Yeah right. If you run, he’ll be long gone by morning. He’ll find a new place to hole up, find a new boy, a new choke toy.
Or maybe not. Maybe he’d be too busy hunting Dave down, peeking in windows and picking locks.
And that was what Dave was really afraid of: spending the rest of his life looking over his shoulder, jumping at shadows, screaming anytime anyone closed a door or put on a pair of heavy boots.
What choice do you have? It’s either run and be scared or stay and be terrorized. Lose lose.
Dave rubbed his throat.
I’d just find another boy, he’d said, to replace you.
The car was getting closer. The buzzing of its motor became a grumbling. Dave looked toward the trees, up the road, back at the trees.
He remembered another car. A station wagon. He wanted to run down the road, meet the approaching car, see if it was his mom and dad and brother and dog. But then he remembered the moose, the crash, Mr. Boots. And he remembered the rotting corpses.
Replace you.
The grumbling became a roaring. The car couldn’t have been more than a couple of bends away. Dave started to raise his arms again, but then he growled and ran and dove into the bushes, screaming at himself to go back, screaming at himself not to. He dropped to the ground and watched the vehicle pass.
You idiot. Get out there. This is your chance.
No, it wasn’t. He had a chance to do something more than just escape. He had a chance to make things right. He wasn’t exactly sure how yet, but he was beginning to get an idea.
It was an old truck. Dusty. From his position, he couldn’t see into the windows, couldn’t see much more than the spinning, dirt-kicking tires.
He closed his eyes and waited until the sounds of the motor had disappeared altogether, and then he got up and turned back toward the house.
He wondered what kinds of sounds Mr. Boots would have made if it had been him under the ax instead of the rabbit. He wondered if he would have screamed.
And then he thought he heard something move in the woods. He spun around and stared at a spot between two thick trees.
Was that a flannel shirt?
Even squinting his eyes, he wasn’t sure. Maybe it hadn’t been anything.
Or maybe it was.
He imagined Mr. Boots lying in the bushes, holding a riffle or a bow and arrow.
Don’t be ridiculous. You really think he followed you all the way out here?
Yes, of course he must have. He wouldn’t have let Dave go. He was crazy, but he wasn’t stupid. If Dave had tried to flag down the truck, how long would it have been before he felt a tug in his chest and looked down to see an arrow punched through his shirt or a bullet’s exit wound dripping blood and shredded innards.
He stood still for a long time and waited for another sound or flash of movement. When nothing happened, he said as loudly as his throat would let him, “I’m going back now.”
There was no response.
He waited another few seconds, and then headed back the way he’d come.
As always, he couldn’t say whether he was doing the right thing or not.
NINETEEN
Marshall wore a three-piece suit too warm for the season and too dressy for what he claimed was a casual visit. Libby wondered if he’d been at a meeting or a party and hadn’t bothered changing before stopping by, or if he’d put on the suit specifically for her. To impress her. Normally her thoughts didn’t tend toward such vanity, but in Marshall’s case, it wouldn’t be the first time he’d done such a thing. She couldn’t help but pity him.
Libby searched the kitchen for a vase despite an urge to run the daisies he’d brought down the garbage disposal. She peeked occasionally back at Marshall, who was wandering through the living room staring at the pictures on the walls and the knickknacks on the shelves. He’d visited the house once before, but for only a minute, not long enough to do much snooping. “I hope this wasn’t a bad time,” he said, moving from his investigation of the mantle to the bookshelf where Libby kept her paperbacks.
Libby let an uncomfortable silence draw out before saying, “Well, actually, I wish you’d called. I…this wasn’t the best day. I think I’d rather be alone tonight.”
She peeked again, saw Marshall pull a book from the shelf, skim the back cover, and return it.
She wiped her hands on a dishtowel and waited for him to say What happened? or Tell me about it, but instead he answered, “Oh, come on. You’ve got time for a little visit, don’t you? I drove all the way over.”
