by Nate Gubin
“Get off my property!”
The boy didn’t move.
Harold lost control of himself. He charged across the kitchen and unlocked the front door. He stepped out onto the front porch, cocked the gun and fired into the air.
“Get off my property!”
Back inside with the door locked Harold freshened his glass of bourbon with a generous pour. The gun was reloaded and leaning in the corner of the room. Harold walked from window to door with his drink, scanning the woods. “Just a jerk kid. Some stupid kid snooping around,” he said to himself.
Harold wasn’t often drunk. For the most part he was steadily buzzed and a little sleepy during most hours of the day. The day’s events had forced him to double his bourbon intake, plus he had skipped lunch. The soup sat in the microwave and the toast stood in its slots. Harold was reclined on the couch, half asleep and hammered. He kept his glass of bourbon propped on his stomach as he slouched, pushing at the rug with his dirty socks. His head bobbed forward and back, rocked side to side. His vision blurred and he dreamed. He was chasing the boy through the woods, the shotgun cradled in his arms. The boy was running along a freshly cut trail and Harold was gaining on him. Ahead the boy stopped in a small clearing surrounded by oaks and stared down at a low pile of rocks. Harold slowly walked up behind the boy.
There was a knock at the door. It only half raised Harold out of his drunken stupor. The knock was replaced by a heavy banging and a muffled voice, “Sheriff's department.” Harold startled awake and the drink on his stomach tipped pouring several ounces of bourbon across his lap.
“Sum-a-bitch,” Harold drooled as he got to his feet. The room was dizzy, the pounding continued.
“Sheriff’s department.”
“Hold on a sec, I’m coming... Hold on.” Harold steadied himself along the wall and unlocked the front door.
Sheriff’s Deputy Benjamin Pell had only four months of law enforcement experience but he’d walked into scenes similar to this one half a dozen times. A drunk recluse holed up in the middle of nowhere. It was a public health issue that was covered in depth at the law enforcement academy.
“Have a seat sir,” Ben motioned for him to sit.
“There’s a kid in the woods,” Harold slurred.
Ben did a quick scan of the room and walked over to the shotgun. Picking it up he pointed it at the floor and cracked it open, ejecting the live shell. “Do you have any other guns in the house sir?”
“No... No,” Harold shook his head. “This kid was fucking with me... Kid in a white–”
“How much have you had to drink today?” Ben did a quick inventory of the empty bourbon bottles to the left of the front door. He placed the shotgun down on the table and noticed the laptop and stacks of hand written notes.
“I had a couple drinks. This kid is driving me crazy. Did you see him?” Harold did his best to talk sober.
“No I didn’t.” Ben took out his notebook, “You think you saw a kid in the woods wearing a–”
“White hooded sweatshirt. He was sneaking up on the house. He’s probably still hiding out there.” Harold leaned forward to get out of his chair.
“Please remain seated sir... How old would you say the kid was?”
“Ten, eleven, maybe twelve, you know, not quite high school.”
Ben nodded and made a note, “You live out here by yourself?
“Yeah, I’m writing a book,” Harold gestured to the laptop.
Ben nodded, “Do you have any ID?”
“Seriously? Why you–”
“I need your info for the report.”
Harold leaned to his left side and took out his wallet. Ben looked out the window. “Where about did you see the kid exactly?”
Harold handed him his driver’s license. “Out the bathroom window, about twenty yards outside the bathroom window.” Ben nodded and walked toward the bathroom, he took notice of the filthy toilet, then he looked out the smudged window. He only saw trees. He turned around and noticed the tub of peanut butter on the kitchen counter next to the large half empty bottle of bourbon.
Ben picked up the shotgun, “I need to hold on to this.”
“The gun?” Harold was exasperated, “Why? That’s not even mine. You can’t take it–”
“You’ve been drinking, you shouldn’t have a loaded weapon in the house.”
“I had a few drinks, so what. I need the gun, incase the kid comes back.”
“It’ll be at the Sheriff's office, you can come pick it up when you’re sober.”
