That was where his second weakness came in: his body was degenerating faster than he could fix it. The night he killed Max's dad, he'd almost died, and if he hadn't had a freshly killed victim right in front of him, he probably wouldn't have survived. If I were able to distract him from his hunt, and lure him away before he had a chance to kill anybody, he wouldn't be able to regenerate at all. I imagined him desperate, unable to reach a victim in time, sweating and cursing and, in the end, melting away into a boiling puddle of inky black sludge.
I pulled up at Radio Shack, propped my bike against the wall, and went in.
"I got this for Christmas, but I already have one," I said, pulling out the opened iPod box and setting it in front of the clerk. I didn't already have one, but for some reason I figured it would sound better if I did. I really needed this to work.
"Can I exchange it for store credit?"
The clerk picked it up and opened the side. "It's already been opened," he said.
"My mom did that," I said, piling on the lies. "She didn't know about your policy. But it's completely unused—she turned it on once, for ten seconds, and that was it. Can I still exchange it?"
"Do you have a receipt?"
"I'm afraid not," I said, "it was a gift." I stood still and watched him, willing him to say yes. Finally he scanned it at his register and looked at the display.
"I'll give you partial credit for it," he said. "Do you want a gift card?"
"That's okay," I said quickly, "I'll just grab something now and bring it up."
The clerk nodded, and I drifted back toward the GPS systems. This was going to work. I was positive I could kill Crowley this way—just distract him long enough to stop him from regenerating, and he'd die. I'd already watched his body almost fail him once, and I was certain it could happen again.
And I knew the perfect way to distract him: his third weakness. Love. He'd do anything for his wife—I'd even seen him answer the phone in the middle of an attack to talk to her. If he got another call, and something on that phone convinced him his wife was in immediate danger, he'd drop whatever he was doing and run.
And with the right preparation, I could'send him some very convincing evidence.
Finally I found what I was looking for: a GPS tracker, paired with a handset to tell you exactly where the tracker was at all times. I checked the price, took it to the front, and set it on the counter.
The clerk looked at it oddly, perhaps wondering why a teenage boy would trade a cool iPod for a boring GPS set, but shrugged and rang it up.
"Thanks," I said, and walked back outside. I felt disturbingly eager now that I had a plan. I wanted to rush back right then and start my attack, but I knew I had to wait. I needed some way of hiding the evidence of everything I was going to do, so the police would never link it back to me. And when the time came, I had to make the threat to his wife flawlessly believable.
It would be hard to pull off.
But if it worked, the demon would be dead.
17
Sunday morning I approached the demon directly, in the guise of kind-hearted John Wayne Cleaver, and asked if there were any chores I could do. It hadn't snowed in a while, though the banks were still piled high on the sides of the road, and so my usual snow shoveling had ceased. I told him I was working on my home-repair merit badge, and showed him the list of repairs I needed to work on, and we spent the day roving through his house, fixing leaky faucets and touching up the paint on his walls. I made sure to oil the hinges of his bedroom door—that would come in handy. He was jovial the whole time, but I watched him carefully, and I could tell he was sick. His lungs again, maybe, or his heart. It had barely been a week, but he was dying again. He'd kill again soon.
There were a handful of car-related items on the merit badge list, and though his car wasn't having any problems, he was delighted to let me change the oil and practice putting on the spare tire. It was too cold for him to stay out with me long, however, and eventually he retreated inside to sit in a warm chair and clutch his chest. I took the opportunity to hide my GPS tracker under one of the seats, tightly taped to keep it from rattling around. The batteries were supposed to last nearly a month, but I guessed he might go hunting that very night. I tested it when I got home, pulling out my handset and zeroing in on the car's signal. The map wasn't incredibly detailed, but it was enough to get by. His car showed up as an arrow. Kay made a trip to the pharmacy that afternoon, and I watched the flashing arrow pull into the street, drive to the center of town, and enter the pharmacy parking lot. I saw every turn, and watched as it waited for each traffic light and paused at each stop sign. It was awesome.
