A petite brunette answered the door.
“Morning, Gloria.”
“Morning, Jay. You’re up early.”
He shrugged. “You know me—early to bed, early to rise.”
“Yeah, right. Steve’s out back. Come on in.”
Jay followed her inside.
“How’s Crystal doing?”
“Uh, good.” He averted her gaze and studied a ceramic wall hanging of two pigs touching noses. Its caption read, Home is where the heart is.
A scattering of tools surrounded Steve on the deck. He lifted his head at the sound of their approach. Unlike Jay, Steve looked the part of an academic. He wore round, rimless glasses, was dressed in khakis and a golf shirt, and had sandy blond hair that was beginning to recede. He held a wrench in one hand and a steel pipe in the other. He seemed unsure of what to do with either.
“Hey, Jay.” He glanced at his wrist. “What time is it?”
Jay shrugged. “Gloria putting you to work?”
“Just bought a new grill. I’m trying to put it together.”
Gloria poked her head out of the sliding glass door. “Trying being the operative word.”
Steve waved her away. After she retreated into the kitchen, he said, “I tried calling you last night. What happened? You didn’t really resign, did you?”
“Hoffman found out I was in AA and cut me loose.”
“You’re kidding—just like that?”
“I never should have let Crystal talk me into those stupid meetings.”
Steve looked as though he was about to protest, but then thought better of it. “How’d he find out?”
“I’ve got a feeling it was Renkin… the little prick.”
Steve adjusted his glasses. “I’m sorry, Jay. That really sucks. But maybe it’s for the best. Maybe a little time off is exactly what you need. You know, to get things under control.”
“Get what things under control?”
“You know what I’m talking about.”
Jay shrugged. His head hurt too much to argue. “Maybe you’re right.” He stared into the backyard. “Crystal left me.”
“What? Because you got fired?”
“No. It was the night before that.”
“Have you talked to her?”
“She won’t take my calls.”
“She’ll come around. Just give her some time.”
“I don’t know. It was different this time. You should’ve seen the look in her eyes.”
“Well, it could be worse.”
“Yeah, how’s that?”
“You could be Ryan Brakowski’s dad. They’re saying that Ryan may have been murdered.”
“They find a body?”
“No. Just shreds of his clothes and some blood in the woods.”
Jay grimaced. How could anyone do something like that to a kid? “There hasn’t been a murder in Glenwood since we were in elementary school.”
“Yeah,” Steve said. “I remember. Larry Renquist caught his wife in bed with that tennis instructor and shot them both point blank.”
“It’s a lot worse when kids are involved.”
“Did you hear there’s another kid missing? A thirteen-year-old girl. Never came home from school yesterday.”
“What’s going on with this town?”
Steve shrugged. “I swear the world gets crazier every day.”
“You want to know the funny thing? This whole argument with Crystal started over a kid I saw standing in the woods near my house. He was just standing there, staring into our bedroom window. Just a few minutes before midnight. And even though our lights were off, I swear he could see me. You know that feeling you get when you lock eyes with someone from a distance?”
Steve nodded.
“I don’t even know if I should tell you the rest.”
“Why not?”
“Well, the kid must have been standing in front of a light or something. Blocking it with his body so that all I could see was this blue glow surrounding him like … like some kind of aura.”
Steve remained silent for what seemed a long time. Jay could tell he was trying to choose his words carefully. It seemed everyone was doing that around him lately.
“How old did the kid seem?”
Jay shrugged. “I don’t know. Ten, maybe twelve?”
“What do you think a ten or twelve-year-old boy would be doing all alone in the woods at midnight?”
“I’m just telling you what I saw. You don’t believe me either, do you?”
“I never said I didn’t believe you.”
“No, but you were going to ask if I was drunk.”
“Were you?”
