The Boogens Read online

  She giggled. “My God, you’re full of baloney. But please don’t stop.”

  Brian gave her a lingering kiss. “I think we’re going to scandalize the Summit Hotel.”

  “I doubt it,” she said. “Don’t forget this used to be a wild mining town.”

  8

  Roger leaned forward and squinted through the windshield, trying to see past the banging wipers and the relentless assault the rain was making on the hood of the car. Along with the feeble stabs his headlights were making into the downpour, he wasn’t altogether certain if he was on the highway or driving across an empty meadow. It was incredible; every time you stepped outside to go somewhere, the lightning cracked and the thunder rumbled and someone pulled the big plug out of the clouds.

  All the potholes in the town of Summit were now hidden under broad pools of water. Roger grimaced a dozen times as one and then another of his wheels dropped into unseen pits and thumped back to the surface. Five minutes later, he breathed a sigh of relief as the road smoothed out and the bordering forest gave him at least a fuzzy picture of where he was going.

  He smiled ruefully as he thought about Jessica. If she had one more drink when she got over to the OK Corral, she was going to fall flat on her face in the middle of the dance floor. Maybe it would be just as well. They could let her sleep it off in the truck, and Trish would have a better chance to score a few points with her new heartthrob.

  Mark seemed like a nice guy, a good, solid citizen with a future. That was probably just about what Trish needed now. Three months ago, the kid she had been living with for the past two years had been killed in a car accident somewhere in Oklahoma. He was a law student, and he had driven to Oklahoma City to hear some famous lawyer speak at a convention. Trying to get back to Denver late that night, he had fallen asleep at the wheel and ended up at the bottom of a hundred-foot canyon.

  It had been rough on Trish. For some crazy reason, she had felt guilty about the whole thing because she’d had to work that Saturday and hadn’t gone down to Oklahoma City with Paul. But she seemed fully recovered from the disaster now. So if things worked out with Mark, and he didn’t drive to any engineering conventions in Oklahoma City, maybe it would be clear sailing for Trish again.

  The Hatcher Mine Road had a gushing river flowing down one side of it, but there was still enough traction on the exposed half. Roger winced as a bolt of lightning struck somewhere above the car and exploded through the canyon. It seemed a miracle there were any trees left around here. When he reached the pad in front of the house, he pulled around into the garage, then got a towel from under the seat and sopped up the puddle of water that had accumulated under the leaking top. He had pinned up the flap, but it hadn’t done much good.

  He closed the garage doors and raced across to the porch, covering his head with the wrung-out towel. Once inside the door, he breathed a sigh of relief. The heater was still working; the house was warm.

  In the darkness he moved cautiously across the room until he felt the light switch in the hallway. As he moved down the hall to the bathroom, he frowned and sniffed the air. There was an odd smell in the house, a swampy smell, like rotting vegetation. He paused and opened a closet door, but the smell was no stronger in there. He sniffed again, then went into the bathroom. The odor was probably coming from outside; the rain washing down the loam of old leaves that had accumulated during the summer.

  He gathered his razor, toothbrush and after-shave lotion and zipped them into his canvas kit. Then he rinsed and dried his face and took the kit into the bedroom. The kit was all he needed to take, he decided. He would be back some time tomorrow night, and there was no point in taking any more clothes. He sat down on the bed and set the alarm at three. Then, without undressing, he switched off the lamp, stretched out face down on the bed and bunched the pillow under his chin. In less than a minute he was completely relaxed. His eyelids felt pleasantly heavy, and he was drifting into sleep.

  At first it seemed like a hazy dream, one of those brief, incoherent mixtures of images that slide through the mind just before it surrenders to real sleep. A soft, squishing sound was quietly invading his consciousness. It was moist . . . liquid . . . a soft, sucking sound. He had the fleeting, indifferent image of mud sliding down the hill outside the window. Then there was a low gurgle, followed by the squeak and rasp of breathing, as if some nearby sleeper had bronchitis. In his semiconscious state, Roger took a deep breath, sighed easily and examined the idea, vaguely trying to determine where he was and who might be sleeping nearby. Then he gave it up. It was meaningless, and he was drifting away.

