She turned the bills over thoughtfully in her hands. Pendergast had stayed in town the last week, working with Hazen and the state police to wrap up the evidentiary phase of the case. He had called to say he was leaving tomorrow, early, and said he wanted to say goodbye before he left—and collect his cell phone. That was what he really wanted, she knew, the cell phone.
He’d already been by the hospital several times to see her. He had been very solicitous and kind; and yet, somehow, she’d hoped for more. She shook her head. What did she expect—that he’d take her with him, make her his permanent assistant? Ridiculous. Besides, he seemed increasingly eager to leave, citing some pressing matter waiting for him back in New York. He’d taken several calls on his cell phone from a man named Wren, but then he’d always left the room and she’d never caught what was said. Anyway, it didn’t really matter. He was going away, and in two more weeks high school would begin again. Senior year, her last in Medicine Creek. One last year of hell.
At least there wouldn’t be any more trouble from Sheriff Hazen. Funny, he’d saved her life and now he seemed to have taken some kind of almost paternal interest in her. She had to admit he had been pretty cool when she’d visited him that day she left the hospital. He’d even apologized—not in so many words, of course, but still it just about floored her. She had thanked him for saving her life. He’d shed a few tears at that, said he hadn’t done nearly enough, that he’d done nothing. The poor man. He was still really broken up about Tad.
She looked down at the money. Tomorrow, on her way out, she’d tell Pendergast what she planned to do with it.
The idea had formed slowly, over those days she’d spent in the hospital. In a way, she was surprised she hadn’t thought of it before. She had two weeks before school, she had money, and she was free: the sheriff had dropped all charges. Nothing was keeping her here: she had no friends to speak of, no job, and if she stuck around, her mother would wheedle the money out of her sooner or later.
Not that she had any illusions, not even when the idea first came to her. She knew that when she found him he’d probably turn out to be one of those guys who couldn’t seem to get it together: a loser. After all, he’d married her mother and then split, leaving both of them in the lurch. He’d never paid child support, never visited, never written—at least, that she could be sure of. He wouldn’t exactly be a Fred MacMurray.
It didn’t matter. He was her father. In her gut, this seemed like the right thing to do. And now she had the money and the time to do it.
It wouldn’t be hard to find him. Her mother’s endless complaints had the unintentional side effect of keeping her informed of his progress. After bouncing around the Midwest he had settled in Allentown, Pennsylvania, where he worked doing brake jobs for Pep Boys. How many Jesse Swansons could there be in Allentown? She could drive there in a couple of days. The money Pendergast had paid her would cover gas, tolls, motels, with a nice cushion in the very likely event that some unexpected car repairs came up.
Even if he turned out to be a loser, her memories of him were good memories. He wasn’t a jerk, at least. When he was there he’d been a good father, taking her out to the movies and miniature golf, always laughing, always having fun. What did it mean, anyway, to be a loser? The kids at school thought she was a loser, too. He
She folded the bills, stuffed them into her pants pocket. From beneath her bed she pulled out her plastic suitcase, plopped it on the bed, opened it up, and began throwing clothes in. She’d leave first thing in the morning, before her mother woke up, say goodbye to Pendergast, and be on her way.
The suitcase was soon packed. Corrie shoved it back under her bed, lay down, and in an instant was asleep.
She awoke in the stillness of night. All was dark. She sat up, looking around groggily. Something had awakened her. It couldn’t be her mother, she was working the night shift at the club, and—
From directly outside her window came a gurgle, a chattering noise, a soft thump. Instantly, the grogginess went away, replaced by terror.
And then there was a splutter and a hiss, and a patter of drops began falling lightly against the side of the trailer.
She glanced at the clock: 2A.M. She sank back on the bed, almost laughing out loud with relief. This time, it really
She rose to shut the window. She paused for a moment, drinking in the cool flow of air, the fresh smell of wet grass. Then she went to slide the window shut.
A hand suddenly reached in from the darkness and caught the window’s edge, stopping it from closing. It was bloody, with broken nails.
Corrie dropped her hands from the window and backed away wordlessly.
A white, moonlike face now appeared in the window: bruised, cut, streaked with filth and blood, with a wispy beard and a strange, childlike puffiness. Slowly the terrible hand pulled the window open until it would go no more. A terrible stench—all the more terrible for the memories that it stirred—flowed in and filled her nostrils.
Corrie backed toward the door, numb fingers feeling in her pocket for the cell phone. She found it, hit the send button twice, directing the phone to call the most recently dialed number. Pendergast’s number.
With a jerk the huge hand ripped out the cheap aluminum window frame, shattering the glass.
Corrie turned and ran from her room, tearing down the hall in her bare feet, racing across the living room toward—
With a crash, the front door was flung open. And there stood Job: Job, still alive, one eye ruptured and weeping yellow liquid, his oversized child’s clothing torn and filthy, crusted with blood, hair matted, skin sallow. One arm hung, useless and broken, but the other was reaching toward her.
The arm was reaching out, clawing at her, and
“No!” she screamed. “No, no, get away—!”
