Dismember

back to the house alone and rescued Zach and the doggy both. He could have driven them away in the truck and been the hero. He looked up at the man beside him and knew he could punch his very hardest without doing more than tickling the guy.

They crossed the yard and re-entered the house.

When they’d come the first time, Trevor had been scared. This time, although still scared, he also felt a little proud. He’d done it, after all. He might not be a hero, but he’d made the phone call, had crawled through the crawlspace above the ceiling with all the yellow stuff and the spiders and bats, had gone into the dark woods until the red cell phone got a signal. That was something at least.

It was darker inside than out. They passed the kitchen, where Trevor had left the pile of ceiling in front of the refrigerator, and sped down the hallway to the locked door. Trevor stayed behind the crazy man, trying not to bump into anything, wondering how the man kept from hitting furniture or smacking into walls.

Light shone beneath the door, enough for Trevor to see the bad man’s shoes and his own, but not much else.

Clack click.

The door swung open, and Zach looked out at them from the pile of blankets.

“Georgies are supposed to watch out for their Davys,” the man said.

Before Zach could respond, the man shoved Trevor into the room and re-locked the door. Trevor squinted, held his hands in front of his face to keep away the worst of the light.

“What happened?” Zach whispered. “Did the phone work?”

“Yeah,” said Trevor, but in a distracted way. He looked at the floor beneath the hole in the ceiling, which the man either hadn’t noticed or hadn’t said anything about. “Where’s the mess?”

On the pile, Zach smiled. He lifted up the corner of the blankets and showed Trevor the gray gunk. “I thought if I hid it he might not notice our getaway hatch. At least not right away. Guess I was right.”

“You think you can get me up there again?” Trevor asked.

Zach got up and rubbed his hands together. “I can sure as heck try.”

In the bathroom, Hank stood in front of the sink. He splashed water on his face, washed the blood and the dirt and the sweat down the drain. He ran wet fingers through his hair and tried to get the worst of the gore out of there, too. He found an especially thick wad of blood behind his ear and scratched at it with his fingernail.

He wasn’t normally an overly hygienic person, sometimes went two or three days between showers, but these were special circumstances, and if he’d known the bloodshed was over, he’d have taken his second shower in less than twenty-four hours, which would have been a record. He settled for washing his face, his neck, and his hands. He took off the button-up shirt and tossed it onto the floor by the toilet, where his most recently chewed toothpick floated like the miniature timber from some shipwrecked model boat. The shirt was ruined, as were the pants. A perfectly good birthday suit. What a waste.

Hank turned up the water. The soap was an old, graying bar of Irish Spring. He scrubbed his skin with it until he’d covered his top half with a thin, bubbly film, then washed off the suds and repeated the process. When he was finished, he only looked a little better, but he felt like a new man.

He dried off with a pink towel that had started the day white and left the bathroom.

It would be a while before anyone came for the boys. In the meantime, he needed to rest. Not nap—there wasn’t time for that—but rest, sure. He considered Mr. Boots’s bed, but only briefly. He couldn’t rest where that monster had slept, couldn’t lay his head down on the old man’s drool-crusted pillow. There was a sofa in the living room. Not a comfortable piece of furniture, but not exactly a bed of nails either. It would do for a short rest.

He made his way into the living room, sat down on the springy sofa, and paused only long enough to kick off his shoes before lying his head on one armrest and propping his feet on the other.

Thirty seconds later, despite his intentions, he was asleep.

When he woke, the whole world had gone crazy. That was, the whole world but him.

THIRTY-SIX

Mike took a sharp curve, and something in the back seat fell to the floor. Libby reached around to pick it up. It was the cordless Dremel rotary tool, a thing that looked a little bit like an industrial-power toothbrush, loaded with the sharpest bit Mike had been able to find. Libby returned it to the back with the rest of their makeshift arsenal. In addition to the Dremel, they had a ball peen hammer, a cordless drill, and a foot-long steel chisel that wasn’t razor sharp at the end but that would put somebody down if you swung it hard enough. Pretty mediocre firepower, but better than nothing.

Mike watched Libby and the tools from the corner of his eye and through the rearview. He was driving too fast, almost dangerously, and needed to keep his face pointed forward, his eyes on the road. It felt strange driving the Honda, not only because he hadn’t been behind its wheel for almost a year, but because the car was technically Libby’s now and not his. He shouldn’t have felt awkward or guilty—it wasn’t as if he’d forced his way into the driver’s seat without her permission. They’d agreed he should drive. Trevor had given him the directions, after all—if Libby had gotten behind the wheel, he’d only have spent the whole time navigating.

“You know,” Libby said, facing forward again, “maybe the cops or the deputies or whoever they are, maybe they’re already there. Maybe they’ve got the guy in cuffs or a body bag.”

“Yeah,” said Mike, though he didn’t believe it. “If we’re lucky.”

“What do we do if we get there and he’s got a gun or a crossbow or something?”

“A crossbow?”

Libby shrugged. “I don’t know. Weirdo like this guy, he could have a cannon for all we know.”

“He doesn’t have a cannon,” Mike said, shaking his head.

She said, “That’s not the point. All this stuff we brought, it could barely get us through hand-to-hand combat. If he’s got a gun, we’re screwed.”

Mike took his eyes away from the road just long enough to scoff at her. “Hand-to-hand combat? You’ve been watching too many Rambo movies.”

“But what would we do?”

“We’d do whatever it takes,” he said, knowing it was vague, not really an answer at all, but also knowing it was what she wanted to hear. “We’re going to get him back. I promise.”

Libby looked at him for a long time. He sensed her eyes on him but didn’t return the look. He eased the car around another tight curve, and Libby finally looked away. She stared quietly through the window, chewing at her lip and twisting her fingers.

They found the place just like Trevor had said, right down to the dilapidated fence at the front edge of the property. Of course, Trevor hadn’t used the word dilapidated—falling apart, he’d said. Not that he would have needed to know about the fence anyway. Something was wrong with this place, something heinous in the air around it, something Mike could physically feel, like nervousness in the stomach only higher up, butterflies fluttering around his heart.

“Do you feel that?” Libby asked.

Mike nodded. He turned the car into the driveway and shut off the lights. This wasn’t exactly a stealth mission—they would have to go in strong—but he wouldn’t give the guy any extra warning if he could avoid it. The Honda bounced over the rough ground, tall weeds and grasses scraped against the undercarriage, and for a second Mike had the vague impression that some thing lay underneath, trying to claw its way in.

Stop it, he thought. He couldn’t let himself get too freaked out. It wouldn’t do Trevor any good.

As they approached the dark house, Libby reached into the back seat, took the four tools-turned-weapons into her lap, and waited.

Mike followed the driveway past the front of the house and stopped. He started to shut off the Honda but didn’t. They might need to get out of here in a hurry. The last thing he wanted was to die because of a stubborn