In the Woods

by Carrie Jones

  He gives me a blank look.

  “That red station wagon that was pulled up close to the house last night,” I remind him. “That was his car. Did you see him get in it and leave?”

  “Oh, him,” the deputy says, nodding. “Yeah. He came out of the house at about two in the morning. He was talking to himself. Pulled up some of your flowers and was getting in his car when I stopped him and asked what he was doing. All he’d tell me was that he’d discovered something and he had to test it out. He’s an odd guy.”

  “That’s him, all right,” David says.

  I give him a harsh look.

  “Sorry,” he offers, putting up his hands.

  “He didn’t say anything else? Didn’t say where he was going?” I ask.

  “Nope. Really odd guy. Just kept excusing himself. It was like he was talking to himself more than me. I was just in his way. I didn’t have any instructions about not letting anybody leave, so I let him go,” the deputy explains. “I radioed in that he was leaving, and dispatch said it was fine. Is everything okay? He wasn’t, like, mentally handicapped and not supposed to be driving, was he?”

  David laughs. When I glare at him, he turns around and starts for the milk barn, but he’s still laughing.

  “No, nothing like that. He just gets wrapped up in his work,” I say.

  “His work? What’s his work?”

  “Cryptozoology,” Kelsey answers before I can.

  “I have no idea what that is,” the deputy says. “Animal graves?”

  “He studies Bigfoot and stuff like that,” I explain.

  “Oooh. One of those guys.” The deputy nods knowingly, like I’ve given him a code that means Mr. Lawson Smith is a little mentally handicapped, but in a funny, harmless way.

  “Come on, Logan,” Kelsey says. “I’m sure he’ll be back pretty soon. Look. Mr. Dooley is already pushing cows out of the barn.”

  I look over and, sure enough, our neighbor from a mile section over is slapping a cow on the rump and ushering another one inside. He’s a burly, older guy with red cheeks and happy eyes. He waves at us, then claps David on the back.

  “Yeah. I suppose so,” I say to Kelsey. I look back to the deputy. “Thanks for staying. How long will you be here?”

  “Until dispatch says I can leave,” he answers.

  His car is gone by the time we’re finished milking the cows.

  20

  CHRYSTAL

  The day moves slowly. Katie, Kelsey, and Logan go to visit Mr. Jennings in the hospital, and this nice feedstore guy, Sam, stays behind, watching the cows. He’s rounded up some of Logan’s friends and one of his own grown sons to help do the chores and watch the property with him. I’m kind of amazed by how everyone is helping the Jennings family. I stay at the house to wait for my dad and for the police wearing blazers instead of uniforms, who come once again to do intake on the crime scene, taking pictures, processing more evidence in the daytime, I guess. Their efficient movements, the way they try to figure out what has happened, seeing if evidence corroborates what we’ve told them—it reminds me of how my dad works a case, only more organized, with more profanity and less jumping up and down and pacing.

  I’ve called my dad over and over again. And texted. And called more. I don’t get any response. Logan texts me though, even though cell phones aren’t allowed in the ICU. They can only go in to see his dad two at a time. He looks horrible, I guess. He’s not really speaking yet. Some sort of toxin seems to be working its way through his body.

  IT DOESN’T LOOK GOOD, Logan texts.

  STAY STRONG, I text back. WE’LL FIGURE IT OUT.

  And I hope my words are true.

  I call Dr. Borgess’s number. He answers and I tell him that my dad was supposed to see him, but I haven’t been able to contact him.

  “That must be worrying,” he says. “He has not appeared here today. Can I help you with something?”

  My breath whooshes out in one horrible rush.

  “Are you worried? I am sure he is fine. He does become a bit—absentmindedly focused,” he says.

  “I know. That’s true. It’s true. Would you mind letting me know if you see him or hear from him?”

  “Of course not, my dear,” he says.

  While the police work, I clean up the remnants of breakfast, feed the dogs again, give them more water. They are always thirsty and hungry, but they’re good company. The police officers’ voices make a comforting background noise. Every once in a while their radios go off and they talk in ten-codes. It makes me feel so much safer to have them in the other room. Eventually I go on the laptop that the family shares and start googling WEREWOLVES and HOW TO STOP TURNING INTO A WEREWOLF.

