Summer of Night

THIRTY-FOUR

It was just after sunset on Friday evening and Mike was half-dozing in the chair in Memo's room when his sister Margaret came in to tell him that Father Cavanaugh was at the door.

The boys had spent the better part of an hour taking the long way home from the dump. They'd stopped at Harlen's to wet each other down with a garden hose, soaking their clothes to get the stench of burned rubber and flesh off them. Mike's eyebrows had been all but burned off by the last explosion, and he'd shrugged and said he couldn't do anything about that, but Harlen had taken him in the empty house and drawn eyebrows back on with his mother's eyebrow pencil. Kevin had tried making a joke about Jim's skill with the makeup, but none of them were in the mood to laugh.

After the first few minutes of euphoria over their triumph at the dump, the reality of the morning's events had hit the boys hard. All of them had had the shakes-even Lawrence-and Kevin had walked into the weeds to vomit twice on the way into town.

The cars and trucks still rushing out toward the grain coop and the dump did nothing to relieve their tension. But mostly it was the shock of the images that continued to shake them up through the long afternoon: the man and dog still wrestling, still moving in the flaming pyre that was the cab of the truck; the sounds of man and animal screaming in pain, their cries intermingled and indistinguishable, the smell of burning flesh. . . .

"Let's not wait," said Harlen, his lips pale. "Let's burn the fucking school this afternoon."

"We can't," said Kevin. His freckles were very clear against the sudden pallor of his face. "Dad's got the milk truck at the bulk plant until after six on Fridays. They do inventory."

"Burn it this evening then," insisted Harlen.

Mike was looking into the mirror above the sink in Jim's kitchen, trying to wiggle his painted-on eyebrows. "You guys really want to do this when it's getting dark?" he said.

The thought silenced them.

"Tomorrow then," said Harlen. "During the day."

Kevin had his father's .45 service automatic spread out on the kitchen table as he cleaned and oiled it. Now he looked up, holding the empty magazine clip in one hand and a small spring in the other. "Dad will be out on his route until about four. But I have to wash it and gas it afterwards."

Harlen had pounded the table. "Fuck the milk truck then. Let's use these Whatchamacallem cocktails."

"Molotov cocktails," Mike said from the sink. He turned back toward the others. "You guys know how thick those I stone walls of Old Central are?"

"At least a foot," said Dale. He sat limply at the table, too tired to raise his glass of Squirt. His wet sneakers made squeegee sounds as he wiggled his toes.

"Try two feet thick," said Mike. "The damned place is like a fort, more brick and stone than wood. With the windows boarded, we'd have to go inside to throw the Molotov cocktails. You want to do that ... go inside . . . even in the daytime?"

No one said anything.

"We do it Sunday morning," said Mike, sitting on the edge of Harlen's counter. "After first light but before people start coming in to town for church. We use the tanker and the hoses, just as we planned."

"That's two nights away," Lawrence had whispered, speaking to himself but speaking for all of them.

The gray day had faded to a pale twilight, the air thick with humidity unleavened by breezes, when Mike had dozed off in Memo's room. His father was working his last night on the graveyard shift and his mother was in bed with one of her migraines. Kathleen and Bonnie had bathed in the copper tub in the kitchen and were upstairs getting ready for bed. Mary had gone out on a date and Peggy was in the front room reading a magazine when the knock on the door made Mike stir in his sleep.

Peg leaned on the doorframe, frowning. "Mike . . . Father Cavanaugh's here. He said that he had to talk to you . . . that it's important."

Mike lurched awake, grabbing the sides of the armchair to keep from falling. Memo's eyes were closed. He could barely make out the soft pulse at the base of her throat. "Father Cavanaugh?" For a second he was so disoriented that he was ready to believe that everything had been a dream. "Father C?" he repeated, coming awake now with a shock. "Did he . . . did he talk to you?"

Peg made a face. "I told you what he said."

