by Jack Kilborn
“Where are you going?” the man said with his foreign lisp, his breath as easy as Streng’s was ragged.
Streng couldn’t outrun him. He slowed, stopped, and then faced the man, raising his fists. Though he was hardly the 195-pound slab of muscle he had been in his youth, a few of those muscles still functioned.
“So you want to fight?” the man asked.
The sheriff threw a roundhouse punch, aiming for the stranger’s neck. The man sidestepped it and in a single fluid motion grabbed Streng’s hand and began to squeeze it.
The pain was instant and excruciating. It felt like getting caught in a door, the bones grinding against each other. Streng yelped.
Then combat training kicked in. Streng grabbed the man’s shirt, swiveled his right hip behind the man’s right leg, and flipped him.
The move was executed perfectly. Too perfectly, and halfway into it Streng knew what was happening. The man didn’t let go of Streng and used the momentum of his fall to catapult Streng legs over head, slamming the sheriff onto his back.
Streng stared up at the black sky, his wind gone. He noticed many things at once: the cool grass tickling the back of his neck, the pain in his coccyx that shot down both legs, the spasm in his diaphragm that wouldn’t let him draw a breath, and the soft, effeminate laugh of the person about to kill him.
“You’ve had some training,” said the man. “So have I.”
Streng felt a hand clamp under his armpit. It squeezed. Fire exploded behind Streng’s eyes, and he screamed for perhaps the first time in his sixty-six years. It was like being pinched with pliers, and even though Streng tried to roll away, tried to push back the hand, the pressure went on and on, driving out every thought other than make it stop.
“That’s the brachial nerve,” the man whispered in Streng’s ear. “It’s one of many nerves in the body.”
The man released his grip, and Streng wept. And as he did, he hated himself for the tears, hated himself for being a frail old man that this psychopath could manhandle like a toy.
“I have some questions for you, Sheriff. Do you think you’ll be able to answer them for me?”
Streng wanted to be defiant, wanted to give this man nothing. But his lips formed the word before he could stop it: “Yes.”
“That’s good. That’s very good.” The man’s breath was warm, moist, on Streng’s ear. “But I think I’ll still loosen you up a bit first.”
The man grabbed Streng’s left side and squeezed, fingers digging hard into his kidney, prompting such intense, jaw-dropping pain that Streng passed out midscream.
Duncan Stauffer awoke to the sound of Woof barking. Woof was supposed to be a beagle, but Duncan had a lot of dog books and decided that Woof looked more like a basset hound. Woof was pudgy, with stubby legs and floppy ears and sad red eyes. It was funny because even though his eyes were sad, Woof played all the time. All the time. Duncan wondered how he could be so fat, since he ran around all day.
Woof barked again, and Duncan sat up. The dog normally slept on Duncan’s bed, sprawled out on his back with his legs in the air. He left only to get a drink of water, let himself out through the doggy door to poop (Mom called it “doing his dirty business”), or greet Mom when she came home from the diner.
Duncan looked over at his SpongeBob digital clock next to the bed, but it wasn’t on for some reason. Instead he checked his dad’s watch, which he wore all the time since Mom had the links removed so it could fit.
The watch told him it was twelve forty-three.
Woof barked once more, a deep, loud bark that sounded exactly like his name, which was the reason Duncan named him Woof. But this wasn’t the welcome-home bark that Woof used when Mom came home. This was Woof’s warning bark, the one he used for his fiercest enemies, like the squirrel who had a nest in the maple tree out front, or the Johnsons’ gray cat, who liked to hiss at Woof and scare him.
“Woof! Come here, boy!”
Duncan waited. Normally, Woof came running when Duncan called, jumping on him and bathing his face with a tongue that was longer than Duncan’s foot.
But Woof didn’t come.
“Mom!” Duncan called. “You home?”
No one answered.
Duncan didn’t mind being by himself while Mom worked late. He was ten years old, which was practically an adult. His mom used to insist that he have a babysitter, and the one she usually got was Mrs. Teller, who was all bent over because she was so old, and sometimes she smelled like pee. Duncan liked her okay, but she made him go to bed early and wouldn’t let him watch his favorite shows on TV, like South Park, because they said bad words, and she always wanted to talk about her husband, who died years ago.
