John Saul (16 page)

“He has to have one,” Joey explained. “Everybody around here has one.”

“And what about the boots?” MaryAnne asked, finally turning her attention to her son’s feet.

“He has to have those, too,” Joey insisted. “If he’s going to learn to ride, he has to have boots, and everyone wears them all the time. And they aren’t Tony Lamas. Dad says it’s dumb to spend that much until your feet are done growing. Then you get the best boots you can, and wear them forever.”

Dad says
. MaryAnne’s resistance crumbled. “All right, I give up,” she said. “You didn’t do what I asked you to do, but I didn’t really think it through, either. Obviously at least two of you are old enough to shop by yourselves. And since you didn’t just throw money away on junk, I don’t see any point in taking any of it back. But next time, either you do what you promised, or you call me and tell my why you’ve decided not to. All right?”

“I can keep my boots?” Logan cried, ignoring the question.

MaryAnne sighed. “You can keep the boots. But if your feet hurt, don’t blame me.”

As she went back into the pantry to finish the search for the spaghetti, Joey winked slyly at Alison.

“See?” he whispered. “I told you we could get away with it.”

The wolf froze, its body going rigid, one forepaw raised from the ground, its tail held straight out.

The man stopped instantly, only his eyes moving as he searched out the terrain indicated by the animal’s point and found the object of the wolf’s interest.

A rabbit was crouched in the shelter of a boulder, its senses alert, its nose quivering as it sniffed the breeze. The sun was gone, the blanket of darkness fast gathering over the field of heather that spread up the mountainside just
above the timberline. Soon it would be safe for the rabbit to creep out into the meadow to nibble at the vegetation that spread over the ground, for the predators that soared in the sky would settle down into their nests for the night, and the threat to the rabbit’s life would be reduced. For now, though, it held perfectly still, searching for an odor or movement that would betray the presence of the enemy it had sensed a moment before.

It sniffed again, but only the aroma of heather filled its nostrils. Finally, the urge to eat overcame the little creature’s instinct to stay hidden until night had fully fallen. It crept forward, nipping at the tender grass that grew between the clumps of heather. As the light continued to fade, the rabbit grew bolder, venturing farther out into the field.

The wolf edged forward, its eyes fixing on the rabbit, but the man laid a hand on its sinewy flank, calming it. “Not yet,” he whispered so softly that his words were almost inaudible. Now the rabbit froze, its ears standing straight up. As the seconds stretched out, it held perfectly still, becoming all but invisible in the gathering dusk, but when it heard nothing else, it finally dropped back down, relaxing, and began to feed again.

The man tapped the wolf. Instantly, it shot forward, bursting out of the clump of heather in which man and animal had been hidden, hurling itself on the rabbit almost before the smaller animal knew it was under attack. Seizing the creature by the neck, the wolf jerked its head back and forth, then dropped the twitching rabbit to the ground, held it down with one forepaw, and tore into its flesh with its sharply pointed canines.

The rabbit squealed in pain, then lay still on the ground. The wolf prodded it with a forepaw, snuffled at it, then picked it up in its mouth. The man, already on his feet, started back toward the woods, the wolf falling in beside him.

In a bulky pack that lay where he’d dropped it a few minutes ago when he’d decided to go after the rabbit, were the carcasses of two raccoons and a small otter, all collected from his traps that afternoon. The man paused to pick the heavy bundle up and sling it onto his back, then
moved on, barely aware of the weight that would have made most other men stagger.

Coming finally to the shack in which he lived, he dumped the three carcasses from the backpack onto a rough-hewn table, picked up a knife and began expertly skinning them.

The wolf, with the bloody body of the rabbit clutched in its mouth, dropped to the floor near the door and began ripping its catch to pieces, tearing open the hide with its teeth, ripping out the entrails, devouring them even as they spilled from the rabbit’s torn belly.

“Want some more?” the man whispered in his hoarse voice. Running the knife up the belly of the otter, he slit open its abdominal cavity, plunged his hand into the stillwarm mass of organs and tore them free, tossing them to the ground a few inches from the wolf’s muzzle.

The wolf, her jaws dripping with saliva, pounced, the bloody mass disappearing into her throat.

The man finished butchering his catch, tossing the hides out the open window, knowing that by tomorrow afternoon they would be gone, taken away by the creatures that prowled in the night, or picked clean by scavenging birds.

Whatever was left he would take away later, but for now, at least, there would be nothing in the cabin to attract the swarms of ants that lived deep beneath the ground.

He cut the carcasses up, the heavy knife chopping easily through the gristly joints, then lifted the top off the pot of stew that always stood on the stove.

