Devil's Race

  DEDICATION

  For Lucia

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Part One Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Part Two Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Part Three Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Part Four Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  About the Author

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  PART ONE

  1

  I sat alone at the far back of the dim classroom, waiting. At the other end of the room my history teacher silently marked papers. Between us, nothing but rows of empty seats and empty desks. Outside, a thin, dreary rain seeped down. Now and again, thunder echoed faintly like sounds of a remembered battle.

  Three times she had called on me, three times I had not even heard. The fourth time she had asked me to stay after school.

  I was sixteen, tall, lanky, with a round, almost baby face and a pug of a nose. Mr. Average Nice Guy. When the girls took a poll, there I was, “Best Boy Pal.”

  After half an hour the teacher put aside her pen. “John Proud,” she said softly, “what is the matter?”

  She caught me off guard. I had expected a lecture. Instead, she had asked me the one thing I had been asking myself and could not answer: What was the matter?

  “Tired,” I offered.

  “Not enough sleep?”

  In fact I had been sleeping more than usual. “Plenty,” I replied.

  “Look where you are,” she said. “You never used to sit in the back of the room. It’s not like you. Has something happened at home?”

  “No.”

  “Some personal problem. A girl friend? Parents?” I shook my head.

  “But John,” she persisted, “I’m not the only one who’s noticed.”

  I looked down at my hands. Things had been going along fine. Easy. Uncomplicated. The way it had always been. Then, about two weeks ago, it had begun to change. That is, I had changed. I didn’t know how or why.

  “John,” said the teacher, “your grades are good. But something, I just sense it, has happened.

  “Well,” she said to my silence, “if you do want to talk about it, I’m here. I hate to see you acting so troubled. Tell me, during class, what were you thinking about?”

  “I . . . I was wondering what’s going to happen next.”

  “Next?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you want something to happen?”

  I considered the question. “Sometimes yes,” I answered, “sometimes no.”

  She sat back; then, with a slight shrug, she changed the subject. “How are you coming along with the family history assignment?”

  That assignment. It had been my idea that we trace our families back as far as we could.

  “How’s it going?” she asked. “You’ve had two weeks to work on it.”

  “There,” I thought. “It’s there.” Whatever was happening to me had begun with that assignment. It was no problem at first. When I asked my parents for help, they were okay about it. But the further I went back, the vaguer they became.

  What was back there? Did I want to know, or not?

  “See,” said the teacher, “you’ve drifted off again. That same look. What were you just thinking about?”

  “Nothing,” I said.

  She sighed. “Well, John,” she said, giving up, “better scoot. I’ll see you in class.”

  “Thank you,” I said, and left, my mind no longer with her. There was someone who could tell me all I needed to know about my family. Uncle Dave. It was he who had first suggested I look at my family tree those two weeks ago. He had given me the idea.

  I’d go back to him.

  2

  “You sure you want to know?” Uncle Dave asked me. We were sitting in his shabby two-room Philadelphia apartment with the pale-green walls and the smell of things old and unwanted.

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “I can think of a few reasons.”

  “Like what?”

  Instead of answering, he gave me a look as if he were searching inside me, making me uncomfortable. Then he pulled out scrapbooks and shoe boxes full of old photos and folders of newspaper clippings.

  “Your family history,” he said, with a sweep of his hand over the dusty pile.

  I looked at him, wondering. Uncle Dave had been around as long as I could remember. My father’s much older brother, he had a reputation for being strange. In his mid seventies, he was thin, scraggly, with a slack-skinned neck spiked with nibs of white hair. His face was pale, his hands long, thin, blue veined.

  He leaned forward on the swaybacked couch, pointing at the paper piles. Why had he saved all that stuff?

  He cocked an eye at me. “You really want to know about John Proud, don’t you?”

  I felt a stir in the air, as if a door had opened.

  “Me?” I said, puzzled. After all, that was my name, John Proud.

  “Never heard of him?”

  I shook my head.

  He sat back and paused a moment. “Your great-great-great-great-grandfather, John Proud, was hanged in the year 1854.”

  “Why?”

  “He was a demon.”

  I stared at him.

  He gave me a sly gaze in return. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

  “I don’t know,” I answered uneasily.

  From the inside of an old brown envelope he pulled a bit of brittle newspaper. Gingerly, he handed it over. I took it and looked at him. He nodded. I read.

  JOHN PROUD HANGED

  Confesses Openly to Being a Demon

  Throng Witnesses Grim Event

  Lebanon, Penna. On the 3rd of September, John Proud, condemned man, was hanged to death before the County Jail. Just before his death he asked to speak a few words and was given permission. In so doing, he poured forth in a venomous, vulgar tongue his true nature, to wit, that he was in truth a demon, and proud of that un-natural fact. Moreover, he swore that though they might hang him, he would never leave in peace, but would return in time to complete his business. The crowd, silenced by this grim visage of evil, waited patiently until John Proud was pronounced dead and no longer of this world.

