Elisabeth's place was nothing but a silhouette against a sea of trees.
The sliding door was unlocked. He slipped inside the living room and stretched across the leather couch, determined to relax.
But he couldn't.
He was pacing again, wondering again what sort of urgent topic his girlfriend wanted to speak with him about.
She can't be breaking up with me.
Well, maybe she could. She hadn't granted him access to her body yet. Two weeks was a long time to go without getting his tip wet. Was she uninterested?
That'd be a first.
He had a regular workout regimen, ate right and removed beer from his recreational diet.
The result was a tight stomach, shapely arms and the beginning of a taut and toned six-pack. He fucking loved when women traced his definition with their tongues. He wanted to feel Elisabeth enjoying his body as much as he would enjoy hers.
Please don’t let it be a break-up.
Allen wondered whether or not his shallow tendencies might've turned her off, but he never allowed himself to doubt his abilities.
It wasn't like he was as empty as Jack and Lucy often teased. Just because he took care of his body didn't make him a dumb jock. Was there any problem with looking and feeling good? Wanting to spend time with gorgeous women? Hoping to make a lot of money?
He paced his way over to the bar and poured a half glass of Johnnie Walker Black. It didn't do a damn thing to steady his nerves. From the large bay window overlooking the driveway, the Mitsubishi was a shadow on the dark concrete.
Where in the hell was she? How did she get around without her car? The ex-boyfriend theory strengthened.
Allen felt hot. The alcohol was partly to blame, but so was the aggressive humidity. He stepped outside, closing the door behind him. The mountain air was pure, and deep breaths helped slow his heart. Maybe he'd catch a glimpse of the mysterious ex this way, too.
More time passed and no one came. He'd insist on buying her a cell phone tomorrow, providing he was still in this relationship.
A violent gasp cut through the night. It sounded like the start of a scream, but it was gone before it reached full pitch. Allen froze solid and the hairs on his neck stood on end. He remained still and hoped he didn't hear it again.
It could've been anything. The imagination always projected the worst outcome, right? He couldn't tell if it had been of human origin. They were in the country, surrounded by a host of sounds he was unfamiliar with. That yelp could've been anything.
The deck's motion light switched off during his refusal to move. The darkness was like being draped with a heavy blanket. Another quick burst of anguish fired off somewhere in the forest gloom.
It can't be her, he thought and trotted down the steps. Why would it be?
His advance to the tree line was cautious. More so reluctant. The motion light cut through the dark, giving him full view of the forest before him. He stepped between two hemlocks and squinted into the haze.
The porch light clicked off, and the darkness returned. Allen sidestepped some fallen branches, and shuffled without speed. His eyes adjusted to the pitch black.
What the hell am I doing out here?
Allen was a rational man and he knew full well this was stupid. He could live his whole life without knowing what freakish woodland creature could expel such an alien sound.
You hope that's what it is.
Still, the idea of Elisabeth being in trouble propelled him without delay.
Trees closed in, forming a constrictive pine canopy. Not an ounce of moon glow could be seen beneath it.
Alone in the dark.
You’re not alone, dummy.
There was someone out here. His hands acted like feelers as he moved, the only way to prevent a headlong collision with a tree trunk.
A moonbeam broke through a hole in the piney overhang and revealed a clearing further along.
There was whimpering coming from somewhere around it.
Allen made for it, pausing to catch another sound. The forest had gone mute upon his curiosity. Even the insects were silent, daring him to make his next move.
He cursed and kept moving. It might've been a terrible idea, but he didn't care. Someone was out here and needed help. If it wasn't Elisabeth he couldn't simply forget what he'd heard and go back.
The noise sounded again. A throaty moan slithered from the shadows. He wanted to call out, but courage had long fled. There was something sinister about the hiss and, the closer it got, the more he realized how foolish he had been.
A repeated smacking stung his ears, a fist pounding dirt.
Allen peered into the pitch-blackness because he was too terrified to move, too reluctant to go any further. The pounding grew louder.
Fast approaching.
A gallop.
Something charged for him. He spun around, and spotted a flailing shadow that grew larger with each trot. It had no discernable shape, but it was coming fast.
Allen ran, but his shoulder slammed a tree as soon as he picked up speed. The side of his body fell numb, and his legs made a few frivolous staggers. He wasn't outrunning this. It was just behind him. Hot breath stung the small of his back. He kept moving, or tried to. His head throbbed and he knew at once that he had smashed more than just his arm against the tree.
Dizzy, he thought about ducking into the woods. Probably an awful move, but it was the only one he had left to play. No chance he could run this trail far enough to reach a well-populated area.
He couldn't any longer. The side of his face was wet, something dripping from his hair. The shadow's putrid snort spilled onto his neck now. It showed no signs of relenting.
Energy was gone. He dropped to the ground and rolled onto his back to face whatever animal wanted him. His fist was clenched and ready to lash out. If he could strike the beast’s nose or mouth, he might still have a chance.
It was a wolf, or something from that family. Far bigger than anything he’d ever seen on TV. It got onto its hind legs, and towered over him. It snarled, swiping his fist away with talons like sharpened daggers.