  A moment later his dream world exploded with a deafening crash. The noise came from close beside him, no more than three feet from his head. It was the sound of something heavy and metallic crashing to the hardwood floor. He caught his breath, every muscle in his body tensed as he lifted his head from the pillow and stared into the darkness.

  The swamp odor was stronger than ever now, almost nauseating in its power. And the strange squishing sounds of his dreams were still evident—now coming from next to his bed.

  Roger held his breath, listening for a moment. Then he drew himself up on his hands and knees and reached for the lamp switch.

  The light snapped on, and Roger’s heart leaped to his throat as he stared at the floor next to the bed.

  At the base of the wall, the steel grating over the two-foot-square heating vent had been knocked away and was now on the floor. On top of it was a mass of gray-black gelatinous material with several snakelike tentacles extending a foot and a half from the sides. Roger gaped at it and then at the open heater vent, where a larger bulging mass was oozing into the room. As he stared, a heavy tentacle snapped loose from the confinement of the vent and came flying through the air.

  It happened so fast Roger had no time to react. In one instant he was gaping in horrified disbelief. In the next, the end of the tentacle had whipped across the four-foot gap and clamped itself around his wrist. He screamed and threw himself to the far side of the bed in an effort to free his arm. The grip remained tight. He rolled over, twisting, yanking, pulling in every possible direction to break away from the thing. Still to no avail.

  More of it was coming through the vent, sliding down over the smaller mass that was now probing the side of the bed with its shorter tentacles. A second large tentacle popped out of the confinement of the vent. With the same speed as the first one, it flew across and clamped itself to Roger’s upper arm.

  Roger twisted and flung himself across the bed again, screaming desperately, but the thing had him firmly in its grasp and was pulling him toward the vent. What in God’s name was it?! It was like an octopus, but there seemed to be no head! The upper edge of the tentacles was hard and crusted, and some kind of yellow liquid was oozing out from beneath it. The stench was nauseating, and the squeaks and gurgles and raspy breathing filled the room.

  Roger screamed again, kicking in all directions, striking out with his free hand as the thing slowly retreated into the heating vent, pulling him along.

  He grabbed at the bed, but his hand found only the lamp cord, and suddenly the room was plunged into darkness. An instant later he felt the tentacles of the smaller creature wrap themselves around his neck. He grabbed at it, feeling the slippery mass of its body and the sticky liquid running down his arm. He brought his hand up, trying to keep the thing from his mouth. The tentacles tightened, and suddenly his face was enveloped by the sticky slime of the creature’s body.

  He felt his arm scrape across the edge of the heater vent. He was being drawn inside. Then his lungs seemed to be bursting, and he was incapable of any further resistance.

  “So,” Trish said with a sharp exhale, “that is the end of my sad story, and I am sorry you forced me to tell it.”

  “It is a sad story,” Mark said, “and I’m glad you told it.”

  She laughed. “Well, don’t look so woebegone. I haven’t thought about it for a month, and it has not left any deep scars tha
t are going to send me running to a nunnery. Everybody in the world has some kind of a tragedy at some time or another, and almost everybody recovers. Paul was a great guy and I loved him. But there are lots of other great guys in the world, and it is not my intention to compare any of them to Paul. End of subject.”

  She had her elbows on the table, her chin resting in her hands, smiling at him, looking as beautiful as any woman Mark had ever seen. Up until she had told him about Paul, the evening had been nothing but dancing and laughing, drinking beer and having fun. “Okay,” Mark said, “end of sad stories. Would you like to dance?”

  “Not really. When we dance, it’s harder to look at you.”

  “I’d think that should be a great incentive to dance.” The last thing he ever expected was for anyone to say he was easy to look at. He needed a haircut, his nose still had a lump from a two-by-four that had slipped off a lumber pile last week and he was dressed more appropriately for a fishing trip than for dancing in a place in Pineglen.

  “You underestimate yourself,” she said.

  Mark smiled. “Well, you’re probably a lot smarter than I am, so I’ll have to take your word for it.”

