22
Sunlight had never felt so good.
They got as far as the Chief Ahiga sign before Holly said she felt lightheaded and had to sit down. Ralph found a flat rock that was big enough for both of them, and sat beside her. She glanced at the sprawled body of Jack Hoskins, made a desolate squeaking sound, and began to cry. At first it came out in a series of choked, reluctant sobs, as if someone had told her it was terribly wrong to weep in front of another person. Ralph put an arm around her shoulders, which felt sadly thin. She buried her face against the front of his shirt and began to sob in earnest. They had to get back to Yune, who might have been more badly hurt than it had seemed—they had been under fire, after all, hardly the time to make an accurate diagnosis. Even at best, the man had a broken elbow and a dislocated shoulder. But she needed at least a little time, and she had earned it by doing what he, the big detective, had been unable to do.
Within forty-five seconds, the storm had begun to lessen. In a minute, it was over. She was good. Strong. Holly looked up at him, eyes red and swimming, but Ralph wasn’t entirely sure she knew at first where she was. Or who he was, for that matter.
“I can’t do it again, Bill. Not ever. Ever ever ever! And if this one comes back the way Brady did, I’ll kill myself. Do you hear me?”
He shook her gently. “He’s not coming back, Holly. I promise you.”
She blinked. “Ralph. I meant to say Ralph. Did you see what came out of his . . . did you see those worms?”
“Yes.”
“Oough! Oough!” She made a retching noise, and covered her mouth.
“Who told you how to make a blackjack out of a sock? And how hard it can hit if the sock is one of the long ones? Was it Bill Hodges?”
Holly nodded.
“What was it loaded with?”
“Ball bearings, just like Bill’s. I bought them in the Walmart automotive department, back in Flint City. Because I can’t use guns. I didn’t think I’d have to use the Happy Slapper, either, it was only an impulse.”
“Or an intuition.” He smiled, although he was hardly aware of it; he still felt numb all over, and kept looking around to make sure none of those worms were squirming after them, desperate to survive in a new host. “Is that what you call it? The Happy Slapper?”
“It’s what Bill called it. Ralph, we have to go. Yune—”
“I know. But I have to do something first. Sit where you are.”
He went to Hoskins’s body and made himself hunt through the dead man’s pockets. He found the keys to the pickup truck and returned to Holly. “Okay.”
They started down the path. Holly stumbled once and he grabbed her. Then it was his turn to almost go down, and it was she grabbing him.
Like a couple of damn cripples, he thought. But after what we saw—
“There’s so much we don’t know,” she said. “Where he came from. If those bugs were a disease or maybe even some kind of alien life-form. Who his victims were—not just the children he killed, but the ones who got blamed for the killings. There must have been a lot of them. A lot. Did you see his face at the end? How it changed?”
“Yes,” Ralph said. He would never forget it.
“We don’t know how long he lived. How he could project himself. What he was.”
“That much we do know,” Ralph said. “He—it—was El Cuco. Oh, and something else: the sonofabitch is dead.”
23
They were most of the way down the path when a horn began to beep in short blasts. Holly stopped, biting at lips which had already taken a lot of abuse.
“Relax,” Ralph said. “I think that’s Yune.”
The path was wider now, and less steep, so they were able to move faster. When they came around the storage shed, they saw it was indeed Yune, sitting half in and half out of Hoskins’s pickup, beeping the horn with his right hand. His swollen and bloody left arm lay in his lap like a log.
“You can quit that now,” Ralph said. “Mother and Father are here. How are you?”
“My arm hurts like blue fuck, but otherwise I’m okay. Did you get him? El Cuco?”
“We got him,” Ralph said. “Holly got him. He wasn’t human, but he died, just the same. His days of killing children are over.”
“Holly got him?” He looked at her. “How?”
“We can talk about that later,” she said. “Right now I’m more concerned about you. Have you passed out? Are you lightheaded?”
“I got a little dizzy walking over here. Seemed to take forever, and I had to rest a couple of times. I was hoping I’d meet you coming out. Praying, more like it. Then I saw this truck. Must belong to the shooter. John P. Hoskins, according to the registration. Is he who I think he is?”