by Carrie Jones
She waits.
“Do you promise?” Mom demands. “Okay. Here’s Logan.” She hands the phone back to me, pulls out her own, and moves out of the waiting room.
“Chrystal?” I ask.
“She is a hard-core mom,” Chrystal says. Her voice is dead and defeated.
“Tell me something I don’t know.” I pause. “But my mom is right. Dad told me about that woman they found, the girl from Walmart. It’s bad, Chrystal.”
“I know it’s bad, but your family was so perfect and now I’m here and everything is so bad for you and I just want to help and—Katie and—”
“This isn’t your fault,” I cut in. “Remember? The monster was here before you. That’s why you’re here.”
“I know, but now it seems to be targeting me and it just isn’t fair that your—”
“Chrystal, no,” I say, and I know I sound just like my mom. Chrystal knows it too, and she laughs at me a little, which is very good. “I think you’re the most—the nicest person ever, and I’m really happy you’re willing to run the risk to help us, but I can’t let you.”
“When those men came in last night,” Chrystal says slowly, “they wanted me and/or Kelsey. They didn’t seem interested in Katie. I think he wants me. Or Kelsey. Or both. But if I go, then maybe they’ll leave her alone.”
“Why?” I ask. “Why would a werewolf in Oklahoma want a girl from Maine? I mean, if he wanted you, wouldn’t he go to Maine?”
“That isn’t important right now. He’s here, his pack is here, obviously, and so am I, and he’s targeting me. I’m sure of it. I’m going to look through the books and papers my dad left here. Maybe I can—” She stops for a minute.
“Chrystal? What’s wrong? Chrystal?”
“Your mom called the cops, didn’t she?”
“I don’t know. Yeah, probably. Why?”
“They’re here.” Her voice gets high and sharp and she doesn’t sound like the nicest person ever right now. “This is why I didn’t want you to tell anyone.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.” I’m not, really. “It’s probably for the best, Chrystal. You didn’t like the guns, so it’s better if there’s at least one cop there.”
“Maybe so,” she says, but I’m not so sure she agrees. “He’s coming to the door.”
“I’m going to come home for a while. I’ll see you pretty soon.”
“All right. Bye.” I can hear the doorbell ring in the background, then she’s gone.
Mom is back, though. The crisis is averted, at least in her mind. Her face has lost some of the color it had when she was arguing with Chrystal.
“I called the police,” she said.
“I know. They got there while I was talking to her.”
“Good. She’ll be okay now.” Mom lowers herself back into her chair and stares ahead.
A nurse pokes her head into the small waiting room and says two of us can go in to see Dad for ten minutes.
“I want to go,” I say.
“You went last time,” Kelsey argues.
“I have to go home,” I tell Mom. “I want to see Dad before I go.”
Mom nods and starts to stand up.
“Can I go alone?” I ask.
She looks at me, and there’s a whiff of suspicion in her eyes, but she settles back into her chair and nods.
“I want to go if you’re not going,” Kelsey says to Mom.
Mom shakes her head at Kelsey. I follow the white-uniformed nurse into Dad’s room.
* * *
It smells. Yes, there is the usual hospital smell of disinfectant, sterile equipment, and medicine, but there’s another smell—wild, animal. It’s the smell of that monster from the woods. It’s here, in my dad’s hospital room. It’s here because … No, that will not happen.
I go to the bed and look down at my father. He has heavy stubble on his cheeks. It registers that this is more stubble than he would normally have at this time on a day when he hadn’t shaved in the morning. The old, rational part of my brain suggests that maybe he didn’t shave yesterday, either, while the new side that realizes fairy tales can be real argues that he’s growing wolf hair.
Besides the hair, his face is pale. A bag of clear fluid hangs on a gleaming steel stand at the head of his bed, dripping its solution drop by drop into a tube that feeds into Dad’s uninjured arm. I don’t know what all is in the bag, but I know they’ve been giving him morphine because of the pain. And antibiotics because of the infection they can’t identify.
They can’t identify it because it’s the werewolf disease and no one who hasn’t seen the monster would ever believe that’s what it is.
Dad’s right arm is wrapped in fresh, clean white bandages and lies on top of the covers at his side. Under the covers, I know, his chest and stomach are wrapped in bandages too.
I take the hand of his uninjured arm and squeeze it tightly. His eyelids flutter, and for just a second I think he’s going to open them. I wonder, if he does, if they’ll be his eyes or the eyes of the monster I saw rip the head off a calf. Then he seems to settle back into sleep.
“Dad, I’m so sorry this happened,” I say. “I’m sorry, too, that I have to go, but Chrystal needs me. That thing wants her. They’re going to try to hurt Katie if they don’t get Chrystal. I can’t let that happen. I wish you could help me, Dad. I wish—”
I don’t even feel the sob coming, but suddenly it explodes out of me. I hang my head and let the tears run. When I use my free hand to finally wipe them away, I see that Dad’s eyes are open and he’s watching me. His eyes are alert but clouded with pain.