  The five-piece band stopped playing and the leader lifted his ten-gallon hat over his head. “We’re all gon’ take a little break, folks. So y’all just belly on up to the drinkin’ trough over there and get yerself refreshed. We’ll be back in three shakes an’ a rattle.”

  The crowd on the dance floor broke up and filtered back to the tables. About half of them looked like middle-aged Pineglen people who were slumming. The others were younger, wearing boots and jeans and belts with big silver buckles. Jessica suddenly appeared, dragging along a tall, thin cowboy with a fancy shirt and boots made of snakeskin.

  “Hi, guys,” she said and pulled the reluctant cowboy closer. “This here’s Bob. Bob, that’s Trish and Mark.”

  Bob pulled off his Stetson and nodded. “Howdy,” he said. He leaned across the table and gave Mark a firm handshake, then waved at Trish.

  Jessica grinned. “Bob’s a genuine, for-real rodeo champ. He rides cows.”

  “That’s bulls, ma’am,” Bob said. “Brahma bulls.”

  “No kidding?” Trish said, trying to show some interest.

  Jessica nudged Bob with an elbow. “Go ahead, tell ’em about it.”

  Bob looked like he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to tell. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and scratched the side of his neck. “Well, I’ve rode some up in Wyomin’ and down in Arizona.” He smiled. “Once in Texas.”

  “That really must be exciting,” Trish said.

  “You like riding the rodeo circuit?” Mark asked.

  Bob’s face suddenly looked pained and he shook his head. “Hell, no,” he said emphatically. “Half the time you get bucked off, you land in horse shit. Or bull shit. Or on top of the damn rodeo clown.”

  Jessica suppressed a smile and grabbed her coat from the back of a chair. “Well, we’re gonna mosey on over to Bob’s place for a while. So don’t you guys wait up for me.”

  “Oh?” Trish said in surprise.

  Jessica smiled sweetly and grabbed Bob’s arm. “You know what they say—love the one you’re with. If Roger doesn’t want to join the fun, I guess I’ll just have to take what I can get.”

  Bob’s face pinched up. “Who’s Roger?” he asked.

  “Mr. Rogers, darlin’, the guy with the kids’ show on TV.” She glanced back at Trish and Roger as she moved Bob toward the door. “Isn’t he cute?” she said.

  “Well,” Mark said after they were gone, “it’s almost two o’clock. I’d better get you home. Then I gotta find myself a place to stay tonight.”

  “Are you serious?” Trish asked.

  “Of course I’m serious. I’m not going to sleep in my truck in this kind of weather.”

  “I mean, are you serious about looking for a place? I have a feeling Jess is not coming home tonight, and that big old house is going to be empty. I don’t want to stay there all alone.”

  “Well, okay. That’s nice of you.”

  “It’s nice of you to come.”

  Mark nodded with mock seriousness. “When you get right down to it, I guess we’re both damned nice people.”

  Trish laughed and picked up her purse. “Let’s go.”

  The rain had stopped and a few stars were showing between the clouds, but the temperature was close to freezing. Trish sat close to him, her head resting on his shoulder. “What are you smiling about?” she asked after a quick glance at his face.

  He shrugged. “Everything, I guess. Meeting you. The whole evening. It all seems too good to be true. A guy should have to plot and scheme and work very hard to make something like this happen. It’s like falling off a log and landing in a gold mine.”

  Trish laughed softly. “How long has your friend owned that house?” she asked after a minute.

  “A long time. His great-grandfather built it about ninety years ago. Why?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “There’s something spooky about it. Strange noises in the basement, all kinds of thumps and creaks.”

  “If you were ninety years old, you’d probably thump and creak too.”

  “I suppose so. But the place still gives me the creeps.”

  During his brief visit to the house, Mark had felt the same way, but he knew such feelings were based on irrational childhood fears. “With all this rain, the place probably gets waterlogged and has a certain amount of aches and pains. Like an old man with rheumatism.”

  Trish smiled. “Probably.”

  Once they were inside the door, Trish turned on the lights. “I’ll go check on Roger,” she whispered. “He’ll probably be getting up to leave soon.”

