Day Five

There were two monsters just inches away from his face. Willie flinched and pulled back, but a hand landed on his chest and kept him in place. By the golden glow of candlelight, the double heads merged into Barnabas, who knelt beside his servant, cradling his head with one hand. The vampire studied him with a slightly concerned look. He lifted up Willie's eyelids and passed a finger before his face, telling him to follow the motion.

"Well, I think you'll live," was the master's light-hearted prognosis as he scooped up the servant and repositioned him in his usual corner. "Pardon me, I stepped on you coming in. You do not usually sleep in the middle of the floor."

Barnabas removed his coat and set it on the steps with his walking stick and newspaper. Then, with the slightest sigh of resignation, he returned to the shivering young man and covered him with his windbreaker.

"It would seem you need to recuperate somewhat. You may return to Collinwood today."

What was that? Willie looked at him with confusion.

"Enjoy a brief respite, during which time you will bathe, shave and, oh please, change your clothing. That will make things pleasanter for all."

Willie nodded, a feeling of hope rising in his chest.

Barnabas took his servant by the forearm, gently at first, then increasing the grip to crushing pain as he spoke, to emphasize his words.

"Heed me, boy. You will return here precisely at sunset. If you speak of this, or disclose my whereabouts to anyone, you will endanger their lives as well as your own."

Then, as if to ensure compliance and strengthen their bond, the vampire tore Willie's sleeve away and thrust the emaciated wrist to his mouth. The young man moaned at the sensation but did not struggle. There would be no point. He closed his eyes and waited to pass out.

Willie awoke several hours later. He didn't know how long he had slept, but Barnabas was resting in his coffin and the candles burnt low in their holders. Maybe it had been part of the dream. Did the vampire say he could leave? Had Jason been there? He tore a strip from his shirt where the sleeve had ripped and with it tied a bandage to hide the new wounds. The other wrist had healed and so had his neck. He opened the stone door as he had seen the vampire do, and stepped outside.

It was late morning by the sun's position, and overcast, but the gray, filtered light still overwhelmed Willie. He stood dazed for several minutes, mindlessly staring at tombstones before trudging off in the direction of the side street where his truck was parked. In the distance a dog barked and children laughed. Willie looked at the little house on the corner and, without thinking, lumbered into the backyard and turned on the hose. The young man splashed the water on his face and drank greedily, letting the liquid flow down his blistered throat in soothing rivers.

Willie dropped the hose and, clutching his stomach, bent over and forcefully vomited. After a few minutes, he had sufficiently recovered to stop panting and release his grip on the porch railing; he managed to rinse his mouth with the hose water, then gargle with it, and finally dared a little sip.

Another pair of eyes met his. They belonged to a little girl in overalls and a pink parka who stood frozen on the back porch; she dropped her jaw and her jump rope. Willie reached slowly to turn off the hose and raised his hand to her in a gesture that said, Shh, it's okay…

The child stared at the haggard stranger with gray skin, matted hair and torn, bloody clothing, before releasing an earsplitting high-pitched scream. She turned and dashed back into the house, slamming the door behind her and yelled, "Zombies! In the back yard!"

Without further ado, Willie found his truck and set off for Collinwood.


HOOOOONK!

Willie's head snapped up from the steering wheel, jarred awake by a blaring car horn. The lady in the Buick behind him did not approve of the shaggy haired kid napping at the red light, which had now turned green. He looked for a spot to pull over for a short rest when Willie realized he was down the street from the Blue Whale Tavern, his second home. It would be open for lunch by now, and he could sit down, just for a few minutes.

Even Bob, who had seen a lot in his years of doling drinks to the salty dogs of Collinsport, looked askance when the town troublemaker, looking like a car wreck, slumped into a seat at the bar, stifling a cough. Without comment, the bartender poured a double shot straight up and said hesitantly, "Here, pal, it's on the house."

With concerted effort, Willie raised the glass to his lips but slammed it back down. The alcohol's smell turned his stomach and for a moment he felt like he might puke again. The young man folded his arms on the bar and rested there.

"Loomis…Loomis." Willie lifted his head. There was probably a law against sleeping in bars. The voice came from behind, but there was no need to turn around; he knew from the authoritative tone, it was Burke Devlin. "Why are you back here? I told you to get out of town."

"Sorry."

Burke interpreted his mumbling as sarcasm. "Are you looking for another fight? Because I'm not busy right now. Meet me out back."