“I heard,” he says. “Don’t you let the girls anywhere near—” He grimaces in pain and his face becomes even paler as he squeezes my hand in a brutally tight grip, then he relaxes a little. “Don’t let them do it,” he says.
“I won’t,” I promise.
He’s taking deep, ragged breaths. “Logan, I want you to know you’re a good boy. A good son. I love you. I love your sisters, too. I’m proud of all of you.”
“Don’t say that, Dad. You’re not … you’re not going to die.”
“Listen to me,” he insists. “I can feel it in me. It’s changing me. It hurts. You can’t let me become like that thing. Do you understand?”
I nod.
“You talk to Chrystal’s dad. You find out what you have to do, then you come back here and do it.”
“The guy who called said he has an antidote,” I say.
Dad shakes his head, more like he’s fighting off pain than disagreeing with me. “Stay away,” he says, gasping. “Stay away from them. No deals. You find out—” A strangled little cry of pain comes out of him. He’s trying hard to keep it quiet, to hide it, but as strong as he is, he can’t completely do it.
The nurse appears suddenly. “You’re awake,” she confirms. “And in pain. I can’t give you anymore morphine for fifteen minutes, Mr. Jennings.” She looks at me. “I’m afraid you need to leave. I’m sorry.”
I look from her to Dad. No way I want to go.
“No antidote,” he says. “The other. You know.”
His body convulses in pain again and the nurse physically separates our hands and pushes me out the door. My face gives me away to my family. Mom is on her feet instantly, her hands on my shoulders, demanding to know what’s wrong.
“He woke up. I got to talk to him. He’s in a lot of pain,” I say as Mom looks over my shoulder to the door, like she wants to burst in and see him. “The nurse won’t let you. She pushed me out. I … I have to go home.”
Mom’s hands fall off me. I’m not ready, though. I put my arms around her and hug her tight, as tight as I can, and I make her back pop when I do it. She hugs me back and when she’s able, she asks me, “What are you doing? What did he say?”
“I have to go,” I repeat, but I can’t. I go to Kelsey and bend over her and I hug her, too, where she sits in the chair. “Dad loves you,” I whisper in her ear. I stand up and look at Katie, who is still sleeping
in her chair.
“Logan, what is going on?” Mom demands, her voice quavering.
I reach out and touch Katie’s head as gently as I can. She doesn’t stir. I pull my hand away and look at Mom.
“It’s going to be okay,” I promise. “It’s going to be okay. I swear it.”
* * *
I lose about ten minutes sitting in my truck in the parking lot, crying a little bit, trying to get a grip. I can’t help it, though. At least nobody sees me. I mean, I think nobody sees me. I don’t really care. Finally, I wipe my face, start the truck, and head toward home.
I used to love driving the highway between Tahlequah and home. The woods are dense, and I would imagine all the game hiding just out of sight of the highway. I’d think about hunting some of those ten-point bucks or following Thunder while he chases coons through the trees. Now, though, all I can think about is monsters.
Maybe that’s why I think I see it about halfway home: running through the trees to my right, moving as fast as my truck, upright like a man—a dark, dark shape in the shade of the woods. Moving with me. Moving toward my house.
When I slow down and focus hard on the trees, though, I don’t see him.
I stop the truck hard, set the brake, and jump out.
“What?” I yell. “What else are you going to do to us? Huh?”
Still, no visual.
But I hear him. Far off, out of sight, I hear his long, unnatural howl, and it sounds like he’s laughing at me.
22
CHRYSTAL
The police take my cell phone, call the phone company, try to trace the call back to its origins, but things like that are never quick and rarely work, they tell me.
The big Shrek-like officer with the blond crew cut and hazel eyes is here. He gives me most of the information, and I nod and listen and wish I could fix this somehow.
“They threatened his sister,” I say.
We’re sitting in the kitchen because I just can’t handle the living room right now. The state cop’s Smokey Bear hat is on the table. His dark-brown shirt and tan pants are crisp and sharp despite the oppressive summer heat outside.
“And that’s your only motivation.” He says it like it’s a question and a statement, like he knows it isn’t.
I bite my lip and watch the clock on the wall above the stove click away some seconds. Even with all the bleach, I can still smell the blood. Galahad whines to go outside. “You know how Mr. Jennings was bitten by him last night?”
The cop nods.
“And…” I continue. I don’t know how to pick the words. “And he’s sick in the ICU right now. He’s really not doing well.”
The cop nods again. They must teach that at the Criminal Justice Academy or police school or whatever. He probably got an A in nodding. I read his nameplate. It says SGT. MITCHELL.
I try to keep going, even though the totally blank face on Sergeant Mitchell isn’t making me feel super-confident about sharing this with him. “And … well, he’s turning into a werewolf now. The bite infected him with some sort of virus. This guy said he had the antidote but he’d only give it to me if I went there.”
The cop lightly bangs his head on the wall. Just once. “You want my advice?”
Now it’s my turn to nod.
“My advice is you get out of here. Make the Jennings family stay at the hospital where it’s safe. You and your dad just get out of town. If they’ve targeted you, there is no way you’re going to be safe here until we capture them.”
“But won’t you capture them if you know where they are going to be tonight?” I ask.
