by Sara Clancy
“He’s out again,” Rick smiled.
She had already set up her tray. “I’ll get him.”
Before she could round the counter, Rick had blocked her path. “So he’s the new guy, huh?”
“Benton,” she offered.
“Is it true that he went completely nuts on Vic?”
“He defended himself.” She picked up the tray and fixed him with a stern look. “And you shouldn’t spread rumors.”
Rick leaned his back against the counter, puffing out his chest until the fledgling muscle looked stronger. “He’s a bit of a runt to do anything against Vic, ain’t he?”
“Button up your shirt,” she sighed.
Quickly crossing to the booth, she slid the tray onto the table before crouching down. She now had enough practice in waking him up to know that a gentle approach was best. She softly rested her hand on his arm, ready to catch it if he woke with a start, and called his name in a whisper. After a moment, she repeated it slightly louder. It took longer this way, but the steady approach kept him from freaking out. It also gave her more time to study his features.
It was strange to see him sleeping. The tension that seemed an inseparable part of his features smoothed away, his near constant scowl softened, and the darkness under his eyes was lightened by the pale strands of his eyelashes. She hated to wake him. If anyone ever looked like they needed the rest, it was Benton Bertrand. Still, she forced herself to raise her voice just a little higher and rub his arm. He snapped awake with a staggered gasp and a jolt that ran through his entire body. She tightened her grip, keeping his elbow from flying, and offered him a soft smile.
“Again?” he grumbled as he rubbed a hand over his face. “Sorry.”
They had gone over it more than once, but she couldn’t help defend her actions. “I would let you sleep.”
“No, you don’t want that,” he quickly assured.
“Why?”
Regret played across his face. She watched as he waged a war within himself, seemingly wanting to answer her and wanting to back away at the same time. Eventually, he croaked out ‘nightmares’ with a sleep broken voice. He sat up straight, or rather poured himself against the back of the chair, but the result was the same. There was distance between them now, and with it, enough room for him to construct his walls once again. It was in those few moments when he just woke up that he was the most honest, and she was going to figure out a better way of exploiting that.
“Is that what happened this morning?” She knew it wasn’t. Every instinct screamed at her that there was more to it. But she wanted to see what he would say.
“Yeah. Sorry. I guess dad’s right about me not sleeping in moving vehicles.”
She had no logical reason to be ticked off at his evasion, but she was. After a moment’s hesitation, she forced herself to nod and stood up.
“I got you coffee.”
“I’m not a huge fan of coffee,” he said.
“You’ll like this one,” she said simply as she set it before him. “It’s my spicy taco latte.”
“That sounds horrible.”
“You like spicy.”
“Who did you bribe to know that?”
She rolled her eyes. “You use hot sauce like ketchup. I made the Sherlock-like leap. Just drink it.”
He eyed her suspiciously but slipped his hands around the steaming mug. It took him forever to raise the cup, and she was about to grumble some words at him when he finally took a sip. He paused, brow furrowed, the tip of his tongue licking the foam off his lips, finally humming noncommittally.
“Is it really that difficult for you to admit that I was right?” she laughed.
“A little, yeah.”
She picked up her tray and swatted his arm with her cleaning cloth. “I’m always right. Our friendship will go a lot more smoothly if you just accept that now.”
“Still not friends,” she heard him mumble as she moved to clear the next table. But since it was followed by a pleased hum and him taking another sip, she didn’t put much stock into it.
After packing the dirty dishes onto her tray, she wiped down the table as a car’s headlights washed over the parking lot. She looked up to watch the car continue along the highway. Then a shadow caught her attention. The person stood on the far side of the thin highway, the light making them appear like a shadow sculpted into human form.
