“Now.”
“I’ll be there in two shakes of the devil’s tail.”
“You’re so weird, Paul.”
“I know you are, but what am I?”
“Geek.”
“Nerd.”
“Hurry up.”
“Then shut up and let me leave.”
“Always want the last word, don’tcha?”
“You bet.”
“Okay, you win. Hurry up.”
“Bye.”
Not wanting to risk extending the conversation by a few more hours, Benny hung up without saying good bye. He went into his room and changed out of his pajamas and into his army pants and an olive drab T-shirt. When the front door rang, he was lacing up his Nike hitops. He tied them in a rush and took the stairs two at a time to the ground floor.
“Benny, what have we said about running down the stairs?” his mother called from the kitchen.
“Not to do it.”
“Then you were just doing what?”
“Running down the stairs to get the door.”
“Your friends will wait the extra few seconds. I doubt they will wait for us to take you to the E.D. with a broken neck. Capiche?”
“Sorry, Mom.”
“Get the door, Benny. What are you waiting for?”
She’s getting over it, he thought. With a wide grin, he turned the knob and let his friends inside. Like him, they wore camouflage pants and T-shirts. It was their mutual Saturday uniform. “Hi, guys.”
“Hi fart-face,” said Mike.
“Michael, no trash mouth in my living room, please.”
“Yes, Mrs. Cartwright. Sorry.”
“Let’s go out back and play commando in the woods,” said Benny.
6
The phone jarred Matt Greshin out of a sound sleep. He rolled over and eyed his alarm clock. 10:41 a.m. Everyone on the police force understood he slept in on Saturdays. They knew better than to call him for something trivial.
He slapped the phone off the cradle and put the receiver to his ear. “Whoever you are, you better have a damn good reason for interrupting my beauty sleep.”
“No amount of sleep is going to help you with that, Matt. Tom Walton here.”
“Oh, hey, Tom.” Matt lay back on the bed with a groan and a sigh. “You calling to ask me to a cookout at your place?”
“Well, I wish it was something like that, Matt, but it isn’t.”
“So what’s shaking this morning?”
“You said we should check the papers last night, right?”
Matt sat up and swung his legs off the bed. “Yeah, for someone selling bikes on the cheap.”
“Yup,” said Tom. “Guess what I found?”
“A budding entrepreneur.”
“You got it in one.”
Matt got up and rearranged his boxers. “Gimme a sec, Tom, I want to find what the one over here said.”
“Yup,” said Tom.
Matt put the phone down and walked into his home office. He shuffled through the stack of loose paper on the top of his desk. “There’s the bastard,” he muttered when he found the piece of torn newsprint.
“Found it,” he said when he picked up the phone.
“Good thing, I was about to call in Search and Rescue to go look for you.”
“Har-har. I got a system, see? I call it the one pile system.”
“Pile of shit system is more like it,” laughed Tom. “Read the thing already.”
“One ten speed bike for sale. Twenty dollars is all I ask in return. Come after supper,” Matt read. “Then it gives the address.”
“Edge of town? Quiet road?”
Matt grunted.
“Mine, too. Ad’s almost word for word,” said Tom.
“Yeah, but it’s all pretty inane.”
“Yeah, except for that ‘all I ask in return’ business, and even that’s normal in certain circles around here. It gets a little more suspicious, however.”
“How’s that?”
“Paper says the ad ran twice. In the weeks before the kids over here lit out. One for each kid.”
“Shit,” breathed Matt.
“Oh, yeah,” said Tom. “I think we better call Bobby Jefferson.”
“Let me call John Morton first and see if he has anything new. I’ll call Bobby this afternoon, I want to check with the paper here for other runs of the ad.”
“Okay, Matt.”
Neither of them knew it, but Bobby Jefferson would never hear the news. He’d be dead before mid-afternoon.
7
Randy stalked through the trees. He had his face painted green and brown. His clothes were dark, and he was barefoot, so he wouldn’t make any extra noise. He had the Remington slung over his shoulder, silencer attached. He left the Buick parked on the side of the road with the hood open.