Duncan didn’t like to talk about death.
After a long session with Dr. Walker, the therapist convinced Mom that Duncan was mature enough to stay home alone, if that’s what Duncan wanted. Which he did. Duncan knew what to do in the case of any emergency. He’d taken the Stranger Danger class in school. He had three planned escape routes if there was a fire. He knew not to let anyone in the house, and how to call 911, and to never cook on the stove or use the fireplace or take a bath while home alone. He thought Mom was being a little crazy about the bath thing, like Duncan would fall asleep in the tub and drown. But he listened to Mom anyway, and she trusted him, and for the three months he’d been without a babysitter it had worked out fine. Duncan hadn’t gotten scared once.
Until now.
“Woof!” Duncan yelled again.
Woof didn’t come.
It was possible his dog had gone outside, to do his dirty business. Or maybe he saw the Johnsons’ cat and went to chase him, even though the cat scared Woof a lot.
Or maybe something got him.
Duncan would never admit it to anyone, not even his best friend Jerry Halprin, but he sometimes believed monsters were real. He wasn’t scared of monsters, exactly. He loved watching monster movies, and reading R. L. Stine books with monsters in them, but deep down he thought maybe monsters really did exist.
He didn’t tell this to Dr. Walker, but when they had the car accident, and Mom thought Duncan was unconscious in the back seat, he wasn’t really unconscious. He saw what happened to Dad, how bloody he was. For weeks afterward, Duncan had horrible nightmares about monsters, biting and clawing and ripping up him and Mom, making them bleed and die. Since he got Woof, most of the nightmares had gone away.
But sitting in his bed, holding his breath and waiting for his dog to come, Duncan wondered if maybe a monster got Woof.
Then he heard it—the jingle of metal tags from Woof’s dog collar, just down the hallway.
“Woof!” he yelled happily. He tucked his legs under his butt so when Woof hopped on the bed he wouldn’t step on them, and he waited in the dark for his dog to come.
But Woof didn’t come.
Duncan listened hard, then called Woof’s name again. He heard jingling, in the hall.
“Come on, Woof,” Duncan urged.
The jingling got a little closer, then stopped. What was wrong with that dog?
“Speak, Woof!”
Woof, who didn’t really need to be told to speak because he spoke all the time, still loved to follow that command, because he usually got a treat afterward. But Woof stayed quiet. Duncan wondered if he was maybe hurt, which is why he stopped barking.
Duncan reached over to the light switch on the wall behind him. He flipped it up. It didn’t do anything. He tried flicking it up and down a few times, but his bedroom light didn’t come on. The electricity must be out, Duncan thought.
Or maybe a monster stole the light bulb.
“Woof!” Duncan said it hard, the way Mom did when Woof did his dirty business on the kitchen floor.
Woof’s collar jingled, and Duncan heard him pant. But the dog stayed in the hallway. Did Woof want him to come there for some reason? Or was he afraid of something in the bedroom?
Duncan peeled back the covers and climbed out of bed. The house
was warm, but he shivered anyway. Mom made him wear pajamas when she was home, but on the nights she worked, Duncan liked to sleep in his underwear. He wished he had his pajamas on now. Being almost naked made him feel small and alone.
The room was too dark to see, and Duncan walked by memory, heading for the doorway to the hall, hands out in front of him like a zombie to stop him from bumping into walls. After some groping he found the door and stopped before walking through.
Woof’s collar jingled, only a few feet in front of him. The panting got louder.
“What’s the matter, boy?”
Duncan knelt down and held out his hands, waiting for the dog to approach. When Woof didn’t, Duncan felt goosebumps break out all over. He knew something was wrong, really wrong. Maybe Mom was right about leaving him home all alone. Maybe something bad happened to Woof, and Duncan wouldn’t be able to help him because he was just a kid.
Duncan stood up and reached for the hall light switch, but it didn’t go on. So he pressed the button on his dad’s watch and the blue bezel light came on, which was bright enough for him to see the man standing in the hallway, jingling Woof’s collar and panting.