Allen pulled his bloody hand back with a whelp. Crimson shards reached back and splattered hot against his skin. He kicked up dirt as he scurried backward, but the wolf narrowed its eyes and plowed through it. It wasn't about to let him escape.
It lashed at him with those claws. He whelped again as his clothes and flesh became shredded ribbons. He collapsed onto his good side and the animal lashed again, ripping his left arm and shoulder wide open. His blood drenched the wolf's pelt.
The predator sunk its front paws down, piercing his shoulders. Then it dropped back down to all fours, its weight knocking the wind from him.
He tried to scream but all he managed was a sputter. The wolf brought its snout to the tip of his nose, a growl constantly rumbling at the back of its throat.
Allen's vision blurred from the white-hot pain ignited from every wound. The wolf sniffed him with curiosity, cocking a head to study him.
Beneath his terror, he had enough rationale remaining to be incredulous about this being the end of his life. Between his fear, he thought back to the kickball games on the St. Anna's School playground in fifth grade. Racing to a friend's house after school to play PlayStation. Not a care in sight.
Life seemed so open. So—possible. If he had known at ten years old that he was halfway through his menial existence, he wouldn't have taken anything so seriously.
His vision dropped in a quick fade. The last thing he saw was a pair of bulbous blue eyes looking down at him.
His last thought before oblivion was of Elisabeth. At the end, he had been in love. He was thankful to have experienced that. Most people lived a lifetime and only fool themselves into thinking they've had it.
If only he could see that face one last time. That body in one of her slinky, clingy sundresses. More than anything, he wished he could hear her laugh once more.
I loved that sound.
&n
bsp; He hoped that his parents' faith hadn’t been misplaced. They taught him to believe in God and in the afterlife, which he did. Most days without question. That meant he'd see her again one day.
Allen was thinking about how much he couldn't wait for that when the snarling beast sunk its jaws through his fresh torn shoulder.
He screamed out, with breath this time, spit blood that plopped back into his face, shook in a series of violent spasms as the wolf ate, and then was gone.
***
Arlo Losey heard the knock at the front door.
"Who is it there? Derek?"
"Ain't nuthin' you gotta be fussin' about,” he said and slid his feet out from beneath the sheet.
Goddamn it, when did it get so hard to climb out of bed? His knees cracked and popped as he swung his legs down off the mattress. The bamboo floor felt cold on his feet but there was no time to fumble around for slippers, there was that knocking again.
Didn't this guy have the good sense to realize decent people were fast asleep at this hour? Wasn't like they were people in their twenties anymore.
Heh, he thought. What I wouldn’t give for that.
He shuffled toward the front door when Bessie started stirring back in the bedroom. "Arlo, who is knocking? Is Derek finally here?"
"Don't you move a muscle, dammit. I'll be comin' right back to ya."
When Bessie didn’t protest, he headed toward the knocking again.
Poor bird, he thought. You read about confusion, dementia, Alzheimer’s, whatever one she had. There wasn't much sense in how it chose its victims, but it had a pretty good hold on Bessie. Started on her months ago, right after the cancer did. That was when she started looking for Derek.
Arlo didn't have the heart to tell her that their son had been dead for five years. Killed in the desert while hunting towelheads. The United States government told him that their boy made the ultimate sacrifice, but he didn't see it that way. Shit, Bessie was lucky that she couldn't remember what happened to Derek.
She was getting ready to join him anyway.
Arlo pulled open the door and stared up at the wide shoulders of a powerful shadow.
He didn't recognize this man but knew the reason for his visit.
"Sheeit," he said, ushering the gigantic son of a bitch through. "Here I was thinking you weren't gonna be showin' yer face 'round here."
The visitor's face came into the light by way of the old wall lantern, offering Arlo his first real look at the man all of Greifsfield wanted to meet.
He was a big bastard, a real bruiser. Shoulders broad enough to land a plane on and arms the size of tree stumps. His jawline was jagged and his eyes were steel and cold. He looked like one of those Kraut bastards he'd unloaded his Thompson into back in WWII. His appearance was startling because Arlo had been expecting a slippery, evangelical type.
The visitor smiled and extended a hand. "Of course, Mr. Losey. I completely understand your frustration. I had every intention of meeting you and your lovely wife this afternoon, but there were unexpected tribulations that prevented me from making your acquaintance. I only make myself available to you now because I fear I will not be able to do so for the next several days. Now, from what I understand, your wife is in a lot of pain."
Arlo found his smile uncharacteristically warm. It lessened the severity of his other features, every last one of them harsh.
"That's right," Arlo said. "Doctor ain't sure how much time she's got, but that cancer is spreading inside her faster than socialism in this country."
His laugh was polite but dismissive. "Of course, Mr. Losey..."
"Arlo."
"And I am Anton Fane."
Arlo made damn sure his smile was polite, but it couldn't mask his skepticism. What the hell was Bill Brueckner thinking when he said this guy was the stuff of miracles? Seeing him in the flesh had all but alleviated any such hope. This was a man, same as him. No way he made miracles happen. And yet, he wasn't asking for money, so what could it hurt to try?