  Mark moved toward the fireplace. “Okay, I’ll start a fire.”

  In the hall, Trish listened for a moment, then gently pushed the bedroom door open. The light from the hallway spilled partially into the room and across the foot of the bed. Trish could see only a triangle of blanket. She moved in farther and turned the knob on the bedside lamp. Nothing happened. Now she could see that the bed was empty.

  “You got any matches?” Mark suddenly said from the door. He stepped inside. “Where’s Roger?”

  “He must have left already. Probably couldn’t sleep knowing he had to get up again so soon.” Trish moved away from the bedside table, then froze as the alarm clock suddenly exploded with a piercing ring. With her nerves still jangling, she let out a sigh and fumbled with the clock until she found the shut-off lever.

  “My God, I’m jumpy,” she said. She moved around the bed to the door, but Mark caught her in his arms before she could go through. He kissed her lightly, then drew her close as he gave her a long, passionate kiss. He took her hand and moved toward the bed.

  “Not in here,” she said. “Something smells funny. And I thought you were going to start a fire.”

  He pulled her close again. “It’s already started, hasn’t it?”

  Trish laughed and moved through the door, pulling him after her. “In the fireplace, dummy.”

  The fire started quickly. Within minutes it was crackling and giving off an aura of heat. Trish kicked off her shoes and knelt on the rug, watching Mark unlace his boots. For the first time in two days, she didn’t hear any squeaks or creaks or thumping in the house. She gazed into the fire for a minute, wondering if it had all been her imagination. Then she felt Mark’s fingers on her neck. He eased her head back to the pillow he had dropped on the carpet. His face was suddenly above hers and she felt his hand slide under her blouse and around to the small of her back. It had been three months since any man had touched her. Suddenly she felt desperately hungry for him. She pulled his head to her breasts and worked frantically to get her skirt off.

  9

  Ray Tolivar crushed an empty cigarette package into a small wad, pushed it out through the narrow opening in the window, then got himself a fresh pack from the glove compartment. Once he had a cig
arette burning, he started the engine and turned the heater on again.

  The first hint of sunrise was beginning to drain the darkness from the eastern sky. The temperature outside was still hovering close to the freezing point. Tolivar held his bare hands close to the heater vent and cursed the weather, and the town of Summit, and Otis Blanchard, who had gotten him into this fix.

  The patrol car was parked near a thick stand of aspen, about a hundred yards below the gates leading into Otis Blanchard’s estate. The house was three miles south of Pineglen, a big colonial mansion overlooking a grassy valley where Blanchard grazed a herd of prize cattle and two dozen thoroughbred race horses.

  It had been after two o’clock in the morning before Tolivar finally got in touch with Blanchard down in Denver. By then he was so mad and frustrated he had spilled out the whole story in an incomprehensible rush: the girl from Houston and the mining engineer had found the skeletons of Hitchings and Thomas. They had also found a backpack that looked almost new and probably belonged to a kid who had disappeared two days ago. And they had dug through the cave-in and were poking around deeper in the mine, and they were talking about having the coroner come up to identify the skeletons.

  “Take it easy, Ray,” Blanchard had kept saying on the phone. Finally he had Tolivar repeat everything slowly, and he asked a few questions. “Okay,” Blanchard finally said. “Don’t worry about it, Ray. I’ll have Victor bring me up right away, and we should be there by six o’clock. Just wait for me at the house. But don’t go inside and get Beth all upset. Just park down the road a ways and relax. Everything’s going to be all right.”

  Tolivar had gone home and stretched out on his bed for a while, but he had been unable to sleep. It was easy for Blanchard to tell him not to worry and that everything was going to be all right. But Otis Blanchard had not dragged those two skeletons through a half mile of dark mine shaft twenty-seven years ago. Nor had he driven the kids’ truck down to Arizona or set the dynamite charges to cause that cave-in. Tolivar and Charlie Lucas and old Bill Kennedy had done that. Otis Blanchard had not filed a phony search report three weeks later when Hitchings and Thomas were reported missing.