by Carrie Jones
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“I guess. I’m scared.”
“Yeah. Me too.”
“You didn’t seem scared out there when you were facing those three idiots with their guns,” she says. “That was very brave of you.”
“Well, you know, it’s our land. We’ve got the cattle and all, and there have been people before who would shoot cattle from the road, just to be mean. They were trespassing,” I say. “Any farmer would have done the same thing.”
“Still, it was very brave. There were three of them, plus … that other.”
“I wonder why they were here. Why were those men with the … God, can I really say I wonder why they were with the monster?”
“Maybe they don’t know?” she suggests.
“Maybe.” I don’t want to say it, but I feel like I owe it to her to say what I’m thinking. “Maybe they’re looking to cover up his tracks. You know, revisit where he’s been and remove evidence?”
She puts a hand over her hip pocket where she put the piece of shirt we found earlier. “Could be,” she says. “You didn’t recognize any of them?”
“No. They don’t live anywhere close by.”
“We have to find out who they are,” Chrystal says. I agree. “How can we do that?”
I think about it for a minute, then say, “Sam Davis might know. He runs the feedstore. He seems to know everybody around here. I wonder if he went on the hunt. I’ll go call him. His number is posted with the sheriff’s on the wall downstairs.”
“I’ll stay here,” Chrystal says. “I want to call my dad again.”
I go downstairs and call the feedstore, but there’s no answer. Mom asks about lunch while I stop off at the dining room table. When Kelsey looks up to say she wants chicken nuggets, I slip a Monopoly fifty-dollar bill out of the bank box and add it to Katie’s stack of cash.
“Thanks, Logan,” Katie says.
“Mom, he’s cheating again!” Kelsey whines.
“You have to be quiet about it,” I whisper to Katie as I take the money and put it back in the box. “Nuggets are fine with me. I’ll ask Chrystal. If she’s okay with it, just make enough for all of us. If not, I’ll let you know.”
“Is she okay?” Mom asks. “She looked like she had a pretty bad scare out there.”
I have to think about it before I answer. Tell Mom what Chrystal thinks? No, not yet. “Yeah, she’s okay. She’s not used to seeing people with guns. She didn’t even know how to hold my .22.”
“Oh, well, I was like that when your dad met me too,” she says.
“You’re still like that, Mom.” I dash up the stairs to avoid the dish towel she throws at me. Mom’s actually almost as good a shot as me.
Chrystal’s still on the phone. “You’re almost here?” she asks, then pauses. “Ten minutes? Twenty?” Another pause. “Okay. I’ll see you then. Yes, I’ll ask.” She puts her phone down.
“He’s on his way back?” I ask.
“Yes. He’s almost here. He found something he’s all excited about. He wants to know if he can set up his microscope and stuff somewhere.”
“Yeah, we can find a place for that,” I say. “Would a table in the corner of the living room be enough, do you think?”
“I don’t know.…” she says. “He, umm, really gets into his work. It might be distracting to anyone around him.”
“Oh. Well, I’ll ask Mom. Are chicken nuggets all right with you for lunch?”
Outside, the dogs start barking and we hear the honk of a car horn. It used to be that hearing a car horn in the driveway made me happy, but now—now, it’s like an interruption of Chrystal. Chrystal leaps off the bed.
“I think it’s my dad,” she says, and she’s out the door before I even move.
16
CHRYSTAL
I honestly don’t know what to think about that guy who was hiding in the bushes, but it all makes a twisted sort of sense that he was on their property, right? I mean, we’re only here because Logan saw him. Maybe he has something against the Jennings. Dr. Borgess was talking about vengeance. I try to logic out what I know.
1. He was hiding, but the other guys knew he was there. That means they knew he had a reason to hide.
2. He was hiding, and small, but the other creeps totally waited for his orders, for him to move.
3. The man my dad’s camera caught this morning looked injured even though I couldn’t make out his face or anything about him really because it was such a bad image.
