"I can't believe you're willing to throw everything away because of this," Veronica said.
"Let's not do this now," Stephen replied. "It never gets us anywhere. We just end up going around and around in circles."
"Then tell me again why we're going away for this weekend?" Veronica said. "Why are we deliberately trapping ourselves in the wilderness together? I'm sure they expect us to sleep in the same bed."
Stephen walked over to his closet and started grabbing clothes. He pulled down a bunch of shirts and threw them in the suitcase without bothering to look at what he’d chosen. His stomach was burning with anger which did nothing to lessen his urge to burst into tears.
"Yes," Stephen said. "I'm sure they expect us to sleep in the same bed. I doubt they have more than two rooms up there."
"I don't want to do this," Veronica whispered.
"Do you think I do?" Stephen screamed, his anger finally cresting over the top of his mental dam. "Do you think this feels any better for me? Do you think I want to look at you all weekend and think about what I won't have anymore?"
Veronica stood up, walked into the room, and looked at him. She was gorgeous in her robe, opened slightly, even with the mixture of hurt and rage that was etched across her face. Veronica had always kept herself in shape. She was a dedicated runner and she looked like an athlete. Stephen felt his heart hammering in his chest again. He wanted to grab her, throw her on the bed right now and make love to her. The frustrating thing was that Veronica probably would let him. Despite the fact that things were crumbling hopelessly around them, they still had an active sex life.
Veronica finally gave up trying to fight the tears and let them flow down over her face. "Let's cancel," she said. "Please, let's cancel this."
Stephen lowered his head. He felt hot angry tears pressing against his own eyelids. He fought them back and bit at his lower lip. When he felt in control of himself he looked up at her again.
"I need this," Stephen said. "I need to try this one more time, no matter how much it hurts."
"We always do what you need," Veronica said. "Can't we do what I need this time? Besides, not two minutes ago you were agreeing that this was all a bad idea. You never stick to just one thing."
"We're already talking about getting a divorce," Stephen said. "Isn't that enough of what you want to do?"
Veronica stared at him for a moment longer as her lower lip trembled and tears fell from her chin. Then her resolve stiffened and her eyes bore into him. He turned away from her stare. Eventually, she walked back to the sink. Stephen could hear her crying softly in between the sounds of her throwing makeup and other things into a bag.
Stephen felt bad for a moment and then decided it didn't matter. He needed to get packed and that was it. He returned to his suitcase and began putting clothes in.
This is going to be a fun weekend, he thought bitterly to himself.
* * *
Mike drove the five miles to the Liden house, spewing hate-filled epithets every time he reached an intersection, drove through a pothole, or whenever the truck stalled. The engine was groaning and making many other disconcerting sounds, which did little to dispel the anger Mike was feeling. Still, he knew that the real fault lay with the man from Illinois who was preventing him from watching the Brewers.
Mike had fallen into the employ of the writer from Chicago just over a year ago. Jeremy had told him that he was highly recommended, but when Mike asked by whom he got no response. Mike always suspected that the guy who had owned the place before the current owners had given his name up. The previous owner was from Chicago too, and he and Mike had never gotten along.
"Damn flatlanders!" Mike cursed out loud, spittle flying from his lips and spattering the windshield as he made the final turn, bounced into a pothole, and headed down the road in the final stretch toward the cottage. At this point his cursing had almost become nonsensical, running together into a continuous slur, “Damflalanners! Damflalanners.”
The weeds and grass were overgrown, as Mike had suspected. The idea of spending the afternoon chopping away with his sickle was not his idea of a good time. Once he got the weeds down to a manageable level, he would then have to mow the grass, too. Then he would need to wash down the outside of the house. If it were up to the flatlanders, he would also go in and take the covers off of the furniture and unlock the cabinets, but hell if that was his job.
