before.
“Does he recognize me?”
“Owen, do you remember Garrett? My son? Your friend?”
Owen stepped into the clearing around the shack, still obviously trying to place Garrett. He ran his talons along the side of the shack, a gesture that Toby found vaguely threatening-not something Owen had ever done before.
“It’s Garrett. I know you remember Garrett.”
And then Owen’s face beamed with pure joy that went beyond anything Toby had ever seen from the monster. Yeah, his smile was rather grotesque with his missing teeth, but you simply could not deny the emotion behind it.
Toby was so overcome with his own happiness that he didn’t immediately realize that Garrett had taken out a gun.
Owen howled with fright and put his hands over his face.
Toby grabbed for the weapon. He struck Garrett’s arm just as he pulled the trigger. The gun fired.
Owen roared and clutched at his side, blood spurting between his fingers.
Garrett tried to shove Toby out of the way, but Toby didn’t care if he was a sixty-five-year-old arthritic mess, there was no way in hell he was going to let anything happen to Owen. He threw a punch that connected solidly with Garrett’s jaw, knocking him to the ground.
Think how much different your life could have been, if you’d done that to Larry forty-five years ago.
Garrett pointed the gun back at Owen and squeezed off another shot. The bullet tore across Owen’s left arm.
Owen was a close target, but a target in motion.
The monster pushed Toby aside and dove at Garrett, attacking him in a flurry of teeth and claws. Toby’s son screamed in agony, and Toby screamed for Owen to stop.
There was blood everywhere.
Including on Toby’s chest. Owen had gouged him deep with his claws when he pushed him away.
“Owen, stop it!” Toby screamed.
Owen tore off a particularly meaty strip of Garrett’s flesh.
“Stop it, goddamn it!” Bleeding and hurting and terrified, Toby moved over to the carnage and kicked Owen as hard as he could. Owen yelped, then stood up and backed away.
“Owen, that’s my son, you fucking beast!”
Owen looked at Toby, absolutely devastated, then ran off through the trees.
It wasn’t his usual direction. He was headed toward Toby’s home.
Toby dropped to his knees next to his son, who was coughing up blood and clutching helplessly at his shredded chest. Toby pulled out his cell phone to call for help.
No reception out in the forest. There almost never was.
“Why did you hurt him?” Toby asked, sobbing. He knew the answer, but felt the need to say something instead of just silently watching Garrett die.
Gotta kill the monster before you bring a kid into the world.
Toby couldn’t run for help. It wasn’t worth pretending, not even to say that he’d done everything he possibly could. He couldn’t even say anything reassuring, tell his son that everything would be fine, that he’d called 911 and a helicopter had been dispatched.
When your body was torn up like that, you weren’t going to survive.
“What should I tell Marianne?” Toby asked.
Garrett opened his mouth and blood ran down the sides of his face. He stared at the sky and died.
Toby stood up, picked up the gun, staggered away from his son’s body, and walked away from the shack, going after Owen.
The gashes on his chest from Owen’s talons hurt like crazy, which Toby took as a good sign. When the pain started to seep from his body it was time to get worried.
This would be his last time walking through these woods. He wished his final journey could’ve been a peaceful stroll, like hundreds of others had been, and not what he was doing now, stumbling through the night, barely able to keep his flashlight steady, shirt covered with blood.
But this was typical of life, wasn’t it? You tended to quit doing things after the bad times, and not the good times.
Dear God, what kind of cynical bullshit was that? Regardless of how this turned out, Toby was going to make one more trek out to Owen’s home, even if he did it in a goddamn wheelchair, just to prove himself wrong.
The pain was starting to fade a bit.
He emerged from the woods, half expecting to see Owen in his backyard, cowering next to the back of the house, scared and wanting his friend to tell him that everything was going to be all right.
The backyard was empty.
What would Owen do? Was he just running around the forest? Was he lying somewhere, bleeding to death? He wouldn’t have left the woods, would he? He would have stayed where he felt the safest.
Toby went inside. He couldn’t hide this. Not the death of his own son.
He turned on the television as he peeled off his shirt to examine his wounds, praying not to see a newscaster telling the local viewing audience about reports of a wild animal on the loose, much like one that had gone on a rampage thirty-five years ago.
“…at least two confirmed dead, in a story that’s almost too bizarre to believe…”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Somebody had captured video images of Owen with their digital camera. The footage of the mauling was online before the police even arrived at the scene.
It was a middle-aged couple, just walking down the sidewalk. Probably in their own neighborhood, though it was too early to say, since the bodies hadn’t yet been identified. It was almost comical the way the man spun around, sort of like a dancer doing a pirouette when Owen’s claw got him in the face.
Toby drove toward where the murders had occurred-not too far from where he lived, maybe four miles. Quite a bit farther than he would’ve expected Owen to be, at least after being shot twice. Rage and fear must have kept him moving quickly.
He had no idea how to go about accomplishing his task, but Toby knew that he had to kill Owen. He couldn’t let him hurt-massacre-anybody else. Decades of friendship or not, he had to destroy the monster.
How was he supposed to find him, though? Keep his car window rolled down and listen for screams?
“Nothing has been confirmed by authorities yet,” said the voice on the radio, “but there may be a third victim tonight, apparently a sixteen-year-old girl…”
Christ…
Blue and red flashing lights up ahead. Toby had considered calling the police and telling them what he knew, but what useful information could he convey? That the creature’s name was Owen? That it had killed his son?
Why hadn’t he shot him all those years ago? Blown him away with the shotgun when he had the chance?
Stop it. This wasn’t the time to wallow in regret.
“…strongly recommend that you remain indoors until this situation has been resolved…”
“Excellent advice,” Toby told the radio.
He turned right, away from the parked police cars, then slowed down as he drove down the suburb street. “Owen!” he shouted out the window. “Come out, Owen! It’s Toby!” If the police stopped him and asked, he’d say he was calling for his grandson.
“Owen!”
He drove slowly around the entire four-block neighborhood, constantly shouting Owen’s name, but there was no sign of his friend. It looked like the police were starting to cordon off the area, and a young police officer waved