“I had two beers at Malley’s. That was it. I swear.” He waited for Steve to challenge his drink count, but Steve kept quiet. Jay said, “The kid was back again last night. Standing in that same spot. In front of that same light. It’s really starting to creep me out. I guess that’s why I’m here.”
“What do you mean?”
“I need to borrow your camera. The nice one with the zoom lens.”
“You’re going to take a picture of him?”
“Yeah, and prove to Crystal that I’m not some crazy drunk.”
“What if it’s the Brakowski kid? Maybe you should be calling the police.”
“I don’t think so. I get the feeling he’s not from around here.”
There was something strange in the way the kid carried himself, the way he just stood there. Motionless. Focused. Jay was beginning to think the kid was a lot older than he looked, that maybe his name was already inscribed in stone, etched into one of weathered tombstones in the old quarter of Woodside Cemetery.
CHAPTER FIVE
Tim awoke Monday morning to find the day bleak and overcast. It was his first day back to school since Randy and his goons had run him over with the Glenwood welcome wagon. He had a feeling it was going to be a bad day even before he dragged himself out of bed.
Somehow, the day proved even worse than he expected.
He picked his way through the woods beyond his house and sighed at the memory of the day’s events. He knew that everyone would stare at him from the moment he walked through the door. That much hadn’t bothered him. After all, what did he have to be ashamed of? It had taken three guys to inflict all those bruises on his face, and once he told everyone that, they’d probably be impressed. All the girls would ask him how he was. They’d hang all over him, apologizing for what happened.
Oh, Tim, we're so sorry. Is there anything we can do to show you how nice a place this really is? Anything at all?
He had every intention of telling people who’d attacked him, but when he finally got the chance Randy stood at a locker right across from him. His black eye was gone—not a trace of bruising anywhere.
So instead of telling the truth, Tim made up a story about going to Boston for the weekend and getting jumped. When the bell rang and the kid Tim was talking to left for class, Randy was still there, his arms folded across his chest. He grinned at Tim, the corners of his mouth twisting into an infuriating smirk. Then he drew a finger over his lips—Shh!—and walked away.
Tim felt his face flush at the memory. He’d spent all day avoiding Randy, running away from him like the world’s biggest wuss. He hated himself for it, but what else could he do? The guy nearly cut his tongue out with a switchblade.
Later in the day, he’d spotted Maria talking to a pair of cheerleaders, the three of them laughing at some private joke. He pretended not to see her, tried to walk by with his head down, but she called after him.
“Oh my God, Tim! What happened? Did Randy do that?”
“I can’t talk to you, Maria. I got to go. Sorry.” He plowed ahead without looking and collided with some jock in a football jersey. Fell flat on his ass. He jumped to his feet, feeling like an idiot, certain that his face was glowing neon red. Maria said something, told him not to go, but he turned around without answering and took off down the hall.
Why had
n’t he just played it cool and kept walking? Pretended not to hear her?
Whatever. Too late to change it now.
At least the day was over and the sun was shining, the sky a perfect sea of blue. The quiet of the woods had a soothing effect, and as he hopped from stone to stone across a gurgling stream the weight of his problems seemed to dissipate.
When he reached the other side, he turned back in the direction of his house and saw that it had vanished into the trees. It still felt weird to think of it as his house. It seemed more like the latest stop on the road to nowhere.
He sat on a fallen log and pitched a rock into the stream. Why did they have to move? Why couldn’t Dad just keep his old job?
It wasn’t fair. Just when he started to get close to his new friends, his father would take another job and they would have to relocate all over again. As a general rule, he didn’t keep in touch with any of the friends he’d left behind. It was easier that way. He’d learned long ago that you don’t miss people as much if you never look back.
His father had promised that this would be their last move until Tim finished high school. The idea had cheered him up at first, but now it depressed the hell out of him.
Four years in Glenwood. It might as well be a death sentence.
He glanced deeper into the woods where the intertwining branches blotted out much of the light. He thought he heard voices coming from that direction, distant cries carried on the wind. It wasn’t until he heard barking that he realized it was a search party.