Mike maneuvered up the driveway and pulled the truck all the way up past the house, parking beside the wooden shed near the end of the driveway. Inside that shed was a bunch of tools he knew Jeremy had never touched and probably never would. He doubted the writer, with his soft hands and limp-wrists, had ever picked up a tool in his life or had the basic understanding of how to fix something by himself. Mike grunted his disapproval again as he shut off the engine, which sputtered and died as if saying thank you.
"I can't believe I'm doing this today," Mike muttered at the dashboard and then swung his leg out of the cab.
The sun beat down on Mike’s head as soon as he stepped away from the truck. He lifted his cap, wiped his brow, and felt the sweat spring out from every pore. Mike went to the back of the truck and removed the sickle from the pile of tools stored there.
* * *
Demon stood in the trees, peering through the weeds and grass at the man standing in the yard. In his mouth was a still-twitching rabbit that he intended to bring back to the house for Delilah. The bitch was lying beneath the porch, shading herself from the sun. This was where they had been sheltering for the past couple of days.
A growl emerged from the back of Demon’s throat as he watched the strange man wandering through his territory. He did not understand humans. Why didn't they stay in their own places? When the man reached into the back of his machine and pulled out a huge stick, Demon knew for certain this man was there to do them harm. Demon knew, immediately, that the stick the man held was there to cause him and Delilah pain.
Demon remembered the biting, crackling stick that their abuser had used on them. He remembered how that human would stagger out to their cages and start hitting them or shocking them with the crackling stick. He hit them no matter how much they cried or how much they bared their teeth or how much they tried to placate him by submissively showing their throats and bellies. These humans did not understand the way things were supposed to be. These humans just hurt and hurt and hurt; and the thought of all of that hurt made Demon angry.
Now, here was another human with instruments of pain, standing on Demon’s territory. Demon’s eyes filled with hatred and anger. The dog’s fighting instincts, beaten into him through years of abuse and constant battles against other dogs, rose to the forefront of his brain.
Demon dropped his catch and bared his teeth. His twitching snout caught the scent of the man and he moved forward, front paws scrabbling at the dirt and his nose low to the ground.
* * *
Mike reached into the front of his truck and turned on the radio. He turned up the volume so he could hear the ball game as he wandered around the front yard. Then he turned away from the truck and carried his sickle to the first row of weeds. The ones in the back were as high as his chest.
Mike brought the sickle back and swung it in an arc. The saw-toothed blade sliced the base of the weeds. They flew over his shoulder, tumbling through the air and landing in a green and brown heap on the driveway. Mike continued steadily, grunting in reaction to the plays from the baseball match. Although his anger at the writer still lit a fire in his belly, he began to let his mind wander in the direction of the radio.
As was usually the case, now that he was out working, Mike found he was actually enjoying himself. It wasn’t taking as long as he’d thought it would (and certainly not as long as he would tell his wife it did). Mike had a knack for this kind of work and he was cutting his way through the back yard and around the side of the house even before the Brewers had managed to squander their four-run lead.
Mike rested for a
second when he reached the side of the house, leaning on his sickle while he wiped away the sweat from his forehead. He gazed up at the crystal-blue sky and slowly lowered his vision to look out over the fields and down the hill toward the lake. Mike could make out the water shimmering gently in the wind, the sun creating dapples and pinpoints of light on its surface.
He picked up his sickle again and began cutting away at the front yard. He moved slowly and steadily. As he worked past the front porch, Mike heard something move beneath the wooden walkway. He paused, mid-swing, and tilted his head sideways to try and see into the darkness beneath the porch. Had he really heard something? Lots of animals liked to come out of the woods and try to set up dens and homes beneath porches like these. Hopefully it wouldn’t be a damn skunk. The last thing he needed was to go home stinking to high heaven.
"Hey!" Mike yelled and clapped his hands. "Get out of there!"
Something under the porch moved again; this time there was no mistaking it. Mike frowned, bent down, and tried to see into the intensely dark shadows gathered under the porch. He couldn't see anything for a while, but then, suddenly, he saw something shift in the darkness.
