JACK KILBORN ~ AFRAID (6 page)

A spare bedroom, unlit, with a musty odor that indicated it hadn’t been used in a while. Streng found the window, hurried to it, and fumbled for the lock.

He chanced a look behind him, saw the figure filling the doorway. A sharp, unpleasant smell filled the room, like cigarettes and body odor. Streng aimed and squeezed off three more shots. The thing didn’t fall. He turned his attention back to the window, jerked it open, and went face-first out onto the roof. It was steeper than he guessed, and he slipped onto his back and began to skid, the flashlight slipping from his hand and clattering down the incline, winking out when it went over the edge.

Streng spread out his arms, tried to keep from falling. His knuckles scraped against the cold, rough shingles, the skin tearing. He reflexively opened his hand, letting go of the .45, hearing it skitter to a stop above him while he kept sliding down, his momentum picking up.

The trees obscured the moon and stars, and Streng’s eyes couldn’t penetrate the inky night. But he knew there wasn’t much roof left, and if he went over at this speed he’d break his leg. Or his neck.

The sheriff turned onto his side as he slid, and then onto his belly, arms and legs outstretched, toes fighting for purchase. He began to slow down, and then his feet hit the gutter, dug into it, abruptly stopping his descent.

Streng didn’t have time to be relieved. He strained his eyes against the darkness, trying to see the ground beneath him.

All he saw was black. How far could it be? Ten feet? Fifteen? The ground would be hard from the cool weather, and there was the chance he’d land on a rock, or worse.

A cracking sound, then a crash. Streng was peppered with glass and bits of wood, and he could feel the whole house thump. Whatever was chasing him was on the roof.

Streng now had no choice. He guessed the man in Sal’s room was already making his way down the stairs, gun ready, and the steady
thump thump thump
of that thing’s footsteps was closing in fast. Streng swung his legs out over the edge, letting them dangle in the darkness. He gripped the gutter, not expecting it to support his weight, but maybe it would slow him down a bit as it broke.

Without dwelling on it, Streng scooted off the rooftop, ankles tight together, knees bent. The gutter held for a second, then the aluminum split. Streng lost his grip and fell.

He hit faster than expected, and then the ground slipped out from under him in an unnerving way, causing him to pitch forward and fall again, his hands unable to stop his chin from cracking against the dirt.

Streng’s vision lit up, sparkling motes swirling before him, and his jaw ached like he’d been hit with a bat. He reached around, felt the loose pieces of wood surrounding him, and realized he’d landed on Sal’s firewood cord, stacked up against the house for winter burning.

Streng forced himself to his hands and knees, spat out the blood that was filling his mouth, and tried to get his bearings. He was in the back of the house. The Jeep was parked on the side.

Streng ran for the car.

Aging,
Streng often mused while lying in bed at night unable to sleep,
is the body’s deliberate and systematic betrayal of the soul.
First the appearance withered, gray hair replacing brown in every place hair grew and even a few where it had never grown before. Wrinkles began at the eyes and mouth, then sent out tributaries to the forehead, cheeks, neck, hands. Everything sagged, including memory. And then when self-esteem was something you could find only in old pictures, the aches and pains ensued. Eye strain. Arthritis. Insomnia. Constipation. Shin splints. Bad back. Receding gums. Poor appetite. Impotence. The heart and lungs and kidneys and prostate and liver and colon and bladder all sputtered like a car low on gas. And then the indignity of disrobing before a doctor one-third your age, only to be told that this is the just the aging process, completely natural, nothing can be done.

Streng fought getting old. He fought it by exercising, and eating right, and supplementing with so many morning vitamins that his stomach rattled for two hours after breakfast. But as he ran for his car, half as quickly as he could run just fifteen years ago, he once again cursed his failing body and the laws of nature that allowed this to happen.

He cursed again when the man in black fell into step beside him.

“Where are you going?” the man said with his foreign lisp, his breath as easy as Streng’s was ragged.

Streng couldn’t outrun him. He slowed, stopped, and then faced the man, raising his fists. Though he was hardly the 195-pound slab of muscle he had been in his youth, a few of those muscles still functioned.

“So you want to fight?” the man asked.

