by Ike Hamill
“That’s fine,” said Coach Peterson.
“And Shane’s going home, so I need a new partner for drills,” said Davey.
“That’s fine,” the coach said to Davey’s back as he trotted off towards the water fountain.
Davey spent the next hour of practice preoccupied with the ramifications of Charlotte’s death. Once he remembered the dream about her death, he started to recall the other gruesome dreams which had haunted his nights the previous weeks. If each terrible nightmare represented an actual murder, Davey wondered how many more nights he would last until the monster showed up at his door. His own death inconceivable, Davey focused on the horror of losing his mother or even his sister.
Davey still missed his dad, and he was still a little angry with him as well. His dad had turned into the terrifying, mutilated corpse on the stairs. To Davey, his dad’s transformation still seemed like a betrayal. He promised himself that he wouldn’t let something like that happen to his mother.
* * * * *
“THANKS FOR THE RIDE, COACH,” said Davey, getting out of the car.
The urge to hide was almost overwhelming, but Davey knew that if he didn’t show up at the Center they would alert his mother immediately and the search would commence. Pretending everything was normal, he walked through the door and checked in with the woman at the desk. Davey pushed through the interior doors and took a left to get to his assigned locker. Most of the kids arrived in the morning. Davey was one of a handful of children who only attended for the afternoon so he had the hallway to himself. With his bag stowed, Davey found his classroom and checked in with the paperback-woman before finding his way to the courtyard.
Davey scanned the courtyard and made his way to the outskirts of the younger group to take a position against the wall. Relieved, he saw that the pointing and staring from the previous day had abated. Unable to best him physically, Curtis had attempted to spread a rumor that Davey was the retarded son of a raped prostitute. The notion took hold briefly amongst the older kids, but having only one backer, it died away. Confronted at the end of the day, Davey had simply said, “Whatever.” The rumor lost its legs.
“Hi Davey.” Evan sat down next to Davey.
“Hey Evan,” Davey replied, smiling. He didn’t make eye contact.
“Whatchoo doin’?” Evan asked.
“I’m trying to think of a way out of here,” said Davey.
“Just go through the door,” Evan said, laughing. “That one there.” He pointed back towards the classroom.
“That won’t work,” said Davey. “Can you keep a secret?”
“Sure,” said Evan.
“I need to run away for a while,” he confided. “So my mom doesn’t get hurt.”
“Well then don’t go through that door,” Evan said, as if the idea had been Davey’s. “You have to wait until they start an activity and then get signed out.”
“What do you mean?” Davey turned to Evan, surprised the boy had even offered advice. He had started to think that Evan was not all there, but wondered if he had judged too quickly.
“That woman who reads the books only sticks around while Mr. Nguyen gets his lunch. She keeps a sheet in her drawer. If someone has to go home early, she marks them down on the sheet and the Mr. Nguyen knows that they’re not around.”
“How do you know about that?” asked Davey.
“I just do,” said Evan.
Davey turned to thank him for the advice, and remind him to keep the secret, but when he looked up Evan was already moving away, back to the other younger kids. Davey faced back front and saw why Evan had left—Curtis stood in front of Davey, blocking out the sun except where his blond hair appeared like a halo around his head.
Davey looked up and squinted at the older boy.
“Hey, man,” said Curtis. He sat down next to Davey and elbowed him in the side.
“What?” asked Davey, keeping his voice low and even to show his disdain.
“Sorry those kids were talking about your mother yesterday,” he said. “You’re pretty cool.”
Davey didn’t reply, he just cut his eyes over to see Curtis’s expression. The older boy had offered his hand to Davey. Wary of a trick, Davey slid a few inches away before taking the boys hand. They shook with two fast pumps and then released the grip.
“I just figured you were another d-bag like some of these other kids. That’s why I was so mean to you at first,” said Curtis.
“Okay,” said Davey.
“You wanna go throw the ball around or something?” asked Curtis.
“We only have like fifteen minutes,” said Davey.
