“Yeah,” Lou mumbled solemnly, his lips quivering. “I'm p-p-positive.” He couldn't stop trembling, but he didn't care. For all he knew, his friends were trembling, too. It was too dark to tell for certain.
“You had your school ID in there, didn't ya?” It was Max again, his voice high and accusing, his lips frozen in a snarl.
Lou made a half-strangled sob. “Oh, sh-shit. Yeah, I had e-everything in th-there. Name, address, ph-phone number. Everything.”
“Fuck!” Max droned.
“Don't worry about that now,” Mike said. “We're goin' to my house, calling an ambulance for her, and then we're callin' the cops. After that, it's out of our hands.”
“You bet your fuckin' ass I'm worried!” Max yelled. “I can't believe this! I can't fuckin' believe it! And you're telling me not to...” Max stopped himself abruptly, as if some troubling thought had just occurred to him, and in the darkness he squinted his eyes into mean little slits. Then he turned his accusing glare on Lou Swart and said through clenched teeth, “You had my name and address and all that shit in there, too, didn't ya? Didn't ya?”
Moonlight filtered down through the foliage and through the Thunderbird's windows, scanning their faces with horizontal bars of light. One such band now ran up Max's chest, gliding quickly up his neck, then his chin, flickering over his angry little mouth, slowing as it reached his nose, and pausing, it seemed, as it reached his cold blue-gray eyes, as if to emphasize the malevolence of his stare.
Lou saw Max's eyes in the light, and raised his trembling shoulders. “I-I th-think so. S-s-sorry. I-I-I d-d-didn't d-do it on pur-purpose...”
The light was gone in a sudden flash, and Max's face was all darkness again. “Tsss. Thanks a lot, you little fuck. If someone painted a fuckin' stripe on my ass for all the times you were sorry, I'd look like a fuckin' zebra by now.”
“Max?” Rick said, turning to face him, his eyes wild and void of patience.
“I didn't even get to see the fuckin' body, you little shit!”
“Max!” Rick repeated, louder this time. Max stopped and looked at him questioningly. Seizing Max's attention, Rick leaned over from the front seat, until their faces were almost touching, and Max knew right away that he meant business.
“What?” Max Kendall snapped.
“Shut...the fuck...UP!” Rick growled into his face, and stared him down without blinking until Max looked away.
Max flinched involuntarily, and with a look of shock and anger he leaned back into the shadows, with his hands balled into fists he dared not use. He remained motionless, seething, his eyes gleaming like fragments of blue-gray glass through his long, untamed hair.
Still leaning over the seat, Rick turned his attention to Lou, whose eyes flickered like strobelights as the tears surged down his face. Rick rested his hand on the young boy's tensed-up shoulder and said, “Don'tcha worry, man. It'll be alright. We'll be there soon.”
Mike narrowed his eyes and drove a little faster.
The Swart house stood on Sunset Ave, four houses down from the corner of Sunset and Vernon. It was a pleasant white Garrison with black shutters, a horseshoe-shaped driveway, and a small front lawn with neatly manicured hedges. Mike relaxed a little as the familiar street sign appeared in the headlights of his car. Not that he needed a sign. He'd lived his entire life at 52 Sunset Ave, and he could have found his way just as easily without the landmark.
But even from a distance, he could see that there was something different about the old neighborhood. Something terribly wrong.
His driving hand clenched the steering wheel. His other one clenched the armrest. He eased up on the gas pedal, staring through the windshield in disbelief.
Three patrol cars were parked in his driveway, and a fourth was at the curb that bordered his front lawn. Their flashing lights had transformed the front of his house into some kind of crazed impressionist's version of the American flag. Two uniformed officers were standing at the front door, while several others scanned the perimeter in a tangle of flashlight beams. One of them was standing in Mrs. Swart's flower garden, trying to shine his flashlight through the kitchen window.
Panic was unique in the sense that it could be shared. It only took one person to panic, but in situations where more than one person was present, it was oftentimes contagious. Anger, on the other hand, was a deeply personal emotion. Mike could think of a thousand reasons why the police were at his house, none of which gave them the goddamn right to trample his mother's flowers. His anger had rendered him breathless.
