by Jeff Vrolyks
* * *
Timothy clicked on his stereo with a remote, wiped the last of his tears away, and wondered what Eddie might be telling Max at this very second. There was a rap on the bedroom door.
“Sweetie?” Phyllis said from the other side of the door. “Is something the matter?”
“No, Grandma. I’m just… I’m just talking on the phone.”
“Your grandfather thought he heard you crying. May I come in for a moment? There’s something I want to tell you.”
“What for?” Timothy inquired. He got off his bed and inspected his face in the mirror hanging on the wall. There was a bruise on his cheek, all right.
Phyllis took that as an invitation to enter and opened the door. Her countenance was sorrowful; she came with bad news. Before he could explain why he had a bruise on his face, or why he wasn’t on the phone when he said he was, she began the grim revelation just learned from the eight o’clock news: “Another murder,” she said gravely. “The tenth victim was found this afternoon.”
“Wow, another one?” Timothy said with a frown.
“Sweetheart,” Phyllis said, “the residence was on MacAdams Road. Do you know where that is?”
“Sure, I ride my bike on it almost every day. It’s near Sandalwood Street, where I play hockey.”
“Yes.” She bowed her head and muttered something Timothy didn’t quite catch. “This monster needs to be caught.”
“He will be, Grandma. I’m sure it won’t be long. Every cop and F.B.I. in Sacramento is probably working overtime to catch him.”
“My sweet boy, I just hate to have to do this to you, but your grandfather and I have decided to impose a curfew on you. Only for the time being, until he is caught.”
“I understand your concern, but he kills people in their homes. So if there’s one place proven to be unsafe it’s right here at home. I hope this doesn’t mean I can’t play hockey after school.”
Timothy thought his grandma was looking at something behind him, but she was looking through him. She was remembering ghosts from her past, and he wondered if it had anything to do with the story she once told him about the Hunsacker farm.
Still looking through him she said, “Just because that’s how he’s killed the others doesn’t mean he can’t do it another way, or won’t do it another way. It would allay our nerves if you’d just come home after school. I’m sorry.”
He grudgingly agreed to the curfew. Phyllis left the room, closed the door behind her.