When they stepped around the scaffolding and reached the intersection, they stopped for a moment and looked at the idling car. They couldn’t see through the tinted glass, and the tall boy made some rude comment that was muddled by his cohorts’ laughter. Something about global warming and killing the ozone layer. He was visibly high.
They all crossed, and then the tall boy stopped on the other side of the street. He kissed the girl and started walking away with his friends. She asked him to walk her the rest of the way home, and he burst into laughter.
“You’re a fucking asshole, Parker!” she shouted. The boy called her a fucking whore, and with his friends at his side and howling in laughter, headed down the street toward the park.
The girl glanced at the car. She was pretty, perhaps fourteen, with fine skin and even finer hair, blond curls that caressed her shoulders. She looked familiar, and when he put face to memory, he realized it was Amanda Kerrington. Her mother, Barbara, taught English at the high school, which was just down the street from their home.
He was certain she couldn’t see him, but as she lingered he began to wonder. She went to his right, and he turned left. He doubled back one street over, and was waiting for her, several houses down from hers, with the lights and the engine off, when she turned onto her street. As he watched her head up her driveway and walk in the front door, the hunger swelled.
He couldn’t settle down. Mere hours had passed since the elixir of life and death had cast its spell in his crimsoned hands. He had taken his fill, his cup spilling with blood, and still it was not enough.
It was never enough.
~
Still restless, he roamed the streets aimlessly, and finally circled back, passing Shelby’s Pub on Main. The lights at the bar were off, and the usual Saturday-nighters that crowded the front steps were long gone.
Turning at the corner, he made his way along Leslie Avenue and stopped at the first intersection. A woman was on the sidewalk to his right, heading down a dimly lit street. He recognized her when she crossed to the other side. Julie Jacobs.
He turned down the street and passed her. At the corner, he idled as she took the steps to her front door.
Go home, he thought. Go now.
He found himself parking his car and skulking down the grassy path behind the darkened homes on her street. The shrill chirping of crickets enveloped him as he set down his bag.
Through her back window, he watched her prepare a bowl of soup in a microwave oven. She was beautiful, every curve perfect. He stepped softly to the next window as she took her meal into the living room.
She turned on the TV and sat on her modest sofa. An aging beagle lay at her feet. She ate a little and set down her spoon. A moment later, she held her head in her hands and began to sob.
The hunger nearly took him. She was so vulnerable … so within his grasp.
He shut his eyes. Set his hands together as if in prayer.
Please, God. Give me the strength to walk away.
But in that blackness of his thoughts he saw his prey, saw the blade slip across her perfect throat.
Slowly, he opened his eyes. What beauty she possessed. What grace.
What life.
~
In his bed in complete darkness, he finally began to settle. God willing, the hunger would wait another day.
He had watched Julie Jacobs for almost an hour, had nearly succumbed to temptation. It had taken all of his will not to pick the lock on her back door after she turned in. It had been the third time in two months that the hunger had driven him to the edge.
His first trial had come from a young girl named Sarah Coleman. He didn’t know her, but he knew her father from the bakery where he worked. It had been a chance encounter; he had been out for a late-night stroll in the park, and she had been sitting alone on a bench at the fountains. He had watched her from behind some bushes, and if she hadn’t gotten up when she had—if he had had the knife—
The second trial had come on Wednesday night. His mechanic, Jim Tate, had his car on the hoist. Jim was going over the damage to the exhaust system, caused by a pothole on the way back from the Henneman farm. He had known Jim for years, and whether it was familiarity or simply sympathy for that oddly shaped eye, somehow he had been able to resist the urge to bludgeon him, Jim’s massive pipe wrench just a step away.
Guilt swallowed him. He did not like the randomness of his urges now. For years—decades—he had had the discipline to control them, had owned the will to kill when he deemed it necessary. At planting. At harvest. It had been enough to sate the hunger.
He had tried to stop it. Moving to Fremont, Ohio, six years ago, he had placed his faith in a fresh start to stem the bloodlust, stem the shame. He had turned his life around, curbing his lust day by day, month by month, year by year. It was all going so well. That was, until a cool evening last Thanksgiving, when he fell from his newfound grace. Right up to the moment when the knife splayed its first throat in sixty-eight months and three days, he had told himself—lied to himself—that his abstention from the hunger had cured him of his urges, that his reward for self-sacrifice should be the mutilation of a beautiful black Labrador.
If only he’d left that cursed Gladstone in Montana.
And now? His dark appetite seemed insatiable, leaving no recourse but to kill out of need, beast after beast, just to contain this growing want that boiled within him.
There was more. A black shroud had enveloped Torch Falls, and the urges he endured had grown in step with the madness that had taken root. All the strange deaths, all the misery, seemed to fuel his fire for human sacrifice. His resistance was failing, and for that failure there was but one conclusion: God would finally abandon him, and he, the weak and the shameful, would succumb to the hunger.
A single tear slid from his eye.
He slept without dreams.
