The rain flew at his face. God, he could practically drink the stuff as it rolled off his face right into his mouth.
He had taken just a few giant leaps when he heard the alarm.
“Shit!” he said. The damn car alarm had gone off. The car looked intact. Fine. What the hell could be . . . ?
He dug his keys out and stuck them in the door lock, twisting them to the left. The alarm went silent. There was no sign of any tampering. None at all. He looked in the back seat, but it was all dark, catching none of the light from the liquor store. He could see the front, and the cellular phone was there, and the Blaupunkt radio. He breathed easier.
I must get a better alarm system, he thought. Friends had advised him not to go with BMW’s standard system. Get a custom job, they said.
He opened the door and hopped into the car. He took the bottle and stuck it on the floor, in the back, next to the toys.
I’m soaked, he thought. He smelled the furry odor of his wet wool suit—as if the water had revived all the dry-cleaning fluids.
Maybe I should call Lisa again, he thought. I’m running late. Just let her know that I’m on my way. He reached for the receiver.
It was wet.
“What the . . . ,” he said. He took the receiver in his other hand and looked at the wet spot in his palm. It wasn’t water. It was something else, something thicker—
He heard something. From the backseat. A crinkling sound, one of the toys. It’s the champagne bottle, he thought, rolling to the side. He let his right hand trail back, searching for it, checking it.
His eyes looked up to the rearview mirror. It was still black back there, completely black—until a car turned, backing out of Big Ray’s parking lot. Its headlights pointed right at Mattson’s car, and he saw something in the rearview mirror. Two eyes looking right at him.
Mattson took a breath.
The doll, he thought. It’s just the doll’s eyes. Sitting back there. It’s no big deal.
He watched the blue eyes. And then the car turned away and it was dark again.
Mattson licked his lips. He had thrown the doll on its back. Way off to the side, he thought.
He kind of laughed. A shallow fart of air. But as he turned around in his seat, he felt something ram against his head. Something pointed right at his temple. And he heard a voice. A weird, ugly voice, hissing at him.
“Freeze, asshole!”
8
Shit, Mattson thought. Oh, shit. Somebody got into the car. Somebody got into the damn car. And they locked it again, and damn, oh God, I should have paid attention to the alarm, the damn alarm!
“Wh-what do you want?” Mattson said. (I thought it was the doll, he thought. How could I mistake—)
“No questions. Just drive.”
Mattson nodded. Best to cooperate with whoever it is. Best to do exactly as he says. Don’t get him mad or upset, and maybe, yeah, maybe I’ll get out of this thing alive—
He felt the gun pressed tight against his head. “Now left . . . up to the corner. Yeah, then right. And straight. That’s it, asshole. You’re doing good. Real good.” Mattson nodded. The gun followed the bobbing of his head. “I said don’t damn well move. You got that?”
The intruder emphasized his point by jabbing the gun into the back of Mattson’s head.
Mattson looked in the rearview mirror. But he couldn’t see anything now. Nothing.
He just felt the gun.
They left the city, and the guy with the gun directed him into the suburbs, a blurry vision under the torrents of rain.
Maybe he just needed a ride, Mattson thought. Maybe that’s all he needs. A ride someplace . . . and then he’ll let me go.
I’ll still be able to go to Lisa.
Mattson took a breath.
“All right, all right,” the strange voice hissed. “All right, slow down.”
He’s looking at the house, Mattson guessed. Checking the numbers. And Mattson was tempted to turn around and look at his captor.
But that might make him mad. I don’t want to make him mad. I’m close to getting out of this, Mattson thought, real close. Just gotta hang in there, just gotta—
“Okay, now drive up the block, up there. You see that church?”
Mattson started to nod but caught himself. “Yes.”
“Pull into the parking lot.”
The parking lot . . .
Mattson saw that it was dark, deserted. No AA meeting tonight. No church supper. No bingo. Even the church itself was all dark. God was out of town.
“And stop!” the voice hissed at him, close to his ear.
Mattson stopped his car. There was only the sound of the rain. No pitter-patter, but a savage whipping sound.
“Put your arms behind the seat.”
“What?”
The gun swung around a bit and jabbed at Mattson’s cheek. “Do it!”
Mattson did as he was told. Letting go of the wonderful security of the steering wheel, he brought his hands behind the seat.
“More!” the voice yelled. “Stretch your arms around!”
Then Mattson started shaking. What’s he going to do to me? he wondered. Oh, God, what is he going to do to me?
He heard a crinkling noise and the sound of toys being moved around. And then—very quickly—he felt his hands being wrapped around and around with a Good Guy slinky. Around and around, until the coils were tight. Mattson kept shaking in his seat. He tried to talk. But his throat, his lips, were so dry nothing came out.
He tried wetting his lips. “Please,” he whimpered. “Please don’t shoot me. I have plastic. Visa, American Express Gold Card. You can have them all—just . . .”
But the pistol was there, pointing at the side of his head. He could turn his eyes and see the barrel.
Oh, please, he thought. Then he started to beg again, but the voice was in his ear. “Bang!” it said. Mattson heard the trigger being pulled, and then a stream of water shot right into his eye.
