Feral (31 page)

Shannon kept the speed at an even fifty-five as they passed, the State vehicle moving toward Riverside, she toward Normal Hills.
 
She watched the cruiser in her rear view mirror, feeling a rush of panic as it slowed on the shoulder of the road and made a U turn.

“Damn.”
 
She forced her eyes back to the road.

“Did he see me?”

“I don't know,” she said.
 
“I don't think so.
 
We were too far away.”

“What's he doing?”

“Following us.”

“Damn,” Gordon agreed.
 
“Is he pulling us over?”

“No, just following.
 
He's still back a ways.
 
Maybe he's not following
us
.”

“Just drive nice then.”

Shannon's face reddened in frustration, tears of anger formed in her eyes.
 
“If he doesn't pass us, I'll have to lose him in Normal Hills.”

When she glanced in the mirror again he was much closer, and closing the remaining distance quickly.

“Here he comes,” she groaned.
 
“God, what do I do?”

“I don't know.
 
Damn it!”

“Maybe he's passing us,” she said, and a second later the flashers came on.
 
The cruiser closed the gap between them with scary speed, did not appear to be slowing.
 
He swerved into the oncoming lane at the last second; giving them a warning blast of his siren as he passed them, then quickly vanished around the next corner.

Shannon exhaled.

Gordon climbed back into his seat wordlessly.

A few minutes later, she slowed and turned onto the rough tree-shrouded road to Crazy Ernie's place.

“Nobody comes here anymore,” she said when the old house came into view.

Gordon nodded.
 
“I believe it.”

She drove the Chevelle slowly through the rough side yard and parked in back.
 
“This is where I hid Charity after he killed Jared,” she said.
 
“We'll be safe for the day.”

“And tonight, after we pick up Charity?”

Shannon almost laughed at that, an understatement if she ever heard one.
 
It sounded like they were
picking her up
from a girlfriend's house.
 
She supposed it was better than
rescue
, which would have sounded hopelessly melodramatic.

“If we make it this far, yeah.
 
It should be.”

He nodded, seemed satisfied.
 
“But not for long.
 
Just long enough to rest.
 
We leave before morning.”

“
We,
as in you and Charity?”
 
She didn't realize how nervous she was until she felt the twinge of cramping muscles in her wrists.
 
Even though they were parked, she still held the steering wheel in a white-knuckle grip.
 
She let go and let herself out.

Wind whipped the trees around the old house, warm but not as oppressively hot, as before.
 
The shade here was constant, its effect more enduring.
 
Above, the sky had cleared, but that meant nothing.
 
She had seen the sky to the north on their way here, the direction of the blowing wind.
 
It wasn't promising.

She stood against the car, leaning into the wind and enjoying the brief comfort it brought.
 
Gordon gave her an odd look as he climbed out of the Chevelle.

“Yes,” he said.
 
“Me and Charity, but I hoped you would come too.”

For a moment she felt incredibly stupid; open mouth, insert foot.
 
It wasn't the question, but her tone, needy, afraid, and reproachful, as if daring him
not
to take her with them.
 
When he moved close to her and held her, the embarrassment departed.
 
She was tired, scared, an emotional wreck.
 
He understood.

“Will you?”

It was an obligatory question, protocol.
 
She knew that he knew what her answer would be.

“I'm not letting Charity out of my sight again.
 
Or you.”

She led him down into the basement.
 
The light was still on; she had left it on in her rush to catch Charity.
 
She pulled the chain hanging next to the bulb and made it darker.
 
The door was still open, letting enough light in to see by.
 
She couldn't handle full dark, might never be able to again.

She led him to the old couch where she had lost her virginity so many years ago, and they made love in the light of a calm blue day.

“H
ow are we going to do it?” she asked.

“Quickly,” he said.
 
“In and out.
 
We'll grab her and get the hell away.
 
How good of driver are you off road?”

“If you're thinking what I think you are, then good enough.”

“Good,” he said.
 
“Drop me off here.”

She pulled to the side of the highway, parked at the end of a small graveled rest area and killed the motor.
 
“Gordon, I'm scared.”

“So am I,” he said, then leaned across the seat and kissed her neck.
 
He took the keys from the ignition, climbed out, and walked around to the trunk.
 
A few seconds later, the trunk slammed closed and he walked to her window with a tire iron in hand.
 
He opened the door and handed the keys back.

“Wait until the sun sets, then drive to the park.
 
I'll have the gate open for you.”

He started off toward the trees along the river.

“Be careful,” Shannon called after him.

He turned, gave her a dismal smile.
 
“I'll try.”

I
t was a mile to Feral Park from where he started walking, and it was slow going over rough and uneven ground until he found the start of the trail.
 
From there the walk went quickly, too quickly.
 
He didn't know if he was ready for this, or ever would be.
 
This was Charles' game, not his.