The car drove on and the darkness rushed back to claim the shape. Nicole straightened, the plates forgotten, and peered into the night that lay beyond the glass. All she could see was her own reflection. Absently, she wrung the cloth around her fingers and edged back to Benton’s booth. Another car rounded the corner. Its high beams flashed across the road and she could see the shadow again. It was on this side of the road now. Standing completely still. Staring right at her. Chills encased her heart, strangling until the beats became heavy, sluggish thumps. Light glistened off something metal in the man’s hand. But then the car was gone and he vanished back into the night.
“Someone’s out there.”
Her voice barely rose over a whisper, but Benton immediately looked up from his half drunken coffee.
“Yeah,” Rick snorted as he came up behind her. “We’re a restaurant. That’s supposed to happen.”
No car came. It left her blind, but she knew he was still out there. Her skin prickled like a lightning storm was rolling in. The dread that had locked her heart shattered as fear took hold. Her heart thundered into a frantic pace as she felt the man’s gaze remain on her. He could see her but, for her, the glass had become a flawless black mirror.
“Where’s the boss?” she asked Rick.
“Went home already.”
“What?”
He scoffed and leaned against the side of the booth seat. “We’re only doing the drinks menu at this hour. I think we can handle it.”
Benton wasn’t as dismissive as Rick. His spine straightened, his jaw tightened, and he slowly turned his head to study the window beside him. An unstable silence descended upon them. Nicole pulled the cloth tightly around her hands, her knuckles aching in protest. They all jumped when a sharp, shrill squeal cut the night. It repeated, over and over, but she couldn’t see what was making the noise.
A car passed, offering them a fleeting glimpse of the parking lot. Victor was plastered against the window, his lips curled back with a sick smile, his hands pressed against the glass. Blood smeared across every inch he touched, oozing around his hands in a sickening halo, swelling to trail down in thin rivers. A butcher’s knife was trapped between his left hand and the window. It scraped against the surface each time he twitched, releasing that high-pitched squeal that frosted the marrow of her bones. He locked eyes with Benton. His smile grew. The car drifted away and its light began to fade. Victor didn’t move. His smile remained. His eyes never left Benton as the shadows crawled over him, gradually darkening. Then the light was gone and they were left staring at their own horrified expressions.
The fine screech of the knife against the glass trailed slowly across the window. It filled the diner, pouring over the empty chairs, highlighting how alone they were. Just the three of them and the bloodied man outside.
The sound kept moving. Carving a slow path, inch by inch, step by step, towards the door. Nicole burst into a sprint and the knife lifted from the glass. Without it, she had no way to know where he was. She barreled towards the entrance, not certain that she could beat him in this race, knowing that she had to. The door pushed in an inch before she could slam her weight against it. Her feet slipped out from under her and she crashed to the ground.
The blade of his knife slipped inside, slashing wildly, jabbing in an attempt to hit her shoulder. Plastering her feet to the tile floor, she rammed herself back. The door slammed closed but it was a short-lived victory. Her legs were strong but her feet slipped with each of Victor’s attacks.
“Lock the back door!” Benton ordered Rick as he lunged free of the booth and ran to help her.
> Rick bolted into the kitchen and Benton pushed his weight against the door. With him holding it steady, she focused on getting the lock in place. Each attempt was met by another stab, the blade squirming as it searched for flesh. He can see you. The thought repeated in her head, growing more hysterical each time. He can see you!
“Rick, get the lights!” she bellowed.
She flicked the lock. The lights snapped off. The mirror that had separated them reverted back into a window and she found herself a few inches from Victor. His eyes were fevered; the pupils grew wide to swallow all color, rendering them black pools that fixated on Benton alone. The grin remained, manic and wild, dripping with blood tainted saliva.
“Vic,” she stammered, tears clogging her words. Even as she got to her feet, the lock engaged, she couldn’t stop herself from holding her weight against the door. “Why are you doing this? You would never hurt me. You’d never hurt anyone!”
Benton grabbed her arm and tried to pull her back. She held her ground, her eyes on Victor, staring at him as if she could force the real Victor to the surface by will alone.