And now the voice laughed, loud, uproarious laughter. And Mattson started to laugh, too. It’s not a real gun, he thought. Oh, God . . . it’s not real. He tied me up and he’s going to let me live because it’s not a real gun!
Mattson was undisturbed by the other sounds he heard, the sounds of rustling plastic. One of the Good Guy bags was being emptied.
Probably going to use it to take his stuff, Mattson thought. Keep his stuff dry. Yeah, probably . . .
The guy was still laughing and Mattson kept laughing. It was funny. He was going to live. And here he had thought he was going to die.
The sound of the plastic bag was closer. The man’s strange laughing was closer.
And then the bag was pulled over Mattson’s head.
And the drawstring was pulled tight.
Now Mattson kicked and pulled. Fighting against his seat belt, fighting against the drawstring that closed around his neck. He screamed, and he heard the muffled sound inside the bag. He was breathing hard, pulling the plastic tight against his face. He tasted it. He tried to chew at it, to chew a hole. But there just wasn’t enough slack.
He sucked at it.
He heard the car’s back door open.
He sucked again, breathing nothing.
And through the clear plastic he saw someone running away, to the sidewalk.
Someone short. Someone with red hair.
He sucked one more time.
One last time.
Andy woke up.
The nightmare ended.
And he saw that the door was really open, not closed like he thought it was. Open like it was supposed to be. And there was pale blue light . . . a night-light.
He still held the blanket close. But even lying flat, he could see that toy chest was shut.
If he had been home, he might have called out for his mommy. He would have asked her to sit with him in the dark. Or he might have padded into her room and curled up next to her, feeling so safe next to her warm body.
But he wasn’t home.
He reached out for the light switch. The light came on, making his eyes blink. He saw the picture of his mother on the table, right next to his bed, where he had put it earlier.
And he remembered what Mom had said: “It happened, Andy. They won’t believe us. They won’t even believe the detectives. Because they don’t want to. But you know it happened, and I know. And it won’t be long before we are back together.”
Andy had asked, “Why won’t the detective help us? Why won’t he tell them what happened?”
She smiled and said that he had tried. Really tried. But this . . . this separation . . . this temporary separation had to happen.
Andy nodded and said, “Yes,” when his mother asked him whether he could be a big boy.
Now he looked around the room, at the football and baseball posters, the nice color blue. He sat up and looked at the closed toy chest. Then he crept forward a bit, until he could reach down and open it.
He flicked the chest open, banging the lid against the wall, and he saw the doll, Tommy. He crept forward a bit more, right to the edge of the bed, and leaned down, slowly, so slowly, and picked up the doll. He turned it around until he could see its face—those big eyes, that stupid smile.
I hate that smile, Andy thought.
Holding the doll as far away from his body as he could, he stepped off the bed and walked over to his door.
Andy stopped at his doorway. He leaned out and looked down the hallway. It was dark, except for a faint stream of moonlight from a small window at the end of it. And he saw the stairs leading down, to more darkness.
He stepped out of the pretty blue room. When he got to the stairs, he carried Tommy by one leg, dangling the doll from one hand while his other hand held onto the bannister. He stepped carefully through the darkness.
And he wondered, Will Tommy say something while I carry him? Will everyone hear and come running out to see what I’m doing?
He made sure of every step he took. Slowly, carefully guiding his feet down. I don’t want to fall, he thought. Not with the doll. I might fall on the doll. I don’t want to do that.
He got to the last step. He turned and walked straight into the living room. It had been such a sunny room earlier that day, but now it was filled with dark, ominous shadows. For a moment he backed away, almost out of the room. The chairs crouched in the room like sleeping animals.
He gathered together all his courage and took one step inside the room. Then another, and another, until he could make out the shape of the big easy chair just to his left. He swung Tommy back and forth, back and forth as if he was giving him a ride, taking him for a swing. He flung the doll toward the chair.
He watched it travel through the air and then land in the chair. Tommy’s head flopped against one of the arms.
Then Tommy turned. And—without looking back—Andy ran, as hard as he could, straight up the stairs, straight into his room, stopping only to shut off the light. And then—with the doll outside—he locked the door.
And he waited, thinking, At least it’s out of my room. At least it’s not here anymore.
9
Kyle crept into the house, as quietly as possible. No way did she want Phil to come padding down the stairs, making a big deal because she was late.
Late! Does he know what century this is?
He tried to act like her father—grabbing her cigarettes and setting a curfew! It was a joke, but Kyle played along. It was better here at Chez Joanne and Phil than at the center, and much better here than in the street . . . Well, not much, but better. Free food and free board while she made her plans. Made plans and earned money.
Asking people whether they wanted pickles and mustard on their burgers didn’t pay much, but she was able to save something. Not a lot, but something. If she could just hang in here a few months, she might have a couple hundred dollars saved.
I could go to California on that, she thought.
She walked up the carpeted stairs. The grandfather clock ticked so loudly she was sure it masked her footsteps. Tick. Tick. Tick. It was an ugly old thing, the size of a coffin, and every hour it noisily bonged. There were a lot of old things in this house.