“This is ridiculous. I’m the one who called, why’re you hassling me?”
“It’s for your safety.” Ben exited with the gun.
Harold sat at his writing table and watched as Ben sat in his squad car and talked with someone on the radio. Harold rubbed his face, he felt sick. He needed a drink but wanted to wait until the cop was gone to have one. He opened his laptop, double-clicked on Chapter 7. He wanted to show this cop that he wasn’t a drunk. He was a serious author, a responsible professional, creating American literature.
Chapter 7, those month’s after he was kicked out of grade school. The winter he spent with nothing to do in his mother’s duplex. Those endless days in the quiet cold before someone from child services came to pick him up. Harold remembered everything about those days but he didn’t want to write about them. He just stared at the computer screen, felt the dull edges of the keys with his fingers.
Ben got out of the car and jotted down the plate number on Harold’s brown Honda Accord. He walked around the backside of the house, to the spot where Harold said he saw the kid. Ben kicked around in the leaves, thinking to himself he needed to spend enough time taking Harold’s complaint seriously before going back inside and asking him to get some help.
Inside Harold looked out the bathroom window as Ben slowly paced in the woods. Harold nodded and thought to himself, cop will scare the kid off. He watched as Ben made his way towards the house but suddenly stopped. He was looking at a trail recently cut through the underbrush.
Harold’s heart raced and he didn’t know why. He had nothing to hide. There were dozens of trails, the cops could search any of them, he didn’t care. There was just woods out there. Ben took a few steps down the rough trail and a confused panic filled Harold. He reached for the bottle and dumped and inch of bourbon into his coffee cup.
Ben was back at the front door. Harold tried to stand up straight but the best he could do was lean one hip against the kitchen counter. Calling the cops was a mistake, he thought, this was getting him nowhere. Now he wanted to hurry this up, get this cop out of here.
Ben put the driver’s license and a yellow copy of the report down on Harold’s writing table. “I don’t know what to tell you. Maybe some kid from around here is playing a prank. There any other houses around here?”
“Not for miles. Forty miles,” Harold shook his head.
“Well, we got a record of it, not sure what more we can do.”
“Yeah, well, thanks for coming out.” Harold gestured towards the door.
“Are you...” Ben had rehearsed this question while pacing in the woods but it still made him uncomfortable. “You seeing a doctor for anything?”
“No.”
“Have you had any mental health issues in the past?”
“No, I’m fine. I know I seem crazy to you but I’m fine. I’m writing a book, it’s... difficult. Focusing on the book, it’s... You wouldn’t understand.”
“Is there anyone you can talk to, friends or family, maybe a pastor... doctor?”
Harold didn’t respond. He stared out the front door window at Ben’s squad car, trying to will it and Ben to leave.
“I’m going to leave you with this,” Ben took a card out of his chest pocket. “It’s a victim services hotline, they do counseling. They can put you in touch with someone, if you want to get help.” He tried to hand it to him but Harold kept his arms crossed and stared out the window. Ben turned and placed the card next to th
e driver’s license.
“You gonna put my chain back up once you drive out onto the main road?”
Ben nodded yes.
Harold took a deep drink and sighed as he watched the tail lights of the sheriff's car twinkle away in the woods. It was six in the evening and already dusk. The days were getting shorter and Howard winced at the thought of another dark winter in the woods. He looked over at his laptop, getting back into the book, chapter 7, that would be a good escape he thought.
He sat at the table and slowly typed. He skipped over the months he spent in juvenile detention and started the description of the foster family he spent the spring with. The Christian school he was enrolled in.
It was late and pitch black outside, but Harold couldn’t get over the sense the kid was still out there, watching him. He got up and checked that the doors were locked, checked that the bathroom window was shut. He needed to sleep. It was a rough day, he needed to recover from the stress. He took a small drink to bed and placed it on the night stand, used a skinny book of poems as a coaster. Propping himself up with a pillow, he took a sip of bourbon and found his place in a thick fantasy novel. The elves fighting a dragon wasn’t enough to pull him in. He laid the book on his chest and listened. Not too far off he could hear steady footsteps in the leaves. He took another drink and tried to keep his eyes closed. The kid was just outside his bedroom window, he was sure of it.
