by Young, D. M.
“You want to come over. I’ll make lunch. I’ve got the stuff for sandwiches. Josh was one of my students, and I’d like to know what happened at his house.”
Matt was relieved that he had an excuse to avoid his empty house for a while longer. “Sure. I’ll head that way.”
Five minutes later, he knocked on her door. She opened it and led him to the kitchen table where coffee was waiting. Matt wasn’t hungry so Melissa poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down to listen to his story.
When he told her about Brody shooting the little girl, she looked sick. Though she’d gotten bits and pieces from the other teachers who had called, she hadn’t known that Gracie Roberts had been located. She seemed dismayed to learn that Josh was still missing. Melissa had never married and had no children of her own, but Matt knew she loved teaching. She cared deeply about her students.
“Josh was one of my favorite students,” she said. “He was a bright, well-grounded young man.”
“What was the family like?” Matt asked.
“They were really good people,” she said. “They showed up for every conference. They were at all of the school functions with the kids.”
Matt thought about this. “Well, you can’t always know what someone is like at home. Their life might not have been as perfect as they wanted everyone to think. Maybe the dad was abusive or having an affair, and the mom got tired of it.”
Melissa rolled her eyes. “I know being a cop has made you cynical, but you have to understand that I’m a teacher. If something is going on at home, we’re usually the first to hear about it. Kids talk.”
“And what did Josh have to say?” Matt asked.
“He talked about his mom and dad a lot. He never hinted that anything was wrong. When they were out, they were always laughing and having a good time. Josh complained about how goofy his parents were. According to him, they both had a great sense of humor, which of course was an embarrassment to a teenage boy. I don’t know what happened in that house, but I don’t think you guys should jump to conclusions. You said she looked like she’d gone crazy. Have you considered that she might just have been sick?”
Matt shuddered, remembering the look on the woman’s face as she staggered toward them. “I just don’t know. I’m so worn out I can’t even think straight. I’m also worried about Brody. Not the bite. I’m sure that’s not a mortal wound, but he’s going to catch hell for shooting the little girl.” He paused for a moment, wishing he could explain to her just how terrifying the whole situation was. “Nobody is going to understand. He was scared. Hell, I was scared. Then the kid took that chunk out of his shoulder, and I don’t know. I think he just snapped.”
Melissa had nothing to say about that, and Matt could guess the reason. Brody always seemed to be about five seconds from snapping. He could see that she was having trouble feeling sorry for Brody. Matt wasn’t even sure how he felt about the whole thing.
They talked for a few more minutes. Matt was about to leave when his phone rang. It was Clara Bingham at the sheriff’s department. She thought he would like to know that Josh Roberts had been located. Ray Melton had shown up just minutes after Matt left. Clara gave him the short version of Ray’s story. Matt thanked her and hung up.
He knew Ray well. He imagined every cop in the county knew Ray. He was one of those people who just could not seem to stay out of trouble. He had a drinking problem, and he seemed to enjoy causing problems for everyone else. To top it off, he was a thief, though most of it couldn’t be proven.
Matt told Melissa about the newest development. She stared at him for a moment, before speaking, “Ray said he was biting her?”
“That’s what he told the sheriff,” Matt said.
She was clearly upset by the latest news, and he didn’t really know what to say to make her feel better. His whole system was on overload today, and finding out that Josh was still alive was little comfort in light of the situation. The adrenaline was wearing off, and Matt was exhausted. He checked the time. It was just after 11:00 a.m. If he went home now, he’d have time to take a nap and still get back to the hospital later to check on Brody before it got too late.
Melissa walked him to the door and hugged him. “Get some rest, and call me if you need to talk.”
He looked at her for a minute standing there with no make-up and her dark hair up in a ponytail. She was barefoot, wearing shorts and an old tee shirt. Melissa was thirty-three, but Matt still saw the little girl who had followed him around as a kid. She had annoyed him back then. Now, he was glad he had a sibling to talk to. He smiled and said goodbye.
As he stepped off of the porch she spoke again. “Hey, call me tonight and let me know how Brody’s doing, and be careful. Seriously. I want to know if anything else happens, too.” She looked as if she was about to say something else then shook her head. Finally, looking embarrassed, she added, “Don’t get bitten.”
Then she turned and walked into the house. Matt heard the deadbolt click as he stepped off of the porch and wondered what in the world that was all about.
* * *
The officers scanned the yard and the woods behind it for movement, but they saw nothing. There was no noise from inside. They rounded the corner of the mobile home. The back porch was deserted, and the door was still open. Cautiously, they mounted the porch and checked inside. Nothing. From the door, they could see the bedroom, but they heard no movement. After a few seconds, they entered the trailer.
In the bedroom, they found blood-stained sheets but nothing more. There was a trail of blood droplets on the dirty carpet between the door and bedroom, but that was it. The house was empty. In the backyard, the grass was shriveled and dry, and the ground beneath was baked too hard to leave any footprints. From the amount of blood, they doubted that Amber was still alive, but they couldn’t be sure at this point. They would have to track Josh down if they wanted to know anything else. They radioed the sheriff’s department and began searching the woods behind the house for Josh or Amber or Amber’s body.