I know it’s jumping to conclusions, but it’s just … It felt like the monster. The moment I saw him, everything in my stomach sort of twisted up, and the hair on my arms (not that there’s a lot of hair on my arms) stood on end. And if I’m right, that means he’s here, and it means he knows we’re here. And it means he has scumbag friends.
I’m thinking all this while I mash potatoes for Mrs. Jennings. Everybody is getting ready for dinner, except Mr. Jennings, who isn’t home yet, and my dad, who is all set up at a folding table in the corner of the kitchen. He’s murmuring to himself and looking through his microscope.
I push on the masher, squashing the potato chunks into smooth bits, changing the pieces into one solid mass. I add more butter.
The question is: Is it a coincidence that he’s here, where I am? Could he have tracked me here? Or … since he was here already—this was his first sighting—maybe there is some other connection. He likes fresh beef? Were they looking for evidence and trying to get rid of it? Maybe his shirt? Maybe it is all about vengeance? I keep going around and around in my head with these same thoughts and questions, but I don’t feel like I’m getting any cloer to the answers.
My hand shakes as it grabs the salt. I put only a little in. I’m not sure how salty the Jennings like their potatoes, and somebody could have high blood pressure. I don’t know. I don’t know anything about this family, really. Katie starts happy dancing across the kitchen floor, twirling in circles. Mrs. Jennings starts laughing. Okay. I know that this family is cute. That’s one thing, right?
I look to Dad, think about telling him my theory, but he’s in “data mode” right now, not “information gathering/theories mode.” I could tell Logan, but he’s already looking like he’s stressed to his maximum capacity. Mrs. Jennings? Probably a good idea.
I say in a ridiculously loud voice, “Mrs. Jennings, can you come help me with this?”
“Of course!” she says, sliding some aluminum foil over a chicken that’s been roasting all day. “What do you need? Are they runny? That’s okay, Chrystal. Potatoes are hard to master. Oh! They look great!”
I put my finger over my lips and then start murmuring my theories to her. I know we weren’t going to tell everyone about the extent of the trespassers, but I’m not cool with that idea anymore. When I’m done, I expect Mrs. Jennings to do something wimpy like put her hand to her forehead or her heart or say, “I have to sit down.” Instead she just straightens up, standing to her full height.
“Good to know. I’ll tell Mr. Jennings, Chrystal.” She puts oven mitts on. “You’re a smart girl.” She raises her voice a little to get my dad’s attention. “You raised a smart girl, Mr. Lawson Smith!”
Dad doesn’t even look up.
* * *
Mr. Jennings gets home just before dinner. He’s covered in dirt and grass stains and sweat, but Kelsey and Katie rush over to him anyways, throwing their arms around him like he’s a hero returning from war, which in a way, I guess he is. After he takes care of them and hugs Logan in the man-hug way (quick pat on the back while breaking apart), he gives Mrs. Jennings a really long hug and relaxes a little bit in her arms. Then he smiles at me and says, “I’m glad you’re here, Chrystal.”
“Thanks,” I say. “I’m glad to be here.”
I’m thinking that we covered this last night and kind of wondering why he’s talking about it again. He shoots a look at his girls and says, “Kelsey. Katie. Can you get your old man a beer?”
“Both
of us?” Katie asks.
He nods. “I need one for each hand.”
Kelsey rolls her eyes, but she and Katie head to the kitchen and Mr. Jennings says, “Your dad in there?”
I tell him he is. Logan explains that my dad’s a bit distracted at the moment, doing something. We’re not sure what. I haven’t even been able to talk to him about the man his camera caught.
Mr. Jennings pulls off his baseball hat and uses it to wipe at the sweat on his forehead. His hair is soaked, darkened with it. “It’s big. We know that much. Easily three hundred pounds. It has big strides, so it’s tall. And it seems to cover a huge area in one night—literally miles.”
“But you didn’t find it?” Logan asks.
“No.” He puts his hat back on and focuses his next words at me. “And that’s why I’m glad you’re staying here again tonight. I don’t know how you fought off that thing, Chrystal, but I’m glad you did. They found another woman.”