Ben was unloading the sheriff’s cruiser so the next deputy could take it out. The county was down to three police vehicles, one of which was a four-wheel drive, only to be used in snow emergencies. Captain Mike McKenna had the night shift. He had put in 23 years for the county and at one time or another had worked every shift on the schedule. He liked the night shift. After driving around for a couple hours, he’d stop for a long dinner at a supper club then park at a good spot to catch speeders. Around bar time he’d visit a few crossroad taverns, just to let the patrons know he was out and about.
Ben popped the trunk and took out Harold’s shotgun.
“What’s the story with that?” Mike asked.
“I took it away from a drunk out on WW. You ever been on a call out that way?”
“Nah, there’s nothing going on out there. When it get’s icy maybe we get someone in the ditch where it crosses 53, but that’s about it. You had a call out there?”
“Guy called, middle of the day, saying there was someone trespassing.”
“Great, what is that like 90 miles out?”
“Hundred and four, I was in Barnveld when I got the call.”
“Christ, the guy was just drunk and stir-crazy? Little early in the winter for cabin fever.” Mike took off his coat and hung it behind the driver’s seat.
“He swore he saw a kid in his woods.”
“You drove all the way out there for that?” Mike got behind the wheel and adjusted the seat and mirrors.
Ben slouched next to the car holding his lunch tote, briefcase and Harold’s shotgun. His legs ached from sitting in the car all day. “He was convinced some kid was sneaking up on him.”
“Yeah, sure.” Mike started the engine. “Drunk guy with a shotgun seeing kids in the woods, just another day at the Sauk county Sheriff’s office.”
“He was convinced he saw the kid. Ten to twelve year old boy with a white hooded sweatshirt.”
Mike shut off the engine, “He said white hooded sweatshirt?”
The morning sun had just begun to warm the sky to the east of the cabin. Harold hadn’t slept a wink. He had pulled the sheets and blankets off his bed and was stapling them over the windows. “Can’t focus with these windows, all this light... it’s ridiculous,” Harold murmured to himself.
He turned his writing desk so it faced the inside of the house. He sat with his back to the main picture window that was now draped with a quilted bedspread.
Chapter 7, he glossed over the spring and summer in the second foster home. He’d come back to it in a later draft, flesh it out. He started a new section about the first time he ran away. This could be its own chapter, its own book really, he thought. How he got free and hit the road. The adventure that drifted him all the way to Memphis before he was recaptured. This was going to be a fun section to write. He was looking forward to spending the day in that story. It was going to be a good day, better then yesterday he hoped.
The bedspread was barely long enough to cover the width of the picture window. Harold had stretched the top when he stapled it but a small wedge of light still shown near the bottom of the right hand side. It was just a sliver of daylight but it was enough to dimly light the room.
Chapter 7, Harold thought back about walking south on a frontage road that ran along Interstate 65. Trying to look older than eleven as he stuck his thumb up for passing trucks.
The room went dark and then flashed back to light. Harold stopped breathing and turned to look at the sliver of light along the draped window. Someone had just walked past it. The boy was back, just outside. Harold stared at the tiny crack of light. Suddenly it went black and stayed black. Harold shook in the darkness.
He couldn’t stand it. The thought of that kid standing on his porch, waiting for what? Waiting for him to come outside. The kid knows, Harold thought, he saw the cop take the gun, he knows I’m unarmed. He’ll hide out there and wait for me. He paced and fought the urge to tug the bedspread aside and look. He dashed across the room and turned the radio up as loud as it would go. The Everly Brothers played with a hum that cracked the brittle speaker. Harold took a nervous sip from his drink and kept the glass up to his mouth. He looked down his nose at the quarter inch of bourbon left in the glass. “I know you’re out there mother fucker.” He tossed back the rest of the whiskey and slammed the glass down on the kitchen counter. His stomach convulsed and bent him over. He held the sides of his head and screamed.
