is. I guess what you do next depends on whether or not you’re willing to gamble on law enforcement believing her. Especially when she tells them that the Winnebago People are life-sucking vampires.”
“Christ,” Dave said. “I can’t tell Lucy about this. She’ll blow a fuse. All her fuses.”
“That would seem to answer the question about whether or not to call the police,” John remarked.
There was silence for a moment. Somewhere in the house a clock was ticking. Somewhere outside, a dog was barking.
“The earthquake,” Dave said suddenly. “That little earthquake. Was that you, Abby?”
“I’m pretty sure,” she whispered.
Dave hugged her, then stood up and took the towel off the baseball glove. He held it, looking it over. “They buried him with it,” he said. “They abducted him, tortured him, murdered him, and then buried him with his baseball glove.”
“Yes,” Dan said.
Dave turned to his daughter. “Do you really want to touch this thing, Abra?”
She held out her hands and said, “No. But give it to me anyway.”
5
David Stone hesitated, then handed it over. Abra took it in her hands and looked into the pocket. “Jim Thome,” she said, and although Dan would have been willing to bet his savings (after twelve years of steady work and steady sobriety, he actually had some) that she had never encountered the name before, she said it correctly: Toe-me. “He’s in the Six Hundred Club.”
“That’s right,” Dave said. “He—”
“Hush,” Dan said.
They watched her. She raised the glove to her face and sniffed the pocket. (Dan, remembering the bugs, had to restrain a wince.) She said, “Not Barry the Chunk, Barry the Chink. Only he’s not Chinese. They call him that because his eyes slant up at the corners. He’s their . . . their . . . I don’t know . . . wait . . .”
She held the glove to her chest, like a baby. She began to breathe faster. Her mouth dropped open and she moaned. Dave, alarmed, put a hand on her shoulder. Abra shook him off. “No, Daddy, no!” She closed her eyes and hugged the glove. They waited.
At last her eyes opened and she said, “They’re coming for me.”
Dan got up, knelt beside her, and put one hand over both of hers.
(how many is it some or is it all of them)
“Just some. Barry’s with them. That’s why I can see. There are three others. Maybe four. One is a lady with a snake tattoo. They call us rubes. We’re rubes to them.”
(is the woman with the hat)
(no)
“When will they get here?” John asked. “Do you know?”
“Tomorrow. They have to stop first and get . . .” She paused. Her eyes searched the room, not seeing it. One hand slipped out from beneath Dan’s and began to rub her mouth. The other clasped the glove. “They have to . . . I don’t know . . .” Tears began to ooze from the corners of her eyes, not of sadness but of effort. “Is it medicine? Is it . . . wait, wait, let go of me, Dan, I have to . . . you have to let me . . .”
He took his hand away. There was a brisk snap and a blue flick of static electricity. The piano played a discordant run of notes. On an occasional table by the door to the hall, a number of ceramic Hummel figures were jittering and rapping. Abra slipped the glove on her hand. Her eyes flew wide open.
“One is a crow! One is a doctor and that’s lucky for them because Barry is sick! He’s sick!” She stared around at them wildly, then laughed. The sound of it made Dan’s neck hairs stiffen. He thought it was the way lunatics must laugh when their medication is late. It was all he could do not to snatch the glove off her hand.
“He’s got the measles! He’s caught the measles from Grampa Flick and he’ll start to cycle soon! It was that fucking kid! He must never have gotten the shot! We have to tell Rose! We have to—”
That was enough for Dan. He pulled the glove from her hand and threw it across the room. The piano ceased. The Hummels gave one final clatter and grew still, one of them on the verge of tumbling from the table. Dave was staring at his daughter with his mouth open. John had risen to his feet, but seemed incapable of moving any further.