“Found her?” I ask.
His face folds inward somehow. “‘Found’ isn’t the right word. Well, she’s missing. An older woman. We found her. Plus, another woman is missing. She’s about just the other side of twenty. It looks like it dragged her out of her car. There was blood on the road and…”
It’s like a sucker punch. I whirl away toward the kitchen so I don’t have to hear. I can’t hear. I can’t stand not doing anything about this, can’t stand hiding here.
Kelsey comes out of the kitchen with a beer.
“I’m only a year younger than you,” she says.
“I know.”
“And they won’t tell me anything.”
I stare at her. “They want to protect you.”
“They aren’t.”
“I know,” I say again, and I pull her off toward the stairs to the basement. Whispering quickly, I tell her everything I know. She takes it all in without panicking. Her eyes harden just the same way her mom’s did when I told her my theory. Finally I finish and Kelsey goes, “I can shoot, you know.”
“Yeah? Are you good?”
She smiles. “Nah. I’m brilliant.”
I smile back.
“Let’s sleep together tonight,” she says. “If you’re okay with that. You can have my bed still and I’ll take the cot. That way, if it’s coming after one of us, we’ll be together.…”
“But what if it’s targeting me?” I protest.
“It started before you were even here, Chrystal. You were alone when it went after you. I bet those other ladies were alone, too. I bet Karen was. So, we stick together.”
“Okay, but you should have your bed.”
She rolls her eyes. “Fine.”
“Girls! Where’s my beer?” Mr. Jennings yells, but it’s not a grumpy yell, more goofy.
Katie rushes past us, mashed potato on her cheek, and yells, “Right here, Daddy! Right here!”
* * *
Despite all the fear and all the weirdness these past days, dinner goes really well. People talk and tease. The food is amazing and it’s almost perfect. It’s like I’ve stepped into some 1970s family drama. Everyone loves one another. Nobody is on drugs. The parents don’t glare. The only problem is that Dad refuses to join us. He’s too busy. He can get like this, forgetting to eat for days if you don’t push him. So I make up a plate for him and put it on the table, right near his microscope.
He still hasn’t touched a bite by the time we’ve cleaned everything up, the dogs have mooched off a billion scraps, and Mr. Jennings goes out to take watch on the porch. The dogs go with him, except Galahad, who Mr. Jennings thinks is a nuisance. Galahad stands by the trash can, keeping watch over that while Mrs. Jennings boils down the chicken carcass to make stock for gravies and soups. I helped her add celery and onions and carrots, and now I’m watching the stock to make sure it doesn’t boil over while she and the kids set up a game of Sorry! in the dining room.
“Dad, you need to eat.”
He doesn’t answer.
“Dad…” I cross my arms over my chest and lean against the doorframe between the dining room and the kitchen. “Have some water at least. It’s hot. You’ll dehydrate.”
“I’m working, Chrystal!” His eyes flash up at me for a second, impatient, but at least he’s acknowledging my existence, which is a pretty big deal for him when he’s in a mood like this.
Pivoting away, I bump into Mrs. Jennings. There’s pity in her eyes, which I really just can’t stand.
“Thanks for helping with dinner, Chrystal,” she says. “Those potatoes were far better than any I’ve ever made.”
“Oh gosh … Thanks…” I struggle to find a way to accept the compliment. “It’s just the onion powder. I think you’re an amazing cook.”
She smiles and smooths her hands over her hair, tucking it into place. “You do a lot for your dad, don’t you?”
I shrug. It’s not really something I think about. “He gets distracted sometimes.”
She nods. Her lips purse. Something lodges in my throat. Swallowing hard, I try to push it away, even though it’s obviously not something physical. It’s not a hairball, I mean. It’s an emotion, a bad emotion. It’s like sadness or guilt or just a big clump of half-solidified tears or something.
“It’s hard when you have to be the parent,” she says.