“Keep going,” Rick said.
His voice somehow cooled Mike's temper. Mike let the T-bird coast by the mouth of Sunset Ave and continued down Vernon Street. When they were a safe distance away, he set his foot on the gas pedal once again. He couldn't see his house anymore, and he was glad.
“Um, Mike, where the hell are you going?”
“Somethin's not right,” Mike murmured as he drove past his street and continued down Vernon. “What're the cops doing at my house?”
“What do ya think they're doing?” Max said. “They're looking for us.”
“No...Mike's right,” Rick said quietly. “Why would they be looking for us already? Don't you think that's strange? Nobody knows what happened. We haven't told anyone yet.”
“Maybe they're still looking for us from earlier, when we ditched that pig on Roller Coaster Road,” Max offered, sounding rather unsure of himself. “What's the difference, we were gonna call 'em anyway, right?”
“Then why do they have their guns out?” asked Rick.
Mike thought about that for a moment. “There's only one way to find out,” he said. “Reach under the seat and grab my cell phone.”
Rick dipped his hand under the seat, fumbling through papers, CDs, and empty beer cans. After a few seconds, he handed Mike the phone.
“Who're you calling?” asked Rick.
“I'm gonna call the police station,” Mike informed them, not yet sure of what he was going to say. “And find out what the hell's going on.” He dialed 911, and his call was routed to the Hevven Police Department's emergency line.
“Hevven Police Department, this is Sergeant Gleason speaking, this line is being recorded for your protection. Can I help you?” answered a weary, authoritative voice.
Okay, Mike. Be calm. Tell him exactly what happened.
“My name is Michael Swart,” Mike said, trying to maintain an air of composure. Instead, it came out sounding like a semi-hysterical confession. “Some friends and I…we found a body in the old house on Roller Coaster Road. We got a girl with us, she… “
“Where are you calling from?” Sergeant Gleason broke in. “Tell me where you're calling from, son, and we'll come and get you.”
“I'm sorry...I don't under—”
“We don't want any trouble, Mr. Swart. Let me talk to the girl.”
“What? I don't think that's even possible right now, sir. Look, she can't talk right now, she...”
“The smartest thing for you and your friends to do right now is to let the girl go, and turn yourselves in. Now tell me where you are and we'll send a cruiser to pick you up. We just want to ask a few questions, that's all. Don't make this difficult for yourselves.”
This can't be happening, Mike thought, feeling the blood rush to his face. He pressed the POWER OFF button and tossed the phone onto the dashboard. He suddenly felt the urge to drive off the face of the earth. If such a thing were possible he would have given it a try. It was all a bad dream, anyway. It had to be. He was beginning to feel like a rat in a cage. Where the hell was his alarm clock to wake him up and free him from this madness?
“What'd they say?” Rick asked.
“He said he wants us to turn ourselves in.”
“WHAT?” Max half-screamed, half-whined. “Turn ourselves in? For what? We didn't do nuthin'!”
Mike looked at Rick, and the expression on his face said it all. Mike told them quietly, calmly, “I think we should get the hell outta
here.”
“You mean, like, skip town?” Rick asked.
“Waitafuckinminute,” Max interjected. “What about the police? What're we gonna do about ...”
“SHUT UP! JUST SHUT UP AND LET ME THINK FOR A MINUTE!” Mike screamed sharply, angrily, and his friends, and the girl, all jumped in surprise. He rarely ever raised his voice. He rarely ever had to.
Silence.
After a few seconds, Mike regained his composure. “Okay,” he said calmly. “I think I know where we can go...”
“The Hevven ha-ha-Hacker,” Lou said in a distant voice.
“What?”
“The Ha-acker! It's the Hevven Hacker! We have to leave, or the Hacker will find us. He'll find us.” Lou spoke those words in a murky voice, as if mesmerized by the very thought.
The others looked at him with dismay and horror.
“That's just a story, you dipshit!” Max protested. “It's one of those legends, like the guy with the hook on his hand. They never found any bodies.”