Libby rolled her eyes and brought the vase of flowers out from the kitchen. Marshall turned and smiled at her while she set them down on an end table. He shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked a little on his feet. The gesture reminded Libby of the security guard at the Mountain View, who had done the same damn thing. Except Marshall looked nothing like that hulk of a man. He was small, maybe an inch taller than Libby and certainly no heavier than a hundred and fifty pounds. Although a relatively young man, thirty-two if Libby remembered correctly, his hair had already thinned and made him look middle-aged. He had thin lips, not so thin glasses, and a red, Irish complexion, though he’d told her on their first and last date that he didn’t think any of his ancestors had ever been to the land of ire, wording it just that way and laughing as if he’d said something witty.
“You want a beer?” she asked.
Marshall seemed to consider before replying, “No thanks. I don’t suppose you’ve got any coffee perking.”
Perking, Libby thought, what century does he think this is?
“I guess I could brew a pot,” she said, trying not to overemphasize the brew. “But then you’ve really gotta go, okay?”
Marshall didn’t respond. He followed her into the kitchen and eyed the shopping bags on the counter while she searched for a filter. He poked his finger into the open end of one of the bags and peeked inside.
“Uh oh,” he said, withdrawing the two paperbacks Libby had left when she’d picked out her reading material for the bath. “You’ve been cheating on me.” He held out the books and smiled.
Libby thought, Jesus, but forced a smile. “I was at the mall.” It was as much of an excuse as she would give. Marshall was a clerk at Dog-Ears, a downtown bookshop she frequented. She’d seen him in the store many times, exchanged a few polite conversations, every one of which had ended with some sort of advance on his part. He’d never been rude about it, never pushy, but he had been persistent. So much so that she’d finally agreed to dinner just to get him off her back. She hadn’t been interested romantically, of course, but she’d thought maybe they could talk books, have a few laughs, that it might be fun in an entirely platonic kind of way.
It wasn’t.
Marshall had spent most of the date ogling her. And although she had her back to him, she could sense him doing the same thing now.
“Listen,” she said suddenly, turning away from the cupboard and crossing her arms over her chest. “I’m not finding any filters.”
“Oh, that’s okay.” Marshall waved his hand. “Maybe I’ll have that beer after all.”
“No, I think I’d rather you left. No offense, but I’m just not in the mood for company tonight.” Especially your company, she wanted to add.
Marshall’s smile dropped away. “You’re kidding me.”
Libby said, “No,” and shook her head definitively.
Marshall looked at the books in his hand and then tossed them on the counter. The cover of one bent in half, and the other dropped into the sink, where it soaked up some of the water Libby had splattered while filling her vase.
Libby gaped, more outraged by the battering of the books than by Marshall’s sudden show of anger. She wasn’t a book collector, did not consider novels investments the way some people did, but she’d always tried to keep her paperbacks in decent shape. Mostly so she could read them again later if she wanted and not have to worry about them falling apart.
“What did you d
o that for?” She hurried over to the sink and pulled the second book from the basin before it could become completely waterlogged.
Marshall huffed. “They’re just books.”
“And you’re just an asshole,” Libby said, wiping the water from the cover of the book with the hem of her shirt. “I want you to leave right now.”
“Jesus,” Marshall said, looking nonplussed. “I’m sorry.”
Libby softened only a little. “Just please go. I’ll see you at the store sometime.”
“Wait,” he said and took a step toward her.
Libby stood her ground. Marshall wasn’t exactly a muscle-bound intimidator.
“Let’s have that beer. Then I’ll go. I promise.” He reached out to take her hand. “I drove all the way here. I brought you flowers.”
Libby jerked her hand from his grasp and shook her head. “So what? I guess you think that means I owe you something.”
Marshall didn’t respond.
Oh my God, she thought, that is what he thinks.
She tried to move out from between him and the sink, but it was too late. Before she knew it, he had his hands around her waist and his lips all over her face.
