Coven

huh?”

“Yeah, slick,” Wade said. “So you did rob the liquor store.”

“Dumb move, but what can I say? I was thirsty.”

“You also stole a bunch of medical files from the clinic, mine included. And last night you murdered Dave Willet.”

Tom seemed mildly impressed. “You’re a smart boy, Wade. How’d you know about Do Horse?”

“Jervis saw the whole thing through a telescope. He also said he saw someone…eating the guy.”

“It’s true, partner, but it wasn’t me. It was one of the sisters. That bitch ate half the meat off Willet’s bones. I can’t figure out where they put it all; they eat like pigs. She even ate the guy’s cock” —Tom chuckled— “and that was one big meal, let me tell you. They didn’t call him Do Horse for nothing.”

Wade turned off campus, steering stiffly. Little point remained in asking for reasons. Wade was no psychiatrist, but he felt fairly certain that confessing to murder and holding your best friend at gun point in a camouflaged car with stolen tags was a pretty clear sign of some psychological problems. Tom was crazy—

And Wade was scared.

“You’ll understand it all once you’ve become part of the family, Wade. But I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking I’ve gone nuts, that I’ve turned into some sort of psychotic criminal.” Tom pointed quickly to the exit. “Take Route 13 south.”

Wade did so, wondering. He assumed Tom planned to flee the state, but 13 south would take them away from the state line.

“I’m no criminal, Wade,” Tom went on. “And I’m no psycho.”

“What are you, then?”

Tom’s pallid grin reached its peak. “I’m a myrmidon—a holy gofer. I’m the shoeshine boy to the gods.”

No, you’re crazy, Wade thought.

“Let’s get off these grim topics,” Tom suggested. “We’re still friends, it’s just that the circumstances have changed a little.” He pulled a couple of beers from a cooler in back, a Spaten for himself and an Adams for Wade. He removed the non twist off caps with his fingers. “A toast,” he proposed, and raised his bottle. “To destiny!”

“Yeah, to destiny. Whatever you say, Tom.”

Their bottles clinked.

“Hey, Wade. You ready for an old one?”

“Sure, why not?”

“You know what they say about Liberace, don’t you? He was great on the piano, but he sucked on the organ.”

“Hilarious, Tom.”

“Aw, come on, buddy, cheer up,” Tom said, and chugged some of his Spaten. “You’ll feel different once you’re in.”

Wade drove on stoically. This whole thing was madness.

“Besser will be mighty pissed that the cops are onto me,” Tom said. “At first we had to be real careful, but I don’t think that matters now. We’ll be gone in a couple of days.”

Wade blinked. “What does Besser have to do with this?”

“He’s my supervisor. Winnie Saltenstall too. They’re called nativeemissarials. I’m just a productionvassal. And the sisters are like…project managers. We all work for the Supremate. It’s a family. And what’s best is you get to join the family too.”

Wade followed the wooded bends of the road. He still didn’t know where they were going, nor was he compelled to ask. Even if a cop passed, it wouldn’t matter. They were looking for a white Camaro, not a black one. The only vehicles to pass were periodic semi rigs, which dangerously used the Route as a shortcut to the interstate.

“Hogs of the road,” Tom remarked as one big rig blared past, blowing its horn. The truck roared by them. “Goddamn truckers think they own the Route. Be careful around these bends, man.”

“I have driven the Route before, Tom.”

“I know, just be careful. If I don’t get you to the labyrinth in good shape, my ass is grass.”

“The labyrinth? I’m not even going to ask.”

“Besser will tell you all about it. We’re going back behind the agro site, in case you’re wondering. That’s where the labyrinth is. I can show you our little graveyard back there.”

Off and on, Wade glanced over. Occasionally Tom rested back as if listening to something in his head. Probably instructions from God, Wade thought. Or Son of Sam’s dog. Tom’s hair seemed to be thinning—Wade could see a bump of some kind. Then there was always the upside down cross around his neck. Hadn’t Wade noticed Besser with an identical cross on his first day at work?

“What’s that thing around your neck?” he finally asked, and swerved through the next bend. “You in a satanic cult or something?”

Tom chuckled. “That’s a good one. Don’t worry about it.” He tossed his empty Spaten. “You ready for another?”

“Sure,” Wade said. Getting loaded seemed as good a way as any to deal with this. “Here’s an idea,” he offered. “Let’s turn around right now, check you into the hospital, and we can go to the labyrinth tomorrow. Sound good?”

“Sounds bad,” Tom said. “Just keep driving.”

Another semi roared by, horn blaring. Wade swerved.

“I’m serious, buddy,” Tom complained. “Be careful around these bends. If you got killed, I’d be neck deep in the Supremate’s shit.”

“I’m impressed by your concern for my well being.”

“Just be careful around these bends.”

Wade tried to concentrate on his driving. Once they got to the agro site, he presumed Tom, in his delusions, would kill him. He’d mentioned a graveyard, hadn’t he? Wade needed a plan, and fast. His only chance seemed to be wrecking the car—drive into a ravine or spin out, and hope to escape in the confusion.

But one second later, fate provided its own plan.

What seemed to transpire over minutes actually took place in a few heartbeats. Wade pulled through the next bend. Tom shouted: “Careful around these—look out!” An oncoming car was suddenly in their lane, a black Fiero with two obviously shit faced occupants. “We’re gonna wreck!” Tom shouted. Wade swerved, lost control as he jerked the wheel. The Camaro shuddered off the road and plowed into a good sized tree. Wade, on impact, shot forward and snapped back. He was wearing his seat belt. Tom, however, was not.

Tom’s head burst through the windshield; inertia pulled his body down, and Wade saw something bounce across the road.

Tom’s body fell back in the seat, headless.

Holy holy holy shit. Wade hauled himself out, jarred, dizzy. The Camaro was totaled, and so was Tom.

The Fiero had skidded to a halt, its driver looking back.

“You fuckhead drunk motherfucker!” Wade bellowed.

“Tough luck,” the driver muttered. The Fiero sped away.

Jesus Jesus Jesus, Wade thought, and blundered across the road. I just got Tom killed. Jesus Jesus Jesus.

He looked forlornly down at Tom’s head, which lay face-up in weeds. If Wade had been more careful, none of this would’ve happened. He might’ve talked Tom out of his madness, gotten him to a shrink, gotten him fixed up. Instead, he’d gotten him killed.

Jesus Jesus Jesus. Look what I’ve done.

Wade glanced up. He thought he’d heard a sound. A car door?

He peered across to the smashed Camaro. Tom’s body was getting out of the car—without the benefit of a head.

Wade stood limp, staring.