by Anthony Izzo
“Do you really want to screw that up?”
“Sometimes I don’t care.”
“How can you say that? I’d give my left arm to have the skills you have. MacGregor says you’re one of the best he’s ever seen. You remind him of—”
“Larry Joseph. I know.”
Larry Joseph had played for Brampton Middle and gone on to a scholarship at U.C.L.A. after high school. The Denver Nuggets took him in the first round, but he blew out his knee midway through his first season in the NBA. Now he worked on cars at Midas Muffler and hadn’t touched a basketball in ten years.
“You’re even better than Joseph. I saw him play and you’re better.”
“If you say so.”
“It’s a sin to waste talent, Chris. Yours is athletics. You were given that gift for a reason. Use it to your advantage.”
This from a guy who hadn’t seen the inside of a church since his wedding day.
“Do you really care about me or do you want me to do this because you didn’t get anywhere in sports?”
“Of course I care about you. More than anything.”
He looked away when he said that, and Chris knew it was hard for his dad to say stuff like that, because it didn’t happen often.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean that,” Chris said.
“I know. Look, I know I put a lot of heat on you, but it’s because I want you to excel. Look at me, Chris. Your mom left because I couldn’t control my gambling. Every day I go down to that car lot and sell people cars I know are junk. And we do all right, but we’re not exactly the Rockefellers.”
“Who were they?”
“Extremely rich people. My point is you can do better and I want you to do better than me. Okay?”
“All right.”
“Wipe your mouth. You’ve got some sauce on your cheek. I’ll go down with you tomorrow and talk with MacGregor if you want. I have a feeling he’ll keep you on the team, but you’re probably going to run your butt off.”
“Yeah.” Chris dabbed at his chin with the napkin.
At this time tomorrow his legs would be one big throb from all the suicide drills.
“I’m going to catch the Blackhawks game. Get cracking on that homework.”
“Hey, Dad?”
“Yeah, buddy?”
“I might be invited to sleep over somewhere this week. What do you think?”
“Where’s somewhere?”
“A new kid’s house. Ronnie Winter.”
“I suppose.”
“Thanks.”
His dad disappeared into the living room and the TV knob clicked as he tuned into the Blackhawks-Sabres game.
He hadn’t been invited to sleep over yet, because it was his own idea. That would get them into the tunnels and then he could prove Fussel and Harding were full of horseshit.
CHAPTER 24
Jack sat at the kitchen table staring at his math book, unable to concentrate on division and multiplication. His thoughts kept returning to two things: Emma’s invitation and going back into the tunnels. The first thing made him feel alive, wired, as if he had a low current humming through his bones. He couldn’t wait for the dance. The second had him worried. Had they really agreed to go back into the tunnels just to prove to Chris the story was true? He wanted to back out in the worst way, but if he did that now, he would be seen as a chickenshit and a liar. Chris would rag him about it until next Christmas if they didn’t go down there again. His honor was at stake and there was only one way to defend it. Go underneath the estate.
“You thinking about the tunnels?” Paul asked.
“Yeah. Thinking we need to do it but that I don’t want to.”
“What if we run into him again?”
Jack set his pencil down and rubbed his eyes.
“We won’t,” he said.
“If you say so. Do we really have to prove Chris wrong?”
“If we don’t he’ll rib on us until there’s no tomorrow.”
“I suppose you’re right. What do you think it was?”
“I don’t know. It wasn’t an ordinary man, though.”
It was like one of those guys in the horror movies that got up no matter how many bullets you put in them. Hell, you could put Jason in a meat processor and he would still come after you as hamburger.
“What if it gets one of us?” Paul said.
“It won’t because it’s probably long gone by now.”
“You don’t really believe that, do you?”
“Let’s finish this math. It’s our last assignment, and then we can watch TV.”
Jack looked at the octagon clock on the wall. It was eight-thirty, time enough for them to catch some of Night Rider if they hurried.
Jack’s dad came in, opened the fridge, and poked his head around. He pulled out a Schmidt’s and went to the cupboard, where he retrieved a can of Planter’s peanuts.
“I’ve got a mission for you boys,” he said, popping open a beer. “By the way, Paul, I called your house and there was no answer. Were your parents going anywhere?”
“The General’s probably passed out by now and my mother’s probably zonked out on the couch.”
“The General?”
“He’s into war movies. He thinks he’s Patton.”
“I see,” Jack’s dad said, peeling the lid off the nuts. “How’s about you do an old man a favor and take the garbage out for me? I totally forgot it’s garbage night. There’s a beer in it for each of you.”
Paul looked as if someone had poked him in the gut, causing his eyes and mouth to open wide at the same time.
“He’s kidding, lame-o,” Jack said.
“I knew that.”
They pushed the chairs out, went to the hallway, and put on coats, gloves, hats, and boots. The snow outside the door was like a sheet, and Jack didn’t really feel like going out in it, but parental authority ruled the world, so he was going to get wet and cold.
They marched up the driveway and the snow was almost up to their knees, and Jack’s lungs pumped harder with every step he took.