He couldn’t catch his breath, he heaved but his lungs pressed down on a belly full of broken glass. He couldn’t take it anymore. He charged across the kitchen and grabbed hold of the pillow case stapled over the door’s window. He didn’t want to see the kid, but he had to look. He yanked it to the side and what he saw leapt up against the glass. Harold collapsed into a ball on the floor.
“Harold? It’s Sheriff Pell. I’m with Sheriff McKenna. We need to talk to you.” Ben knocked on the door.
“Harold? Please come to the door.”
Harold rocked himself on the floor and screamed as the glass shards in his gut flushed into his pants.
Hearing the scream both Mike and Ben unholstered their guns. “Harold? You okay?” Ben put his gun back in its holster and tugged a blaze orange taser off his belt. He reached out and tried to open the door. “We just want to talk to you.”
Harold’s hair was still wet and his clean pants fit loosely on his skinny legs. Ben had explained to him that the handcuffs were required by the state. If it was up to him he wouldn’t use them but whenever he transported someone in the back of the sheriff's car they had to be handcuffed. “If I gave my son a ride to school in this car I’d have to have him handcuffed,” Ben tried to joke as he held the squad car door open for Harold. “Watch your head now.”
Mike was doing his best to secure the front door of the house. When they pushed it in the deadbolt split out some of the jamb and tore the trim off the inside wall. While Harold showered and got into clean clothes they had quietly searched the house. Mike didn’t find anything suspicious, a lot of empty bourbon bottles, a bowl of dried out clam chowder forgotten in the microwave, but nothing else. Ben clicked around on Harold’s laptop, looking for child porn. The hard drive didn’t have much on it, just a bunch of word documents. He clicked on the one most recently opened, Chapter 7. He read a few paragraphs, nothing grabbed him except for the word count. Chapter 7 had seventy-three thousand words. Ben wasn’t a big reader, but that seemed really long.
As they pulled away from the cabin Harold looked out the squad car window into the woods. In a low clearing amongst the rows of pines the boy
just stood and stared at him. Harold collapsed his face into his knees and moaned.
Harold needed a drink. He paced in the dorm room sweating. He kept walking down the hall to the bathroom, not because he had to go, because he was looking for an opportunity to escape. Looking for a way to duck out a side door and get to a liquor store or a gas station before they closed for the night. A male nurse gave him a tiny paper cup with three pills in it. He said they would help calm him down, help him sleep. He swallowed them and sat in his bed clawing at his neck. Morning would come soon he hoped.
They’ll let me go in the morning, they’ll have to.
Harold was back in the woods outside his cabin and it was almost nighttime. He was anxious to get inside and pour himself a drink. As he stepped onto his front porch a flash of white caught the corner of his eye. Fucking kid, he thought to himself. He had his shotgun back from the sheriff, it was loaded. He wanted that kid off his property more than he wanted that drink. He chased after the flash of white in the woods.
The kid stayed a hundred yards ahead of him, moving through the dark forest just as fast as Harold could chase him. When Harold stopped to catch his breath, the kid stopped and stared at him from the hollow dark of his hood. The chase went on until the woods were pitch black and the kid was out of sight. Satisfied the kid was scared off Harold turned and headed back towards the cabin. But he was lost in the woods at night without a light. It was cold, he tugged the collar of his shirt closed. He couldn’t take more than a dozen steps without running into a thicket. He had lost track of how long he chased the kid. He started to realize he could be miles into the woods. He was walking in circles, he’d have to wait for morning to get back. But he really wanted that drink. He kept pushing, straining to see the lights of the cabin ahead. Finally he made it onto a logging road, he carefully walked along the rut of a truck tire. It was just a little brighter along the clearing of the road. He could follow it to the main road, get his bearings and walk back to his cabin. Up ahead the dirt road climbed up to a gravel road. He was making progress but he felt something strange. He felt something, someone behind him. He turned to look.