TWENTY
Trevor sat on the sofa and watched his daddy smother the two hot dogs with ketchup and mustard. He wrinkled his nose.
Daddy looked up at him, licking a yellow gob from the tip of his finger. “What’s the matter?”
“You’re stinking up those hot dogs,” he said, plugging his nose with his fingers.
“You think so?”
Trevor nodded vigorously. “Uh huh. They taste way better just plain.”
“Well,” Daddy said, “you might not always feel that way.” He bit a mouthful from the end of one of the dogs and munched.
“Yes-huh,” Trevor said. “I wouldn’t ever eat those. Not for a million dollars.”
“Your loss.” Daddy ripped off another giant bite with his teeth, and a big fat drop of orange goop splattered onto the plate in his lap.
Trevor mimed gagging and then pulled away in real terror when his daddy leaned toward him, holding the half-eaten hot dog in one hand and making scary ghost sounds.
“Quit it,” he said, giggling now that he was out of range.
Daddy set the dog on his plate and wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. “You got a movie picked out?”
Trevor shrugged. “Nope.” Out of the corner of his eye, he peeked at the pile of forgotten mail on the coffee table.
Daddy turned sideways in his seat to look at the small bookshelf where they kept their few videos and DVDs. Trevor would never tell his daddy, but sometimes he liked it better at Mommy’s house. She had lots more movies, and more books, and her sofa was soft and huge and comfy. Daddy’s sofa was hard, and if you sat on it wrong you sometimes felt the springs poking you in the bottom.
Daddy looked over the movies and smiled. On the other hand, Trevor guessed DVDs and couches didn’t really matter. If his daddy had been there, Trevor would have spent the weekend in a cardboard box.
Besides, Mommy didn’t do the mail thing with him, and she didn’t like to ride bikes, and her yard was so small you could hardly play in it without the neighbors coming out to shoo you away.
“How bout Back to the Future?” Daddy said.
That was one of Trevor’s favorites. He thought he must have watched it about a zillion times, and he wouldn’t mind watching it again tonight. But not yet. “Daddy,” he said.
Daddy looked back at him.
“Can we do the mail first?”
“Ohhh,” Daddy said, slapping his leg. “I almost forgot.” He picked up his hot dog again, jammed the chewed end between his lips, and waved his hand in a way that Trevor knew meant he could go ahead and start.
Trevor leaned over and took the stack of mail in both hands. Trevor had let Daddy think the mail thing was just a game, something fun to do, but to Trevor it was more serious than that. It gave him a chance to practice reading hard words—not the easy ones like dog and cat and run from his readers—but it wasn’t only the reading. The mail game, really, gave Trevor a chance to see if Daddy got the same kinds of latefees Mommy did.
He mouthed the words in the top-left corner of the first envelope for a few seconds before saying, “Discover Card.”
“Credit Card Junker,” said Daddy, which was part of the game Trevor had let him create. Credit Card Junkers were immediately crumpled into a ball and tossed into the nearest trashcan. Trevor squeezed the envelope between his hands until he’d turned it into a wad about the size of a baseball and threw it one-handed toward the trashcan beside the television on the other side of the room.
“Swish,” Daddy said and put down the hot dog long enough to give Trevor a quick little clap. “Next.”
Trevor recognized this one. It was from Chase.
When Trevor read off the name, Daddy said, “Bill,” and Trevor blew a raspberry at the little plastic window on the front. Just another part of the game. He handed the bill to his daddy, who tossed it unopened onto his side of the coffee table.
The next was a catalog from Victoria’s Secret, which Trevor used to think was a kind of comic book for grown-ups. Victoria’s Secret, he knew now, was an underwear store for mommies. The catalog went in the trash too, and Trevor knew he shouldn’t look inside it because it wasn’t nice to look at other people’s mommies in their underwear. He threw it at the trashcan but missed by a mile.
“Oops,” said Daddy. “Airball.”