They each grabbed a can from behind the house, removed the lids, and dragged them back down the driveway. Halfway down, Jack’s dad popped his head out the door and reminded them to get the newspapers out of the garage for recycling.
When they finished with the cans, they approached the garage. What a creepy building. One wall leaned in to the rest of the garage like a weary fighter pressing against his opponent. The shingles, once black, were going gray in spots (when you could see them), and a piece of gutter hung down in front to the sliding doors. They were having it torn down in the spring, and for Jack, it wasn’t soon enough.
“Help me slide the door,” he said.
The garage was a three-car, with two doors overlapping each other. They slid on tracks, allowing one carport to be open at a time. They both leaned on the door and pushed hard, forcing something out of the gutter as the door rattled. It was an old bird’s nest, the grass in it dead brown.
Jack flicked the light switch. Dad’s Buick took up the first space, and Mom’s wagon the second. Peg Boards covered the walls, and on them hung shovels, hoes, a pitchfork, a Weed Eater, and dozens of other outdoor tools. The snowblower and lawn mower sat in one corner, the lawn mower with a strand of cobweb across its handle.
“Gives me the creeps,” Jack said.
The wind gusted and a flurry of snow pelted the rear window.
Jack found the papers in the empty carport, the one where the blower and mower were stored. They leaned up against a five-gallon gas can and were wrapped in a brown paper bag.
“All right, let’s go.”
Paul shrieked, startling Jack so bad he dropped the papers, scattering them all over the floor.
The chunky soup would have to wait. He stopped at his house, hurried in the door, and grabbed a blue watch cap to keep his dome from freezing over. Once back in the truck, he opened the glove compartment and made sure there was a clip in the .45.
He d
rove down the main road and out of the estate.
The roads were void of traffic, covered in a sea of powdery snow. He turned onto Jack’s street, intent on driving by once or twice and if he saw anything, getting out of the car. He couldn’t very well go snooping around the property (people were funny about having a large black man sneaking around their property—he didn’t know why) unless he had reason. If Jack’s parents caught him, he would need a damn good reason why he was on the property.
He passed by once, slowing the truck but not able to see anything through the blowing snow. So much for that idea. He would have to get out and look. Pulling the truck over, he rolled it half onto a snowbank and hoped the plows would see it (he put the flashers on but even then they might ram it). Slipping the .45 in his coat pocket, he got out and headed for the Harding driveway.
Hope I’m not too late.
Jack spun around to see Paul pointing at the window.
“What the hell is the matter with you?”
“I saw something in the window.”
“What?”
“It was the tunnel guy.”
“How do you know? You didn’t even see him down there. It was too dark.”
“It was him!”
The hand pointing to the window trembled, and his lower lip quivered.
“Paul, there’s nothing. I’ll show you.”
He turned around to take a look at the window and there was a face wrapped in grimy bandages peering at them. Jack whimpered. His crotch suddenly felt hot, like he was going to empty his bladder right there. “Close the fucking door.”
Jack ripped the pitchfork off the wall as they hurried to the door. Paul raced ahead of him and leaned into the door, sliding it on the track.
“Shut the light off so he can’t see in here,” Jack said.
Paul hit the switch and they were plunged into darkness.
They had stood listening for a moment when the first thump on the door came.
The wind pushed John off balance, and every step became a battle. He trudged past a pair of steel garbage cans, lit up by a streetlight on the front lawn at the curb.
Passing the front windows, he took a peek and saw the lights were on, but saw no one inside. Once he was closer to the house and out of immediate view of the street, he slipped the .45 from his pocket, and getting close to the house, he slid under the windows.
A dull thump came from the backyard, barely audible under the wind, but still there. Three times in slow succession.
He hustled toward the back.
CHAPTER 25
The thumping started at the far end of the garage door and came closer. Paul tapped his foot in a tattoo against the concrete. There was no doubt in his mind that the thing from the tunnels had come to finish them off. Somehow it had found them and intended to drag them back under the estate and slaughter them.
“Hold the door shut as hard as you can,” Jack said. He held the pitchfork out in front of him like a soldier with a bayonet.
Paul leaned into the door, but he doubted he would have the strength to fight the tunnel man off and keep the door closed. Its grip on him had been like steel shackles, and he guessed it to be incredibly strong.
The thumps came closer. Ten feet, five feet, three feet.
“Jesus, Jack, oh, Jesus.”
“Shhh.”
As if the situation weren’t bleak enough, Paul realized the wind would act as a natural sound barrier and they could scream their lungs out but Jack’s parents would never hear them. They might as well be five miles from the house. The only hope was for one of his parents to look out the window, but even then with the thick snowfall they might not see the intruder. It was a good thirty feet from the house to the garage.
“Listen,” Jack said.
It was quiet save for the wind. Paul listened hard, and so intent on listening was he that he relaxed his grip on the door handle and it was ripped from him, moving him back three feet.
“Shit!”
The hand shot in the door, catching Paul by the sleeve and yanking. Material ripped and Paul jerked backward, but the hand still had him good. Jack raised the pitchfork to chest height, lunged forward, and jabbed the hand. The tine plunged into the hand, and this allowed Paul to slip his arm free. It would occur to him later that there was no blood from the wound, and the attacker made no noise when the fork dug into his skin.