The punk squinted at him, then refocused his gaze at the bottles lining the back of the bar. "Don't wanna fight." He coughed again.

"Well, then you shouldn't have—" Willie slipped off the stool and, grabbing the bar, caught himself before hitting the floor. He climbed carefully back into the chair. "Hey, are you alright? Maybe you've had enough." But the big man could see that Loomis wasn't drunk; maybe he was sick—or injured. The hoodlum looked pale as a ghost, his eyes and cheeks were sunk in and darkly contoured. His hand shook too hard to hold the glass in front of him. Burke suddenly felt the slightest twinge of remorse.

Big Man spoke to him in a lower tone. "Listen, Loomis—about that fight the other day: I might have kicked you in the kidney or something. You look like you may have some sort of internal damage."

"I'm fine. Lemme alone."

"Maybe you should go to a hospital—"

"I said fuck off."

Devlin wasn't about to hit a man in his condition, but he had run out of patience. "Suit yourself," he turned sharply and walked away.

The next time Willie looked up the bartender was tapping his shoulder. "I called your buddy up at Collinwood, and he's coming to get you. Don't die on me, okay?"

"Sure, Bob." He made an effort to keep his head up for the next few minutes.


"Don't ya say hello anymore?" Willie looked around and his old friend was standing beside him.

"Jason—" He almost smiled. "Hi."

"Where've you been? I've been lookin' for you for days. You were so drunk, I thought you finally did it and drove off a bridge. Then I spotted your truck parked over by the old cemetery. What were you doin' in there?"

"Went for a walk."

"Well, it looks like you went on a bender. See, I knew you were takin' it hard—our breakin' up, but, dear lord, I didn't think you'd go to pieces like this."

"Sorry, I…sorry."

"Well, stop worryin'; it need not be permanent. Once Liz and I have tied the knot, I'll be in a better position to, shall we say, dictate policy. Nobody pushes around Jason McGuire, am I right?"

"Okay."

The Irishman turned his pal's head to examine his face. "Let's see that moneymaker." He peered worriedly into Willie's eyes, taking note of his disproportionally dilated pupils and continued in a whisper. "Are you on drugs? What did you take?"

"Nothin'." Willie coughed a spell. "I think I got sick or…I dunno."

"Alright. Finish your rum; let's get out of here."

"Don't want it."

Jason did a double take at his young friend, who was very ill indeed, because it was extremely uncharacteristic for him to turn down a libation, under any circumstances. Bob was also baffled and shrugged. Meanwhile, Willie's head was going down for the third time.

"Come on." Jason pulled the lad to his feet and guided him out the door toward his truck. He opened the passenger side door, pushed Willie in and climbed in the driver's seat. "I don't know on what on God's good earth I'm goin' to say to Liz."

"Where's your car, Jason?" Willie handed over the keys, leaning against the window like a limp rag doll.

"Oh, the Caddy? It's in the shop, I think," he replied dismissively, clearing his throat. "Mrs. Johnson gave me a lift into town."

"It sure was a nice car." I knew they'd take it back; now I'll never getta ride in it.

Jason drove back to Collinwood where he and his mate encountered Elizabeth in the foyer, arguing with Carolyn about her forthcoming plans for the day with her new boyfriend. She was about to travel to Bangor with Buzz to see him perform with his punk rock band, the Rude Mechanicals. They were playing two sets, so he and Carolyn would probably spend the night there.

"I need to speak to you for a moment, Liz." Jason interrupted their conversation as he propped Willie up at the banister.

"We have nothing to discuss until that ruffian is gone." Elizabeth didn't want to say more in front of her daughter.

"In the drawin' room, if you please." Jason firmly guided her into the next room and closed the double doors.

Carolyn buttoned her fur coat, not looking at Willie. "I heard you took off for a few days. You could tell, it was so nice and quiet. Tell me, did you molest anyone?" She picked up her valise, twirling her car keys. "If your pushy friend thinks he's going to get you back in here, don't count on it."

"Sorry." He sat down on the stairs, coughing.

"I don't know which incident you're apologizing for, but I'm very sorry I didn't shoot you when I had the chance." She stopped briefly when she caught a glance of him leaning against the newel post with his pale, gaunt face and despondent demeanor. A moment of fleeting concern crossed her mind but quickly passed. "Au revoir, Mr. Loomis, but, since we travel in different circles, I doubt we'll meet again." And she was out the door.

Willie wrapped his arms around himself and hunched over as his left leg started to shake. Where was Jason? Why did he leave him alone out there? The boy could hear muted voices from the other room, arguing.