* * *
Dr. Mark Simpson was having a bad day. His soon-to-be-ex-wife had called this morning before he left for work demanding that he meet with her today to work out the details of the divorce. When he informed her that he would be busy all day, she was not happy. It gave him some satisfaction to know that he no longer had to follow her schedule. Still, he would be glad when the whole thing was over. When she left him for a big realtor in the area, he was angry and hurt. As the weeks passed, he began to feel free. Hearing her voice was still hard, though.
Then Brody Martin had come in with a chunk taken out of his shoulder. Of course, he had still fared better than the Roberts family he’d been sent to check on. The dad, mom, and youngest daughter of the family had come in in body bags. Mark had never liked Brody, but he hadn’t figured him for the type of person who would shoot a little girl. Now, he could barely stand to look at him, and it was his job to treat him.
He’d barely gotten Brody treated before the other Roberts girl had been brought in. Gracie was physically fine, at least. Her psychological state was still up in the air, but that wasn’t his area. They’d get a social worker out to speak to her. With her parents gone, it would be up to them to figure out where to go from there. He was just glad the older couple had decided to sit with her for a while. He hated the thought of her waiting there all day with only the staff as company.
Now the nurse was calling him back in to look at Brody again. The bite was pretty bad, as bites go, but it wasn’t life threatening. The bleeding had stopped and Brody had been patched up. Brody’s wife had brought him street clothes to change into. She claimed it was because his uniform was covered in blood, but Mark thought it might also be an effort to make him a bit less conspicuous to any reporters who might show up outside looking for him.
When Mark left his room an hour ago, Brody had been sitting up in bed talking, no doubt feeling sorry for himself and the mess he was in. Mark could hardly wait to sign his release
papers, but the nurse disagreed. He sighed and entered the room.
Brody’s face was pale except for the bright red flush on his cheeks and forehead. He was no longer sitting up. His tee shirt was soaked with sweat and sticking to his body. The nurse had just finished taking his temperature. Mark was alarmed to see that it was 102.6 degrees. He frowned and checked the chart. When he had come in, he was fine except for the bite. No fever. The doctor muttered something profane under his breath and went to work on fixing Brody for the second time that day.
* * *
Doyle Barton lived in a small shack in the middle of nowhere. His family had lived out here on this same piece of land since the area was settled, and he’d never had any reason to leave. He had everything he wanted right here. Besides raising a nice little garden and keeping a few chickens and pigs, he gathered mushrooms, berries, and polk salad, and hunted and fished for most of his food year-round. He paid no attention to seasons, limits, or licenses.
The shack had power and water, but that was about as much modern living as he cared to deal with. Otherwise, he lived as his ancestors had when they first took up residence in these hills. Others his age were set on joining “civilized society.” They had their fancy cell phones and computers, and they had a bunch of stress to go with it. Doyle, on the other hand, was content to spend his day tending his land. It was a healthier way of life anyway.
He had never had much use for people, and he tried to avoid contact with the lot of them. He didn’t hate them, but he also didn’t need their company. For the most part, people were content to leave him to his solitude. Now and then, some do-gooder from one local church or another would wander up trying to save his soul, and he’d have to shoo them off. Besides the church folk, he didn’t get many visitors.
So, when he saw Patsy Mills wandering toward his cabin, he figured she was out looking to do her Christian duty to invite him to a church service he had no intention of attending. He glanced out his window and waited for a few minutes, hoping she would wander off, but she didn’t. Finally, he stepped out on his porch to let her know to move on along. She did not, however, move along. Soon, Doyle Barton no longer cared about his land or his solitude. For the first time in his life, he was quite eager to meet other people. At least his love for hunting hadn’t changed. He was just in search of a different type of prey now.
CHAPTER 8
The thing that had been Josh staggered slowly through the wooded area just outside of town. Occasionally, he would spot a stray dog or a rabbit and follow it for a while, but it would quickly outrun him. Once the animal was out of sight for more than a few minutes, the Josh thing would forget about it entirely and begin wandering aimlessly again, sometimes making complete circles, until something else caught his attention. After an hour or so, he stumbled onto the first actual street of Hollow Springs. Josh saw movement behind a window of the house to his left, and he staggered toward it.
This house belonged to Margaret Harding, a middle-aged widow who was content to be just that. Her husband Leonard, as rotten a man as was ever born, had died five years before in an accident, leaving her a tidy sum of money. Dying was, quite possibly, the nicest thing the man had ever done. Since then, Margaret had lived alone, except for her little Jack Russell Terrier, Plato.
She spent most of her days quietly reading or watching a movie. In the summer, she kept a large garden in her backyard. Margaret had a few close friends, but she didn’t care much for socializing. Other than venturing out for groceries once a week and attending church on Sundays, she tried to avoid going out. After all, how could she be lonely? She had Plato to keep her company.
Because of this, Margaret had yet to hear the buzz around town about the tragedy involving the Roberts family. She did not know about the disappearance of Mrs. Mills or the attack on Amber Gardner. She and Plato had been able to miss all of the excitement up to this point. Oh, her phone had rung a couple of times, but she had been too busy tending to her garden to chat. She told herself she would return their calls later. She knew she probably wouldn’t. They’d call again later, anyway.