"What's under there?" Mike asked no one in particular. He figured if he looked bigger and acted louder, whatever it was might get scared and run away.
Mike duck-walked around the side of the porch, keeping his head low so he never lost sight of where he thought the animal lay. He peered underneath carefully, still unsure what was under there. Mike saw two tiny circles shining from about midway under the porch, just close enough to the opening for sunlight to catch them. There was definitely something there, but it was too big to be a skunk.
"Is that…Is that a dog? Hey, dog! Get outta there!"
Mike heard a growl from beneath the porch. It was deep, guttural-- and put a stab of fear in his stomach. This was not a small animal or even a small dog. The growl was from something big.
Mike backed away slowly, heading for the spot on the lawn where he’d dropped his sickle. Once he had the blade back in his hands, he advanced on the porch once more.
"Hey, now!" Mike yelled. "C'mon, dog! Get out!"
Mike pounded on the porch with the sickle’s wooden handle. Instead of seeing an animal bolt from the darkness, the growling resumed. He knelt to look under the porch, the sickle ready in his hands. This time, in addition to the eyes Mike saw shining in the darkness, there was a glinting set of teeth.
"Hey, now!" Mike said. "You need to get out from under here, now. This ain't your home!"
Mike shuffled forward, squeezing himself under the porch, extending the handle of the sickle so he could prod the dog into scarpering off.
Mike heard something behind him. He turned to find himself face-to-face with another snarling dog. Saliva dripped from the sides of its mouth and pooled on the ground.
"Jesus!" Mike felt the saliva in his own mouth dry up.
The dog pounced with amazing speed. Mike had just enough time to release a small whimper before wicked fangs clamped down on his throat. He felt another set of jaws tearing into the flesh of his arm, yanking him into the darkness of the porch.
In the truck, over the sounds of ripping, chewing, and the dying grunts and groans of a dying human being, the Brewers got back the lead. Overhead, birds circled. The lake glistened.
CHAPTER TWO: THE ROAD AHEAD
Jeremy stood in front of the security checkpoint and watched the stream of people flood by. He was trying hard not to look suspicious. Airports made him uncomfortable, what with all of the security guards. Even though he’d done nothing wrong, he felt guilty and expected a burly security guard to usher him into a tiny room at any moment. He shifted nervously from one foot to the other and peered into the crowd, then checked his watch for the umpteenth time.
Jeremy was notoriously early, almost to a fault. Whenever he tried to show up late or on time, he ended up catching all of the green lights. He’d arrived at the airport far too early, which only added to his feeling that he had done something wrong. He’d driven around the airport a couple of times before deciding that doing so made him look even more suspicious. Eventually he decided to head inside and realized it was very hard to stand in an airport these days and not feel like a terrorist.
According to the "Arrivals" board, Stephen and Veronica’s flight was right on time, which meant it should have landed about three minutes ago. Jeremy checked his watch again to be sure.
"Excuse me," said a voice directly behind Jeremy.
Jeremy turned and found a girl of about sixteen standing there, awkward and shy. It took only a few seconds for him to realize she was holding one of his novels in her hand. It was his latest one – the one that had finally generated a little Hollywood interest and would likely lead to a deal from a larger publisher. Being recognized from the book’s dust jacket was new to Jeremy.
"Yes?" Jeremy asked the girl.
"You're the author, right?" She held up the book like a holy tablet. Jeremy’s own face looked back at him with a stupid, forced grin.
"Yes, that's me. Have you finished it?"
"No," she said, "not yet. But I really like it so far."
"Well, I hope you like the ending."
She giggled nervously. "Can I have your autograph, please?"
"Do you have a pen?" Jeremy asked.