~ 122
Just after nine on Sunday morning, Marisa put on her seat belt and asked her son to do the same. Kit buckled up, still staring at the freshly painted front door of the house. The top half was its usual faded taupe, the bottom crisp white. She knew he wanted to ask who had spray-painted that nasty word, and she hoped that he wouldn’t.
Not that she didn’t know who it was. Of course it was Bobby Duncan. He was the only person she knew who had the balls to do such a thing in broad daylight. And who else was stupid enough to spell CUNT with a K?
The thing was, no matter who was responsible, she had far more pressing concerns. Even if Jared abandoned her, she was still here. If this madness continued, sooner or later the entire town would be gunning for her … for Kit. As if dodging some invisible phantom wasn’t enough.
She needed help, and despite his physical condition and fragile state of mind, she needed Jared. In desperation she had tried to call him, but he wouldn’t pick up. When she called the hospital desk to patch her through to his room, she was told that he’d checked himself out. Now, with no recourse—her mind still racing for an alternative—she found herself heading for the west side of town.
~ 123
As she turned onto County Road 10, Marisa considered how this would go. She hadn’t seen Judd Collado in nearly a year. He’d been dry—at least he’d told her he was—but with Judd you could never be sure. Even in his darkest days under the influence, he’d had his moments of sobriety. And it wasn’t like the man always told the truth. Maybe it was genetic.
“Are we almost there?” Kit asked. He’d been silent until now.
“Almost,” Marisa said, hoping she didn’t sound as anxious as she was. The gravel road cut through the sprawling fields, and she could see Judd’s house on the rise ahead. She let up on the gas without even realizing it. The car crept up to the driveway, and even as she was about to turn into it, a part of her wanted to do a quick three-point turn and head back to town.
She backed in beside the Beetle that was still up on blocks. Judd had been planning on restoring it for years, and his complete lack of progress
only reminded her how some things never change. Heartbreak. A feud between brothers.
The home wasn’t as fresh or as welcoming as she remembered. There had been bright wildflowers in the graying bushel baskets on the deck, some colorful hanging plants, too. The white paint had yellowed and peeled. The Adirondack chairs could use refinishing, and then there was the broken railing.
The metal garage doors were shut. The left one had a big dent in it. Judd’s pickup was parked in front of the right one, and she held mixed feelings about that. Part of her had hoped it wouldn’t be here.
“Are you sure this is the right place?” Kit asked. “I thought you were seeing Jared’s brother.”
“This is the place. His name’s Judd, by the way.”
“But it said Collado on the mailbox.”
“Coe-YAY-doe,” Marisa said, correcting Kit’s phonetical Call-a-doe. “It’s Spanish. The double L sounds like a Y.” She imagined having a similar conversation with Bobby Duncan over a C and a K.
“Shouldn’t it say Cole?”
“I’ll let you in on a little secret, kiddo. Jared’s last name used to be Collado. He changed it when he became an author.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Sometimes writers do things like that.”
“Why?”
“Sometimes they just want a new identity, I guess.”
“Why?”
Marisa was exasperated. “They just do.” She had to admit, she didn’t really understand it herself. When Jared had told her he was changing his name, she felt he had been too excited about it. As if he were running from who he was and couldn’t get away fast enough.
The front steps beckoned. It was all she could do to muster the nerve to take them. “I want you to wait in the car, okay?”
Kit nodded, and she got out. There was no breeze, and the air was stifling. She did not see any empties lying around. A good sign. Still, as she made her way to the steps, she almost turned around. Then she found herself at the door, pressing gently on the doorbell.
She heard plodding footsteps beyond the door. If he opened it, she feared Judd would slam it in her face. Their last encounter, when she’d run into him purely by chance at the Conoco, had been more than a little awkward. It had been almost six years since she had seen him, and despite all that time, Judd had been unusually brusque, even for him. Old wounds.
The door opened. Judd stood expressionless scratching his hair, and she wondered if he recognized her. Wondered if he’d been up all night on a bender.
“Well, well,” he said flatly. His voice didn’t carry its usual vigor. His hair was thinner, a touch of salt with the pepper. Unshaven as he usually was, she had always found his scruff made him roguishly handsome. He had those sexy Spanish eyes, dark and mysterious like his father’s. The fact that he wore a black wife-beater T-shirt that emphasized a sculpted chest and biceps didn’t hurt, either. Still, he looked run down, his skin slightly ashen, the deep lines in his face somehow deeper than she remembered.
“Judd, I … I hope I’m not disturbing you.” When he didn’t respond, she figured the door would answer for him. “Judd, I—”
“Shoulda called first.”
“I’m sorry. You’re right. But I figured you would’ve hung up on me.”
He paused at that, glancing past her to the hatchback. The bright reflection from the windshield made him squint. “Is that—”
She cut him off. “Yes.”
Judd nodded, almost obligingly. He seemed to hesitate, and then he surprised her by inviting her in without taking his eyes off the car.
“I’d rather talk to you alone,” she said. “If that’s okay.”
Judd turned away. Marisa turned to her son and gave him five fingers, indicating the minutes she needed—and feared that those old wounds had already splayed open.
