Afraid

“Hold it!” Duncan croaked. “I’m stuck!”

The oversized undershirt he wore had become caught on something in the vent, and the material was pulling at his neck, choking him.

Duncan tried to shake his head to release the tension. It didn’t work, the fabric continuing to cut into his throat. Because he couldn’t lower his arms, he couldn’t get the shirt off.

I have to let go of the hose, drop down, and take off the shirt, Duncan thought.

And that’s when Mrs. Teller grabbed his foot.

Duncan screamed. He didn’t want to let go now, even if he got strangled. He tried kicking but didn’t have any room. Mrs. Teller’s hands grabbed his thighs, hard, her fingers squeezing.

Duncan knew this was the end. He wasn’t going to get away. He felt bad for his mom. First she lost Dad, and now him. Smoke filled his lungs, but he tried to talk. He wanted to tell Mom that he loved her, one last time, before Mrs. Teller pulled him down.

But Mrs. Teller didn’t pull. She pushed.

Duncan heard the sound of fabric tearing, and then the pressure on his neck eased up. Josh yanked the hose, and Mrs. Teller continued to shove Duncan up the vent, lifting his legs, his ankles, and finally his feet, until he no longer felt her touch.

A moment later Mom and Josh were tugging on his arms, hauling him out of the duct.

“Duncan! Oh, my God, you’re bleeding!”

“I got shot, but only a little.”

Mom hugged him, and he hugged her, and it turned out he had some tears left, after all, because he started to cry. Woof, not wanting to be left out, stood up on his hind legs and put his front paws on him, joining the hug. Duncan wanted it to go on forever.

Then, from the vent, the sound of screaming.

Duncan pressed away from his mother.

“Mrs. Teller! She’s still in there, Mom!” He looked at Josh. “We have to get her out! The fire is going to get her!”

Another scream, and then the sound of a shotgun firing.

Silence followed.

Josh put one hand on Duncan’s shoulder and his other on Mom’s. He steered them, gently but firmly, away from the house.

“We need to get you both to a hospital.”

Even though Mom and Josh didn’t say anything, Duncan knew what happened to Mrs. Teller. And it was okay. She was finally with Mr. Teller again. He imagined them both, in heaven, baking cookies.

“I fired a shotgun,” Duncan said to Josh, beaming.

Josh tousled his hair.

“You did good, sport. Now let’s go make sure your mom is okay.”

Duncan saw Josh take Mom’s hand, their fingers interlocking, and he smiled.

Sheriff Streng sat in the back seat of Mrs. Teller’s 1992 Buick Roadmaster station wagon, a vehicle that boasted faux wood side panels and less than ten thousand miles on the odometer. Mrs. Teller had kept it in the garage and was kind enough to leave the keys in the ignition.

Streng had pulled it onto the lawn before the house collapsed, doing so out of necessity. There were too many people to cram into Olen’s Honey Wagon, and one of them was dangerous.

The captive had his hands tied behind him, Streng’s belt cinched around his legs, and a face that resembled a Picasso painting because Erwin had hit it so many times. He was no longer an immediate threat, but the sheriff still didn’t like being this close.

Streng had frisked him quickly, finding the plastic zip lines they’d used to bind his wrists, assorted matches and lighters, a container filled with more of those odd capsules, a Ka-Bar Warthog knife, and another one of those high-tech electronic devices that he couldn’t figure out how to turn on. He put everything, except the knife, in an empty McDonald’s bag he’d gotten from Olen’s truck. Then he turned his attention back to the pyro.

Like Ajax and Santiago, this man wore a black military-style outfit. And like Ajax and Santiago, he scared the crap out of Streng.

When he began to wake up, Streng Mirandized him, and then he and Erwin put the stranger into the back seat of the Roadmaster. Streng sat next to him. He pressed the thick-bladed combat knife up against the man’s throat, but he still kept an arm’s length away.

“Wake up. I have questions.”

The man peeked at Streng though peach-puffy eyes. He grinned. The missing teeth and swollen face made him look like a jack-o’-lantern.

“Hello, Sheriff Streng. I’d be happy, very happy, to answer any questions you have, as long, as long as you tell me where Warren is.”

Wiley again. What kind of horror had his brother brought upon this little town?

“What’s your name?”

“Bernie.”

“Full name.”

“Just Bernie is fine.”

“How many people in your unit?”

Bernie stuck his tongue through the gaps in his teeth and made sucking sounds. He seemed to be counting them. When he finished, he said, “Enough to get the job done.”

“What’s the job?”

“Find Warren. Finding Warren. Warren, Warren, Warren.”

“Why do you want to find him?” Streng thought he knew the answer but wanted confirmation.

A line of bloody saliva leaked out the corner of Bernie’s mouth.

“Did you take my lighters, Sheriff?”

“Answer my question. Why are you looking for Warren?”

Bernie clenched his jaw. Streng heard a cracking sound. Without flinching or taking his eyes away from Streng, Bernie produced a broken tooth between his grinning, distended lips. His tongue pushed it out, and it slid down his chin on a wave of gory spit.

“Why don’t you burn me?” Bernie asked. “Maybe that will make me talk.”

Centuries ago Streng served in Vietnam, during the war. He’d seen firsthand the types of things the Cong did to extract information. It had sickened him and remained a subject of nightmares for decades afterward.

When he mustered out and became a rookie cop in Milwaukee, criminal interrogations had been a bit … looser … than they were now. Streng witnessed his fellow officers beat a confession out of a killer using phone books. He’d also watched his squad take turns kicking a known child molester in the groin until he revealed the location of a child he’d abducted. Both times the suspects broke quickly. And both times Streng felt disgusted with himself afterward, even though he hadn’t participated in the beatings.

Bernie expected torture. Hell, he probably deserved torture. But the willful infliction of pain on a fellow human being just wasn’t in Streng’s constitution. He decided to try another approach.

“I saw your friends earlier. Ajax and Santiago. Did you all train together?”

Bernie stared malevolently.

“I bet you boys had a lot of training. You think they trained harder than you, or are just better at this stuff?”

Now Bernie shifted in his seat.

“That Santiago, I bet he’d never allow himself to be captured.” Streng moved closer to Bernie. “I bet he’d die first.”

Bernie took a deep breath, then exhaled hard through his broken nose. A clot blew out of his right nostril, and dark blood oozed out. Bernie extended his tongue and let the blood run over it.

“I smell piss.” Bernie licked his bloody lips and grinned. “Did Santiago make you wet yourself, Sheriff? Or—