• • •
Josh VanCamp moved through the woods at a quick pace, sweeping the flashlight before him like a blind man’s walking stick, navigating fallen trees and overhanging branches. He had no explanation for the events so far, but deep in his bones he knew something was terribly wrong.
The underbrush grabbed an ankle, and Josh pulled his foot free and paused, trying to get his bearings. There was less than a hundred yards between the crash spot and the Mortons’ house, but it was extremely easy to get lost in the forest, especially at night. He reached into the pocket of his khakis and took out a bubble compass on a leather swatch. Reorienting himself, he headed east, toward Gold Star Road.
Safe Haven didn’t have many emergencies. Even when the population tripled during the tourist season, Josh responded to only a handful of calls a week, and they usually amounted to overzealous campers with fire pits that exceeded safety standards or search-and-rescue operations for teenagers who snuck off into the woods to have a quickie. Though Josh became a firefighter because of a strong need to saves lives, he had never actually saved anyone.
Josh navigated through a copse of wrist-thin birch trees, and found his mind drifting to Annie, as it often did. He didn’t need grief therapy to realize she was the real reason for his vocation. Soon he would leave Safe Haven and move to Madison, or the Twin Cities, where firefighters actually did risk their lives and do real good for the world.
On his days off he took EMT classes in nearby Shell Lake, and he planned to take his National Registry Paramedic exam next year. Josh didn’t know if there was a statute of limitations on mourning, but if there were, his ran out at four years, three months, and eleven days. He had made a promise to Annie, but it was time to move on.
Josh set foot on the sand road and began walking south when he heard the scream. The Mortons were the only folks out here this time of year, and it came from the direction of their house. Josh sprinted toward the sound. Though the night had gone from cool to cold, sweat broke out on his forehead, neck, and underarms. The sand sucked at his shoes, and he almost lost his footing hurdling over a pile of scrap wood next to Sal Morton’s mailbox.
Josh jogged to the edge of Sal’s property just as the screaming stopped. Josh took a few gulps of air and then cupped his hands around his mouth.
“Hello!”
No one answered.
Josh wondered who was shrieking, and why. He had no doubt it had been a cry of pain. Had the person passed out? Died?
He looked to the house and saw the front door hanging open. That wasn’t right. Josh hurried to it and stuck his head in. Darkness and silence greeted him.
“Hello? It’s Josh VanCamp, from the firehouse! Does someone need help?”
The wall switch didn’t work. Josh went inside, his flashlight sweeping the living room. Empty. He’d been in the Mortons’ home before, for Sal’s sixtieth birthday, and could vaguely remember the layout. He navigated over to the laundry room, found the circuit-breaker panel open, and noticed the main had been tripped. He pressed it. Nothing happened. Not unusual; in northern Wisconsin, the power went out frequently.
Silence followed him into the kitchen, and then up the stairs. He knew Sal hunted, which meant he had at least one gun, so Josh again announced his presence.
“Sal! Maggie! It’s Josh from the fire department!”
He stopped at the top of the stairs and waited. Where were they? Why was the door open? Who had been screaming?
Josh felt wind on his cheek and turned the flashlight to see what could be causing it. A bedroom, the window shattered, white drapes dancing like specters. Then, from the room on the other side of the hallway, a cough.
Josh hurried over but couldn’t quite understand what he saw. The bed was soaked in blood. And sitting in the middle was Sal Morton, slack-jawed, staring into space, cradling a right arm that boasted the most horrible compound fracture Josh could have ever imagined. The bone jutted out five or six inches from the flesh.
“Mr. Morton, I’m here! We’re going to get you some help.”
Josh tried to recall his EMT training. He checked for a pulse in Sal’s carotid and found it to be strong, which surprised him considering the amount of blood on the bed. Sal’s skin was cool, clammy, and his eyes fixed on a point beyond Josh. Shock. Josh needed to get him to a doctor, which would be quite the trick since his tanker truck was stolen. Sal probably had a car. And Sheriff Streng should be here any minute. Josh pulled out his cell and hit redial, then looked for the upstairs bathroom.