He came to the end of the trail, peeked through sagging boughs and the ugly green of heat-sapped leaves.
 
It was empty, silent, but still felt haunted.
 
He didn't go into the park, but up through the trees to the side of the highway, then walked to the entrance.
 
The access road where they had all met by some strange chance, or fate, was still blocked—a long, swinging gate no more than a thick steel bar mounted to a swiveling post on one end, padlocked to a second post on the other.

Gordon pushed the tip of the tire iron through the U of the lock, and used the cement-mounted post as a pivot point.
  
He pulled on the tire iron, twisting the chain until it was tight.
 
He put all his strength into it, and when that wasn't enough, he threw his weight behind it as well.
 
The U of the lock twisted out of shape, then let go with an interior snap of metal.
 
He pulled the chain loose so Shannon could get in quickly when she arrived, but left the gate closed so no one would see it and wonder.

Then, slowly, as if moving that way would slow the inevitable, he made his way back through the trees and picked a hiding place among them adjacent to the entrance of the playground.
 
He waited, waited for what seemed forever; now that it was happening, it
would
seem forever.

He crouched behind the thick trunk of an old willow, and waited for the dark.

G
et ready
, Jenny said to Charity.

He's coming.

S
hannon waited at the edge of the river, watching the sun as it fell to the west, her dread growing as it edged into the horizon.
 
She retreated to the safety of her car and the glow of its dome light before full dark caught her.
 
She wondered how Gordon was, and how long he could remain in the dark until
He
sniffed him out.

Not long
, she thought.

The drive to Feral Park was short and the highway devoid of cops.
 
She shut off her headlights and coasted to a stop by the gate.
 
She almost couldn't bring herself to leave the safety of the car.
 
She couldn't feel the fever hot presence of the Bogey Man, just a cold unfocused anxiety, like ice in her chest.
 
It was the place.
 
She was as scared of this place as she was of the killer who had chased Charity here.

Thinking of Charity and Gordon, hiding somewhere in the dark down there, she found the strength to move.
 
She ran from the open car door, through the strange night, to the gate.
 
It was unlocked as promised.
 
She pushed it open wide enough to steer her car through and ran back.
 
She guided the car inside without the lights, and parked at the edge of the willow wall, just out of sight.

There was nothing in the park, no movement or noise from the playground.
 
So far, so good.
 
She regarded the open gate behind her, knowing if she didn't push it closed, a passerby might notice, maybe the cops or that State Trooper.

Again she ran, letting her panic fuel her but holding onto a thread of calm, just enough to keep her from bolting into the night.
 
She pushed the gate back into place, and almost screamed when she heard the voice.

“Serge thinks they might come back,” came a burly, irritated voice from the industrial area general parking lot.

“Here?” the other voice said.
 
“What the fuck?
 
I mean, shit, I don't even like this place in the daylight.”

The two cops walked along the edge of the park but did not enter it.
 
A flashlight appeared, skimming over the overgrown grass briefly, and vanished.
 
She watched them as they turned and walked back toward their cruiser.

She crept back toward the car, which they had miraculously missed, and as she did they vanished, there one second, gone the next, the first officer's voice cut short in mid gripe.
 
“Beats the f—” and then there was nothing, and she realized with a kind of sick clarity that everything outside the park was changed.
 
No city sounds at all, not even the chirp of a cricket.
 
Even the images were muted somehow, foggy and unreal.

That's why they missed my car
.

From somewhere inside the empty playground she heard the laughter of children, and the low, rough sound of their music.
 
Then she saw a boy, younger than Charity, walking across the park toward the playground.

She watched him as he walked around the playground, staring wonderingly at it from all angles, then stopped a few feet from the entrance.
 
Then the music stopped, the laughter quieted, and they came out.

A girl, the girl who had taunted her the night she had found Charity here, a boy who could have been in his early teens, and Charity.
 
As they approached him, something that seemed as out of place as contrails in the blue horizon of a spaghetti western, there was the sound of a cell phone chittering away in the darkness.

She sprinted the last few feet to the car and jumped in.
 
In the second before she turned the key in the ignition and cranked the old Chevelle to life, she felt a rush of hot stale air, and heard
Him
laughing.

G
ordon watched from behind a veil of green as they all stopped, looks of perfect surprise lighting their young faces.
 
Charity stared at the bulge in her front pocket, a dreamy look of disbelief on her face, then slowly pulled the phone out, and after a quick search pushed a button and raised it her ear.

“Charity,” he whispered, hoping they couldn't hear him, knowing the girl—the ghost—probably could.
 
“It's me, your dad.
 
Get ready to run!”

Charity said nothing.
 
She held the phone to her ear, staring through the bushes in his direction with a growing smile.
 
The older boy watched her, the look of confusion turning inward to wary distrust.
 
The smaller boy, the new arrival, beamed at her.

“Awesome phone,” he said.
 
“Do you have a TV too?”