The Narrows(43)

Trembling, she went back to the rear door. The crescent of glass at the top was foggy from her panting respiration. She had turned the floodlights off earlier—at least, she thought she had—and the world beyond was nothing but outer space. Should she turn the floods on again and see what lay beyond the door, beyond the patio? What was out there in the muddy field along with Evan’s Pontiac and Tom’s old Maverick?

Her hand found the light switch beside the door. The switch pressed against the sweaty palm of her hand as she pressed hard against it. In her mind’s eye, she could see herself flipping on the floods…and seeing the horror that remained of Tom Schuler in the field, his body torn to shreds, his face mangled into a pulpy stew.

“I can’t,” she whined, crying again.

Do it, said the head-voice.

That thing that had been crouched low on the roof of the car earlier…that horrible thing that had appeared at one of the living room windows as she had looked out…

She pulled her hand away from the light switch and brought it to the dead bolt on the door. She turned the bolt; the sound was like opening a bank vault, and it echoed in her ears. Under her breath she counted to three…then, gripping and turning the knob, she yanked the door open.

Icy wind and cold pellets of rain attacked her. With a shriek she thrust the barrel of the shotgun out the door and into the night, foolishly waving it around like a sword. She could see nothing, hear nothing.

“Tom!” she shouted into the monsoon. “Are you out there? Tom! Tom!”

Only the wind howled back, frightening her even more.

When she thought she caught movement off to her right, she screamed and almost dropped the shotgun. Something quick and catlike darted out from the approximate area of the willow tree and ran toward the house along the property line. A low, animalistic groan escaped from Maggie’s throat as she backed through the doorway, the barrel of the shotgun flailing about.

Back inside, terrified and soaking wet, Maggie slammed the door and bolted it again. Sobbing freely now, she carried the shotgun back to the spot on the floor where she’d erected the couch cushions and throw pillows into a makeshift pillbox, and lowered herself to her knees. She pulled the shotgun back into her lap and leaned back against the couch. The roof creaked as the storm pounded against it. Outside, lightning made the windows glow like sapphires.

Maggie squeezed her eyes shut and prayed for daylight.



7



It was nearly two in the morning when Ben finally arrived back home. The house greeted him with its usual silence and he didn’t bother turning on any of the lights as he came through the front door and staggered exhaustedly down the hallway toward the master bedroom. He stripped out of his uniform, set his gun on the nightstand beside the bed, and unbuckled his duty belt, which he hung over the back of a wooden chair that faced an antique rolltop desk. In the left breast pocket of his uniform shirt, Ben took out the gold-plated Zippo lighter he always kept with him—his father’s lighter. The old man’s initials, W. J., were etched onto one side. Feeling more nostalgic than usual, Ben turned the lighter over in his fingers a few times before finally setting it down on the nightstand beside the bed. Check out your only son now, Dad. Then he peeled off his undershirt and stepped out of his underwear. Instantly he felt about seventy pounds lighter and as naked and vulnerable as a turtle without a shell.

Too exhausted to shower, he washed his face and hands in the adjoining bathroom, brushed his teeth, popped out his contact lenses, and urinated with the zeal of someone who has just come off a cross-country road trip.

Back in the bedroom, he cracked open both windows just enough to let fresh air in but keep the raging storm at bay. Then he slipped into bed and, lying on his back, laced both hands beneath his head. Moonlight filtering through the windows reflected onto the ceiling; the shadows of raindrops rolled like comets above his head.

Out in the hallway, the floorboards creaked.

Ben held his breath. Listened.

After a moment, he called out, “Dad?” Then he waited for a response, already feeling indescribably foolish.

Five minutes later, sleep claimed him.





Chapter Five


1


The sound of birds woke her. Maggie’s eyes flipped open and, for a moment, disorientation caused her to question her surroundings. Stiffly, she sat up and found herself asleep on the living room floor, surrounded by cushions and pillows. Her husband’s shotgun sat at an angle across her lap.

It all rushed back to her.

Grabbing the barrel of the gun, Maggie stood and wended her way around the scattered pillows and the couch to the back door. Pink dawn pooled into the room from the crescent of glass at the top of the door. The whole house was warm. She realized that all the windows were shut.

Still clutching the shotgun, Maggie staggered into the kitchen and saw that the clock on the microwave read 5:22 a.m. Evan would be home in about an hour.

Back in the hall, she undid the dead bolt on the back door and pulled the door open. Beyond, the sloping lawn glistened in the premature daylight that broke through the valley between the mountains. Tom’s Maverick sat there, also glistening, and looking like a bloody f*cking handprint.

Her eyes shifted toward the edge of the property and to the weeping willow tree, heavy with rain and sagging close to the earth. Shadows pooled at its base. She could see nothing incriminating around it.