The Night Parade(118)

Yet something about this monstrous scene drove home the frailty of his own situation. That van has been parked there, watching us for how long now? When they realized I’d left the hospital with no intention of coming back—with no intention of speaking to them about Ellie and all she holds inside her—would people have poured from that van, entered our home, taken my daughter from me? Have they been planning this from the very beginning?

He’d never held a gun before in his life, yet seeing it there on the floor beside the bed, he suddenly knew that his whole life had changed, and he would have to change with it. For Ellie’s sake.

In the end, he took the gun. He found two boxes of ammo in a sock drawer and he took those, too.

We’ll run. We’ll hide. We’ll get far enough away from this place before they even realize we’re gone. They’ll never know where to find us.

But he would have to take heed not to upset Ellie. She was the most important thing to him, and he would have to concoct some story that wouldn’t frighten her.

She already knows something is wrong, he thought, opening the jewelry box on the dresser. She’s a smart kid. Too damn smart. There was nothing but costume jewelry in there. He closed the lid and noticed a black leather wallet tucked behind the box. He opened it and saw Burt’s face smiling up at him from his driver’s license behind a clear plastic window. David split the wallet and saw that it was choked with bills.

Were you planning to take off in that RV after all? Was this cash your reserve, Burt? A quickie withdrawal from the nearest ATM before you and your family hit the road? And if that was the case, what stopped you? What changed your plans so drastically that you decided this horrible madness was the better option? A quartet of dead bodies lined up on a bed, holes in their heads, a Night Parade of the damned . . .

It was anger that he felt, and try as he might to convince himself it was directed at Burt for his terrible acts, he knew it wasn’t. It was Kathy he was thinking of, Kathy’s terrible face he couldn’t get out of his mind.

Fuckf*ckf*ck—

He didn’t bother counting the money, though at a glance it looked like nearly six hundred bucks. David stuffed the cash in the back pocket of his pants.

Why, Kathy? Goddamn you, why?

(bring the heater closer, would you, honey? it’s so cold in here)

He tossed the wallet back on the dresser, then opened the dresser drawer. More costume jewelry, some brooches that looked like antiques, a hairbrush, some other random things. And a set of car keys.

Thank you, God.

He took the keys and stuffed them in his pocket before heading back out into the hall and into another bedroom. This one had belonged to one of Burt’s daughters, judging by the overabundance of pinkness, and although he couldn’t remember either of the Langstrom girls’ names, this child’s nickname was stenciled on the wall over her bed in great swooping script: Moon-Bird.

You said your little girl is all right, David? She acting fine to you?

Burt’s daughter had gotten sick. One . . . or possibly both of them. Or maybe they hadn’t. Maybe, given his unstable state and increasing paranoia, Burt had just thought they had. Somehow that was even worse. Either way, he had done the unthinkable. . .

(so cold)

(why?)

David went straight to the closet, grabbed some clothes, some board games from a shelf, a book or two. On the floor of the closet was a little pink suitcase with a rubber handle. David slid this out into the center of the floor, popped it open, and filled it with these random items. He dropped the two boxes of ammo and the handgun inside it, as well.

Back downstairs, he rifled through the kitchen cupboard, which was mostly empty. He surmised that the Langstroms had been holed up here for some time, eating all the food they had on hand until it dwindled down to practically nothing. In the end, David settled for some granola bars and a few warm cans of soda from the cupboard.

In the garage, he opened the Oldsmobile’s trunk and tossed the pink suitcase inside. Then he went back through the house and out the sliding glass door to the front, where he opened the rear door of the Bronco and felt around on the floor for his duffel bag.

Ellie stirred and woke. She never woke like a regular child—all sleepy-lidded, muzzy, blustery like a winter snowstorm. Instead, she always came instantly awake, as if she’d been faking her slumber all along.

“What are you doing?” she said.

“Something’s happened. We can’t go home right now. We’re at a friend’s house and we’re going to use his car.”

“Why can’t we go home?”

“It’s all very complicated,” he said. He grabbed the duffel bag and yanked it out. He motioned for her to follow, too.

She shook her head.

“Let’s go, Ellie. Now.”

She gathered up the shoe box, then slid along the seat and dropped down onto the driveway.

David slung the duffel bag over one shoulder, then grabbed hold of his daughter’s hand. “Come on,” he said, and dragged her back around to the rear of the house.

“Whose house is this?”

“A friend. He’s away. We’re taking his car.”

“Why?”

He pulled her in through the open door.

“We need a different car.”

“Why? Where are we going? Why can’t we go home?”

“Just give me a goddamn minute, will you?” he said, half-shouting. His voice cracked midway through and he struggled not to burst into tears.