Trevor hopped off the couch and picked up the catalog. In its trip through the air, the cover had flopped open, and before Trevor could get it closed again, he saw a blonde-haired lady with no bra, covering her upstairs privates with her arm. Her strange pink undies reminded him of the holey, spider-web-like things his mom called doilies. Did his mom wear these kinds of undies? He didn’t know. Anytime he’d ever accidentally seen her in her underwear, they’d been the regular kind, similar to his own except smoother and without the pictures. He guessed maybe Daddy knew, but he didn’t ask.
There was one more bill, another catalog (this one from a hat store, which seemed silly because his daddy never wore hats), and two more Credit Card Junkers. Trevor threw away all but the second bill, missing the trashcan only once more. As far as he could tell, there had been no latefees, and that was good.
Daddy had finished his first hot dog and started on the second. He had some ketchup on the dip between his bottom lip and his chin, which was icky and funny at the same time. Daddy bit into the second dog, and Trevor realized he was maybe a little hungry, too. Not for ketchupy, mustardy hot dogs, of course—he’d rather eat boogers—but they’d talked about popcorn earlier. Some hot, buttery popcorn sounded tasty and a half.
While his dad finished eating, Trevor took the Back to the Future DVD from its case and inserted it into the player on the shelf beneath the television. While the menu screen loaded, he went into the kitchen and pawed through the cabinet beside the stove until he found the half-full box of popcorn. Butter-flavored, which he liked, but not the movie-theater kind, which he liked more. Still, his mouth was watering already. He took a single pack and pushed the rest of the box back into the cupboard, accidentally knocking a can of olives off their shelf and into a frying pan. The can clanged against the pan and rattled to a stop.
“Everything okay?” Daddy asked from the living room.
“Yes.” He re-shelved the can and ripped the plastic off the popcorn.
“Let me know if you need some help,” said Daddy.
But Trevor didn’t need any help. It was just popcorn, and he wasn’t a little baby. He stood on his tiptoes to stick the bag in the microwave and pushed the button marked with the steaming popcorn bag. One nice thing about Daddy’s house was that the microwave was extra easy to use.
He was watching the microwave door when the face popped into the window on the other side of the room. He saw it only as a reflection, the way you saw yourself when you were brushing your t
eeth in the bathroom, but somehow that made it even scarier. For one terrible second, he thought he would make another mess in his pants. He had just enough time to think how bad that would be, twice in one day, and then the window broke and he was screaming.
Dave crept across the porch feeling like he’d stumbled into a tanning salon.
What was with all the lights?
On the floorboards around him, a splotchy, black puddle of shadows spread like spilled ink. His shadows, all starting at his feet and leaking away from him in different directions. Dave wondered momentarily at the physics of being at once both bathed in light and steeped in shadows, but gave up on the thought after very little real consideration. He didn’t care about the damn shadows, he just wanted the boy, and the lights meant the Pullmans had finally come home.
Things might not be working out as he’d originally intended, but he was making due.
He felt heat at his back and found red-hot coals in the grill pushed to the corner of the porch. Dinnertime. Hot dogs, from the smell of it. Little bits of meat still sizzled on the blackened grill.
Georgie and Manny stood in the grass on the other side of the porch railing. Dave looked at the boy and motioned for him to stay put. Georgie said nothing, made no returning gesture, only stood there with the leash twisted around his fingers and wrist and his hair blowing in the night breeze. His head had stopped bleeding, but his forehead and nose had turned black with the blood he’d already spilled. Dave wondered if he had any antiseptic back home. He’d have to get the boy thoroughly cleaned up.
On the grass beside Georgie, Manny looked from Dave to the boy before plopping down on his belly.
“Good boy,” Dave whispered and turned back to the house. He pulled one of the knives from his pants.
Dave pressed his face up against the nearest screen window, feeling the mesh material rub away at the caked blood on his nose. Inside, the boy stood in front of the microwave and watched popcorn through the small viewing window.