Teeth

by Owen, Kelli

  Tamara’s excitement was infectious and Madison felt her worries lifting as her smile widened.

  “I missed you, Tam.”

  “I never left.”

  — TWENTY-SEVEN —

  Henry turned off the headlights and let the car coast to a stop along the road near the old slipway. With the new updated boat landing, complete with docks and crank-operated launches, no one used the old dirt trail that led to the river for putting smaller craft in and out of the water. Instead, it had become a forgotten parking area, the perfect lover’s lane. And he was hoping someone was feeling feisty tonight. Looking for preoccupied people behind steamed-up windows of a car, not paying attention to him as he approached.

  He shut the car door with only the whisper of a click and walked up to the dirt road opening leading to the river. Disappointment was the only thing waiting for him.

  “Damn it.”

  He’d eaten a meal of boxed lasagna with regular red sauce on it, since he was currently out of his favorite ingredient—the Mason jars all sitting empty and clean on the edge of the sink as if to tease him. Desperate, determined, he had hopped on his computer and logged into Facebook after dinner.

  He loved how trusting people were on social media sites. Even without friends in real life, he had plenty of friends online. All he’d had to do was join a couple of local groups and then start accepting their friend requests as they blindly welcomed him into their lives. He watched, as they told him exactly where they were, what they were doing, and even what they were eating. He knew who was married, who had kids, and thanks to the new profile specifications, whether they were lamian or human. Henry knew who he suspected was pretending life was great, and who was openly depressed, simply by viewing the pictures they shared and the memes they posted. He knew when they were home or out, alone or with friends.

  Facebook was a stalker’s dream.

  But using it that way took time. And after checking the profiles of several of the women in his Riverside Yard Sale group, he grew restless. They were mostly married—all either home with family, or simply not disclosing their location tonight.

  He wanted to find a female. He was out of blood. He needed the blood, but he wanted another female. The desire to figure out why the girl on the football field had tasted so much better, whether it was due to female hormones or lamian DNA, had become an obsession.

  He thought he could log onto Facebook and shop as simply as if he were on Amazon’s website. But it wasn’t as easy as that, and the group was only making him agitated, as if they were teasing him on purpose. He needed to do something, to act on his desire, instead of cruising profiles and surfing the Internet. So he got in the car.

  Henry sat in the driveway for several minutes, trying to figure out where to go. He tried to think of places where he could find women. He drove through the grocery store parking lot, slowly, hoping for a nighttime shopper to be away from her car, her purse, her phone—maybe putting a cart away in the corral where she could be easily overtaken. But no one was in the lot as he drove through, and he knew doing too many passes through the aisles would look suspicious.

  He cruised past the Laundromat, only to find the lights off. He was more surprised at their early hours than at his assumption only women would be washing their clothes in the coin-operated machines.

  The idea to drive down to the old boat landing seemed perfect, but turned out to be another disappointment. And now he was back in his car. He gripped the steering wheel with frustration, as he headed back into town.

  He turned the corner by the closed hardware store and saw two girls coming out of the doorway that led to the apartment above the shops. Two girls. Henry smiled.

  Immediately slowing down and turning off his headlights so he wouldn’t alert them to his presence, Henry looked at the street and tried to imagine where they were going. No other businesses were open for them to slip into. No vehicles were parked on the street, so if they had one, it was likely in the lot behind the buildings. He pulled to the curb and waited to see what they would do. To see if the universe had provided.

  The one with the long red hair, obviously a bottle tint even from this distance, lit a cigarette and leaned back against the brick of the building. The other didn’t follow suit but seemed to be carrying the conversation as the smoker watched the brunette’s face, nodding occasionally.

  “Oh my God, they’re going to just stand right there. Stand there and smoke.” Henry’s smile turned into a quiet giggle. He looked at the businesses and apartment windows above them again, and he found no signs of life. These two girls were the only people on this strip of sidewalk. Alone, waiting for him.

  How long does it take to smoke a cigarette?

  What do I do? Do I sneak up on them? How? On an empty street, I stand out like a sore thumb. Unless…

  Henry shoved the small Mason jar in the oversized pocket of his fall jacket, tucked the ice pick into his back pocket, and stepped from the car. He shut the door as he normally would—not slamming it, but not quiet either. He didn’t want to appear sneaky or alarm them. He watched the girls as he did, and was rewarded when the redhead glanced his way only long enough to spot the noise, before turning her attention back to her friend. Or girlfriend? Henry wondered what level their relationship was on as he strolled down the sidewalk.

  His plan was simple. Act like he belonged there. Act like he was going to visit someone in one of the apartments. Act like he was so normal and boring they wouldn’t have a reason to notice him. He pulled out his phone and pretended to text as he walked, gripping the phone with one hand and tapping random keys with his thumb. His other hand firmly gripped the ice pick still in his back pocket, squeezing and releasing in an anxious rhythm.