“This isn’t you.”
Victor’s smile died. He stared straight ahead, unmoving as stone, not even breathing. As if stuck from behind, his head slammed forward. It crashed into the glass with a sickening thud. Fine cracks formed in the glass, his blood seeping into the hairline fracture as he was forced against the door. The glass whined with the strain.
“Victor?”
Benton yanked her back as Victor straightened. He slammed his head forward again. The fractures splintered, expanding into a spider web of cracks.
“I’m calling the police!” Rick yelled from the kitchen.
Victor ploughed forward again. Benton pulled at Nicole’s arm, no longer taking care not to hurt her.
“I need to help him,” she snapped.
“Crazy guy with knife,” Benton hissed back. “Run now, help later.”
Crack. The glass shattered enough that blood oozed out onto their side.
“Yeah,” she nodded.
They pushed and shoved at each other, both trying to force the other in front as they fled to the kitchen. Rick already had a mobile at his ear, a frying pan clutched in his other hand. He held it up as they stumbled in, but realized it was them just before swinging. Benton grabbed a handful of his shirt as they passed, dragging him along behind them as Nicole led the way to the end of the prep station. There was no real good place to hide, but at least there, they wouldn’t be illuminated by the moonlight if Victor was to open the door. Huddled in the dark, she cowered into Benton’s warmth, one hand searching the counter for some kind of weapon.
The thumping continued. She hadn’t known just how well she could identify the sound of breaking glass. But she could. She could tell in an instant that it began to yield to Victor. Her fingers ghosted over stainless steel, but everything had been packed away for the night. She heard the glass rain down over the floor. His shoes crushed it into the tiles. Victor was inside.
Nicole sunk back down in the resounding silence and placed a hand over her mouth to stifle the sounds of her breathing. They waited. Rick’s mobile was still pressed to his ear, its glow like a lighthouse in the shadows. A beacon that would lead Victor straight to them. Silence. A cold chill built against her legs. She peered around the corner to the kitchen door, Benton’s hand a steady weight against her back. Her heart stammered as the door slowly opened. In the thick shadows, she couldn’t see anything pushing it. Just the door, growing wider. Benton’s grip tightened, balling in her uniform, twitching as he fought the urge to drag her back. The door released a soft groan as it opened. Wider. Moving at an excruciatingly slow pace but never showing why.
Suddenly, red and blue lights flashed across the door. Whatever had been forcing it open vanished, allowing it to swing free, back and forth, the slightest whisper it produced lost under the wail of the police sirens.
Chapter 8
Hours later, Benton trudged wearily through his front door and followed his parents into the kitchen. He didn’t question his father when he was instructed to sit on the kitchen counter and wasn’t surprised when he was handed a fine china tea cup with a matching saucer. The Bertrands weren’t cooks, lacking the time, inclination, and anything resembling taste. But they always had the fixings for a decent cup of tea. His hands always felt too big and clumsy for the delicate little cup, but he appreciated the normalcy. It was what his parents gave him when they wanted to offer comfort but didn’t know what to say or do. He’d had a lot of tea over the years.
He took a sip of the steaming liquid and grimaced. It tasted flat and overly sweet. If it was a local brand, he really hoped that it wasn’t going to become a constant in the family routine. But, not wanting to offend his father, he forced himself to take another sip, trying to figure out how to whip up a spicy taco latte.
“Drink the whole thing, dear,” his mother said before busying herself cleaning nothing in particular.
Theodore stood in front of the sink, his back to Benton, the faucet constantly running as he absently washed the same cup repeatedly. The lingering silence grew thick enough to choke on, but it seemed that no one wanted to be the first to break it. Benton kept his gaze fixed on the cup in his hand, forcing down one sip after another of their peace offering.
His mother abruptly stopped wiping down the counter. “You know you’re safe now, right honey?”