“Yeah, I know. I meant, like, next recess,” said Curtis.
“Sure,” said Davey.
“Cool,” said Curtis.
Sensing no immediate attack, Davey relaxed a little. He figured Curtis was the type to come out swinging, and no fast attack most likely meant none was coming.
“What do you do in the mornings?” asked Curtis.
“Baseball,” said Davey.
“I used to do that,” said Curtis. “You’re lucky you’re not here. This place blows in the mornings. It’s so boring.”
“Yeah,” said Davey.
They talked for a few minutes, forging the beginning of a connection, and then Davey came up with an idea.
“Hey,” he said to Curtis, “can you help me with something?”
“Sure,” said Curtis.
* * * * *
DAVEY WAITED UNTIL FOUR MINUTES before the end of recess to put his plan into action. Curtis explained the protocol, and Davey followed the instructions carefully. He smacked his palm on the door and cupped his hands to the glass to spot the paperback-woman. She put down her book, walked over, and cracked the door.
“Yeah?”
“I have to go to the bathroom,” he said.
“You can hold it,” she said, glancing at the clock. “You only have five minutes.”
“I can’t. I really can’t,” he pleaded.
“Okay,” she said. “Go fast.” She held open the door and let Davey pass.
He squeezed his legs together and shuffled quickly across the long room, trying to look distressed. Davey slipped into the hall and shut the door behind himself. Back in the classroom, he heard another commotion. He knelt down below the frosted glass, and pressed his ear against the wood so he could listen to what was happening.
“Hey,” Curtis shouted into the classroom. “Hey lady, he’s trying to run away. That kid is trying to run away.”
“Whatever, Curtis,” the paperback-woman said.
Davey’s stomach flopped and he looked up and down the hallway, sure his plan would fail.
“He is,” Curtis continued, “he just left, you have to catch him.”
Short breaths were all Davey could manage, he didn’t have a word for the panic and excitement that had turned his legs to rubber. Certain the the paperback-woman would open the door at any second, he backed away slightly, looked at the frosted glass, and saw the dark blur of the woman moving behind the desk.
“If you’re messing with me, you’re not going outside for a week,” the paperback-woman addressed Curtis. Miraculously, Davey heard her voice trailing off as she moved away from the door. He reached up, still crouching on the shiny tile, and turned the knob. It took both hands to form a grip with his sweaty hands. Davey cracked the door open and saw the paperback-woman standing in the far doorway, looking over the courtyard. He wanted her to turn completely away, to be more engaged with Curtis’s subterfuge, but he also didn’t want to squander what might be his only chance.
Davey shuffled, staying low, over to the back of the desk and slid open the top drawer. Opened to page twelve, the ledger listed each student’s name. Next to the entry, a time showed when the child arrived. Flipping back through the pages, Davey found what he was looking for—an example of an entry from when a child had been extracted from the program early by a parent.
He memorized the syntax and flipp
ed back to page twelve. Next to his name, the inscription “B/R 1:26” showed the reason for his current absence. Davey erased the entry and replaced it with “OUT/MTHR 1:26,” copied from the example on page ten. He slipped the book back into the drawer and pushed it closed.
Davey steeled himself for the dash to the door. He poked his head around the side of the desk, to ensure the paperback-woman was still engaged with Curtis’s story, but what he saw forced him back behind the desk: the paperback-woman had seen through the lie and was already back in the classroom, the door swinging shut behind her. Curtis had his face pressed against the glass of the other door, but Davey wasn’t sure if his new friend had spotted his predicament. Davey tucked under the metal desk—where the woman’s legs would go if she didn’t always prop them up to support her book—and listened to the click of her approaching shoes.
She slowed as she rounded the desk and picked up her book from the surface. Davey heard her sigh interrupted by the outside door crashing open again.
“Hey!” an unfamiliar voice called out. “That guy just cut himself on something.”
“For Christ’s sake,” the woman said as she flopped her book back down.