  “What’s visage?” I asked. I felt even more uneasy, almost sick.

  “His face.”

  “What did it look like?”

  “I had a picture of him once,” he said as he flipped through the papers. “Lost it, I guess. But he looked, well, like you.”

  “You’re making this up.”

  “I’ve seen his grave.”

  “When?”

  He hesitated. “Some time ago.”

  “Where?”

  “Out toward Harrisburg. Place called St. Anthony’s Wilderness.”

&n
bsp; “Never heard of it.”

  “We’ve got relations near there,” Uncle Dave said. “Ever meet Nora Fenton? Third cousin.”

  I studied him, wondering what he was getting at.

  “If you want to go,” he continued, “I’ll take you. Back and forth over a weekend. I mean, you are named after him. Must be a reason.”

  “No way.” I closed my eyes and sat there. I really did want to see it, but where that wanting was from I didn’t know.

  “Well?” he asked.

  To my surprise, I heard myself say, “Okay.”

  Uncle Dave sat back and grinned, satisfied.

  3

  From Philadelphia we went north on Route 76, moved through the interchange, took the Northeast Extension, then turned west on Interstate 78. I sat straight in my seat watching the dull landscape slip by. Travel wasn’t my thing. I liked staying home. Since we had started I hadn’t talked much. But then Uncle Dave said, “They never told you about him?”

  I knew he was talking about John Proud. “No,” I said.

  “Not even your father?”

  I shook my head.

  “Even though you’ve got the same name?”

  “John was my mother’s father’s name. That’s why I have it.”

  “Think so?”

  “That’s what she said.”

  “Sure?”

  I shrugged.

  He gave me a sour look. “Ever notice,” he said, “the more school kids get these days, the fewer words they use? What am I supposed to do, guess what’s in your head?”

  “Nothing’s in my head.”

  He snorted. “You see, John Proud is a family secret,” he said. “Not strictly nice. You hand in that history paper yet?”

  “Yes.”

  “I bet you didn’t put him in.”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Didn’t think you would,” he said.

  I turned away. “I asked my folks about your John Proud,” I said. “They think it’s just a story.”

  “My kid brother’s a good guy. So’s your ma. Smart. Educated, too educated. They have an answer for everything. You think there’s an answer for everything?”

  “I hope so.”

  “Once,” he went on, “somebody told me: If you have all the answers, you didn’t ask the right questions. And if all you have are questions, you haven’t listened to the answers.”

  “But a demon . . .” I protested vaguely.

  “Just a word,” he snapped.

  “For what?”

  “Evil.”

  There was a slight, queer shift in my stomach.

  “Word evil makes you squirm, does it?”

  Suddenly I felt an enormous urge to tell him to shut up, to turn the car around, to head back.

  “Everybody has evil in them,” I heard him say. “You too.”

  I shook my head hard. I resented his saying a thing like that about me. “Not me,” I murmured.

  “All the answers, huh?” he said with a smirk, pressing his foot to the gas pedal. The car crept over the speed limit. I clenched my hands tightly and kept my eyes on the road.

  I felt like telling him to drop dead.

  4

  Lickdale was hardly a town. By the time you knew you were in it, you weren’t. There was a grocery store, a post office, an Exxon garage, an Agway Farm Supply Depot. Beyond that there were only private homes, not more than thirty.

  Each of the houses, surrounded by a neat yard, seemed to be painted a shade of white. It was late May, but a lot of the yards had piles of wood.

  “I haven’t seen these people for a good many years,” said Uncle Dave as we moved slowly, trying to pick out the right house. “Nora married this local fella, Tom Fenton. Don’t recollect what Tom does. Couple of kids, I think.”

  “How far is it to the cemetery?” I asked.

  “Ten miles, maybe.”

  “And how come it’s called St. Anthony’s Wilderness?”

  He looked around, his eyes blank. “Don’t know. Ask them. All I know is that it’s the largest forest tract in the area. There’s the house.” He brought the car to a stop and pointed.

  It was a simple frame house, white with green shutters. Flower boxes. A low cyclone fence around the yard.

  Uncle Dave pulled into the driveway behind a Chevy van. “On your manners, kid.”

  As we climbed out, the front door of the house opened and a woman rushed out. “David?” she called.

  She was wearing a loose orange shirt and white slacks. Not heavy, but she wasn’t slick thin either. Her light-colored hair was on the messy side and the look she had was pure welcome.

  “It’s me all right, Nora,” said Uncle Dave.

  Nora—she was younger than I’d thought she’d be—came right over and gave Uncle Dave a bear hug. Then she held him at arm’s length and looked him over. “Shame on you for keeping away so long!” She was scolding, but there was only affection in her voice. “Been too darn long.”

