While you were runnin’ from your groupie, it’s likely someone—maybe The Man himself—stood over her and offered a choice. Oncoming death or a life of servitude.
Clay shuddered. “What kind of choice is that?”
Death would’ve been better. But nothing’s worse than the act of dying, so it’s hard to fault her. She was in here tonight. Before you. And she wasn’t playing spiritualist no more. She stood right in the middle of this room, in full dark, and ordered me to appear. Of course I was already right there, tellin’ her to fuck off. But she had a message. From him. Told me if I wanted another crack at life, I could have yours. All I had to do was make you sign.
“But you’re not going to do that,” Clay said slowly. “Are you?”
I tried jumpin’ into you once before. I didn’t like it. Boyle laughed—then, just as quickly, grew resolute: I’ve been fightin’ bad authority figures my whole existence. What’s the Hailmaker but the ultimate bad authority? I don’t know about you two, but I didn’t pick up a guitar to bend to my fucking masters.
Clay started to relay this to Savy, but she waved him off with a grin. “I’m getting good at lip-reading.” Then: “Damn right.”
Outside a branch snapped, sharp against the nocturnal quiet. Everyone paused. The snap was followed by a harsh ripping sound—like canvas tearing or a brush fighting through a particularly thick clump of hair. The rose bushes, Clay realized. Someone had been sneaking through the rose bushes and gotten themselves tangled. “Is that Essie?” Savy whispered.
I don’t think so, Boyle said.
“The alarm should’ve caught any wall climbers. Unless… shit.” It was a terrible thought—and it suddenly made sense. “Unless Essie killed the alarms.”
In four bounds, Clay was at the door, yanking it open.
All was quiet and still. This far from the perimeter walls it was hard to tell if the alarm was on or not. Though the cluster of roses beyond the orange grove and the pair of motion sensors back there—sensors that tripped if you stepped within ten feet of them—were lit up.
Stay here, Clay, Boyle warned. Don’t go writin’ yourself into some murder ballad.
“My father,” was all Clay could reply, as he hurried back around the room, snatching up the Schecter guitar and charging for the door again. Savy moved to block his exit. “He’s the only family I’ve got,” Clay told her. “If he’s in danger, it’s on me.”
He knew this would strike a chord and regretted framing his bravado this way. Because in the next instant, Savy was gathering weapons, a pair of Spider’s drumsticks (the really thick ones he used for his tom outro on “Disaffected,”) and Clay’s old friend, the single-watt mini-amp. There wasn’t time to plot or argue. I see anything,I’ll flash the lights, Boyle shouted after them.
Hurrying out across the grass, Clay and Savy gained the stepping-stone path that wound through the back yard. They moved with only the barest of sound—but a shortcut through the pool court that gave them away.
At the squeal of the gate, there was a mad scramble among the potted ferns near the deep end and a watery slap. “Hear that?” Savy whispered.
Clay nodded. It had come from the pool itself. And to get to the back porch and into the house, they would need to pass right by the water’s edge.
The pool glowed faintly silver in the moonlight—except in the deep end, where it was interrupted by a dark patch.
Something submerged there.
Something moving, creeping, subtly along the bottom of the pool. Or was it only Clay’s imagination, a trick of shadows? He waited for bubbles, but none came. The intruder was remarkably skilled at holding their breath. Or they had no breath.
The guitar poised like a bat, Clay advanced. His padding feet were quiet, but slow. Too slow. And the shadow was drawing closer. Or does it only look that way because I’m getting closer? Clay turned to make sure Savy was still with him, and that was when he saw it—the strip of cloth hanging from one of the potted ferns. A discarded bandage.
No. That was impossible. Davis Karney wouldn’t have been able to stand, let alone walk out of a hospital on his own, let alone…
“Shit,” Savy hissed, “there’s something in the pool—”
Karney’s blistered hands burst through the skin of the water. Savy screamed as the scorched face emerged like some terrible reptile. Water spilled down the ruts and grooves of his burns. He lifted himself from the pool, lipless mouth going, saying something to Clay—though all that came out was a sopping-wet gargle. Impossible, Clay’s mind persisted. But if Essie had been yanked from death’s grip, why not Karney too?
“Clay!” Savy seemed to be shouting from far away. “Keep moving!”
Had he stopped? Well, he didn’t exactly realize that. But, yes, she was right. Like the slasher-film fool, Clay had frozen to witness his oncoming fate. For some reason, he thought of asking Karney if the water was nice. Maybe the two of them could have a nice laugh over that.
Then Clay was stumbling up the porch steps toward the back doors—and only later did he understand it was Savy who’d shoved him. He lost the guitar and it went banging away into the dark of the summer kitchen. His newly freed hands reached for and caught the French doors, wondering if they’d be locked.
But both handles gave under his pressure. After all, if Essie had been planning a midnight raid, it wouldn’t have done any good to lock Karney out.
Clay had nine toes in the house before Savy cried out behind him. Karney had leapt from the water to snag the back of her shirt. With a single motion, he yanked her clear off her feet. Savy thrashed. She swung the mini-amp across her body and slammed it like a rock into Karney’s bloated midsection. There was a moist thump as the amp embedded