The sheriff threw a roundhouse punch, aiming for the stranger’s neck. The man sidestepped it and in a single fluid motion grabbed Streng’s hand and began to squeeze it.

The pain was instant and excruciating. It felt like getting caught in a door, the bones grinding against each other. Streng yelped.

Then combat training kicked in. Streng grabbed the man’s shirt, swiveled his right hip behind the man’s right leg, and flipped him.

The move was executed perfectly. Too perfectly, and halfway into it Streng knew what was happening. The man didn’t let go of Streng and used the momentum of his fall to catapult Streng legs over head, slamming the sheriff onto his back.

Streng stared up at the black sky, his wind gone. He noticed many things at once: the cool grass tickling the back of his neck, the pain in his coccyx that shot down both legs, the spasm in his diaphragm that wouldn’t let him draw a breath, and the soft, effeminate laugh of the person about to kill him.

“You’ve had some training,” said the man. “So have I.”

Streng felt a hand clamp under his armpit. It squeezed. Fire exploded behind Streng’s eyes, and he screamed for perhaps the first time in his sixty-six years. It was like being pinched with pliers, and even though Streng tried to roll away, tried to push back the hand, the pressure went on and on, driving out every thought other than
make it stop.

“That’s the brachial nerve,” the man whispered in Streng’s ear. “It’s one of many nerves in the body.”

The man released his grip, and Streng wept. And as he did, he hated himself for the tears, hated himself for being a frail old man that this psychopath could manhandle like a toy.

“I have some questions for you, Sheriff. Do you think you’ll be able to answer them for me?”

Streng wanted to be defiant, wanted to give this man nothing. But his lips formed the word before he could stop it: “Yes.”

“That’s good. That’s very good.” The man’s breath was warm, moist, on Streng’s ear. “But I think I’ll still loosen you up a bit first.”

The man grabbed Streng’s left side and squeezed, fingers digging hard into his kidney, prompting such intense, jaw-dropping pain that Streng passed out midscream.

D
uncan Stauffer awoke to the sound of Woof barking. Woof was supposed to be a beagle, but Duncan had a lot of dog books and decided that Woof looked more like a basset hound. Woof was pudgy, with stubby legs and floppy ears and sad red eyes. It was funny because even though his eyes were sad, Woof played all the time.
All
the time. Duncan wondered how he could be so fat, since he ran around all day.

Woof barked again, and Duncan sat up. The dog normally slept on Duncan’s bed, sprawled out on his back with his legs in the air. He left only to get a drink of water, let himself out through the doggy door to poop (Mom called it “doing his dirty business”), or greet Mom when she came home from the diner.

Duncan looked over at his SpongeBob digital clock next to the bed, but it wasn’t on for some reason. Instead he checked his dad’s watch, which he wore all the time since Mom had the links removed so it could fit.

The watch told him it was twelve forty-three.

Woof barked once more, a deep, loud bark that sounded exactly like his name, which was the reason Duncan named him Woof. But this wasn’t the welcome-home bark that Woof used when Mom came home. This was Woof’s warning bark, the one he used for his fiercest enemies, like the squirrel who had a nest in the maple tree out front, or the Johnsons’ gray cat, who liked to hiss at Woof and scare him.

“Woof! Come here, boy!”

Duncan waited. Normally, Woof came running when Duncan called, jumping on him and bathing his face with a tongue that was longer than Duncan’s foot.

But Woof didn’t come.

“Mom!” Duncan called. “You home?”

No one answered.

Duncan didn’t mind being by himself while Mom worked late. He was ten years old, which was practically an adult. His mom used to insist that he have a babysitter, and the one she usually got was Mrs. Teller, who was all bent over because she was so old, and sometimes she smelled like pee. Duncan liked her okay, but she made him go to bed early and wouldn’t let him watch his favorite shows on TV, like
South Park,
because they said bad words, and she always wanted to talk about her husband, who died years ago.

Duncan didn’t like to talk about death.

After a long session with Dr. Walker, the therapist convinced Mom that Duncan was mature enough to stay home alone, if that’s what Duncan wanted. Which he did. Duncan knew what to do in the case of any emergency. He’d taken the Stranger Danger class in school. He had three planned escape routes if there was a fire. He knew not to let anyone in the house, and how to call 911, and to never cook on the stove or use the fireplace or take a bath while home alone. He thought Mom was being a little crazy about the bath thing, like Duncan would fall asleep in the tub and drown. But he listened to Mom anyway, and she trusted him, and for the three months he’d been without a babysitter it had worked out fine. Duncan hadn’t gotten scared once.

