The engine fluttered above and the cruiser sped away. Jerm grunted in relief.
Something sloshed in the water down at the other end. The sound echoed down the closed space of the pipe and reverberated past Jerm.
A shape broke the circle of light. It fluttered one moment, went still the next.
He pulled out the cell phone he’d stolen from his brother, knowing full well that his brother had plucked it out of some tween’s backpack at the mall. He couldn’t make any calls, couldn’t even break the code to get into the phone, but when he turned it on, it gave off a soft glow, and he used that light to guide him farther down the tunnel.
He got close enough to see that it was an old woman. She was turned away, huddled against the side of the cement pipe, knees drawn to her chest, skinny arms hugging herself. Frizzy, gray hair hung over her face.
Jerm got closer.
Recognized her as that old bitch, Mrs. Kobritz. She had some sort of growths popping out of the wrinkled skin around her mouth and nose; they looked like little torpedo-shaped mushrooms. When she turned her head and opened her mouth, she didn’t make a sound, but he could see even more of the mushroom things erupting out of the inside of her cheeks and across her tongue. One arm reached out for him. The fingers twitched, and she vomited a thick black paste over her distended stomach.
He scrabbled backward, slipping in the algae that coated the bottom of the tunnel. Strangely, he found it was hard to break eye contact. Her eyes pleaded with him. They seemed horribly aware of her situation, and she silently begged him for help, for relief, for something he could not understand.
Jerm finally broke the contact and twisted around and looked back down the tunnel to his bike. His feet found purchase on the slime-covered concrete and propelled him down the pipe. His fingers clawed at the cement as he splashed along. He got close to his end and risked a look back.
The shape of the woman was still there. She hadn’t moved. His heart slowed, and he found he could take a breath. He turned back, took a deep breath, and prepared to scurry the last ten feet to his bike.
A new sound reached his ears, echoing and distorted as it spiraled down the pipe to him. It was soft and sinister. He aimed the phone back down the tunnel. After a few seconds, the light faded and he had to hit the button again to wake the phone up. At first, he couldn’t see anything. He whipped the phone back and forth, sending the shadows in the tunnel reeling and swaying like drunk yo-yos.
He gradually realized the scattered movements along the curved walls of the concrete pipe were truly crawling toward him, and it wasn’t just the frantic sweeping of the faint light. The sudden knowledge made him drop the stolen phone, and he lunged for his bike with both hands. He pushed the bike backward out of the culvert. It toppled over sideways in the weeds. He clambered out, and even though his bike had fallen over, he felt triumph as he emerged from the darkness into the starlight.
Then he felt something crawling up his calf.
It was almost like a cluster of tiny cactuses moving across his skin, as dozens of the spindly creatures crawled up his legs. More dropped on him from the top of the culvert. They swarmed across his body, moving in snakelike motions, slithering up his legs, scurrying down through his hair, crawling under the collar of his Motör-head T-shirt, squirming underneath his cargo shorts.
Thousands of insect legs overwhelmed Jerm, crawling across every inch of his flesh. He stumbled and fell forward, clawing at the centipede-looking things that crisscrossed his face. He rolled over, splashing through the wet weeds, kicking wildly. He staggered back up, ripping and grabbing them. He ignored his bike and simply started running.
He could still feel them, though, as his feet slapped the pavement. Felt the smooth worms with stolen legs that had no head and no tail. Felt the tiny legs grip and latch his skin.
He kept slapping and pulling them off as he ran off down the dark highway.
TUESDAY, JULY 3rd
CHAPTER 14
Everybody wanted to see the urn but nobody knew whether to call it a funeral or memorial or service or wake or what. Sheriff Hoyt finally had to run out to Bob Morton’s farm and ask the farmer’s new best buddy, Cochran. Of course, who the hell that guy actually was was a whole other question. Cochran himself was awfully vague on the subject, but you didn’t have to be a goddamn rocket scientist to figure out that he was an Allagro company man, through and through.
Cochran said the morning service was open to the public, and therefore was to be referred to as a memorial to Bob Morton Jr. It certainly was not to be called a funeral. Not under any circumstance today. Cochran was awfully particular about that. He made sure that everyone in earshot understood that that particular solemn event would certainly not be open to the gawking eyes of the public. Absolutely not. That would be a different ceremony entirely, an utterly private affair, between Bob Jr.’s parents, the local reverend, and Bob Jr.’s employers.
Sheriff Hoyt relayed the information over the radio as he drove back through town, followed by Bob Morton’s black sedan, the car Bob used when dealing with the bank or going to church. Cochran drove. Another state trooper police escort brought up the rear as Sheriff Hoyt led the small procession through town.
At least that obstinate chief and her dipshit deputy were stationed out on Main Street like he’d asked, directing traffic into the Stop ’n Save parking lot. He gave her a casual salute. She responded with an even more casual salute of her own and a mysterious half-smile as he rolled past. He couldn’t figure out what she was thinking. That bothered him.
Sheriff Hoyt was a man who liked to know what everybody was thinking. In a place like Manchester County, it was pretty obvious damn near most of the time. If somebody was pissed, they didn’t hold back. Same thing if they were happy. There wasn’t a whole lot of psychology involved. Most everybody came out and said what was on their mind.
But this new chief of Parker’s Mill, she wasn’t somebody who played along, made her thoughts obvious. He couldn’t figure her out. And wasn’t it just like a woman to make simple things complicated? Shit, he’d kept her involved, hadn’t he? He could’ve sent her out to keep on eye on speeders on 67 but since this little shindig was in her town, he’d thrown her a bone, kept her close to the action.
That little smirk chewed the shit out of him.
Last night hadn’t helped. As if it wasn’t bad enough that they couldn’t find the stupid Einhorn wife’s body, perky little Chief Chisel had to pop back up and ask if they’d seen the friggin’ neighbor. She knew damn well they hadn’t.
That made it… He ticked the names off in his head. Seven goddamned missing persons in less than twenty-four hours.
That kind of thing wasn’t good for paperwork.
He’d worry about that later. This morning, at least he’d kept her clear of the memoriam or memorial or whatever the hell Cochran wanted to call it. He didn’t give a shit what she was thinking. She wouldn’t interfere with Bob Morton’s affairs, that much was guaranteed.
Sandy was in the middle of Main Street trying to explain to Mrs. Perkins why this was not a good morning for shopping at the Stop ’n Save when Liz’s steady, calm voice came out of her radio.
“Code ten-ten. Individual is calling from his cell phone. Says it is an emergency. Says he is being threatened with bodily harm. He is apparently unable to leave the vicinity of lower Access Road Fourteen. Requesting immediate assistance.”