~ 124
Marisa closed the door behind her and joined Judd in the spartan, slightly cluttered living room. The place was mildly musty with a lingering odor of cigarette smoke. There wasn’t a single bottle lying around. Not a tease of the smell of alcohol.
Judd sat in a chair adjacent to the sofa and lit up a Marlboro Red. Marisa sat on the sofa, and wasn’t surprised or offended when he didn’t offer her a seat or a refreshment. He was the brawn in the family, a tad rough around the edges, but that bad-boy persona was always seductive.
“So how’s Little Brother?” he said, flipping his Zippo shut and placing it on the table next to the half-filled ashtray. “What’s he fucked up now?”
“He hasn’t done anything,” she said defensively. “But he is the reason I’m here.”
“No shit.”
“You know I wouldn’t have come if it wasn’t important. But I won’t lie to you. I didn’t want to.”
“What’s the problem? Not all sunshine and rainbows in Cole-ville?”
“That’s not fair, Judd. He’s going through a lot right now.”
“Gotta be rough havin’ shit in his life. I can’t imagine.”
“When are you going to drop this blame game?”
“I don’t blame him for a damn thing. It’s about takin’ responsibility. Somethin’ he never has.”
“What’s the difference? You won’t ever let him forget what happened. You don’t even—” She stopped herself.
“Don’t even what.”
“Nothing.”
He took a drag on his cigarette. “Oh, I know. And so does Jared.”
“This is such a waste. Can’t you see that?”
Judd shrugged it off.
“Do you think your father would like to see you two at odds like this?”
Judd narrowed his eyes. “Well. If he were still here, he wouldn’t, would he?”
Marisa bit back her tongue before she lashed out with something she’d regret. She focused on Judd’s gold and silver rings as he took another drag. They honored Oro and Plata of course, but she couldn’t help but feel they were more like two brothers who were so close, yet so impossibly apart.
Finally, calmly, she spoke. “I won’t sit here and debate you over this. God knows I’ve tried, but I can’t fix a fence that’s unfixable. Only you two can do that. But right now, I need you to listen.”
Judd seemed to consider, and just as she feared he would ask her to leave, he sat back in the chair.
“Thank you,” she said. She wasn’t sure how to proceed, and wasn’t sure if she could. “Have you heard about what’s going on in town? Any of it?”
“A’course I heard it. It’s all over the damn radio. Christ, me and Artie Fisher—we’re like brothers.”
“I know,” she said, wishing Jared meant as much to him. “I hope they find him.”
Judd nodded.
“I guess you heard about the parade,” she said. “I mean, after the parade.”
Judd took a long puff, and he set down the cigarette in the ashtray. “You mean Jared Cole Day.”
“Come on, Judd. It wasn’t like it was his idea. God, for once, can’t you set your petty jealousies aside?”
“This isn’t about me. It’s about him. It’s always about him.”
She didn’t know what to say.
He sat forward. “What’s he done?”
She put on her best poker face. “I told you. He hasn’t done anything.”
“Really? The way the radio tells it, pretty much hell broke loose on Friday. People trampled. Attacked by ghosts.”
“They said that?”
“Gwen Cowen. You know, one of those sound bites.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
“Maybe not. But look me in the eye and tell me my little brother’s got nothin’ to do with it. Any of it.”
She didn’t answer.
“What’s goin’ on, Marisa?”
Again she said nothing. She had to pull herself together before she blurted out everything. Before she started bawling.
“Marisa?”
She sniffled, clearly struggling. Judd put a hand on her knee.
“Don’t,” she said, and gently pushed it away.
He eased off. “I didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”
“Of course you did. It was three dates, Judd. Three. Don’t make it more than it was.”
“It was a little more than just dates, Mar.”
That was enough to sober her. She didn’t like the fact that they’d slept together, had regretted it ever since. But what really pissed her off was the smugness in his voice. And she hated him calling her Mar. “Can we move past this? Please?”
“So why’re ya here? Huh? The great Jared Cole fucks up again, and Big Brother’s supposed to come to his rescue? Again?”
“Stop it. Please.”
“Does he know about us?” When she didn’t answer right away, Judd shook his head, clearly disgusted.
“Why would I tell him? Aren’t you tired of hurting him?” She got up to go.
Judd stopped her. He eased her back into her seat and sat down. “I’m sorry.” He sounded sincere.
“And I’m sorry I hurt you,” she said. “Please try to understand. Things just weren’t right. I was a different person back then. I was still reeling from Jared.”
“Yeah. He’s got that effect on people.”
“Would you stop blaming him for everything? Please … just stop.”
“Fine,” he said. “So why are ya here? If he hasn’t done anything, if he’s not buried in some deep-ass shit, then why?”
“Because he needs Big Brother. Now, more than ever.”
“Whaddya talkin’ about?”
She knew she’d already said too much. “He’s not himself. He just moved back, but now he’s planning on leaving. Probably going back to New York.”
“You’re with him again. Aren’t you.”
She hesitated, frustrated. “This isn’t about that.”
“Jesus. You’re a real piece a work, Marisa. You’re havin’ the same old boyfriend problems with him, and you expect me to fix it?”
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