Free Coven by David Barnett Page A

in his dorm room, he turned on all
the lights and the TV, let the room surround him in familiarity. He
sat on the bed with a bottle of Samuel Adams lager, pushing the day
and its myriad toilets from his mind. He needed mirth, he needed
cheer. The TV picture formed, a cable flick called The Louisiana Swamp Murders. Raving toothless hillbillies chased topless blondes through
the bayou with hatchets.
    So much for mirth.
    At least the day was over. He hit the Play
button on his answering machine, hoping more girls had called, or
friends, or anyone to make him feel better. Instead…
    Beep: “Wade, this is your father. Call home at once.”
    Oh, no, Wade thought.
    Beep: “Wade, this is your goddamn father. I know you’re there;
you’re probably sitting on the fucking bed with a beer right now.
Call goddamn home at once or you’ll be goddamned sorry.”
    Wade dialed the phone in slow, comatose
dread.
    “ Hi, Dad. This
is—”
    “ I know who it is, goddamn
it. What the hell are you trying to pull down there? Three traffic
tickets? On your first day back?”
    Wade flubbed. “How did you find out
about—”
    “ Dean Saltenstall told me
all about it.”
    Wade seethed. Why that blue blood no dick piece of
garbage! So help me, I’ll— “Dad, I can
explain.”
    “ No, you can’t. There’s no
excuse for irresponsible shit like this. You’re supposed to be
shaping up, not fucking up.”
    “ Really, Dad,
I—”
    “ Heed my words, son. You’re
at the end of your own rope. One more fuckup and you can start
packing for the Army.”
    Click.
    Nice talking to you
too, Wade thought.
    There was a knock at the door. Tom entered,
dressed for town and bearing a bottle of Spaten Oktoberfest. “Hey,
Wade. Here’s an old one. Carter walks into the White House
groundskeeping office. He’s holding a pile of dogshit in his hands,
and he yells, ‘Goddamn it! See what I almost stepped in!’”
    “ That’s the worst joke I
ever heard. Anyway, dogshit, bullshit, it’s all the same to
Republicans. They’ve got plenty of both.”
    Tom stopped midstep, sniffing. “What’s that
smell?”
    “ I don’t smell anything,”
Wade lied.
    “ Smells like that stuff
janitors use to clean toilets.”
    “ Don’t worry about it,”
Wade said. “We partying tonight?”
    “ Of course.” Tom looked at
the TV and frowned. Inbred psychotic bumpkins were yanking the
pants off a bug eyed blonde. “What’s this? A new campaign ad
for the Democrats?”
    “ No, it’s the reruns of the
last Republican Convention. Don’t you remember?”
    “ Hey, I’m laughing… See if
you can drum up Jervis for tonight. I haven’t seen him all day.
And… Jesus, that smell’s really strong. You been cleaning
toilets?”
    “ I’ll tell you about it
later,” Wade balked. “Much later.” If anybody— anybody —found out he was cleaning
toilets for minimum wage, his reputation would be…flushed. “I need
some time to get ready. Meet me at the inn in an hour.”
    Tom nodded, sniffing, and
left. Wade finished his Adams and dropped the bottle into the trash
compactor. The sound of it being crushed made him picture himself being crushed by
Dad, the dean and Besser. He quickly gathered his shower gear, but
stopped. On the TV a girl with large breasts was being dismembered
by an obese, drooling slob in overalls. Wade grimaced. Whatever
happened to happy movies? He knew it was only the power of
suggestion, but the grimy hillbilly madman on the TV screen bore a
distressing resemblance to Professor Besser.

    —

    CHAPTER 8

    P rofessor Besser! The name screamed in
her head.
    Had she been sleeping? Penelope wasn’t sure.
Nevertheless, the image remained, crisp and bright as neon. The big
face in the moonlight… It was the last thing she remembered before
blacking out—being carried into the woods by…Professor Besser.
    She pressed against her memory. What had
happened?
    The power failure. The stables and…my God,
the ax! The horses!
    She remembered