Awful as the fracture appeared, it didn’t seem to be bleeding much. The immediate concern was for infection. Josh found a rag and soaked it with some hydrogen peroxide he found in the cabinet under the sink. He placed it over Sal’s mangled arm just as the line picked up.
“Hello?” came a strange voice. Whoever answered the sheriff’s phone wasn’t the sheriff.
“Can I speak to Sheriff Streng?”
“He’s indisposed at the moment.”
“Who is this?”
“My name is Santiago.” The man had a lisp and sounded Spanish, and Josh had the impression that he was smiling as he spoke.
“Are you with the sheriff?” Josh said.
“Yes. But you can’t speak to him.”
Josh didn’t have time for games like this. Why was Streng even lending out his cell phone? Didn’t cops have rules about that sort of thing?
“I need to speak with the sheriff. It’s an emergency.”
“I don’t think he can speak. I believe I just ruptured his kidney.”
“What?” What the hell is going on?
“Is this the man who just went into the Morton house? How’s Sal holding up? Still grieving for his dear, dead wife?”
“His wife? Where’s Maggie?”
“She’s not on the bed? Hmm. Interesting. I suppose Ajax has her, then.”
Josh stared at the huge bloodstain on the bed, and then his eyes climbed up Sal, who continued to stare, mouth agape, across the hall to the adjoining bedroom. Josh followed Sal’s stare with the flashlight.
It came to rest on the huge man standing next to the window, quietly slow dancing with the naked, mutilated corpse of Maggie Morton.
Fran’s upper body hung out of the diner’s broken kitchen window, Al’s murderer clutching the ankle of her right foot, preventing her from getting away. Glass shards dug into her chest, and the smell of rotten food from the alley Dumpster to her left made her eyes water. Fran kicked out with her free foot, connecting with the killer several times, but her rubber-soled shoes bounced off without apparent effect.
Her hands frantically sought something to grab on to, something to hold so she could pull herself out. The Dumpster, a foot away, might as well have been a mile. Her palms couldn’t get any kind of purchase on the brick wall. All Fran could do was lean forw
ard, hooking her armpits around the window frame, and try to resist the inevitable yank back into the kitchen.
The yank didn’t come. In fact, the killer didn’t tug on her at all. He simply held her ankle—hard enough that she couldn’t twist away—but without pulling. Fran remembered being a child, getting a booster shot at the doctor’s office, and how waiting for it was just as bad as getting it. She wondered how being stabbed with a knife compared to an inoculation needle. Or would he prefer slicing to stabbing?
But seconds ticked away, and still he did nothing but hold her. The anticipation was torture.
Then his other hand touched her bare calf and began to knead it, rubbing up and down.
Fran screamed, this intimate gesture somehow ratcheting up her terror. A moment later, her shoe was pulled off. Then she felt her sock peeling down. What the hell was this guy doing?
She found out when something warm and wet enveloped her toes.
He was sucking them.
Fran squirmed and kicked, but she had no leverage, no way to bend her legs while she was on her stomach. She planted her free foot on the attacker’s forehead and pushed, trying to keep his face away. It had no effect. As his tongue squirmed between her toes, his free hand traveled up her leg and rubbed the inside of her thigh under her skirt.
If both hands were holding her, that meant he wasn’t holding the knife.
Fran tried to figure out how she could use this to her advantage. Had he dropped the knife? Set it down? Put it in a sheath?
His teeth scraped the knuckle of her little toe, then locked around it.
Oh, Jesus, no …
First pressure. Then pain. The killer sawed his teeth back and forth and shook his head like a dog, but apparently the toe didn’t want to come off no matter how violent the movement. The agony spiked to unbearable levels, going on and on and on, and Fran kicked his face and pushed against the outside brick wall and then suddenly she slipped free, spilling face-first onto the asphalt, hands out to break her fall.
Fran rolled onto her butt, her back against the wall, hands seeking out the unrelenting throb that now occupied her entire body and soul. She’d stubbed her toes many times in her life, once while she had an ingrown nail. That pain was a joke compared to this. She probed the wound, trying to judge the severity of the damage in the darkness, sobbing at what she discovered. Her toe was completely gone, a tiny sharp nub of bone sticking out where it used to be.