  As he approached the girls, he nodded to himself as if he were reacting to something on his phone. He looked up at the apartment windows above them like he was searching, and slipped the phone back into his pocket. He glanced at the redhead and she gave him the standard thin, quick, insincere smile reserved for strangers in public. He mimicked it back to her. As he passed behind the girl who was talking, he smiled as he watched the redhead’s smile turn to a look of horror.

  Henry quickly wrapped his left hand around the brunette’s head and forcefully grabbed her chin to hold her tight. His other hand brought the ice pick up to her neck and put the metal tip to her skin.

  “Don’t move or she dies.” He ignored the whimper and gulping motion under his hand and watched the redhead’s face absorb what was happening. She was rapt for a moment, the streetlight behind him catching the shine of fear in her eyes.

  He knew the words were empty. They would both die. But he needed to control how. Where. And in what order.

  The redhead dropped her cigarette. “Oh Kals. Oh God. I’m… I’m sorry.” She turned and ran, leaving her friend in Henry’s grip.

  “Run, Alicia!” The brunette’s cry escaped from between Henry’s fingers, as her leg lifted and her foot slammed down into his own.

  He watched the other girl run. He heard his captive spur her forward. She never looked back.

  She just left her friend? Left her to die?

  He couldn’t fathom what either of them had been thinking. The whole plan had gone sideways so fast, and he suddenly had very little time to control the situation. For the briefest of moments, he considered letting her go and running the other direction. But the need for the blood overrode logic.

  With panic turning to rage, he stabbed the brunette’s neck repeatedly to kill her as quickly as possible, to stop her from shouting. The blood spurted each time he withdrew the ice pick, coating his hand and testing his grip on the weapon.

  She wiggled, frantic, and flailed her arms. Adjusting his hold on her chin to keep her from escaping, he sidestepped and exposed his core, taking a solid fist to the groin as she continued to fight. He let out a howl an
d pulled her chin roughly, sharply, back toward him, stopping her free movement. The motion straightened her neck and let the blood run free. He felt her chest buck several times as she gasped and convulsed, before going limp in his arms.

  He dropped to his knees with her body, not expecting her dead weight to be so suddenly heavy. Henry took several deep breaths, as the sharp pain in his groin was accented by the throbbing in his foot where he’d stomped on him. He struggled to ignore his own pain and deal with the situation.

  He looked at her eyes to check for life before releasing her neck. He set the ice pick down and reached into his pocket, pulling the jar free. Quickly uncapping it, he held it to her neck and gathered as much of the spilling blood as he could.

  He looked down the street. The redhead was nowhere to be seen. He didn’t know which way she’d gone—into an alley or side street, or into another apartment. He watched, fearful of her return, as his breathing climbed toward hyperventilating and his eyes burned with a budding stress headache. He looked back and saw the blood flow had slowed almost to a stop. He grabbed the lid, capped the jar, and stood, dropping her lifeless body to the sidewalk with a soft thud. Henry jogged back to his car and got inside, safe in its darkness. He watched the street for a moment before starting the car. He turned around and slowly drove back the way he’d come, forcing himself to stay under the speed limit.

  Henry was not prepared for them to fight. He was not prepared for them to run. He was not prepared to take on two of them at once. The couple on the football field had made him feel invincible, given him unwarranted faith in his abilities. Yes, he had the blood of a female. But another had seen him, and gotten away.

  — TWENTY-EIGHT —

  Andrea ate dinner alone. A boring meal of reheated bits she hadn’t really enjoyed the first time. But it was Monday, and Monday was leftover day—since anything remaining could be put out for the garbage on Tuesday. She’d picked at the remnants of a pork roast and discolored, overcooked potatoes.

  She could feel the silent accusations of Dillon’s empty place setting the entire time she ate, and glanced at the door occasionally. He hadn’t answered her phone call. He hadn’t responded to her texts. He hadn’t contacted her at all.

  In turn, she hadn’t set him a place at the table. She hadn’t prepared him a plate and left it covered in the microwave. Andrea had cooked, served, eaten and cleaned up afterward as if she lived alone.

  Sitting in her chair watching the news, her panic grew. Every horrible lamian act they cited, or showed, or argued about, only convinced her further that her son was a full-blown murderer. It didn’t scare her—it sickened her. Shamed her. She’d have to answer for it. She’d be held somehow responsible. She would be guilty of not stopping it when she could. And now he wasn’t under her roof, under her care. He was loose on the world.

  What scared her was he’d been missing for three days. She had no way of knowing when he would attack.

  Will he just come strolling in to kill me? Or will he wait until I’ve gone to bed?

  Andrea had debated changing the locks. She seriously considered moving, or a hotel for a temporary solution. But after watching crime after crime on television, she knew if he wanted her dead, he’d get in, he’d find her. She needed him found. She needed him home.

  She needed to take care of the situation, before it took care of her.

  Andrea grabbed her phone and dialed the police.

  “911—What’s your emergency?”

  The female voice answered so fast, it took Andrea off-guard and she almost screamed into the phone in surprise. “My son is missing.”

  “Okay ma’am, stay calm, I need to ask a couple questions. How old is your son?”