Before she came back, I sneaked into their backyard and climbed up the rear wall, clinging carefully to the bricks. This was the time for the demon's nap, and I listened to ensure that he was asleep. His breathing was regular, but punctuated by gasps and wheezes. He was getting worse. I taped a note to his window, and climbed down, disappearing via the carefully shoveled walks without leaving a single footprint.
NOT LONG NOW
I collected several items for my backpack, so I'd be ready to go at a moment's notice. I needed some rope or strips of cloth for Kay, and found what I needed in the demon's own garbage can: a set of old curtains, replaced at Christmas, and thrown out when the new ones were finally hung. I took one quietly and sneaked it into my backyard, where I tore it into long, sturdy strips and stashed them in my pack. I don't know if you can lift a fingerprint from a curtain, but I wore gloves jusc in case.
The demon woke up soon after Kay returned, and grew more agitated almost by the hour. I could see him pacing back and forth past his windows, hobbling slowly, stopping now and then to grab his chest. He gripped the couch with his other hand for balance, grimacing. He wouldn't last long.
Clouds grew black and ominous in the sky, and when night fell, it came as a shroud of purest darkness that blotted out the stars. Just a few hours later, when the demon could take it no longer, he went shakily to his car and drove away, looking for another victim.
It was time for me to meet mine.
I was already dressed—warm black clothes, the ski mask to hide my face, and gloves to hide my fingerprints. I pulled on my backpack, and slipped quietly outside. Mom was already asleep, and I hoped everyone else on the street was asleep as well. I wanted to sneak into the demon's yard through the back, out of sight, but that way would leave footprints in the unmelted snow. It was better to run across the plowed street and up the shoveled walk, where I would leave no trace. I had always been leery of being seen or identified while sneaking around, but tonight my paranoia was multiplied a million times. There was no turning back from this; I wouldn't be able to talk my way out of the things I was planning to do. I checked the street a final time when I reached the outside door, reassured myself that it was completely empty, and dashed across the street. At least we didn't have streedights.
I reached the Crowleys' house and ran around the side to the cellar door, pulling out my key. It was pitch black inside, and when I stepped in and closed the door behind me, I was completely blind. I pulled a small penlight from my pocket, and found my way through the boxes and shelves to the base of the stairs. Rows of glass jars winked back the glow from my tiny light, and though I knew they were only canned beets and peaches, I imagined them full of pickled organs—kidneys and hearts and bladders and brains, displayed like specials on a grocery store shelf. When I reached the stairs, I slowed down, counting each step—I had learned earlier that the sixth step squeaked loudly on the right side, and the seventh softly on the left. I avoided those spots carefully and went upstairs.
The stairs let out into the kitchen, which appeared stark and colorless in the moonlight. I checked the GPS unit and saw that the demon was still driving, somewhere downtown.
Cruising for victims, I supposed—maybe on his way to the highway to find hitchhikers or other travelers. Whatever he wanted, as long as he kept moving.
I walked carefully do
wn the hallway, my penlight extinguished. I was moving half by memory now, thinking back to the repair work I had done here on Saturday. The demon had given me a full tour of the house, and as my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I recognized where I was and where I needed to go. The hall from the kitchen stretched backward into the house and, near the back door, the main staircase rose and snaked back toward the front, up to the second floor.
The house was completely silent. I checked the GPS again—the demon was still driving. I went up.
At the top of the stairs I counted the doors, and approached the second one on the right. The master bedroom. I opened the door slowly, wary of a squeak, but the hinges made no noise at all; I smiled, pleased with my foresight in oiling it.
The room beyond was dark, lit only by a clock radio on an antique dresser. Mrs. Crowley was asleep, small and fragile.
Even with a heavy comforter to bulk out her form, she looked tiny, as if her life force had retreated for the night, and her body had folded in on itself. The bed seemed to swallow her.
If not for the visible rise and fall of her breathing, I'd have doubted she was even alive.