  And I get?

  Pretty much nothing. There’s a lot about how to turn into a werewolf, but even that is mostly about turning into a “spiritual werewolf,” where you believe you’re the wolf, and you’re “at one” with the wolf spirit, but you aren’t actually, physically a wolf. Not very helpful, really. There are some sites that talk about the wolves’ need to protect its family and pack and how it will track down threats.

  This shakes me. Dr. Borgess talked about vengeance. But seriously? How could any of us be a threat to—to such a horrible, strong creature? It seems ridiculous. And those three guys? Who are they? Are they his family? If so, he’s going to be even more hyped up to hurt people.

  Thunder the wonder dog pushes up against my legs. I reach down to pat him and try different search words. I type REVERSE WEREWOLF CURSE just as Thunder Butt proves why his name is appropriate.

  I wave the air in front of my face, hoping for relief. “Doggy, that is nasty.”

  He flops onto the floor and wags his tail.

  “No, seriously,” I tell him. “That could be classified as a chemical weapon.”

  This time the hits are a bit better, but the cures seem silly:

  1.  Rolling around in the dew

  2.  Hitting yourself on the head with a knife three times

  3.  Being blessed with the holy cross

  4.  Having someone say the cursed werewolf’s baptismal name three times

  5.  Plunging into water

  It all seems like superstition, not like something real. I mean, if you get it because you’re bitten, it seems more like a virus, like HIV or something. And the hospital people said there seemed to be a toxin in Mr. Jennings’s blood, so maybe if they could isolate that somehow, they could find an antidote.

  I don’t know. It seems impossible. Seriously, how long have they been trying to find a cure for cancer? And there’re all those resources for that, and I want them to magically find a cure for Mr. Jennings’s lycanthropy in what…? By the next full moon, I guess, because that’s what all the sources say. According to them, the person who is bitten transforms at the first full moon after the bite. Although, to be fair, that sounds pretty superstitious to me too.

  A police officer pokes his head into the kitchen. “We’re done now. If you and Mrs. Jennings want to clean this up, you can go right ahead.”

  “Really?” I stand up and walk to where the officer is standing. I have to look up at him because he’s so tall, maybe six foot six. He looks like Shrek with a crew cut.

  “Yep.” He sighs. “I can give you a card for a cleaning service, but that’s going to run you about 2 to 3 thousand. I’d recommend you rip up the carpet, bleach the walls, repaint them with something darker to cover up the splatter. One of the chairs is pretty bad. You might just want to throw that out, but the couch seems fine. The coffee table and end tables you can just bleach, too. Might hurt the wood some.”

  “Okay. Wow. Thanks. Um … You’re sure there won’t be criminal charges?” I ask, even though I’m kind of afraid of the answer. The thought of Mrs. Jennings in jail or on trial is just too much to imagine.

  He eyes me like he’s trying to decide how to answer, and finally says, “I’m almost positive. It’s pretty cut-and-dried self-defense, special circumstances. It�
�ll have to go to the attorney general’s office, but I can’t imagine anyone is going to make a big to-do about a woman shooting down men who broke into her house and threatened her kids with guns.”

  I swallow hard. Hearing it from an officer makes me really believe it. But it doesn’t mean everything is one big happy fun land. “What about the third guy?”

  The cop’s hazel eyes narrow. “We’ll be looking for him. Don’t you worry. And we’re going to post another deputy here in the driveway tonight, too.”

  “Good, thanks,” I say. That’s another relief. It feels much safer with a police car here, especially with Mr. Jennings in the hospital. It felt good to have them here all morning, actually. “So, you’re leaving now?”

  He nods. “We’re done here. You’ve got a ton of neighbors around, lots of good people working outside. You’ll be okay.”

  “Sure,” I say a little too brightly, I guess, because he gets a reassuring look and puts his big hand on my shoulder for a second.

  “We’re just a 9-1-1 call away.”