She had already reached her room when she thought she heard something down the hall.
Maybe it’s that new kid, Andy. He complicates things, she thought. She couldn’t imagine that dear old Phil and Joanne would care about keeping her, with a cute little boy running around. She might have to be on her best behavior.
And wouldn’t that be disgusting?
She shrugged, hearing nothing, and went into her room.
Chucky crouched behind the mailbox. The rain had soaked his striped T-shirt and coveralls, which now stuck to his plastic skin like shrink wrap. But there it was, he saw. Right there, just across the street. Andy’s new home.
My new home, Chucky thought.
A car roared up the street, sending a spray of water slicing out toward him. He ducked behind the mailbox.
There are advantages in being this size, he thought. Definite advantages. No one sees you. And it’s great for slashing at people’s legs, cutting them just behind the knees or severing their tendons. That brings the big guys down pretty quick.
He stepped away from the mailbox and, checking that the street was clear, ran across it. A loud crack of thunder seemed to cheer him on.
He got to the driveway and saw a station wagon.
That hadn’t been there before, he thought. Somebody had just come home. No problem, he thought. I can be quiet.
He was walking alongside the car, near the front of it, when he heard movement, then tapping sounds, a growl. A monstrously large German shepherd leaped out, barking and snarling at him.
Chucky froze.
He could tear me into pieces, he thought. He could bite my doll body and cut me right in two! And I don’t have anything to fight him off with.
The German shepherd sniffed the air. Then it took a step closer to him.
Chucky smiled. Hey, he thought, he’s confused. Doesn’t quite know what to make of me. I’m not a human, and I’m not a raccoon, so what the hell am I?
The dog stopped. Chucky saw the rain splatter its blackish snout. He saw a recognizable glint in the big dog’s eyes.
It was a look Chucky knew well.
It was fear.
“Okay,” Chucky said. “You want me? Here I am.” He took a step closer to the dog, stretching out his doll hands. They were strong, those little doll hands. Amazingly strong. As he walked, Chucky pictured himself leaping on the dog’s back and riding it while he pulled tight around its neck, and tighter, until the stupid animal was dead.
Chucky took another step. He made his eyes click open and shut.
“Here I am,” he whispered.
The dog moaned. It scratched at the ground and backed away. It snorted, turned, and bolted toward the back of the house.
What a pussy, Chucky thought. He glanced up at the side of the house. He saw a rose trellis that looked almost like a ladder. Maybe I could climb up the trellis, he thought. Right up to a window on the second floor.
Yeah, and maybe the whole thing will come ripping off the walls, and I’ll go flying on my little rubbery ass.
There has to be an easier way.
He kept walking down the driveway, looking for a better way inside the nice Simpson house.
Then he discovered that someone had left the back door open.
Kyle pulled her nightgown over her head, and—damn!—she heard a sound again. It came from outside, a growling sound. Probably just the dog from next door, a big animal that the neighbors put out each night as if it were a cat.
She pulled her hair through the nightgown and went to the window. It was still raining hard. She saw the station wagon. And the driveway. But she didn’t see anything else.
It’s probably nothing, she thought.
But then she heard a real sound—a scream.
From right inside the house.
Kyle got to Andy’s room first.
She went to the doorknob. She twisted it, but the door didn’t open.
Shit, she thought. It’s locked. She still heard the kid screaming from inside the bedroom, and it made her back away from the door—as if whatever had him inside could get her too.
She knocked. “Andy, you okay? Are you . . .”
Then Phil was there. “What the hell . . . ?” he said.
“He cried out,” Kyle said. “But his door is locked.”
She watched Phil try the doorknob, twisting it violently left and right.
“Phil,” Joanne said, coming up next to her husband, touching his arm. “Can’t you get it open?”
Kyle pounded on the door and said, “Andy? Andy, open up.”
But the kid just kept screaming. And Kyle thought of the sound she had heard outside, down in the driveway. At least she thought it was outside.
Phil pushed her aside and rammed the door, sending his big body crashing into it.
It didn’t budge.
He backed up and ran harder at it. Andy’s screaming only seemed to swell as Phil banged into the door.
“Hurry!” Joanne yelled.
But Kyle could see that Phil’s charging the door wasn’t getting anywhere. She ran back to her room and snatched a nail file off her night table. She could hear Andy’s screaming through the walls. She ran back to the door.
“Let me try,” she said, inserting herself between Phil and the door.
Phil stopped for a moment and said, “Where did you learn how to do that?”
But she just kept working the file into the lock, flicking it left and right. She began to think it wasn’t going to work. Phil put his hands on her shoulders to move her away.
And just then she heard a click.
She threw the door open.
Kyle watched them try to comfort Andy. Phil and Joanne were all smiles, patting Andy’s forehead, which was sopping. They kept trying to pull the blankets down from his neck. But Andy held them tight, his fingers locked on the satiny edge.
“Andy, it’s all right,” Joanne cooed.
No it’s not, Kyle thought. That kid is one scared little puppy.
He was shaking as if he were feverish. Phil stood up. The head of the household looked confused by the whole thing.
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