Behind her, in the living room, everyone’s playing Sorry! Mr. Jennings is taking his shift out on the porch. Every once in a while someone will go to the window and watch him pace, or join him and talk. It’s funny that he’s gone from protecting his livestock to protecting us.
“I love my dad.” I don’t know how else to answer her.
She reaches out in a total mom move, touching my cheek. “I know, sweetie.”
“My mom was worse,” I blurt. Then I close my eyes because I can’t believe I just said that and because I don’t want to see any more pity.
“She’s okay now,” I rattle on, “but she used to drink and she’d forget things. She wasn’t mean, but she’d leave food in the oven, or leave the car running in the garage, or she’d forget to shut off the bathtub water, and … my dad couldn’t handle it. He started studying the science of the weird even more, just retreating.…”
“And you were left taking care of things,” she says.
I open my eyes back up.
“Mr. Jennings’s dad had issues like that,” she says, straightening her back like there’s some sort of awful crick in there. “I could tell you that it makes you strong, but that’s not going to do you much good. You already know that, right?”
“Mom!” Logan’s voice interrupts us. He’s still sitting at the table, playing. “Are you giving Chrystal a hard time about something?”
“No,” I answer for Mrs. Jennings, and move toward the table. “She’s being nice.”
Logan’s mouth opens, and just at that moment there’s a long, howling noise that barges in through the open windows. The haunting echo of it drifts through the house, silencing all of us.
“What was that?” Kelsey whispers. She’s got her arm around my waist.
“Coyote?” I ask, hoping against hope. I head towards the computer to check the camera feed.
Logan springs up from the table and races to the front porch. The rest of his family hurries after him.
Katie’s clinging to her mom’s side as we all stare out into the darkness.
Dad appears in the doorway. He has shotgun shells in his hands and he starts towards the front porch.
“Dad!” I yell.
He keeps walking.
“Dad! Come look at this.”
I point at the camera and there it is—a dark, huge beast, shuffling across the view screen. It’s too close to make out, but then … but then … the camera jerks and the image vibrates and changes. Suddenly, it’s a view of tree limbs and sky.
“Well,” Dad says, enthusiastically “That is absolutely fantastic.”
17
LOGAN
I grab my shotgun and throw open the front doo
r to join Dad on the porch. Dumb ole Galahad almost knocks me over in the doorway as he races outside, hair bristling while he barks nonstop. He’s off the porch and standing on the lawn ahead of Thunder and Daisy, barking and jumping around as I come to stand beside Dad.
“Toward the cattle?” I ask.
Dad shakes his head. “Across the road. Hadley place. I think. I’m not sure. It’s hard to tell.”
Roger Hadley and his family have 360 acres, with their house on the south end and their back pasture meeting up with the road across from us. Using the mile-section roads, their house is almost three miles from us.
“Should we go?” I ask.
“No,” Dad says, his voice stiff, angry. “Damn it. We can’t. But we can’t just leave them.” He glances over his shoulder at the front of the house. Mom and the girls are standing in the doorway, the screen door closed, but they seem to be listening to Mr. Lawson Smith, who I can just see behind them.
Chrystal rushes out. “It was here. It pulled Dad’s camera down. It’s … That proves it’s smart. But … it’s here.”
“Did you see which way it went?” Dad asks.
“No … it’s … The camera is just pointing up at the sky.” She stares at us. “I’m going back inside to check on my dad.”
As soon as she’s gone, my dad says, “I saw one of those women, Sarah Fields, just the other day, Logan.”
“Sarah Fields?” I ask, not recognizing the name.
“First-grade teacher,” he says.
“Mrs. Fields?” She’s a short, perky woman with real light reddish-blond hair. She’s probably in her early thirties. Kind of pretty for a teacher. “She’s dead?”
He nods. “Yes. That’s three they blame on this thing.”
“Three?”
Dad sighs, his gaze still focused on the darkness over the Hadley farm. “Alison King. She works up at the Walmart. About twenty-two. They found Mrs. Fields’s body during the searches today. They are assuming it was the monster.”