  * * *

  First, I rip up the rest of the carpet that they haven’t taken for evidence. Fortunately it’s pretty easy to pick up. Then I spend over an hour trying to scrape and bleach the dried-up blood off the walls. When you shoot someone, the blood splatters. I hadn’t watched enough crime shows to realize this. I manage to not gag and sort of disassociate from all of it, but it’s still … It sucks.

  When my cell phone finally rings, I grab it without looking at the display because I think it’s got to be my dad or Logan and also because I could really use a break from cleaning.

  It turns out, this was not the right move.

  “Hello?” I say.

  “Chrystal Lawson Smith?” The voice is gruff, with a twangy drawl that is more exaggerated than Logan’s.

  I sit on the couch, a Clorox bleach wipe in my free hand. “Yes?”

  “You don’t know me, but I have a friend who thinks you’re pretty special. I was thinking you could maybe give me a moment of your time?”

  “Who is this? How’d you get my number?” I answer.

  Thunder whines to come into the room and I nod at him. He rushes in and lies across my feet.

  “Those aren’t questions you need to bother your pretty little self with, Chrystal.”

  That’s when I know. It’s the guy from last night. The guy who got away.

  The back door opens and I jump up off the couch. Thunder leaps off my feet and charges toward the kitchen just as David yells hello.

  “What’s up?” he says, stepping into the room. “You cleaning?”

  I hold up my hand for him to be quiet, then realize I have the wipe in it. I throw it on the floor. I must look shocked or something because he mouths the words, Are you okay?

  I shake my head as the man on the phone says, “We have the antidote.”

  “Antidote!” I repeat. “What is it?”

  He laughs. David strides across the room in two steps. I turn the phone so he can hear it too. Our heads are super-close together. His breath smells like beef jerky.

  “You think I’m going to just tell you, little girl?” the man says.

  “Well, it would be the nice thing to do.”

  “I don’t believe in nice.”

  “Obviously,” I say. My hand is shaking so much that the phone wobbles back and forth. David takes it from me, but holds it in the same place between our heads.

  The man laughs again, a Wicked Witch kind of laugh, sharp and full of venom. Then he says, “Well, aren’t you going to ask me what I want?”

  “What you want?” I repeat.

  “Yep. Quid pro quo. Something for something else. The antidote for…”

  I make big eyes at David. “For what?”

  “For you,” he says.

  I shudder. David makes like he’s going to yell something into the phone, but I take it from him and say, “When and where?”

  “Tonight. Half a mile up the road. Away from town. Go out of the house and turn left. No police. Any cops, no antidote. Got it? Or else we’ll kill the little one the first time she’s alone.”

  The little one? Katie?

  “What time?”

  He hangs up. I stare at the phone in disbelief. I open the call log, but the number is listed as unknown. I stare at it for a little too long not to be in shock. David is walking around the living room in circles just saying, “Holy … Holy … Holy…”

  Swallowing hard, I grab the bleach wipe off the floor and start in again on a spot on the wall. I rub and rub and rub until David’s voice breaks through.

  “Chrystal,” he asks. “What are you doing?”

  “Cleaning.”

  “We’ve got to call someone. We’ve got to tell someone,” he says.

  I nod. “I know. It’s just…”

  He whips out his own phone. “I’m calling Logan. And I’m calling my dad.”

  “Tell them no cops,” I say. “We’ll make this work. We’ll make a trap for them, right? They think they’re trapping us, but we’ll do the opposite, right? And trap them, right?”

  “You have to stop saying ‘right.’ It makes you sound crazy.”

  I push my lips together and nod. I don’t trust myself to speak. I’ll just clean. I grab a new bleach wipe and start scrubbing at a new little spot in the splatter. This one is smaller than a dime. It’s right below a picture of the entire Jennings family. It’s the kind of picture that you get at a photo studio in Sears or Walmart or something. They are all a few years younger. Logan’s hair is shaggier. Katie is tiny. Kelsey’s got bangs. Mr. Jennings looks strong and happy and slightly embarrassed to be posing while Mrs. Jennings’s hand is on his shoulder. She looks proud. They are perfect and beautiful and they can’t be hurt anymore.