This tiny woman was what the demon loved, so much that he was willing to do anything to stay with her. I set down my backpack, held my breath, and turned on a lamp.
She didn't wake up.
I picked over the dresser, nudging aside glasses and jewelry boxes until I found what I needed: Mrs. Crowley's cell phone.
I opened it, walked back to the door, faced the bed, and began taking pictures with the phone—click, save, step, click, save, step, click, save, step, closer every time. It would have a nice dramatic effect when I sent them. I bent in close for the last photo, holding the phone just above her face for an extreme close-up. The picture was ugly and invasive; it was perfect.
On to phase two.
I set down the phone, its creepy photos safely stored in memory, and walked slowly to the far side of the bed. I stopped and stood over her, thinking. I couldn't do this—there was no way I could ever do this. My monster had already broken loose once, threatening my Mom and drinking in her fear like a lifesaving elixir. If I took this last step, and went through with my plan, the monster would come out again—I'd be holding the door open and inviting it out, I would relinquish all control to my darkest instincts, and there would be nothing left to stop it from going berserk and burning down the world. I didn't dare doit.
But I had to. I knew that I had to. I'd come too far to turn back, and if I stopped now I'd be sentencing a man to death— whoever Crowley was hunting, he'd kill, because I wouldn't be there to pull him away. And if I didn't go through with it tonight, I'd never go through with it at all, and Crowley would kill again, then again, then again, and again, and again, until there was no one left. I had to take a stand, and I had to take it now.
I took a deep breath and slipped the case off of Mr. Crowley's pillow, holding it over Kay's head. I hesitated, just a fraction of a moment, while the monster raged inside and pleaded with me, begged me, swore at me to do it. This was what the monster was for, right? This was why I'd let it out in the first place—to do the things I couldn't. I stared at Kay a moment longer, apologized silently, and let the monster go.
My hands opened the bag and pulled it over the old woman's head.
She stirred, startled into consciousness, but I had plenty of time to tug the bag down firmly to her collarbone. She grunted something, still half asleep, and thrashed out with an arm. Her blow was weak. I reached out and ripped the clock radio away from the wall, popping the cord out of the socket, and bashed her on the side of the head. Mrs. Crowley choked on a scream, turning it into a half groan, and rolled toward me out of bed.
I bashed her again, the thick radio slamming hideously into the pillowcase, and when she didn't stop moving, I bashed her a third time. I hadn't intended to hit her at all, but her feeble resistance was all it took to shock me into action. I was trying to knock her out, which always looked so easy in the movies— just a quick smack and you're done—but this was prolonged and brutal, smashing the radio into her head again and again.
At last she was still, sprawled grotesquely on the floor, and I stood over her gasping for breath.
I lunged for her again, eager to finish her off—hungry for the visceral impact of weight on bone, and the megalomaniacal thrill of having a victim completely in my power.
I stooped over her, but grabbed the edge of the bed at the last moment, pulling myself back and forcing myself to look away.
She's mine!
No. My ski mask was suffocating, just like the pillowcase on Kay. I ripped off my mask and gasped for breath, fighting for control. I leaned toward Kay again, and had to wrench myself away, stumbling against the wall. I felt like I was playing one of Max's video games, fumbling with unfamiliar controls and watching as my character on the screen ran helplessly in circles. The monster roared again, and I punched myself in the side of the head, savoring the sharp pain in my knuckles and the dull ring in my head. I fell to my knees, breathing deeply, and a haze seemed to fall over my eyes. I ached to attack again, desperate, and the monster laughed. I couldn't stop.
I raised the clock radio again.
My hand stopped in the air, knuckles white around the radio, and I thought about Dr. Neblin. He could talk me out of this. I could barely think, but I knew that if I talked to him right then, it would save my life and Kay's. I didn't think about the consequences, I didn't think about the evidence I was leaving, I didn't think about the confession I was about to make—I simply curled up on the floor, pulled out the business card Neblin had given me, and dialed his home number.