Mike looked around in a sudden panic. The squirrel gun was in the duffel bag at his feet along with a water pistol, two of the remaining Molotov cocktails, and pieces of the Host carefully wrapped in clean linen. A vial of holy water sat on the windowsill next to one of Memo's small jewel cases, which held another segment of the Eucharist.

"You didn't invite him in . . ." began Mike.

"He said he'd wait on the porch," said his sister. "What's wrong with you?"

"Father C.'s been sick," said Mike, glancing out at the yard and field across the road. It was dark, the last of the twilight having bled away while he slept.

"And you're afraid of catching it?" Peg's voice sounded scornful.

"How'd he look?" asked Mike, moving to the doorway of the bedroom. He could see the living room from here, one lamp burning there, but not the front-porch screen door. No one came to the front door except salesmen.

"Look?" Peggy chewed a nail. "Sort of pale, I guess. The porch light's out and it was sort of dark. Look, shall I go tell him that Mother has one of her headaches?"

"No," said Mike, pulling her into Memo's room with a rough jerk. "Stay here. Watch Memo. Don't come out no matter what you hear."

"Michael ..." began his sister, voice rising.

"I mean it," said Mike in tones that even an older sister could not argue with. He pushed her into the chair. "Don't leave until I come back. Got it?"

Peg was rubbing her arm. Her voice was shaky. "Yeah, but ..."

But Mike had scooped up the squirt gun, tucked it into his waistband under his shirt, set the linen-wrapped Host on Memo's bed, and was out the door.

"Hello, Michael," said Father Cavanaugh. He was sitting on the wicker chair at the end of the porch. He extended an arm toward the porch swing. "Come ... be seated."

Mike let the screen door close behind him, but he did not move to the swing. That would put Father Cavanaugh between him and the house.

It's not Father Cavanaugh!

It looked like Father C. He was wearing his black coat and Roman collar. The only light out here was the lamplight coming through curtains, but while Father C.'s face was pale-almost haggard-there was no sign of the scars Mike had seen the night before. He was hanging outside Michelle's garage window. Hanging by what?

"I thought you were sick," Mike said. His voice was very tight.

"No longer, Michael," said the priest, smiling slightly. "I have never been so well."

Mike felt the hair rising on the back of his neck and he realized that it was the priest's voice. It sounded something like the real Father C, but at the same time, the voice was wrong-as if someone had buried a tape recording of the priest's voice in the man's stomach and was playing it through a speaker deep in his throat.

"Go away," whispered Mike. He wished by all the saints and the Virgin that he hadn't told Dale to take the second walkie-talkie when Harlen wanted the other one. It had made sense at the time.

Father Cavanaugh shook his head. "No, not until we talk, Michael . . . come to some agreement."

Mike set his lips and said nothing. He glanced over his shoulder at the front lawn near Memo's window; the rectangle of yellow light fell on an empty lawn there.

Father Cavanaugh sighed and moved to the porch swing, patting the now-empty wicker chair. "Come, sit down, Michael my lad. We must talk."

"Talk," said Mike, moving so that his back was against the wall of the house near the lighted window. The cornfield was like a black wall across the road. A few fireflies were visible in the garden behind the porch swing and trellis.

Father C.-it isn't Father C.I-made a gesture with pale hands. Mike had never noticed how long the priest's fingers were. "Very well, Michael... I come to offer you and your little friends a ... what shall we call it? A truce."

"What kind of truce?" said Mike. He felt as if his tongue had been given a shot of Novocaine.

It was dark enough now that the priest's black garb blended with the night, allowing only his hands, face, and the white circle of his collar to reflect the light. "A truce that will allow you to live," he said flatly. "Perhaps."

Mike made a noise that he'd meant as a laugh. "Why should we make a truce? You saw what happened to your buddy Van Syke today."

The face above the swing opened its mouth and laughter emerged ... if one could call a sound like the rattling of stones in an old gourd laughter. "Michael, Michael," he said softly, "your actions today had no significance whatsoever. Our buddy, as you call him, was scheduled to be ... ah ... retired tonight anyway.''

Mike's fists clenched. "Like you retired C. J. Congden's old man?"