“Wait a minute. What if he's right? What if it's not just a story?” Rick wondered out loud. “What about all those missing girls?”
“How come nobody's ever found any bodies?”
“What difference does it make? Just because they never found the bodies doesn't mean those girls are still alive.”
“Mike,” Max said, almost pleadingly. “What are we gonna do?”
“I had an uncle that lived in a town called Willow's Creek, way up in New Hampshire,” Mike continued. “He died a long time ago, but I'm pretty sure his cabin is still there.”
“So...what are you fuckin' sayin'? We run? We just leave, like we're fuckin' guilty or somethin'?”
“You’re the last person I thought would have a problem with that. You trust the cops? I sure as hell don't. If we leave, we'll be safe. So will our families. We need to get some money and...and some clothes. Lou and me can’t go back to our house, and we can't circle back to your house, Max, because we’d have to go by the cops again, and it's obvious they’re looking for us now. Rick, your place might be safe right now. Do you have any money? Maybe we can buy what we need.”
“Yeah, I got a few hundred at my house.”
“What if the fuckin' cops are already waitin' for us?” Max asked.
Mike didn't answer him. He didn't want to think about that. He drove on.
In the back seat a flame popped to life, filling the car with the smell of sulfur, as Max struck a match to light another cigarette. “We're so fucked,” he mumbled, squinting through a cloud of smoke.
Silently, the others agreed.
Five minutes later they arrived at Rick Hunter's house on Titicut Street. Fortunately the neighborhood was darkly quiet, at least for now. Mike parked his car at the curb.
Rick slipped the trembling girl's arms from around his waist, and she allowed him to do so without protest. She stared at him with lost, lovely eyes. Then she brought her knees up to her chest, her hair spilling across her face, and began to rock slowly back and forth. Although she had not spoken in the car, Rick felt as if she had some awareness as to what was going on around her.
“I'll be out in a minute,” Rick told no one in particular, and darted from the front seat of the car, jogging down the long dark driveway. He reached the front door, fumbled the key from his pocket, and suddenly realized that his mother's car was in the driveway. Shit, shit, shit! With a deep breath, he let himself in.
Once inside he was immediately greeted by the pleasant aroma of his mother's Italian cooking. The kitchen light was on and he knew that she was in there, probably warming dinner for his father, who often worked until 9 or 10 at night.
“Rick? Is that you?” his mother called out in her singsong voice.
Rick cleared his throat. “Yeah, it's me.”
“I was worried about you,” she said. “I came home and you weren't here.” There was a brief clanging of pots and pans.
She poked her head from around the corner and smiled. She was still pretty for a woman in her mid-40s, and despite all the recent traumas he'd put her through; tall and olive-skinned, with the same raven-black hair as her son. “Try and remember to leave a note, will you?”
“I will. I'm going out with Mike and the guys. I just gotta grab some things.”
“That's good,” his mother smiled, genuinely delighted. She had always liked the Swart brothers. “You should spend more time with your friends. Oh, and you got a letter from Dartmouth today. I left it on the table for you.”
“That's great,” he said. “I'll look at it later.”
Before his mother could go any further, he scurried upstairs to his bedroom. He flicked on the light, and his eyes moved quickly about the room as he surveyed the piles of dirty laundry, the unmade bed, the round ceramic ashtray stuffed with cigarette butts that rested on his nightstand, the larger-than-life images of Jimi Hendrix, Eddie from Iron Maiden, and a dozen scantily-clad swimsuit models, whose posters adorned his bedroom walls.
Crossing the room, he knelt down on the floor and began to rummage through his closet, tossing clothes over his shoulder and onto the floor. Eventually his fingers found what he had been searching for. Grasping his Army-green backpack by one strap, he yanked it free from the hodgepodge of clothes, camping gear, and old board games, and began to stuff it with the clothes he'd tossed onto the floor. He worked in an almost a dream-like manner, and only seemed to regain himself when the task was completed and the backpack was straining at the seams.