It rang six times before he picked up. "Hello?" His voice was tired and scratchy—I'd probably woken him up. "Who is this?"
"I can't stop."
Dr. Neblin paused for a moment. "Can't stop . . . John? Is that you?" He was awake almost instantly, as if recognizing my voice had flipped a switch in his head.
"It's out now," I said softly, "and I can't put it back in. We're all gonna die."
"John? John, where are you? Just calm down, and tell me where you are."
"I'm on the edge, Neblin, I'm off the edge—I'm over the edge, and falling into the hell on the other side."
"Calm down, John," he said. "We can work through this.
Just tell me where you are."
"I'm down in the cracks of the sidewalks," I said, "in the dirt, and the blood, and the ants are looking up and we're damning you all, Neblin. I'm down in the cracks and I can't get out."
"Blood? Tell me what's going on, John. Have you done something wrong?"
"It wasn't me!" I pleaded, knowing that I was lying. "It wasn't me at all, it was the monster. I didn't want to let it out, but I had to. I tried to kill one demon, but I made another, and I can't stop."
"Listen to me, John," said Dr. Neblin, more serious and intense than I had ever heard him. "Listen to me. Are you listening?"
I squeezed my eyes shut and gritted my teeth.
"It's not John anymore, it's Mr. Monster."
"No it's not," said Neblin. "It's John. It's not John Wayne, or Mr. Monster, or anybody else, it's John. You're in control.
Now, are you listening to me?" ,
I rocked back and forth. "Yes."
"Good," he said. "Now pay very close attention: you are not a monster. You're not a demon. You're not a killer. You are a good person, with a strong will and a high moral code. Whatever you've done, you can get through it. We can make it right again. Are you still listening?"
"Yes."
"Then say it with me," he said, " 'We can make it right again.'"
"We can make it right again." I looked over at Kay Crowley's body, crumpled on the floor with a pillow case over her head. I felt like I should be crying, or helping her, but instead I just thought, Yes, I can make this right again. My plan will still work. This will all be worth it if I kill the demon.
"Good," said Dr. Neblin, "now tell me where you are."
"I need to go," I said, and raised myself to my knees.
"Don't hang up!" Neblin shouted. "Please stay on the phone. You need to tell me where you are."
"Thank you for your help," I said, and hung up the phone.
I realized the clock radio was still in my other hand, and threw it aside with revulsion.
I looked at Kay. Had I killed her? I tore off her pillowcase as brusquely as I had torn off my mask, and checked her head for obvious signs of damage. It felt fine, with no blood or breaks, and she was breathing shallowly. Seeing her face was too much for me, and I turned my head. I didn't want to think of her as a person. I didn't want to think that what I had just done had been done to a living, breathing human being.
It was easier without a face.
The phone rang abruptly, startling me, and I glanced at the caller ID. Dr. Neblin. For the first time, it occurred to me that my call to him would leave tracks—evidence on his phone, and on Mrs. Crowley's, that would lead the inevitable investigators back to me. I took another deep breath. There was no stopping now—evidence or no evidence, I needed to kill the demon.
Thought of the demon flooded me with fear, and I checked the GPS. The car was still moving; I still had time. I closed my eyes to avoid seeing Kay and pulled the pillowcase back on, more gently this time, then picked up the phone to snap more pictures. The call from Neblin stopped ringing, and moments later a small beep told me he had left a voice mail.
My pictures now were more elaborate, as I took time to arrange the body.
She was sprawled on the floor in her floral nightgown, tiny blue hospital socks on her feet, and a pillowcase on her head.
She was rolled onto her back, the busted radio displayed next to her head.
She was stretched out on the floor, my shadow falling ominously across her.
I pulled the strips of ripped curtain fabric from my backpack and tied her wrists together as tightly as I could. Her bones were thin and brittle, and I thought I could probably snap them in half if I wanted. I realized that I was already squeezing with one hand, pressing toward the breaking point, and pulled away.
Wells, Dan - John Cleaver 01 Page 18