“Possibly. But we aren’t about to use you as bait. It’s noble of you to think of it, but there’s no way we could possibly do that.” He lifts a finger. “Hold on.”
Pivoting, he walks into the living room and talks into his portable radio. Unfortunately, he speaks too quietly for me to hear. He comes back and says, “We’ll have a patrol presence here through to the morning, but our men are strapped. The local sheriff is having to use reserve officers now, and half of those are busy trying to keep looky-loos out of the woods. So if you and your dad could go somewhere safe, preferably out of state, that might keep you off these creeps’ radar. I’ll alert Mrs. Jennings about what we think her best option is to ensure the safety of her family as well. Okay?”
“Okay.”
He studies me for a second and then pats my arm. “Buck up. It’ll all be over soon.”
“I know,” I say.
But “all be over” doesn’t mean “awesome outcome.” “All be over” doesn’t mean “everyone is safe and not a werewolf and not dead.” “All be over” just means that: all over.
* * *
The police sergeant leaves after giving me my phone back, and the next person to come through the door is Logan. His face has paled. He’s got ridiculous dark circles under his eyes. I put the kitchen knife I’ve been clutching down onto the counter and rush at him, jumping against him. He doesn’t even stagger back, just circles his arms around me and sniffs so loudly, I can actually hear it. I think he’s smelling my hair.
“You okay?” I ask. My voice is muffled against his T-shirt and collarbone.
“Yeah … no … I don’t know.”
We let go of each other, but hold hands and sit at the table. The dogs all scoot around our feet. Logan tells me what his dad said and I listen, because that’s all I can do right now: listen. The inability to magically fix everything, or even logically fix everything, just kills me.
“That’s so hard, Logan,” I say, and then I tell him about my conversation with Sergeant Mitchell. “I wish you hadn’t told your mom. That wasn’t cool.”
He stares at me and there is nothing at all in his eyes. It’s like when I am learning a new progression on the bass and I’ve messed it up so badly that my teacher can’t think of what to say.
“Maybe you should go,” he says after a silence. “It would be safer for you.”
How can he just say that? My heart feels like it’s turned into a lump, a painful, crappy lump.
“One, I don’t know where my dad is. And two, I’m not going and just leaving you all here with this mess.” I stand up, walk away from him, angry that he’d think that was a solution at all.
“You haven’t heard from your dad?” His eyes grow big. He untucks his shirt, crosses his legs at the ankles, and leans forward in the chair. “Is that normal?”
“It’s a little long,” I admit, but I can’t let myself worry about it too much, not when there are so many other things to worry about. “He’ll be back.”
* * *
I text my dad using other people’s phones, just to mix things up.
Nothing.
Kierkegaard said, “The proud person always wants to do the right thing, the great thing. But because he wants to do it in his own strength, he is fighting not with man, but with God.”
I call my dad again.
Nothing.
Kierkegaard said, “The task must be made difficult, for only the difficult inspires the noble-hearted.”
I walk from room to room in this damn house, trapped and stuck and pointless.
I need a car. I need to look for my dad. I need to find a way to save Logan’s dad. I need. I need. I need.
Kierkegaard said, “The tyrant dies and his rule is over; the martyr dies and his rule begins.”
I have no choice.
* * *
Night comes quickly. The patrol car idles in the driveway and Logan and I stay in the house with Sam and David. We are all restless, roaming around. Logan and David play video games to pass the time, but it’s obvious neither of them is into it. I make excuses and go upstairs to bed.
If anyone notices that I’m distracted, they don’t say anything. Maybe they figure it’s because my dad hasn’t called. He has to be missing for twenty-four hours before the police will file a missing persons report on him. I learned that today. I’ve been learning a lot about police procedures lately.
Logan,
Please don’t be too mad. Okay. I know you’ll be mad, but you have to understand. I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t try to save your dad. I know it might be a trap. I know I might die. Or worse. But my dad’s missing … and … there aren’t a lot of options here.
But if I don’t go and there’s no cure for your dad, then I’ll never be able to live with myself. Your family is so beautiful and so good. They deserve every chance to stay whole.
Chrystal
I put it on my pillow. That’s a pretty obvious place.
Kelsey’s room is at the corner of the house. The porch goes around the front and one side—the same side as Kelsey’s room. So I pop out the window screen and lean it against the wall. The sky is dark as I crawl onto the porch. I put the screen back in place as best as I can from the outside before I creep to the edge of the porch roof and shimmy down the support pole. I jump off and land on a flower, which makes me feel bad. There’s so much death. I try to straighten the stem, but the flower part just pops off completely, landing in my hand. It doesn’t seem like a good omen.
I start to step away, then pause, looking at one of the other plants. It looks familiar. I saw a picture of it in my dad’s folder of information for this investigation. Monkshood. Also known as … I grab a cool green stem and rip it out of the ground, putting it, roots and all, into a hip pocket.
Crouching down, I peek at the patrol car. The officer isn’t moving, isn’t looking this way at all. His head is kind of tilted back. He must be asleep, which is completely lucky for me. But the window is open, so I’ll have to be quiet.