They were looking for those three missing kids. He’d seen it on the news last night. Two more kids had disappeared—a seven-year-old boy and a thirteen-year-old girl. The girl was pretty cute—blond hair, blue eyes. Tanya something. He couldn’t remember the boy.
They were probably dead by now, same as the Brakowski kid. A psycho was on the loose in Glenwood. No one disputed that now. Everyone in town was talking about it. You couldn’t go anywhere without hearing people whispering their suspicions.
The police instituted a curfew. Nobody under eighteen could go out after 9:00 P.M. unless accompanied by an adult, and nobody other than police or police-sponsored search parties were allowed in the woods.
Randy was probably the first to violate the curfew. Around 11:30 last night, Tim spotted someone lurking around the trees that separated his backyard from Washaka Woods. Although Tim hadn’t actually seen Randy, he had seen the little kid Randy was using to pull off his prank.
There was no question Randy was behind it. Who else would do something like that? Randy and his goons were trying to scare him—and maybe they had a little—but he wouldn’t let it happen again. He knew exactly what they were up to, dressing up that little kid to look like Ryan Brakowski’s ghost.
It was kind of scary at first—the kid actually did look like a ghost—but once he figured out how Randy had done it, he felt like a dork for being so afraid. Randy had used white face paint to make the kid’s skin look so pale. The glowing effect must have taken some thought though, so it was clear Randy had help on that one.
But it was really pretty simple when you thought about it. All he had to do was find some of those plastic glow-in-the-dark necklaces, the kind that gave off a phosphorescent glow when you bent them.
He had to give credit to whoever coached Randy on that one. Whoever it was, he was smart enough to wait until the light had faded to the point where you couldn’t see the shape of the plastic tubes any more. Just a pale blue blur without definition.
What didn’t make sense was why Randy dressed the kid so strange instead of putting him in a black and white checkered shirt. Everyone knew the shirt Ryan was wearing on the day he disappeared.
No sense dwelling on it. Randy just wanted to freak him out. Last night, the kid had motioned for Tim to come outside, and of course, that was the last thing Randy expected Tim to do.
Maybe his father was right. Maybe he needed to stand up to Randy again, even if it meant another black eye or two. What the hell, anything was better than walking through the halls at school all day, too afraid to speak to anyone.
If Randy wanted to play his stupid little game again tonight, he’d play along with him. But this time, he’d play by his own rules. This time he’d teach them a lesson they’d be sure to remember for a long time to come.
CHAPTER SIX
Jay sat with his back slumped against the headboard and waited for darkness to come. He stared at the TV without seeing, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts—none of them pleasant. As the shadows deepened, it became obvious that he was losing his grip on the things that mattered. And he wondered, was this the beginning of a downward spiral … or was it just a bit of a rough patch—the kind of thing everyone goes through at one time or another?
He sipped from a lukewarm mug of coffee and tried not to think about the case of Sam Adams chilling in the fridge. He could picture the dark bottles crowding the top two racks, their sleek necks glistening with condensation.
He needed a drink. And the coffee just wasn’t doing the trick.
Face it Jay, you’re an alcoholic. Whenever you think about having a drink, you drool like Pavlov’s dog. Remember that Christmas dinner with Crystal’s relatives?
He didn’t want to remember that night, but his traitorous mind took him there anyway, dangling the memory before him like the Ghost of Christmas Past.
He sat at a long table, the meal just started. A dozen of Crystal’s relatives flanked him on either side, strangers he met just an hour before. Two bottles of wine went around the table—just two for all those people. He remembered the twinge of panic he felt, sitting there in the stiff wooden chair, gripping the seat while the bottles worked their way toward him with painstaking slowness. Three quarters of a glass was all he got. Three quarters!