Fane must've noted his hopelessness. "I realize this seems impossible, Arlo. But I understand that some of your trusted friends, people you've known for a very long time, have vouched for my services. I only wish to offer people such as your wife an escape from the terminal illness that defines them."
"People have talked, yessir."
"Good. Please take me to her."
They walked side-by-side to the bedroom, Fane’s physique filling the hallway as they went.
"This is as far as you go, Arlo."
Fane stopped him outside the bedroom door. "You're not going to like what you hear…at least not at first. Please understand that is a byproduct of this service. It will happen to you, too, but not yet. You appear to be in both good health and mind."
"When you're eighty years old, son, you're thankful that you can still wipe your own ass. But I want to watch. I got a right to see what you're doing to my wife..."
Fane shook his head with a soft turn, and then patted Arlo's shoulder. "I'm afraid you wouldn't be able to process this remedy. It's quite radical and it may come as a shock to you. For that reason alone, I never allow an audience to witness the rebirth."
"How the hell do I know this is going to work? I ain't never seen you before, and now you're telling me to leave you alone with my wife?"
"This is for you and her. In a few short days, you will recognize this as the gift it is. And your wife will be cancer-free. She'll have no more trouble remembering things. You'll have her back the way she was before the sickness. The woman you loved..."
"I still love Bessie..."
"Of course. Of course. You're skeptical Mr. Losey and rightfully so, but if you don't trust me, have faith in your acquaintances who've told you about how I have improved their quality of life."
Ain't so sure about that, he thought.
Wasn't like old Bill to lie, let alone Maddie Ross, but this miracle seemed like science fiction, and he never liked that horseshit.
"She's dead either way, I suppose."
"Not either way," Fane said. "This will grant the two of you more time together. Much more time."
Arlo didn't need much time to think it over. It was this or watch the old gal whither and, after six more months of suffering, die. No sane person needed to think about that choice.
"Do it, Mr. Fane. Please."
That warm smile again. "It is my pleasure. Now please, my associate, Mestipen, is outside the front door. Go to him. He will elucidate this process so you are not completely closed off to what I am doing. I will warn you though, do not come in here after me. If you do that, I am not responsible for what happens. Leave it to me and everything will be fine."
"You don't have to say that again, sir."
"Good," Fane placed his hands on Arlo's shoulders and looked him square in the eye. "You are making the right decision. Not only for her. Not just for you. But for this town. And the only thing I ask in return is that you remember this. What I did for you."
Arlo forced his skepticism aside as best he could as Fane pushed in on the bedroom door. Bessie's startled cries were immediate. From beyond came a tearing, and then a howl that was punctuated by harsh gurgles and crunches.
This had to be a mistake. His hands stiffened on the doorknob while his wife called out to him in conscious panic. Fane's caution crawled his thoughts and encouraged him to overlook the struggle.
But how could he?
That was his wife.
For how much longer? Doesn't even recognize you some days...
He turned and headed for the front of the house, thinking that Anton Fane's associate had best have a good explanation for whatever the hell was happening in there.
***
Molly was glad to be back in her room.
A thrust of her hips slammed the cabana door. She leaned against it, rocking her head from side to side. Everything in here was spinning.
She'd mixed it up with a group of local kids tonight, chugging tequila and Jager like it wouldn't
be there tomorrow. There had been temptation to keep going, to boost her self-esteem. Each of the guys had expressed interest in bedding her, but she got what she needed out of the festivities.
Attention.
That was enough. No need to compound her errors by making a drunken ass out of herself two nights in a row.
Steps toward the bedroom were slow and careful, and she was determined not to fall victim to the spiraling room.
The comfort of the king size bed was a satisfying ending, and she dropped onto it and kicked her Prada sandals into the shadows. They thudded against something Molly couldn't see.
Right, lights are off.
Maybe it was a good idea to at least flick the bathroom switch. A little background flicker never hurt anyone, and there was a good chance she'd wake up in the middle of the night in a hurry to get there. Her head was already worse than it was a second ago and she dropped back onto the box spring, rubbing her temple with an exasperated moan.
"I'm never drinking again," she slurred.
Molly knew full well, even beneath a booze-soaked haze, that Allen was the real reason for calling it a night. Their confrontation continued to nag her. She hadn't given him a single reason to want to spend time with her—a fact she had trouble admitting.
He was winning the game so far.
Molly's lips were dry and her throat was scratchy. As drunk as she was, she had upset herself with that realization and spent a few minutes tossing and turning before abandoning the endeavor. She made it to the kitchen on wobbly knees, determined to purge the threat of a consecutive hangover.
Once her thirst was quenched, she toggled the living room dimmer to its lowest setting and stripped naked, leaving her clothes strewn about as she headed for the bathroom. A nice bath would chase the hangover away once and for all.
She emptied half the bubble bath bottle into the tub, watching it fill to the brim with foam. A faint coconut scent lifted into the air and made the cabana smell like suntan lotion. Molly eased herself into the steamy water, dipping beneath the lather and nestling into the corner. She moistened a facecloth and twisted it free of excess water, and placed it atop her forehead hoping to steam the headache into submission.
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