Until now.

“Woof!” Duncan yelled again.

Woof didn’t come.

It was possible his dog had gone outside, to do his dirty business. Or maybe he saw the Johnsons’ cat and went to chase him, even though the cat scared Woof a lot.

Or maybe something got him.

Duncan would never admit it to anyone, not even his best friend Jerry Halprin, but he sometimes believed monsters were real. He wasn’t scared of monsters, exactly. He loved watching monster movies, and reading R. L. Stine books with monsters in them, but deep down he thought maybe monsters really did exist.

He didn’t tell this to Dr. Walker, but when they had the car accident, and Mom thought Duncan was unconscious in the back seat, he wasn’t really unconscious. He saw what happened to Dad, how bloody he was. For weeks afterward, Duncan had horrible nightmares about monsters, biting and clawing and ripping up him and Mom, making them bleed and die. Since he got Woof, most of the nightmares had gone away.

But sitting in his bed, holding his breath and waiting for his dog to come, Duncan wondered if maybe a monster got Woof.

Then he heard it—the jingle of metal tags from Woof’s dog collar, just down the hallway.

“Woof!” he yelled happily. He tucked his legs under his butt so when Woof hopped on the bed he wouldn’t step on them, and he waited in the dark for his dog to come.

But Woof didn’t come.

Duncan listened hard, then called Woof’s name again. He heard jingling, in the hall.

“Come on, Woof,” Duncan urged.

The jingling got a little closer, then stopped. What was wrong with that dog?

“Speak, Woof!”

Woof, who didn’t really need to be told to speak because he spoke all the time, still loved to follow that command, because he usually got a treat afterward. But Woof stayed quiet. Duncan wondered if he was maybe hurt, which is why he stopped barking.

Duncan reached over to the light switch on the wall behind him. He flipped it up. It didn’t do anything. He tried flicking it up and down a few times, but his bedroom light didn’t come on.
The electricity must be out,
Duncan thought.

Or maybe a monster stole the light bulb.

“Woof!” Duncan said it hard, the way Mom did when Woof did his dirty business on the kitchen floor.

Woof’s collar jingled, and Duncan heard him pant. But the dog stayed in the hallway. Did Woof want him to come there for some reason? Or was he afraid of something in the bedroom?

Duncan peeled back the covers and climbed out of bed. The house was warm, but he shivered anyway. Mom made him wear pajamas when she was home, but on the nights she worked, Duncan liked to sleep in his underwear. He wished he had his pajamas on now. Being almost naked made him feel small and alone.

The room was too dark to see, and Duncan walked by memory, heading for the doorway to the hall, hands out in front of him like a zombie to stop him from bumping into walls. After some groping he found the door and stopped before walking through.

Woof’s collar jingled, only a few feet in front of him. The panting got louder.

“What’s the matter, boy?”

Duncan knelt down and held out his hands, waiting for the dog to approach. When Woof didn’t, Duncan felt goosebumps break out all over. He knew something was wrong, really wrong. Maybe Mom was right about leaving him home all alone. Maybe something bad happened to Woof, and Duncan wouldn’t be able to help him because he was just a kid.

Duncan stood up and reached for the hall light switch, but it didn’t go on. So he pressed the button on his dad’s watch and the blue bezel light came on, which was bright enough for him to see the man standing in the hallway, jingling Woof’s collar and panting.

• • •

J
osh VanCamp moved through the woods at a quick pace, sweeping the flashlight before him like a blind man’s walking stick, navigating fallen trees and overhanging branches. He had no explanation for the events so far, but deep in his bones he knew something was terribly wrong.

The underbrush grabbed an ankle, and Josh pulled his foot free and paused, trying to get his bearings. There was less than a hundred yards between the crash spot and the Mortons’ house, but it was extremely easy to get lost in the forest, especially at night. He reached into the pocket of his khakis and took out a bubble compass on a leather swatch. Reorienting himself, he headed east, toward Gold Star Road.