That day’s practice was an especially good one, but Brad seemed lost in the ozone during the debriefing afterward, and declined to take a soda from the tub filled with ice when it was offered. He said he thought he better get home and help his ma take in the clothes.
“Is it gonna rain?” Micah Johnson, the coach, asked. They’d all come to trust him on such things.
“Dunno,” Brad said listlessly.
“You feel okay, son? You look a little peaked.”
In fact, Brad didn’t feel well, had gotten up that morning headachey and a bit feverish. That wasn’t why he wanted to go home now, though; he just had a strong sense that he no longer wanted to be at the baseball field. His mind didn’t seem . . . quite his own. He wasn’t sure if he was here or only dreaming he was—how crazy was that? He scratched absently at a red spot on his forearm. “Same time tomorrow, right?”
Coach Johnson said that was the plan, and Brad walked off with his glove trailing from one hand. Usually he jogged—they all did—but today he didn’t feel like it. His head still ached, and now his legs did, too. He disappeared into the corn behind the bleachers, meaning to take a shortcut back to the farm, two miles away. When he emerged onto Town Road D, brushing silk from his hair with a slow and dreamy hand, a midsize WanderKing was idling on the gravel. Standing beside it, smiling, was Barry the Chink.
“Well, there you are,” Barry said.
“Who are you?”
“A friend. Hop in. I’ll take you home.”
“Sure,” Brad said. Feeling the way he did, a ride would be fine. He scratched at the red spot on his arm. “You’re Barry Smith. You’re a friend. I’ll hop in and you’ll take me home.”
He stepped into the RV. The door closed. The WanderKing drove away.
By the next day the whole county would be mobilized in a hunt for the Adair All-Stars’ centerfielder and best hitter. A State Police spokesman asked residents to report any strange cars or vans. There were many such reports, but they all came to nothing. And although the three RVs carrying the finders were much bigger than vans (and Rose the Hat’s was truly huge), nobody reported them. They were the RV People, after all, and traveling together. Brad was just . . . gone.
Like thousands of other unfortunate children, he had been swallowed up, seemingly in a single bite.
9
They took him north to an abandoned ethanol-processing plant that was miles from the nearest farmhouse. Crow carried the boy out of Rose’s EarthCruiser and laid him gently on the ground. Brad was bound with duct tape and weeping. As the True Knot gathered around him (like mourners over an open grave), he said, “Please take me home. I’ll never tell.”
Rose dropped to one knee beside him and sighed. “I would if I could, son, but I can’t.”
His eyes found Barry. “You said you were one of the good guys! I heard you! You said so!”
“Sorry, pal.” Barry didn’t look sorry. What he looked was hungry. “It’s not personal.”
Brad shifted his eyes back to Rose. “Are you going to hurt me? Please don’t hurt me.”
Of course they were going to hurt him. It was regrettable, but pain purified steam, and the True had to eat. Lobsters also felt pain when they were dropped into pots of boiling water, but that didn’t stop the rubes from doing it. Food was food, and survival was survival.
Rose put her hands behind her back. Into one of these, Greedy G placed a knife. It was short but very sharp. Rose smiled down at the boy and said, “As little as possible.”
The boy lasted a long time. He screamed until his vocal cords ruptured and his cries became husky barks. At one point, Rose paused and looked around. Her hands, long and strong, wore bloody red gloves.
“Something?” Crow asked.
“We’ll talk later,” Rose said, and went back to work. The light of a dozen flashlights had turned a piece of ground behind the ethanol plant into a makeshift operating theater.
Brad Trevor whispered, “Please kill me.”
Rose the Hat gave him a comforting smile. “Soon.”
But it wasn’t.
Those husky barks recommenced, and eventually they turned to steam.
At dawn, they buried the boy’s body. Then they moved on.
CHAPTER SIX
WEIRD RADIO
1
It hadn’t happened in at least three years, but some things you don’t forget. Like when your child begins screaming in the middle of the night. Lucy was on her own because David was attending a two-day conference in Boston, but she knew if he’d been there, he would have raced her down the hall to Abra’s room. He hadn’t forgotten, either.