Davey heard her shoes clicking away and mentally thanked Curtis for giving him more time. He didn’t bother to look, he figured it was his last chance. Davey scurried towards the door and slipped into the hallway, turning the handle before pulling it shut to avoid the click of the latch. Instead of heading towards the bathroom or his assigned locker, Davey took a right towards the glowing red exit sign.
The end of the hallway was dark, with only minimal lighting. Around the corner he found two heavy doors marked as an exit. He paused and listened. Davey didn’t know if he was using his ears or some other sense, but he thought of it as listening. He reached out with his senses to determine if this way was safe. Unable to perceive any danger, he pushed through the door, reminded of when he and Paul had snuck out of school. Only a couple short months before, Davey already pined for those carefree days of school.
Behind the building he found a loading dock and a short stretch of asphalt to the fence that bordered the woods. A dumpster near the fence looked to provide decent cover, so Davey slipped through the door and sprinted for the narrow shadow next to the dumpster. He stayed low during his run, but once he reached the safety of the shadow, Davey poked his head out to see if he had been spotted.
Convinced he hadn’t been seen, he plotted his next move. He stood, grabbed the top of the dumpster and pulled himself up. With the fence now at waist-height he threw himself over and tumbled to the ground on the other side. Two steps later, Davey was safe in the woods, shrouded by the thick blanket of foliage.
He crawled farther away, until he couldn’t even make out the bricks of the Center, and then stood. A thin path wound down the hill and then followed a dirty creek. Davey followed the path, and plotted the rest of his day. He jolted to a stop and gasped. He thrust his hand deep in his pocket, sure that he had left his running-money in his bag in the locker. Davey smiled and exhaled when his fingers touched the wad of bills.
The sun came out from behind the blanket of clouds and brightened the woods just as Davey’s mood lightened. He ambled carelessly, figuring he had plenty of time to get to the road and hitch a ride before anyone would miss him. His plan took him across the creek, down the summer version of a snowmobile trail, and across the river on the railroad bridge so he could get to the big patch of woods south of his hometown.
Once he hit the big woods, he knew what to expect. He had hiked here with friends and knew a lot of the trails. At least one trail went for miles in either direction, hooking up to the cross-country snowmobile trails in the wintertime, but he didn’t plan to walk all afternoon. For one thing, he knew that the trails would eventually bog him down in swamps—the snowmobilers didn’t have to worry about bogs and small bodies of water, they just skated right over that mess—but more importantly, he wanted to catch a ride before nightfall. Davey suspected that the monster could easily outrun him on foot, but might have trouble keeping up with a car.
He took a right on the next branch and continued on the rutted trail until he saw the road through a thin margin of trees. He couldn’t recall the road number. It had two lanes and a double yellow line—he figured that was enough to ensure a certain amount of traffic. Davey cut through the woods and walked through the gully until a car going the wrong direction passed. When the road cleared, he trotted across and continued down the shoulder of the southbound side.
Davey shuffled down the gravel shoulder for fifteen minutes before the next car passed. He turned around and stuck his thumb out. A white minivan gave him some extra space and kept going. Right on its heels, just after the minivan had cleared the corner, a blue sedan slowed down as it pulled alongside Davey.
The window lowered and a middle-aged man with a thin mustache looked out.
“Where you headed?” the man asked.
“Portland?” Davey asked.
“Jump in,” said the man.
Davey walked back a step and reached for the handle to the backseat, but the man called out to him—“Get it front, would ya?”
“Okay,” said Davey. He was unaccustomed to riding in front, but didn’t want to scare away his ride. Davey climbed into the sedan and pulled the door shut, but it didn’t latch. The man began to pull away from the shoulder. “It’s not closed, I don’t think,” Davey told him.
“Try again,” the man instructed.
Davey pushed open the heavy door and saw the road streaking by below them. He jerked the door with both hands and it sealed shut. The closing seemed to trigger a burst of stale cigarette smoke to puff up from the seat. Turning away from the man, Davey fumbled with the seat belt and pulled it across his body.