When he was done he knelt on the floor beside his bed and slid his hand beneath the mattress, where he felt the bulging paper surface he was looking for. Thoughtfully he removed a bulky envelope, and after a long pause jammed it deep into the already-overstuffed backpack. The envelope contained $672, all that remained of his life savings, which he had withdrawn from the bank a little over a month ago. He'd been saving up for his first car, and the envelope had originally contained well over $900, but over the past few weeks he had pissed much of it away on liquor and cigarettes. But the plans he had once made for this money still burned like dying embers within his mind's eye, carrying him off to another time, another place.
“We'll fill my T-bird and Kev's caravan and we'll cruise the country up and down,” Mike had said one summer's night. They'd been parked in the Cherry Street pits, the two remaining people (except for Lou, who didn't really count because he was passed out in the backseat) at a keg party that had begun with a bang, and had died with a whimper. Mike and Rick were sitting on the hood of the Thunderbird, each working on a bottle of skunked Coors (which, after catching a good buzz from the keg beer, suited them just fine). “We'll ditch this shitty little town, Ricky.”
Rick had responded with a nod and a grin, knowing that Mike was smashed, because Mike only referred to him as “Ricky” when he was drunk.
“Just the bunch of us and our dreams,” Mike had gone on to say. “That's the way it should be, Ricky.”
That was before the accident, when life was better.
Before Kevin Chapman's mother found his hidden stash, buying him a one-way ticket to the Mount Hope Rehabilitation Center, which was nothing more than a soft little prison where children learned to become better criminals. Before the hopes and dreams of two young lovers ended with a simple argument on the cool sands of Sundown Beach. Before the phone call from Lori's mother, her anguished voice tearing at his heart like a razor with every trembling word. Before the funeral, and the hazy days (or was it weeks?) he'd laid on his bed in a drunken stupor, staring at the shadows in the corner of the room, praying that they would somehow come alive and deliver him into sweet oblivion. Before the failed suicide attempt, the following days spent in the hospital, trying to figure out how his life had taken such a dreadful turn, trying to convince his mother and father that their only son wasn't crazy, that they hadn't failed as parents.
Rick realized these things all too well, because the image he'd had during that conversation with Mike was still fresh in his mi
nd's eye. He and Lori in a red convertible, cruising the coastline in the afterglow of a surreal ocean sunset, like the last scene of some romantic movie. Her long blonde hair was flowing behind her in the salty air, and she was smiling that tight-lipped smile that made her cheekbones rise and her eyes twinkle, and he was smiling the shy, playful smile that would have surely landed him a slot in the Best Smile section of his yearbook, had he not been too damn modest to accept the honor. They were both smiling. Forever smiling, but only in his mind. Only in his memories.
Before Lori Shawnessy died, Rick Hunter used to smile without a care in the world. But not anymore. Not like he used to. Maybe never again.
Standing in the middle of his bedroom, face glistening with sweat, Rick knew he had never really doubted Mike's ability to make that dream a reality. But his vision was tainted now, because Lori had died...and somehow, the dream had died with her.
All at once Rick shook free of his daze. Tossing his backpack over one shoulder, he began down the hallway. He was almost to the stairs when he passed his parent's bedroom. The door was open. It was dark inside, but he could see the vague outline of their bed, a dresser, the reflection of a mirror in the moonlight. For the first time it occurred to him that he might never see his mother or father again, and he suddenly found himself overcome by sorrow.
I can't even let them know what happened, he thought. After all they've been through in the past few weeks...the horror of finding me halfdead on the floor, a razor blade still in my hand...the hospital bills...the nervous way they look at me, as if they think I might go ahead and kill myself the second they look away...all the burdens I've laid on them...the promise I made that I’ll never, ever put them through that kind of hell again. They won't have a clue as to where I am, and I can't let them know. I can't. I'd be risking all of our lives if I did.
Then, as if driven by an unseen force, he quietly ducked into the darkened room and found himself kneeling before the large wooden chest that rested at the foot of his parent's bed. As if a thick fog was lifting before his very eyes, he realized what had brought him here, and he knew what he must do.
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