The day was perfect—the temperature, the perfect amount of sunlight filtering through the trees overhead, the lack of wind, everything. It reminded Randy of that other day four years before…the day his bitch of an ex-fiancée had tried to marry someone else. On that fateful day, his name had been Owen—Owen Gray. Even now, people remembered his name. But not Stephanie or her imposter-groom. No, they didn’t remember a damn thing—not unless your memories went to hell with you. A smile flittered on his lips like a hummingbird’s wings.
He had no idea where the bastard of a sheriff lived, but like on Stephanie’s wedding day, he knew where he needed to be. And like on that day, a still, small voice was whispering inside his mind, telling him where to go. He knew how to handle the rifle he carried—courtesy of the United States Marine Corps. And he knew how to handle the sheriff. It was like in geometry, follow the two lines until they intersect.
His mind bounced back and forth between Stephanie’s Death Day and the present. She had looked so pretty in her white lace, her hair put up in a do, her make-up perfect. He’d added the only thing she was missing—a splash or two of red. The imposter-groom, now, Randy had taken special care with him. His casket had been closed at his funeral. Randy had used a .30-06 that day, and the exit wounds had been immense.
When Randy smelled the barbeque on the wind, he stopped and worked the bolt of the Remington, hands calm and steady, chambering a round. He froze there for a minute, listening hard. After he was sure he was the only one stalking those woods, he started forward again, moving like a cat. As the woods thinned, Randy dropped into a half-crouch.
On Stephanie’s Death Day, he’d crept to within one hundred yards of the wedding party. No one had seen him, or even suspected he was there. Stephanie had been all about “getting close to nature” and “communing with Gaia.” Randy suppressed a laugh. He’d helped her get close to nature that day, helped her insides get right up and personal with Gaia.
Two or three rows from the edge of the forest, he found a convenient tree. He put the Remington in the crook of a low hanging branch and sighted through the scope. The old man stood staring down at the meat he was grilling. He wore a ridiculous apron over baggy shorts and a white T-shirt.
The little .270 wouldn’t leave as much of a mess as that .30-06, but it would do enough damage to drop that son-of-a-bitch right now. Randy recalled how Stephanie and the imposter-groom had jerked and jigged as the .30-06 rounds slammed into them, and a small, savage smile spread across his face.
Randy aimed at his eye. “Pow,” he whispered and aimed at Sheriff Jefferson’s Adam’s apple. “Pow,” he breathed. He messed around like that for several minutes, aiming, whispering “pow,” and aiming somewhere else. He’d done the same thing at Stephanie’s wedding, and like that occasion, his little game resulted in an erection.
Jefferson glanced at the woods, eyes lazy, and Randy froze. When the Sheriff looked back down at the grill, Randy aimed at his head. He started to pull the trigger but stopped himself. His first shot at the imposter-groom had been to the head, and it was something he always regretted. The imposter-groom hadn’t suffered. In hindsight, it would’ve been better if
the bastard had known who shot him; if the bastard had to watch as the bullets slammed into Stephanie. He dropped his aim until all he saw in the scope was the grill, guessing where the Sheriff’s gut would be. He took a breath and let half of it out, then squeezed the trigger. The rifle bucked, and he heard the round twock into the top of the grill. He took his eye away from the scope, grinning.
Jefferson fell on his side, still facing the tree line. His hands bore down on his gut, above his navel, and blood was seeping through his clenched fingers. His face was screwed up, but his eyes were wide open, mouth working, but no sound coming out.
Randy grinned and lifted the rifle out of his impromptu rest. He stepped through the trees, stopping at the edge of the forest. Jefferson saw him, and it was delicious. Randy gave him a little wave and a ferocious smile. Hello, shit-stick, he mouthed.
He raised the rifle to his shoulder, his movements slow and deliberate. Jefferson’s mouth was moving, and he was holding out his hand as if he were commanding Randy to stop. Randy put his eye to the scope and aimed. He squeezed the trigger and ejaculated at the same time. The bullet flipped Jefferson down onto his back, and Randy couldn’t see his face, but the bullet had flown true—he had a gift with trajectories, so he knew. Jefferson’s funeral would be closed casket—like the imposter-groom’s. No one would want to look at the mess the .270 caliber round had made of Jefferson’s right eye. Randy’s grin stretched even wider. He was glad he’d had the opportunity to learn from Stephanie’s Death Day. It made this day so much better.