She produced one. It turned out her name was Jennifer. He should have guessed that. Every pretty, honey-blonde girl Jeremy had ever met, it seemed, was named Jennifer. He signed the book with a message that sounded like he’d known her forever. The girl smiled and thanked him, stood there awkwardly for another moment, and then ran off.
Jeremy smiled as she departed. There were other people looking at him now. Most of them stared at Jeremy, confused, because they had seen him sign the autograph but had no idea who he was. Most of them whispered amongst themselves, trying to figure out if Jeremy was someone important they should know. Some were even so rude as to point directly at him. For a moment Jeremy wished the ground would open up and swallow him.
Jeremy looked back toward the gate. Finally, there they were. But his face dropped when he saw them both. Veronica and Stephen walked several feet apart. In fact, Stephen marched slightly ahead of Veronica. Neither of them smiled; they looked like they would rather be anywhere else but together. Jeremy sighed and raised his hand.
"Hey guys!" he shouted.
Veronica broke into a smile and waved. Stephen did the same just a moment later, then he slowed down and let Veronica catch up. They clamped their hands together in a gesture Jeremy could tell was forced.
"Were you just signing an autograph?" Stephen asked him.
"How long were you guys standing there?" Jeremy asked.
"Long enough to see you still like to trawl the high schools."
Veronica elbowed Stephen’s ribs. "Leave him alone."
Veronica put down her suitcase, threw her arms around Jeremy, and planted a kiss on his cheek. Jeremy smelled her perfume and let the embrace linger for a moment. Then he broke away and stuck his hand out to shake Stephen's.
"It's good to see you guys," Jeremy stated. "Are you sure you're ready for this weekend?"
"Yeah," Stephen said. "I'm looking forward to getting away from it all."
Jeremy reached down and grabbed Veronica's bag. She took up a position next to Stephen and grabbed his hand again. Jeremy noticed the merest hint of something in her expression that indicated she wasn’t entirely happy doing so. She looked as if she’d just grabbed hold of the pulsating tentacle of a giant squid.
"How's business these days?" Jeremy asked.
"That's one of the things I will be glad to get away from for a while," Stephen said. "I’m always walking around with a Bluetooth in my ear and a cell phone in my hand. I feel like a goddamn cyborg most of the time."
Stephen had left the corporate world about two years ago to start his own business consulting firm. At first it was something he did in his spare time, but then his client list bega
n to grow. Before he knew it he was incorporated, and then he was contracting jobs to other people to do the actual consulting work. Stephen was now gradually expanding outside of the St. Louis area and he was worried about having to travel more. Jeremy knew from private conversations that his friend was having problems with his wife. Being on the road would not help.
Jeremy and Stephen had known each other since college. For some reason, ages ago, they had established a kind of mock hostility towards each other in their manner of speaking. To the rest of the world this appeared shocking and as if they didn’t care, but in fact Jeremy and Stephen found it hilarious.
"What about you?" Jeremy asked Veronica.
"I'm doing well," she said. "I think I'm in line for a promotion."
Veronica worked as a recruiter for one of the city's larger recruitment firms. It was a job she had taken upon moving to St. Louis three years ago. She had almost immediately moved into the respected position that earned her huge commissions. Veronica’s work also required her to travel a lot and work many hours. The combination of their busy schedules and constant traveling was what had put the initial strain on their relationship. Then, recent problems in the reproduction department had just about ripped them apart. Jeremy worried for his friends.
"I'm glad you guys are doing well," Jeremy said, hoping he sounded sincere and not ironic.
A sudden silence fell over the three of them. It was one of those awkward silences that Jeremy feared would occur often over the weekend.
"So, how long does it take to get there?" Stephen said.
"About four hours," Jeremy replied.
"What's the plan from here?" Veronica asked, even though Jeremy knew that she was already aware of the plans.
"We head back to my place for a moment and, hopefully, Amelia will be there shortly thereafter. Then we'll head out right after that. We should be there before the sun goes down."
Sapphire: A Paranormal Romance Page 32