Benton eyed her suspiciously as he swallowed another mouthful. She was throwing a lot of endearments his way and he couldn’t tell if it was a symptom of concern or some attempt to smooth over the events from this morning. For a while, he contemplated making this as difficult as possible, but the long horrible day had robbed him of his anger.
“Yeah,” he forced a smile. “I know.”
“It wasn’t about you,” Theodore said as he roughly turned off the faucet. “The rumor in town is that this Victor character has been struggling with a drug problem of some sort for a while.”
“I have half a mind to sue our realtor. She told us this was a nice town.”
“One sick boy doesn’t make a bad town, Chey.”
Benton didn’t comment and was quickly losing track of the conversation. There was something homey and comforting in just sitting still with a hot beverage, and he savored the moment, feeling the stress that had been keeping him in knots trickle away, leaving his limbs feeling boneless and heavy.
“But you’re safe,” Cheyanne said softly. She cupped his jaw with both hands and he let her take the weight, suddenly too tired to lift his head on his own. “The police officer is right outside. He checked the house. You’re safe, baby boy.”
It was hard to keep track of what she was saying through the rising static in his brain. Every time he tried to focus, the world seemed to lurch and roll, and colors began to blur around the edges. Benton shook his head, or at least he thought he did. The insides of his skull seemed to slosh about, but his mother’s fingers remained as a solid, unmoving pressure against his skin.
“We have a chance here, Benton. One we can’t let pass us by. We are safe. We can finally get a good night’s sleep.” Her fingers stroked his hair and her voice turned into a syrupy sweet whisper. “But you can’t scream, baby. You can’t scream. The whole town would hear about it. After everything that’s happened, we can’t have these people thinking you’re sick.”
That’s stupid, he thought. Who would question him having a nightmare after someone actively tried to kill him? He opened his mouth to say as much, but his tongue remained thick and heavy. The teacup slipped from his fingers but it didn’t smash against the floor. Benton couldn’t understand it until he saw Theodore place the cup gently on the counter next to his thigh. The loose-limbed sensation spread down to his bones and his addled mind finally saw it for what it was.
“You drugged me?”
Theodore pulled at Benton’s eyelids, checking to see how his eyes dilated, if the drugs had fully taken hold. He tried
to pull away, but his father held him easily in place.
“This is for your own good. You’ll feel better once you have a decent sleep,” Theodore said. “We all will.”
The words lodged into Benton’s dulled mind, but he couldn’t get any of it to make actual sense. Victor had tried to kill him, twice, in one day. He couldn’t fathom why his parents would choose now of all times to render him vulnerable. A heartbeat later, it hit him that it wasn’t just Victor he would be helpless against. The narcotics would knock him out and keep him out. He’ll dream. Over and over. You need to throw up, his mind shrieked. Now!
He slipped off the counter and his legs gave out the second he put weight on them. Cheyanne and Theodore instantly moved to help him. With an angry, uncoordinated swipe of his arm, he pushed past them and staggered to the kitchen sink. Don’t sleep, he clung to the thought like a lifeline. You can’t go to sleep. He shoved two shaking fingers down his throat, trying to force himself to gag. Theodore appeared by his side and, despite Benton’s struggle with every last ounce of strength, he was able to easily pull his hand away. Benton slumped against the counter. The fight only made the drugs work faster.
“He wants to kill me.” Benton’s snarl dwindled into a sob as he said it.
His parents only shushed him as they steered him towards the staircase.
“I hate the drugs.”
“It’ll be okay,” Cheyanne said.
He wanted to scream that it wouldn’t be. Wanted to holler it to the ceiling. Bellow and rage until the officer busted down the door. But all that came out was a staggered, pained groan. The drug was thick within his veins. It melted each of his muscles into useless sludge that sloshed within the shell of his skin. By the time they were dragging him up to the second floor, his eyes were burning and throbbed in unison with his heartbeat. The battle was not just to keep his eyes open but to remember why he had to.