  She looked over to me. “This John?” she asked.

  “Himself,” said Uncle Dave.

  She came up to me, took my hands, gave me a smile and, to my surprise, a hug and a kiss. “The image of your father,” she said.

  “Come on in,” she called, leading the way. “Hungry?”

  “I can always use coffee,” said Uncle Dave, “and the kid eats to keep his hopes up.”

  Nora laughed as she led us in. The house was compact, bright, and cheerful, comfortable if not particularly neat.

  I set our overnight bags in an alcove by the door, an area piled with parkas, boots, and sports stuff. I noticed skis, a backpack, baseball equipment, and a couple of tennis rackets.

  As Nora fussed over coffee, Uncle Dave sat at the kitchen table. For me she poured a big glass of milk, then set out a huge wedge of chocolate cake. Right off the two of them jumped into family talk, who was doing what, where, with whom. Every once in a while Nora would exclaim, “I wish I were more in touch” or “I’m so glad you came.”

  I listened politely.

  After a time she peppered me with questions about my family. I gave the best answers I could.

  “Where’s Tom?” asked Uncle Dave when that was done.

  “He got called out,” Nora explained. “He’s a line repairman for the phone company, and some cable went down over by Lebanon. They call all hours, at the worst times. More than usual lately. All kinds of crazy things going around.”

  I looked up. She didn’t say more.

  “And your kids?” asked Uncle Dave.

  “Fine! Martin has Boy Scouts this afternoon. He’s really into that. He’ll be going to Scout camp this summer. And Ann’s working at the Agway. Can you believe it, David, tenth grade, and she’s already putting good money aside for college. She’s a honey. She’ll be here soon.

  “But you still haven’t told me why you’ve come,” she rushed on. “Just called out of nowhere and said you wanted to visit. Not to see us, I bet.”

  “Sure it was,” teased Uncle Dave.

  “Don’t con me,” said Nora, appealing to me. “Never does tell the whole truth, does he?”

  “Really want to know why we’ve come?” Uncle Dave asked.

  “Long as it’s legal.”

  “John here,” said Uncle Dave, “had a school thing about family. His father didn’t know fiddlesticks about the Prouds. So I told him. Naturally, I told him about—”

  “You didn’t!” Nora said, cutting him off. Her smile had vanished.

  “Sure, John Proud. Same name, right?”

  “Oh, David.”

  “Family, isn’t it . . . flesh and blood?”

  “You really named after him?” she asked me.

  “My mother’s father,” I said.

  “That’s what he says,” teased Uncle Dave. “Thought I’d show him the grave.”

  Nora folded her arms. “Most people don’t know,” she said. “I wouldn’t go out of my way to show anyone, or tell them either.”

  From
a distance I heard a series of deep thumps, like the echo of a bass drum.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “What?” said Nora, her mind elsewhere. The series of thumps came again.

  “That sound.”

  “Oh, that,” she said, relaxing. “On the other side of St. Anthony’s is the Fort Indiantown Gap Military Reservation. During spring and summer the National Guard come up for practice, shooting off their guns. Just playacting. I don’t even hear it anymore.”

  I listened. It sounded real to me.

  “Kids do like to sneak in there and pick up shell casings. That part isn’t fooling; it can be dangerous. They use live ammunition.”

  “The kids know?” said Uncle Dave.

  “About the guns?”

  “About John Proud.”

  Nora drew a breath. “Martin’s too young, though good Lord, the things he watches on TV. Do you know what they call the local school team? The Demons. But no,” she said, “I’ve never told him.”

  “And your girl?”

  “Ann? She knows.” Nora shook her head, then looked at me. “Do you really want to know?”

  I nodded slightly, blushing.

  “Here I was,” she said, “hoping you guys were just paying us a friendly visit. Instead, it’s that . . . thing.” She got up and put on a light sweater.

  “Did David tell you what John Proud did?” she asked me.

  I shook my head.

  “How come?” she asked her cousin.

  “Thought it’d be more fun to learn it here,” teased Uncle Dave.

  “Fun!” cried Nora. She turned to me. “Your namesake liked to hurt people. He would win their trust, then betray them. Torment them, destroy them. Murder them, in fact. No one could have been crueler. He used people in the worst possible way.”

  All of a sudden I felt anger toward her. It came out of nowhere.

  5

  That anger, quick as it came, caught me by surprise. I tried to push it away. The next moment a kid burst into the room. It was Martin, Nora’s boy, in his Scout uniform.

  “Hey, Mom,” he called, “you’ll never guess what happened. . . .” Then he saw Uncle Dave and me. Quick as anything, he made the switch to company manners. “Oh, hi,” he said.