  Andrea looked at the pictures on the wall. “He’s seventeen”

  “Oh. Okay. And when did you last see him?” The woman’s tone changed from concern to pity.

  “Friday morning, before school.”

  “Is there any reason to believe he is in danger? Does he take any medication or have any conditions?”

  Andrea hadn’t been prepared for the question, hadn’t thought about people who deal with runaways or the real fears they experience when their own lives aren’t in danger. “Um, no.”

  “Okay. Can you hold please?”

  “I guess.” Andrea heard Muzak before she’d answered the question and knew the operator had asked only as a polite gesture. Several moments of a song she knew but couldn’t quite place, redone as an instrumental for use in elevators and on phone calls, stopped abruptly when a new voice questioned her. A male voice.

  “Evening ma’am. I’m Officer Bollard. What’s your name and your son’s name?”

  “I, um… Andrea. Andrea Hubbard. My son is Dillon Hubbard.”

  “And you last saw him Friday?”

  “Yes, sir. That’s correct.”

  “Is it unusual for him to be gone from the home overnight?”

  “Well, yeah.” Andrea could hear the background sounded different than the silence of the 911 operator’s room and wondered what department she had been transferred to.

  “And did you check with his friends?”

  “Uh, I don’t know of any. He’s not really close to anyone.”

  “Okay, ma’am. I understand. This can be difficult. But given his age and the time of year, it’s highly possible he’s just sowing his oats and exploring his boundaries.”

  “But it’s been three days…I waited twenty-four hours.” Andrea didn’t understand why the officer didn’t sound more concerned that a minor was missing.

  “That’s actually not a thing, ma’am. You can report someone missing after an hour. They use the twenty-four-hour or two-day rule on television for dramatic effect. If he’s missing, he’s missing, and you shouldn’t have to wait before you worry.”

  Andrea almost said she wasn’t worried because he was missing, but because he might come home unexpectedly. Instead, she muttered an incoherent acknowledgment.

  “Now then, I’ll get your address and have someone stop by to pick up a picture, and we’ll keep a look out for him. Have you contacted the school, to see if he was in his classes?”

  “No. I haven’t. I mean… I figured he’d be home today and when he didn’t… well I called you.”

  “Okay, no problem, ma’am. It’s perfectly normal to worry and not think of even the simplest things. Have you been fighting lately?”

  “Uh, no. No, he’s not a mean kid.” She answered without thinking and then paused on her reflexive reply.

  He’s not. Never has been.

  But now… now he’s got those teeth.

  “And is he, or either you or your spouse, a lamian?”

  “Why? Why is that a question?” She sat upright in her chair, defensive, ready to lie to protect herself.

  “Well, I’m also going to ask his height and weight, and both birth and current gender. It’s just among the questions so we have a full report, ma’am. No need to take offense.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t offended, just…not sure why it mattered.”

  “Sadly, it matters if we have to identify a body. But let’s not think about that, let’s find your son and get him home.”

  “Oh…” Andrea didn’t know how to respond to possibility they’d actually find him and bring him home.

  There was a sudden rise in the noise behind the officer. Shouting and commotion of some sorts had turned whatever department she was talking to into chaos. The officer’s tone changed. An urgency that had nothing to do with Andrea seemed to spurn him into wrapping up the conversation.

  “Can I get your address so I can send a uniform over to get a picture and look around a bit?”

  Andrea gave the officer her address and thanked him. She hung up the phone and sat back in the chair. She’d done what was expected and report
ed him missing.

  Now if they found him, could she do what she should?

  — TWENTY-NINE —

  “I couldn’t see his face. I couldn’t see anything other than that shiny silver stick he had pushed up against her throat.” The girl was visibly trembling.

  “I’m sorry, Alicia. I know you’ve had a rough night and the morning hasn’t been much better. But if you can tell me anything about the attacker—anything at all—maybe that will be the key to catching him.” Detective Connor Murphy furrowed his brows at her obvious pain.

  “I don’t know what else I can tell you. He was taller than Kals, probably three inches, but she’s—she was—sorta short, so that doesn’t make him too tall, maybe five-eight. The streetlight was behind him, so his face was all dark.” Her eyes flit across the floor as if the answer could be among the pattern there.

  “Was he at all familiar to you? His voice maybe?” Connor had rolled his chair around to sit next to her, in a more casual manner, rather than trying to talk from across the desk in a cold, more formal fashion. He needed to know what she knew, what she saw. He needed her to trust him and feel safe. He sat close enough to be able to speak softly in the busy squad room.

  “I… I don’t know. I ran. I panicked and I ran. We had literally just watched the news about this guy and I wanted a cigarette. Kals wouldn’t let me go outside by myself and was joking about how if he ever came for us, to remember he was only one person and we were two, and so whoever he didn’t grab should run.” She paused and looked up at Connor, leaning forward like she was telling him something important he didn’t know. “I mean, he doesn’t hurt people. He kills them. So if he’s got you, you’re done for, right? So I ran.” Her face wrinkled up, as she burst into another fit of tears as her hands came up to hold the sides of her head and frame her face. “Oh my God, I ran away and left her to die!”