Paul backed away from the door, but still the hand waved around, searching for someone to reel in. Jack poked at it again, piercing the skin on top of the hand, but again there was no blood. The guy pushed through the crack, first the whole arm up to the shoulder. Jack dropped the fork and pushed on the door, hoping to keep their visitor out.
Paul joined him at the door, squeezing hard against it, but the two of them were not strong enough and it slammed the door back against them.
It was in the garage and it was awful.
Dirty bandages covered its face (they had no other choice but to think of the attacker as “it”), streaked with clots of brown mud, and the gauze flapped in the breeze like a battle-scarred flag.
Jack and Paul backed up in between the garage door and the bumper of the station wagon.
“Go around the front of the wagon. There’s enough space so maybe we can beat him around and to the garage door,” Jack said.
It lunged forward and the boys slipped around the side of the wagon on the passenger side. Paul was the first to the front of the car and he slid between the front bumper and the wall with ease. Jack wasn’t as small or quick as Paul and he stumbled, the whole time feeling the thing bearing down on his back.
It swiped at him, ripping his jacket as he slid past the bumper, and he half turned to get a good look at it. It was three feet away and for the first time he looked into the face; there were no eyes. He hadn’t noticed when it entered the garage, because it was too far away and too dark.
He sidestepped past the car, leaving his pursuer on the other side of the wagon for the moment. There was a thud as it climbed over the hood, still on his heels.
“Come on, Jack,” Paul said.
Paul reached the door and gave it a shove, the big door clicking on the track. Snowflakes busted into the garage, a rude visitor pelting Paul. Jack hurried between the cars, his pursuer only five feet behind him, feet scraping on the oil-spotted floor.
He bolted past Dad’s car, hitting the bumper with his hip and knocking him off stride. It was all the thing needed to catch up to him, and it did, wrapping an arm around him and lifting him off the floor as if he weighed no more than a sack of groceries. The other arm embraced him and now he was caught in a bear hug.
He thrashed his legs back and forth, trying to wiggle free, but it was like a condemned man trying to escape the electric chair. Once strapped in, you were riding the lightning whether you wanted to or not.
“Paul!”
But Paul was already charging, swinging his arms furiously as he slammed into the thing’s side, punching hard.
John entered the yard, no longer protected by the house and at the complete mercy of the wind. It rocked him good, but he plowed on toward the garage, where he was certain Jack Harding was very close to being killed.
He entered the garage, relieved to be out of the wind, and found Jack in the clutches of the Wraith. It had him off the floor, clasped in its arms, and Paul was beating on its arms, throwing punches with no effect. They wouldn’t have any effect because things that were dead felt no pain, but the boys didn’t know that.
They stood at the rear bumper of a green station wagon with wood paneling on the sides. Jack kicked his feet as if madly pedaling a bicycle, but the Wraith’s grip wouldn’t give, and if it wanted to have him, it would.
John aimed the gun at it, knowing it would be useless. Crouching, he approached it, the barrel leveled at its head. “Set him down now,” John said. “You don’t want to hurt that boy.”
John hoped his words would penetrate the Wraith like sunlight through barren, rocky soil.
Paul beat on the Wraith, and it tired of him, slapping him aside and smashing him into the garage door. It still had one arm clasped around Jack.
“Shoot him!” Paul said. “Shoot him, for fuck’s sake!”
“You don’t want to hurt a little boy, do you?”
The dark sockets fixed on him, and he didn’t know how it saw, or what it saw, without any eyes, but he had its attention.
“He did nothing to you. Don’t let her make you hurt Jack.”
The grip loosened a bit, and Jack slid down closer to the floor.
“That’s it. Let him loose.”
“Yeah,” Jack said.
The Wraith dropped its arm to the side, and Jack landed on the floor, quickly rolling away in between the parked cars.
It started toward him, one step, then another.
“Get going.”
It came closer, nearly past John, who pressed himself against the garage door, giving it room to pass.
When it was in front of him, its hand shot out and clutched John’s neck, squeezing hard. He tried sucking air, but not much got through. This was what a hanging must feel like, and not the kind where they drop you and snap your neck, but where the condemned is allowed to strangle.
He sucked air only to hear a choked gasp come from his own throat. He tore at the hand, getting two fists around the wrist and trying to pry it loose, but it was as solid as a tree limb.
The Wraith turned its head and those eight balls looked right through his skull. Could Cassie see him right now? He wanted to spit right in its face, but he could not draw a breath, let alone work up a gob of saliva.
Its fingers relaxed and it pulled its hand back. He slumped to the floor, his throat raw, tears running down his cheeks because his eyes watered so badly. The Wraith took off through the garage door, and John knew it would be back on the estate in record time, faster than Carl Lewis ever dreamed of moving. He gulped air, and the cold breeze was the sweetest air he had ever tasted.
Paul and Jack came to his side, both of them asking if he was okay. He nodded and said in a raspy voice, “I’ll walk you to the house.”