A woman screamed, and Randy crouched, operating on instinct. His eyes snapped toward the house. A woman, Jefferson’s wife no doubt, stood inside an open set of sliding glass doors. Her hands mashed her cheeks, and her eyes were the size of silver dollars. A tray, two empty glasses, and a pitcher lay at her feet, ice melting on the carpet. Randy waved at her, and she jerked back as if he’d slapped her. He chuckled and raised the rifle to his shoulder. The woman shrieked and turned. Randy fired, and his bullet hit her in the back of the neck, pitching her face first into the living room of the small house.
Whistling, Randy policed up his brass and turned and walked back into the forest. He felt good again. For the first time since that night in the back of the cop’s Jeep, everything felt like it should. One down, two to go, he thought. “No, four more,” he breathed, thinking of the town manager and Toby’s asshole friend. He lay the rifle across his shoulder, steadying it with one hand. He whistled It’s a Small World while he walked.
Something flickered to his left, something he’d seen in the corner of his eye. Something black—a shadow. He spun in that direction, but there was nothing there. He stood still for a moment, staring into the woods. “Are you there?” he muttered.
He would have seen it if he looked up.
8
Mike, Paul, and Benny stalked through the trees. Their faces painted green and brown, they wore camouflage pants and T-shirts, and they carried sticks as if they were rifles. They were careful to make as little noise as possible, or the enemy would suss out their positions and end them with a burst of gun fire.
“Sergeant Benny, do you have eyes on the target?” asked Paul.
Benny scratched his cheek. The face paint Mike brought always gave him a rash. He held out his hand, pointing at an invisible camp of the enemy. “There, Lieutenant.”
Paul squinted into the brush. “You sure, Sergeant? Looks like a native village to me.”
“I’m sure, sir. That ville needs pacification, sir.”
“All right, then. Men, you know the drill. Slow and silent, and not a single commie bastard walks out of that village.”
“Yes, sir,” snapped Mike.
“Oohrah! Get some,” whispered Benny.
The boys crept forward, crouching low—almost bent over—rifles held at the ready. They’d played this game many times before, though Benny doubted they’d get to play it again if their parents found out what playing jungle commando meant. Paul lifted his hand, and they froze.
Paul pointed at his eyes with his index and middle fingers and then pointed ahead and to the left. He pointed at Mike and pumped his fist twice in the air. Mike nodded and skulked away from the other two boys. They waited for him to make his kill, silent and deadly. When Mike rejoined them, he gave a grim nod to Paul.
“Okay, men,” whispered Paul. “Let’s have us some fun.”
The boys charged through the woods, yelling their war cries.
9
Randy watched the three boys running through the woods, screaming like idiots. They had sticks held up like rifles, and as they ran, they made machine gun sounds. Randy couldn’t help but grin. He was up in a tree, cradled at the intersection of two thick branches, and he had the Remington locked and loaded. Just like being in Nam, he thought. With a lazy grin, he shouldered his weapon and aimed at one of the boys.
Randy didn’t know one kid from the other, but he felt sure one of these little brats was Toby’s asshole friend. He drew a bead on one boy and whispered “Pow” like he had at the Sheriff. Then he aimed at another and whispered “pow” again. When he centered the scope on the third boy, something in his chest swelled and burned, and he knew it was the right kid.
He took a deep breath and let half of it out, just like that goddamn drill sergeant had taught him. There was no wind, so all he had to do was lead the little bastard to account for his running and squeeze one off. He tightened his finger on the trigger, slow and steady.
10
They were charging forward, screaming, and firing their machine guns, when Benny heard a buzzing noise and a shower of wood chips and splinters exploded from the tree beside him. Thunder cracked through the woods, and he stood up straight and stared at the crater in the side of the tree. “What the hell?” he asked.