  “We’re going to stop this, David,” I say when he hangs up the phone.

  He nods, but he doesn’t look too positive.

  “We are,” I repeat.

  “Do you want to call Logan or do you want me to?” he asks.

  “Me,” I say because I want to hear his voice, and I want to know that he’s okay with this. I say it because Logan feels like a tiny bit of sanity in a world that’s just suddenly gone crazy bad. I say it because last night Logan said he likes me, and I’ve been trying not to think about those words all day, because they are big words, important words. I’ve seen the way he takes care of his sisters, the way he tries to help his mom before she asks, the way he walks like he’s half in the clouds and half on the ground.

  So I call him, and I try to be as brave as I can as I tell him what’s happened, and what has to happen, and what we have to risk if we want to save his dad.

  “We have to take action ourselves,” I say. “It’s not going to be easy.”

  “Nothing good is easy,” Logan says, his voice breaking just the tiniest of bits, a slightly missed fingering on a fret.

  David starts working on the bloodstains as I talk, because now he says he needs something to do. After a minute I hang up and look at the time. Only a few more hours until night and still no word from my father.

  21

  LOGAN

  Everything has just gone to hell in a handbasket. I don’t understand it at all. Really, when school ended in May, everything was normal and routine and even a little boring. Now I’m sitting in the intensive care unit of a hospital in Tahlequah, hoping to see Dad again while my mom and sisters sit across from me, hollow-eyed with worry and exhaustion, and a girl I didn’t even know in May is in our house, worried about her missing father. And she’s promised to meet some werewolf lackey creep and trade herself for the antidote to keep my own father from becoming a monster. My father, who she didn’t know a couple months ago. She is willing to risk her life to help him.

  It’s all just too weird. I want to cry. I want to cry for Dad, but I also want to cry for the very idea that someone like Chrystal exists, someone who would make that sacrifice for another person.

  “Is Chrystal okay?” Mom
asks a few minutes after I pocket my phone. It’s like the fact that my conversation ended has just now penetrated the fog she’s been in since we got to the hospital. She’s hardly the same woman who pulled the trigger and dropped two men dead on the floor of our house yesterday.

  “Yeah. No. I don’t know,” I say. I explain how the guy who got away last night somehow got Chrystal’s cell number and has offered her a trade.

  Mom’s face had changed a little as I talked, but when I indicate the creep wants Chrystal, some color rushes back in and she sits up straighter, her eyes hardening.

  “No.” She says it sternly, in that voice you just don’t argue with. “She is not going to meet that man. Call her back.” I don’t get my phone out fast enough for her. “Call her now.”

  “All right, Mom.” I get the phone out and tap on Chrystal’s number. She picks up on the second ring. “Hey, it’s Logan again. I’m just—”

  Mom is beside me suddenly and she snatches the phone out of my hand. “Chrystal,” she demands, “you are not, I repeat not, going out to meet that man. Do you understand me?”

  Chrystal must not understand. Or, more likely, she doesn’t understand she’s arguing with a brick wall of determined mother. Mom listens to her, but her face never changes. If this was something simple, like arguing the morality of skinny-dipping, it would be funny to watch one side of the standoff. But it isn’t. And it isn’t at all funny. I know Chrystal can’t go out there.

  “He said what?” Mom asks. She then looks over at Katie, who is slumped over in a chair with her eyes closed, dozing. This must be where Chrystal said the creep would get Katie if Chrystal didn’t meet him. “Did you tell the police?”

  Chrystal’s answer to that is negative. The cops left. One will come back in the evening. That won’t be good enough for Mom. I count off the seconds it takes for Chrystal to argue her point. On ten, Mom has heard enough.

  “I’m calling the sheriff,” she says. “No, Chrystal. No. You are not going out there. You can’t trap him.” She pauses. “No, I’m not saying that. I’m saying the risk is too much. The answer is no. You’re not doing it. No. I’m calling the police now, Chrystal. If you don’t promise me right now that you won’t try this crazy plan, I’m going to ask that they put a guard over you day and night.”