The Narrows(44)

Daylight made her fear seem less palpable; she stepped down off the steps and into the yard. The wet grass tickled her bare feet. The shotgun pointed dead ahead of her, she circled around the vehicles then went straight to the edge of the property and over to the willow tree.

It was a humped, spidery thing. Its branches, which were typically notched with narrow little leaves, were currently bare. Maggie searched around the base of the tree—the exact spot she thought she’d seen Tom struggling with the pale-skinned creature last night—but there was nothing for her to find.

Was she losing her mind?

“Stop it.” A nervous laugh threatened to erupt from her throat. Not wanting to take her eyes from the willow tree, she walked backwards all the way across the yard to the house. When she reached the patio steps, she cautiously ascended them backwards as well, the gun still aimed at the tree. In her mind’s eyes, she could too easily see that spidery tree uprooting itself from the wet soil and charging toward her on a system of roots like the many legs of an octopus.

Once again, she slammed and locked the door.

Inside, she set the shotgun down on the floor. Then she gathered up the couch cushions and pillows and put them back where they belonged. Tom’s dungaree jacket, still damp from the previous night’s rain, hung over the back of the couch. She stared hard at the tarnished copper buttons and the cigarette burns in the sleeves. A rubber key fob in the shape of a hand with its middle finger extended hung out of one pocket.

Maggie sat down on the couch and considered her situation. After several minutes, she got up and found her cell phone. There were no missed calls, no text messages. Her hands shaking, she managed to dial Tom’s number. With her phone to her ear, she heard Tom’s cell ring over the line. A second later, she heard a chirping sound coming from Tom’s jacket.

Maggie lowered her phone. The jacket continued chirping at her until she hit End on her phone. She went over to the jacket, picked it up, and fished around the pockets. Yes, Tom’s cell phone was in one of the pockets. Just holding it made everything feel too real to her, so she quickly dropped it. Her heart slammed against her ribs. Yes, in the other pocket, the middle finger key fob was attached to a set of keys which included the ignition key to the Maverick.

Tom’s car couldn’t be here when Evan got home. That much was clear.

Examining the keys in her hand, she felt a giddy sense of salvation rush through her like a jolt of adrenaline.

“Okay,” she muttered to herself, stuffing the keys into the pocket of her sweatpants then gathering up Tom’s jacket off the couch. “Okay, okay, okay…”

Back in the kitchen, the microwave clock turned from 5:46 to 5:47.

Barefoot, Maggie hurried out the door and went straight across the yard to Tom’s car. The driver’s door was unlocked, so she yanked it open and slid inside, quickly closing the door behind her. After all, whatever had been out here in the yard last night could still be around. Watching, waiting. Hiding. The thought gave her chills.

She tossed Tom’s jacket into the backseat then, selecting the appropriate key, started up the engine. The car shuddered and roared and she vibrated in the seat. The motor sounded like it belonged on a space shuttle.

Maggie spent a few minutes hunting for the gearshift before she saw that it was on the steering column. She cranked the car into Drive then, spinning the wheel, drove it around the side of the house and down the rutted driveway toward the street. It was still dark so she patted around the dashboard until she found the knob for the headlights. It felt just like the Pontiac’s cigarette lighter. She tugged the knob and the headlights blinked on, cutting through the darkness.

As she pulled onto the street, she turned left and gunned it up the hill. Had she gone right, she would have driven straight into the mountains, where an abandoned vehicle was certain to catch the eye of a vigilant police officer. Instead, she opted to head toward town, where there were always a few cars parked along the side of the road. Who knew? Maybe Tom Schuler would come stumbling out into town only to find his own car here waiting for him. Crazier things have happened, right?

You’re losing your shit, honeypot, said the head-voice. This time, it was so loud Maggie glanced up at the rearview mirror for fear that someone was speaking to her from the backseat. You’re really going bughouse, aren’t you, darling?

She turned left at the first intersection. The street ahead was lined with darkened shops and lampposts that no longer worked. A few cars were parked on either side of the street. Maggie pulled alongside the curb and parked directly behind a battered old station wagon. She cranked the key and shut the car down. It chugged and chugged then finally died.

“There you go,” she said then glanced up at her reflection in the rearview. She looked hideous. “Okay. Fine.”

She climbed quickly from the car, pushing the door closed slowly so that it would latch but wouldn’t slam. Just as the sun began to creep up over the string of darkened buildings, Maggie headed back in the direction of her home. Halfway there, she realized she still had Tom’s car keys in her hands. That problem was soon solved, however, when she pitched them down the next storm drain she came to.



2



Back home, she returned the shotgun and the shells to the basement. Then she took a quick shower and got dressed. She was brushing her hair and smiling warmly when Evan came home from work a few minutes later. Greeting his wife with only a passing glance, he muttered, “You’re up early,” then went immediately to bed.