“All set?” asked the man.
“Yeah, I guess,” said Davey. He looked up at the man. Deep lines were carved into his tanned face, and a forest of stubble covered his chin. Most of the wrinkles started around his eyes and curved up and away. The man squinted constantly, but his eyes were so light-blue, almost white, that Davey could make out their color just from the small amount he could see. At the man’s temples white hair feathered back, but the rest of his short hair was charcoal gray, salted lightly.
“Name’s Horace,” the man said, sticking out his weathered hand.
Davey took the thick-skinned hand and gripped it briefly before pulling away. Despite the heat of the afternoon, Horace’s hand was cold.
“I’m John,” Davey lied. He had an elaborate backstory to tell, if he should be pressed. Horace didn’t ask.
“It can be a royal bitch to get a ride. How long were ya walkin’?” asked Horace. Davey noticed that the car moved at a steady pace, not too fast at all, perhaps even too slow.
“Only a little while,” said Davey.
“Anybody else pass you?” asked Horace.
“Just a van,” said Davey. “I was going to…” he began to lead in to his cover story.
Horace cut him off, hissing under his breath. “Shit,” he said, “get down." He reached out and pressed on Davey’s shoulder with his right hand. Davey spotted the white van on the right side of the road, with its front end pulled out to cross the lanes in a wide U-turn. As he ducked he spotted the back of the woman’s head—she looked towards the north-bound lane to gauge if she could continue pulling out.
“I figure you’re on the run and don’t necessarily want that lady to spot you headed south,” said Horace.
“Oh,” said Davey, still processing the situation. He inched back up as Horace brought the car back up to speed. Davey looked around out the back window and saw the retreating shape of the minivan, now headed north. “You think she was looking for me?” asked Davey.
“Prolly not,” said Horace. “Bitch like that prolly forgot her purse at home, but better safe than sorry.”
Davey thought of various things to say, but didn’t want to commit to an opinion until he got a better handle on wh
at was happening.
“So, John, how old are you, ehnways?” asked Horace.
“I’m thirteen,” said Davey.
Horace nodded and ran his tongue over his teeth behind his chapped lips. “Whatcha runnin’ from?”
“My stepdad,” said Davey. “He hits me.”
“Yup,” Horace said, raising his eyebrows and shooting a glance at Davey. “My old man was like that too. It’s a real bitch.”
Davey nodded in rhythm with Horace and looked down at his own hands. He absently rubbed them together, but made himself stop.
“My old man broke horses. Di’nt he love to beat things, though,” said Horace, smiling to himself. “Wasn’t gonna matter whatcha did, or di’nt do, sumthin’ was gonna get stove up.”
A mile passed before Horace spoke again. He attempted to engage Davey in conversation—“My dad usetah say that a horse never really trusts you, he only trusts his ability to get away from you. You know?”
“No sir,” said Davey.
“He’ll come close,” Horace explained, “but only if he knows there’s room to run. Get it?”
“Yes.” Davey looked out his window and watched the trees passing. He knew fear—he feared the monster stalking him in the night and what he would do to his family and even himself. And Davey knew threats as well; he had fought off teasing and bullies a few times that year. The sense he got from his new traveling companion was both more immediate and more direct. Davey felt almost like he was leaning over a tall cliff, but without the thrill of knowing that he could move away from the edge.
“So muh’dad would let that horse think he had room to run, but then he’d trick ’em. Trick ’em good, too,” said Horace. “Funny thing—only one Sunday a month would one of ’em get the notion to really fight once he was tricked. Most times they’d just put their heads down and wait for the hammer. Old man would bring it, too. Can you pitcher that?”
“Yes sir,” said Davey. He squeezed his arms close to his body and chewed on a fingernail. He didn’t need to recall the warnings about strangers imparted by his mom, he was certain that Horace meant to do him harm. His thoughts quickly shifted from worrying about living through the next week to simply finding a way through the next twenty-four hours.