"Precisely," came the voice from deep inside the thing in priest's garb. "His usefulness was effectively at an end. He had other ... ah ... services to offer." Mike leaned forward. "Who in hell are you?" Again the rattle of stones. "Michael, Michael ... all the explanations in the world could not begin to make you understand the complexity of the situation you have stumbled into. Trying to explain would be like teaching catechism to a cat or dog."

"Go ahead," whispered Mike. "Try me." "No," snapped the white face. There was no illusion of small talk in the dead voice now. "Suffice it to say that if you and your friends accept our offer of a truce, you may live to see the autumn."

Mike felt his heart lurch in his chest. His legs were suddenly weak as he leaned against the wall in what he thought was a relaxed, almost casual manner. Once, during a High Mass with Father Harrison years before, just after he'd become an altar boy, Mike had fainted after twenty-five minutes of kneeling. He felt a similar rushing in his ears now. No, no, hold on, pay attention.

"Who's this 'we' you keep talking about," said Mike, amazed to hear his own voice sounding so strong, "a bunch of corpses and a bell?"

The white face moved back and forth. "Michael, Michael ..." The priest stood, took a step toward him.

Mike glanced furtively to his left, saw something the size of the Soldier step out of the field across the road and begin gliding toward the lawn near Memo's window.

"Call him off!" cried Mike. He pulled out the water pistol.

The face of Father Cavanaugh smiled. He snapped his fingers and the Soldier glided to a stop under the linden tree thirty feet away. Father C.'s smile continued to broaden, pulling back to show his back teeth, broadening further until it seemed the man's face would snap in half as if on a hinge. That impossible mouth opened wide and Mike saw more teeth-rows and rows of teeth, endless lines of white that seemed to recede down the thing's gullet.

The Cavanaugh-thing made no pretense of moving its mouth or jaw as the voice came up from its belly. "You surrender now, you motherfucking little worm, or we shall rip your fucking heart from your chest ... we shall chew your balls off and serve them to our minions . . . tear your fucking eyes out of their sockets the way we did that putrid friend's of yours. ..."

"Duane," whispered Mike, feeling his breathing stop, lurch, and start again, although reluctantly. His neck and belly ached from tension. In the shadows of the lawn, the Soldier began gliding toward Memo's window once again.

"Ah, yesssssss," hissed Father Cavanaugh, taking another step toward Mike. His long fingers were rising. His face was . . . melting, it looked to Mike . . . flesh flowing under skin, cartilage and bone rearranging itself, the long nose and chin moving together to form the snout that Mike had seen on the Soldier in the cemetery. When they killed Father C.

He could not see the slugs yet, but the priest's face was becoming more of a funnel than a face. The thing took another step closer, hands coming up.

"Fuck you!" shouted Mike, pulling the squirt gun from his waistband and squeezing the trigger.

The Father Cavanaugh-thing seemed startled a second, then stepped back, then laughed, making a sound like teeth biting into slate. Behind Mike, the Soldier glided out of sight beyond the edge of the house.

Mike raised the squirt gun with a steady arm and fired another stream of holy water into the thing's face. It doesn't work . . . he doesn't believe.

Once their fifth-grade teacher, Mrs. Shrives, had meant to do an experiment where she took a few drops of hydrochloric acid from a beaker and used an eyedropper to drip it onto a fresh orange. Instead, the old lady had accidentally overturned the beaker, drenching the orange and the thick felt cloth the beaker had been on.

That same sizzling, hissing noise now emanated from Father Cavanaugh's face and clothing. Mike saw the white flesh of the snout shrivel and curl, as if the skin itself were being eaten away by the holy water. The man's left eyelid hissed and was gone, the eyeball sizzling as it stared at Mike through raised fingers. Great holes were appearing in the black coat and Roman collar, allowing a stench of dead flesh to escape from the interior.

Father Cavanaugh screamed like Cordie's dog had several hours earlier, lowered its misshapen head, and rushed the boy.