Do not forget me, Willie. I shall be waiting for you at sunset.

That wasn't Jason or Mrs. Stoddard, it was the painting, glaring at him.

You know what will happen if you disobey me.

The young man tried to stand up; he had to get away from there, away from the haunted portrait, but two steps later he passed out on the floor.


Willie opened his eyes, waiting for the room to come into focus. His hand flailed weakly until it hit Jason, who was sitting on the bed next to him. "Where am I?"

"Back in your room. You fainted downstairs and I brought you up. Boy, have you lost weight. You look like a scarecrow." He helped Willie remove his jacket. "Rest easy, now. She's none too happy, but I convinced Liz to let you stay till you're well. So, maybe you'll be up to tellin' me where you've been for five days." Willie fell back onto the pillow. "Or why there's blood on your coat sleeve," Jason continued. "Or—what's that bandage?" He untied the cloth binding his pal's wrist.

Willie pulled away. "It's nothin'…gave a freebie to a cop who cuffed me."

The Irishman looked at him dubiously and felt his forehead. "You have a bit of a fever, boy-o, and I'm goin' to call in a doctor."

Willie waved him off. "Nah, I'm okay; just got a sore throat. Would ya get me a glass a' water?"

"I'll have Mrs. Johnson make you a tray—"

"Not hungry. Just need a drink. Drink a' water."

When his mate returned, Willie was nowhere to be seen—just a trail of clothes across the floor from the bed to the door. Jason examined the shirt, which was torn not only at the cuffs, but tattered across the back, and accented with bloodstains.

He went back into the hall and headed for the bathroom, following the sound of running water. Knocking softly on the door, the Irishman stepped in quietly when there was no answer.

"Willie?" He hesitantly pushed open the beveled glass door to discover the boy sitting in the corner of the oversized shower stall. He was hugging his knees, rocking back and forth, trembling.

Jason couldn't believe this was his same partner. "What's the matter with you?"

Willie held a soapy hand out in front of him, covered in blond strands. "I think my hair's f-fallin' out."

Jason turned off the water and pulled him out of the stall. "Alright, tough guy, let's get you out of there before ya drown."

"I ain't so tough," Willie quoted James Cagney as he wrapped a towel around his waist.

"I can see that." The Irishman put another towel on his shoulders. "Mother of God, what happened to your back? You're all banged up."

"I dunno. Fell down. Whatever." Jason started to lead him out the door but Willie stopped. "No. Wanna brush my teeth. Mouth tastes like puke."

Later, Jason tucked his friend back into bed, wrapped in two fluffy towels and under the warm comforter. He brushed aside Willie's damp hair and fed him little sips of water. The young man coughed a bit, but nothing came back up.

"Next time you go prancin' down the hall, put a robe on, if ya please."

"Sorry."


Willie sat up with a start; he was alone and the room was dark. How long had he been asleep? He leapt out of bed with renewed energy and ran to the window.

Shit, it's way past sundown.

He was really late. He tossed aside the towels and grabbed his duffle bag on the chair, ripping through its contents: dirty, dirty, almost clean, good enough. Willie threw on a pair of jeans—they were baggy for some reason—a tee shirt and a sweat shirt, grabbed his jacket and tore down the stairs.

His foot caught and he clutched the railing to keep from tumbling down the steps. Maybe he wasn't well yet. The scuffle caught the attention of Jason who entered from the drawing room, bewildered to see his partner downstairs.

"What are you doin' up and about? You're supposed to be sick."

Willie backed away toward the entrance. "I'm better—all better, see? And I gotta go do somethin'."

Jason took him firmly by the arm. "What you got to do is go back to bed. I think you're delirious."

Willie let the Irishman guide him as far as the staircase, then wriggled out of his grasp, pushed the old man onto the stairs and bolted out the front door. By the time Jason reached the portal in pursuit, the white pickup was spitting gravel down the driveway.

Willie pulled up in front of the cemetery, climbed the fence and raced to the mausoleum. The room and the coffin were empty—no signs of vampire life. His next thought was to try Tanner's farm. He jumped back into the truck and headed toward Alms-House Road, muttering to himself.

"Don't be mad don't be mad don't be mad…"

The fence surrounding the pasture was newly topped with barbed wire so the prowler had to shimmy under the rail—so much for clean clothes. He sprinted to the barn but found it was padlocked. Apparently Farmer Tanner didn't appreciate having his livestock picked off. Willie wasn't sure what to do next as he walked back to the pickup. He was crawling back under the rail when he spotted Italian leather ankle boots and the tip of a walking stick, and looked up to see his boss standing in front of the truck.