This morning, Margaret was tidying up the house a bit. The small dog danced around her feet as she worked. She had just finished dusting the tables in the living room when Plato turned his attention to the front door and growled, alerting Margaret that someone was about to knock. He was better than any security system on the market.
She waited, but nobody knocked. She was about to call it a false alarm when Plato suddenly stiffened and growled again. The hair along his spine was raised. His tail stood straight, and his ears pulled upward, almost touching. No, someone was definitely out there. Margaret cast a weary glance toward the door. She didn’t get a lot of visitors, and she was certainly not expecting anyone today. As she moved toward the door, she muttered a quiet prayer that it wasn’t another Jehovah’s Witness. Those people just would not quit.
Just as she leaned forward to see who her visitor was, a fist landed heavily on the door from the other side. Startled, she jerked back away from the door for a moment. After composing herself, she leaned back toward the peephole again. At first, the person on her porch was too close to the door for her to get a good look at him. When he stepped back a bit, Margaret could see that he was a teenage boy. His face and clothes were covered in blood. Everything about him screamed, “Danger!”
She watched silently as he raised his hand and hit the door again. Plato growled, louder this time. Not wanting him to announce their presence, Margaret backed away from the door and pointed at the little dog. He fell silent at once. The boy hit the door harder this time, and the dog began to bark wildly. Now that he was aware of their presence, the boy began pounding on the door. That was enough for Margaret.
She scooped Plato into her arms. The barky little varmint might literally be the death of her if he didn’t shut up. She carried him into her bedroom, where her gun was in the nightstand drawer, loaded and ready to use. She grabbed the gun, checked the magazine, and chambered a round. Then she picked up the phone and dialed 911. Before the operator could answer, she heard banging on the front window. A few seconds later, the glass shattered.
Plato barked. She shushed him. He ignored her and barked louder. Margaret ushered him into the adjoining bathroom. She would never be able to hear anyone over that noise. The operator answered, and she quickly explained the situation. After confirming her address, she told the operator to hang on and barricaded the bedroom door as best she could with the small chest that stood nearby.
In the living room, the boy was stumbling around, knocking things over. Margaret heard a clattering sound as something hit the floor. Plato was frantic now. Margaret returned to the phone and spoke quietly as she updated the operator. Plato’s continued barking from the other side of the bathroom door made it difficult to hear the operator’s replies. Finally, Margaret gave up. She could hear the footsteps coming down the hall, and she dropped the phone on the bed. Soon afterwards, the blood-covered boy was banging at her bedroom door. She knew that the lock on the door would not hold for long, and the chest was, at best, a minor obstacle for someone set on getting through the door.
Margaret had spent a great deal of time at the shooting range through the years. Her late husband had been mean as a snake and prone to mood swings and wild, screaming tirades. Though he had never laid a hand on her, he’d threatened a few times. Several years before his death, she’d bought the gun without his knowledge and hidden it away just in case. Once every month or so, she had gone to the range to be sure that she knew how to use it, should the need arise. Once Leonard was gone, she kept practicing. As a woman living alone, she wanted to know that she could protect herself, if needed.
Now, that need was real, and Margaret stood facing the door, the gun aimed at what she guessed would be chest level of the boy on the other side. The gun shook in her hands. He threw himself against the bedroom door. It held. He crashed into the door again and again. On the fourth hit, the lock gave way. The boy pus
hed against the door, managing to move the chest enough to allow his head through. He looked at her, and, though he surely saw the gun she was holding, he began to struggle harder to get into the room.
Margaret yelled for him to stop, but he continued pushing against the door, fighting to get to her. She wasn’t going to wait and see if he would succeed. Her heart still pounded in her ears. Her hands still shook, but a sort of calm, sick resolve settled upon her. She carefully aimed the gun at his head, took a deep breath, exhaled, and pulled the trigger. With that, Josh Roberts fell to the floor dead, this time for good.
* * *
Alicia Barnes was glad to see her shift end. She closed the door of the little hardware shop and locked it. It seemed like everyone in town had stopped by the store today. While some might have legitimately have needed some nails or a gallon of paint, most were just hoping she had some inside information to share. She was Ray Melton’s ex, after all, and he’d been involved in the day’s events. She really didn’t know what they expected her to say. She and Ray had been divorced for years. If they saw each other in town, they might exchange a few words, but that was about it.
She wondered for the billionth time how in the world she had ever ended up married to that man in the first place. Deep down, she knew the answer to that question, though. Ray’s father was an alcoholic, and Alicia knew what it was like to have a crappy home life. She guessed she felt sorry for him and thought she could save him.
They had dated throughout high school. He played football, and he was pretty damned good at it. She was an honor student. They had always been an unlikely couple, but, due to their similar upbringings, they understood each other better than anyone else could. They had married two weeks after high school graduation. Alicia wanted to move away to go to college, but Ray had convinced her to stay. She’d taken a job as a secretary at the local high school. Ray worked in a factory a few towns over.