Mike jumped aside, squirting more holy water on the thing and seeing fumes rise thicker from its hissing, burning back. Peg, Bonnie and Kathleen were shouting from inside the house. His mother's voice came weakly from her back bedroom.

"Stay in your rooms!" he screamed and jumped onto the lawn.

The Soldier had wrestled the screen out of its frame and was leaning into the lighted window, his fingers scrabbling on wood.

Mike ran forward and squirted the last of the holy water onto the back of its neck.

The thing did not scream. A smell worse than the burning Rendering Truck rose from it and it flung itself into the loose soil of the flower bed under the window, scrabbling and kicking its way through the shrubbery into the darkness.

Mike turned just as the Father Cavanaugh figure leapt from the porch and reached for him. Mike ducked under the long arms, dropped the empty squirt gun into the bushes, and reached for Memo's small jewel case on the sill.

Peg was visible through the billowing curtains, standing by the doorway of Memo's room, hands to her mouth. "Mike, what . . ."

Father Cavanaugh's long fingers closed on Mike's shoulders and jerked him back out of the light, into the darkness under the linden tree. The tall priest-form hugged Mike closer.

Mike smelled the stench in his face, saw the face cracked now with acid-chewed scars, sensed things writhing under that flesh and in the long tunnel of the proboscis, and then Father C. leaned forward, the cartilage of its snout pulsating above Mike's face.

He had no time to look. Mike opened the case, lifted the large piece of consecrated Host out, and thrust it against the obscene opening in the thing's face just as the pressure of the slugs inside it threatened to burst forth.

Mike had watched once as C. J. Congden had fired a 12-gauge shotgun at a full watermelon on a post only eight feet away..

This was worse.

The Father Cavanaugh-thing's snout and face seemed to explode sideways with chunks of pasty white flesh bouncing off the house and pattering on the linden leaves. There was a scream, audibly from the figure's belly this time, and Mike dropped the Host as the thing staggered backward, fingers to what was left of its face now.

Mike jumped back as he saw six-inch brown slugs curling and writhing in the grass as the Host seemed to glow from some blue-green radiance of its own. Fragments of Father Cavanaugh's flesh hissed and deliquesced like snails caught out of their shells in a rain of salt.

Peg was screaming from the bedroom. Mike staggered to the porch, saw his mother come to the door-her eyes racked with the pain of the migraine and the washcloth still raised to her temples-and both of them watched as the shadow of Father Cavanaugh staggered onto First Avenue, hands still over its ruined face, a terrible noise like a boiler rushing toward explosion rising out of it.

"Mike, what. . ." his mother said through her pain, blinking to see clearly, just as the headlights caught the figure staggering out from under the linden tree.

The cars barely slowed when they came into town on First Avenue, despite the sign a hundred feet up the road that posted the speed limit at thirty-five. Most of the cars continued at forty-five or fifty miles per hour until they reached the Hard Road three blocks south. This pickup must have been doing sixty, perhaps more.

Father C. staggered directly into its path, the tall figure bent almost double in pain, hands over its face. It removed its hands in the last second of squealing brakes.

The grille of the pickup caught the priest full in the face, the body disappeared under the truck but was dragged another hundred and thirty feet, Peg screamed from inside the house, and Mike's mother put her arms around her son as if protecting him from the sight.

By the time he and his mother walked out to see what had happened, the Somersets and Millers and Meyerses had already come out of their homes, Barney's rarely used siren was screaming a block or two away and rapidly approaching, and the driver of the pickup was on his knees on the pavement, covering his own face with his hands as he stared under the truck at what was left of the priest and muttering over and over, "I didn't see him ... he just rushed out."

Through the cloud of shock and terror that had dulled Mike's senses, he slowly recognized the driver. It was Mr. McBride, Duane's dad. The man was sobbing and leaning on the running board of his pickup.

Mike turned away from the murmuring crowd, walking back toward the house as he bit hard on the fleshy part of his hand below the thumb. He was afraid that if he let up on the pressure he would start to laugh or cry, and he was not sure if he would be able to stop.