spike. “Fuck!” He closed his eyes, pressed his temples until the throbbing lessened. He examined the latch. The hammer had hardly made a ding. He steadied himself against the wall and tried to think through his headache. There was no way he could bust that latch with a ball-peen hammer. He needed something more substantial, needed the sledgehammer out of the shed. “And some earmuffs,” he said under his breath. “Don’t you dare forget the goddamn earmuffs.”
He made it halfway back up the stairs when he heard his police radio squawk, heard Noel’s high, excited voice. “Dillard,” he cried, “Dillard. Heck, Dillard come in!”
Now what? Dillard wondered, but had a pretty good idea and hustled up the last few steps and over to the dining-room table. He snatched up the radio.
“Yeah, this is Dillard.”
“Dillard, it’s them! That gang! They’re right here in Goodhope! What’d we do?” The boy talked a mile a minute, stumbling over his words, any trace of procedure gone right out the window. Under other circumstances, Dillard would’ve smiled at the boy’s befuddlement.
“Whoa, now. Slow down. Where in Goodhope?”
The boy managed to calm down enough that Dillard could understand him. “We got a report of five or six of them. They’re at the Methodist church.”
Up on the north side of town, Dillard thought. “Meet me in the parking lot. No sirens or lights. And don’t do anything except keep them in your sight until I get there. Got it? On my way.”
Only he wasn’t on his way. He had two girls badly needing taking care of. He was in what his grandfather called one fine pickle. He closed his eyes, rubbing his forehead, trying to think. Decided he had to do something about his headache. He stumbled into the bathroom, yanked open the medicine cabinet, knocked over several bottles of medications until he found a prescription bottle labeled Imitrex—took double his normal dose. He caught sight of himself in the mirror, realized he was still naked. “Oh, for fuck sake.” He grabbed his pants and slid them on, then his shoes. “Okay, priorities. What’s the priority? Sort it out. It’s Jesse . . . that little shitfuck Jesse. Because there might not be another chance to kill that son’bitch. And the girls? Well . . . they ain’t going nowhere are they? No. I can see to that.”