It was the only booze in the house, a fact he attributed to Crystal’s mom being an alcoholic. He could have understood the rationing had Crystal’s mom actually been there, but she’d flown through the windshield of her car and died in a ditch three years earlier.
How could they be so stingy? How could they expect him to sit there for the rest of the night, crammed in with all those strangers, without even a full glass?
By the end of dinner, the need for another drink was so strong that he feigned a stomachache and went home early. That was the first time he’d ever needed a drink. But where had that need come from? Why hadn’t he noticed it before that day? He never even touched a drink until he was in college, and only then it was because he was tired of being the only person at a party who wasn’t clutching a bottle. A few sips here and there so he didn’t look like a dork. Not a big deal. He was smart enough not to get hooked on the poison that had killed his dad and ruined his family.
It tasted like piss anyway.
But by the end of his freshman year, beer didn’t taste so bad anymore. He’d have five or six on a Friday or Saturday night, get a good buzz going and then stop. He drank more as freshman year slipped into sophomore, and sophomore into junior. But it was normal. Everyone did it. Alcohol was great. It took the edge off his insecurities, gave him the ability to mingle. Hell, it even allowed him to dance without feeling self-conscious. All that and he still got straight A’s.
In college he drank because he wanted to. Need was never a part of it. But now need was always with him, an unwelcome companion that shadowed him wherever he went.
Need—the savage beast that roared within the depths of his stomach. He had woken up one day and there it was. Need had replaced want. Just like that.
He had a drinking problem. Lying in bed, staring at the TV, he knew it. But in the back of his mind he also knew that tomorrow, next week, or even ten minutes from now, he would convince himself that he didn’t have a problem. There was a constant flip-flop. Only the holier-than-thou voice, that ever-present sober observer, chose one side and stuck to it.
You’re a jellyfish, Jay. Spineless and weak.
He chewed a fingernail.
I need a drin
k. Just one to put me at ease.
What was the big deal, anyway? So he had a problem, so he couldn’t live without having a drink. So what? It was just one. It wasn’t like he was going to get drunk off it.
He swallowed the last of his coffee and set the mug down on the nightstand next to Steve’s camera. He reached for a coaster, but then thought better of it.
Screw it! He didn’t need to use a coaster. With Crystal gone, he could do whatever the hell he wanted.
Except have sex with her.
Okay, that was a legitimate downside. But if he decided he did want her back, he’d have to focus on the task at hand. He turned toward the bedside window and peered into the backyard. Shadows draped the trees at the fringe of Washaka Woods, their skeletal limbs silhouetted against the darkening sky. A steady wind swept their branches back, and thick clouds blotted out all but a hazy sliver of the rising moon.
If the boy planned to make an appearance tonight, Jay had a feeling it would be soon. He clicked off the light and opened the window, allowing the chill night air to seep into the bedroom. The only sounds from the yard were the wind through the trees and a chorus of crickets strumming their signature tune.
He set Steve’s camera to night shot and adjusted the zoom so he’d be ready when the time came. Then he leaned against the headboard and closed his eyes, suddenly realizing how tired he was.
He came awake with a start, not sure what had woken him or how long he’d slept. According to the clock on the nightstand, it was 12:03 A.M.
Just past the witching hour.
The night outside was as black as pitch, the moon obscured by clouds. Maybe it was his imagination, or the lingering effect of a dream, but something felt wrong. Maybe the air was too still, or the night too quiet. Or maybe it was the way the crickets had all of a sudden ceased chirping. Whatever it was, it made his skin bristle with gooseflesh and his heart knock hard against his ribcage.
A breeze blew through the window, and the curtains flowed toward him, billowing out like sails. He shut off the TV, and the room plunged into darkness. He sat on the bed, completely motionless, eyes locked forward. A light appeared on the wall over his shoulder. A pale blue glow that pulsed in and out like a creature breathing. He knew without turning that the source of the light was to his right, that a little boy stood within the fringe of trees, his eyes fixed upon the window before which Jay now sat.
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