Willie scrambled to his feet. "I'm sorry, B-Barnabas, I mean, sir, I-I know I'm late, b-but—don't be mad."

"I'm not angry, boy." The vampire's voice was calm, almost as if he were concealing a smirk. "But I am disappointed; It was my impression that you had abandoned your seditious ways. Because of your lack of punctuality, I was left to my own devices this evening."

Willie wasn't sure what that meant, but he hung his head. "I'm sorry."

"Now there is something you must do. Look in the rear of your vehicle."

Willie climbed into the truck bed where, amongst his other tools, he found a shovel and something wrapped in the tarp.

"Proceed."

The boy cautiously peeled the plastic and jumped back in horror to discover the body of a girl, maybe 19 or 20 years old. Except for the red gash at her throat, her skin was bluish gray. Her eyes stared ahead at nothing.

"You are entirely to blame for this young woman's demise, so it is for you to dispose of the remains. I suggest somewhere in the woods." Willie sat in stunned silence until his master reached up and tapped him impatiently with his cane. "And take care, lest you be discovered. I shall see you on the morrow."

Willie's head whipped around. "Where ya goin'?"

Slightly surprised at his servant's insolence, Barnabas let it pass and smiled cordially. "I am off to make another social call on my cousins at Collinwood. Shall I give your regards to Mr. McGuire?"

"No," the young man replied, looking away. "Don't do that."

"Till tomorrow evening, then." And the vampire flew away.

Willie just sat in the truck bed, staring at the woman's corpse, too horrified to move. It wasn't until the flood lights came on outside the Tanner residence that he was startled back to reality, jumped into the cab and sped off into the darkness.

Willie dug throughout the night. It was exhausting labor, for the ground was cold, hard and full of rocks, but he wanted the hole to be as deep as possible; it wouldn't do for animals to dig the evidence back up. He sat at the edge of the cavity next to the girl's body. She was staring at him through the dirt specks on her eyeballs.

Be careful, Barnabas had said, or words to that effect.

Five or six years ago, Willie had been in the woods at night with a dead body, or a severely injured one. It was a sadistic police officer whom the kid had shot in self defense. That time he had been reckless but lucky. However, since that time he had acquired a prison record and his fingerprints were on file, so there were decisions to be made, and his criminal logic raised pertinent questions.

Tarp or no tarp? Without a coffin, the plastic cloth was better than dumping her unprotected body in the ground. But they'll probably send out search parties with blood hounds. If they find the body, then that tarp could possibly be traced back to him. No tarp.

Maybe he should remove other identifying items, like clothes and jewelry. Willie looked at the topaz in her class ring. Christ, no, don't take anything; that would really be stupid. He decided to let her be. She should be found and identified; that way her loved ones would have closure and give her a decent burial. The pretty girl probably had a loving mother, and a father, siblings and a boyfriend. What will they think when they learn she was brutally murdered and dumped in a dirt hole? And, before that, she had been—Willie didn't know which verb to use, and didn't want to think about it. But he knew what it felt like, and it made him sick.

He rolled the cadaver from the tarp into the ground and poured in a shovelful of earth. Then he stopped and dropped to his knees, unable to look away from the girl's accusing stare.

"Oh, god, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry—it's all my fault. You didn't deserve this, none of it. I'm the one should be in there, not you." Then he realized he would end up like that someday, no doubt about it—if he was lucky. Barnabas might just toss out his carcass for the bears to eat. There would be no search parties for Willie Loomis, because no one would give a flying fuck when he was dead. Even his best pal had tried to get rid of him. He might as well jump in there with the corpse now.

Do not tempt me.

Willie had forgotten that he was broadcasting his feelings to the vampire.

Enough of your maudlin diatribe. Get on with it before you attract attention to yourself.

He scrambled to his feet and swiftly shoveled. When the man was finished, he spread autumn leaves across the top and examined his handiwork. Gathering his belongings, Willie looked around for anything which might be a clue. Satisfied, he started off but stopped for a moment and conducted a brief funeral service at the grave.

Hail, Mary, fulla grace
blessed is the fruit of thy loom, Jesus
Holy Mary, mother a' god,
Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, amen.

He almost added, rest in peace, but, under the circumstances, it seemed like a stupid thing to say.