“Sniper!” yelled Paul.
The other two boys dove to the ground, but Benny turned and looked at the crater.
“What are you doing, Sergeant? Take cover for Christ’s sake!” yelled Paul.
“That was real,” muttered Benny.
“Come on, Benny, don’t ruin it,” whispered Mike.
Benny cleared his throat. “That was real, guys. There’s a bullet hole or something in this tree.” He put his back to the crater and followed an imaginary trajectory of the bullet with his eyes.
“What do you mean, real?” snapped Paul.
“There’s a bullet hole,” repeated Benny. He held up his hand and pointed. The other boys followed his gaze.
Up in a tree sixty yards away, a man stared at them from the branches of a tree. He was talking—more like muttering—and then thrashed as if he were fighting with the invisible man.
“Who’s that,” asked Mike.
When the hunting rifle came spinning out of the tree, the boys took one short look at it and then turned and ran.
11
As the trigger began to move, something slammed into Randy from behind, and the shot went wild. It felt like a gust of wind, and Randy struggled to stay in the tree. “Mother fuck!” he whispered.
“No,” said a voice in his ear.
Randy turned his head, but it only rotated so far—as if he were pressing his face into glass. He could see, but after a certain point, his head stopped fast. “The fuck?” he muttered. “You pick now to come back?”
The little kid just stood there next to the tree, staring. It was a perfect shot—an easy shot. He couldn’t miss from this distance. He tried to lift the rifle, to take aim for a second shot, but the rifle was suddenly too heavy to lift.
“I said no!”
Randy shook his head. “What the blue fuck?” he asked. “That bastard owes me.”
“He is ours. All the children belong to my father.”
The voice came from behind him, and the air in front of him shimmered, but instead of getting brighter, it got darker and darker, blurrier. “No, you don’t,” he muttered. He tried to lift the rifle again, but lifting the engine block of a semi seemed easier.
<
br /> “You will not kill him, do you hear?” The voice hissed like a rasp on rough wood. The rifle flew from his hands and went spinning out of the tree. Randy grabbed at the branches he sat on to keep from falling.
“Who the fuck are you, anyway?”
“Oh ho, he wants to know us now,” said the darkness.
Randy shook his head again. “Who… Whatever you are, get the fuck out of my way!” He climbed down to get his rifle. Maybe there’s still time to catch the brat, he thought.
“No, Owen, listen!”
Randy stopped and waited, eyes glued to the fleeing boys.
“We can help each other, Owen.” The soft voice held a cajoling, begging note. “Like before, in your war.”
“Yeah, the invisible woman and Owen Gray, together again.”
12
Owen Gray was nineteen and, as the man said, young, dumb, and full of cum. He liked what Uncle Sam wanted him to do. Since the time of the Killer Kane team, Force Recon missions were fun. He liked going into the jungle in a team of four other marines and harrying the enemy, liked setting traps, firing from cover and then watching the enemy run around looking for him. He liked being an agent of death. Owen liked the killing.
When the jungle erupted into chaos, he was up in a tree, star-gazing. He should have been on watch, but it was a beautiful night. Besides, he hadn’t thought they were in any danger, so when the VC opened up on his sleeping teammates, Owen almost fell out of the tree into the cross-fire. He held on, but it was a close thing. Once he felt sure he would not fall, he froze in place and tried to calm his ragged breathing, to still his racing heart. No one would hear him over the cacophony of small arms fire, but the firefight would end in minutes if not seconds.
The other two privates died at the start, but Sergeant Bowles, whom he thought of as “Bugeyes,” and Corporal Ramirez, or “The Spic,” had reacted to the first sound of gunfire. Or maybe they’d been awake already. Both had rolled away and then opened fire. They were moving, trying to find cover, but the enemy’s encirclement was complete. They were dead men, they just didn’t know it yet.
Owen should’ve been helping. He should’ve been firing from the cover of the darkness and the trees, but if he did that, even if some smart slant-eye didn’t see him and fire on his position, the VC would know he was there. They wouldn’t stop looking for him until they found him.
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