He threw most of the meat into the pot, then stirred up the fire and added enough wood to keep it going while he went out into the night. By the time he got back, the brew would have been simmering for hours, the flesh falling away from the bones, which he would fish out and throw to the wolf.

He picked up the last leg of the beaver and was about to add it to the pot when he changed his mind. Clutching it in his hand, he tore into the raw meat with teeth that were almost as strong as the wolf’s, the gamy flavor of the animal’s flesh sharply sweet on his tongue, the smell of its fresh blood filling his nostrils.

Tonight, the hunger was on him fully, and he knew where the hunting would be best.

MaryAnne started clearing the dishes from the kitchen table, pausing before she picked up Joey’s plate. “You’re sure you don’t want any more?” she asked worriedly. All through dinner he’d barely spoken a word, withdrawing further and further into himself, jumping nervously whenever someone spoke directly to him, and replying only in monosyllables.

Joey looked down at his plate, still nearly full, the large portion of spaghetti covered with the thick meat sauce Olivia Sherbourne had provided all but untouched. He shook his head.

“I thought all kids loved spaghetti,” MaryAnne commented.

“I guess I’m just not very hungry,” Joey replied. “May I be excused?”

MaryAnne smiled sympathetically at the boy, certain his loneliness for his parents was overcoming him once again. “Of course,” she said. “Alison and Logan can help with the dishes tonight. Go turn on the TV if you want to.”

Joey slid off his chair, still not looking at her. “I think I’ll go up to my room,” he said. “I’ve got a book I’ve been reading.”

MaryAnne’s eyes shifted pointedly to her daughter. “Hear that?” she asked. “A book. You remember them, don’t you? A lot of pages with print on them, between two covers?”

Alison rolled her eyes. “Come on, Mom. Just because I like TV—”

“Like it?” MaryAnne repeated. “How about addicted to it? When was the last time you actually read a book all the way through?”

“Mo-om,” Alison groaned. “I get good grades in school, don’t I?”

Joey, barely hearing the argument that was beginning, snapped his fingers softly, and Storm, who had been stretched out under the table, his head resting on Joey’s feet, stood and padded after his master as the boy silently
left the room. He was already halfway up the stairs when he heard MaryAnne speak to him from the foyer.

“Joey?”

He paused, turning to gaze down at her.

“Are you all right?”

Joey nodded, but said nothing.

MaryAnne peered uncertainly up at him. “Is there anything I can do? Anything at all?”

Joey shook his head. “I-I’ll be okay,” he stammered. Turning away before MaryAnne could say anything else, he hurried up the stairs and disappeared into his room. MaryAnne, feeling helpless, wanting to take the boy into her arms and comfort him, went back to the kitchen to help Alison and Logan with the dishes.

In his room, Joey flopped down on the bed.

The feeling was coming over him again.

The feeling he thought he was finally done with.

But now it was back, stronger than ever.

He got up from the bed and went to the window, raising it all the way, so the breeze from the mountains blew into his face.

He took a deep breath, filling his nostrils with the fresh scent of the pine trees, his lungs with the cool air of the evening.

It was fully dark now, and the feeling had been gathering around him ever since the sun had fallen behind the mountains and their shadows had begun to creep down the valley. At dinner, as the last of the light had faded away, the feeling had grown stronger, and he’d had to resist the urge to jump up from the table and run out into the night.

But why?

He no longer felt the need to escape from his father, for his father was dead.

Dead and buried, so that he could never take him out to the barn again, never take the belt from his pants and whirl it over his head before lashing down on his bare buttocks.

When he had realized that his father was dead, and that he was finally safe from the beatings, Joey had been certain that the terrible feeling inside him was at last gone forever.

Yet it was strong tonight, stronger than it had ever been before.

He felt restless, like a caged animal, trapped within the confines of the house, trapped even within his own skin.

All he wanted was to disappear from the house, to disappear into the darkness outside, to roam in the night until he finally found release from the pain within his mind, and his spirit calmed once more.

But there was nothing to disappear
from
! This was his house, his room! He belonged here!

Except that on nights like tonight, when the feeling came over him, he knew he didn’t belong anywhere.

Maybe it was because of those kids—the ones he’d seen in town today.

The ones who hated him.

Hated him even though he’d never done anything to them.

Or had he?

What about the times he couldn’t remember?

But those times had been long ago, before he’d learned to conceal the strange nervousness that seemed to come out of nowhere, filling him with dark and violent feelings he didn’t understand.

Tonight the feelings were back, setting his nerves on edge and making his skin itch so badly that no amount of scratching relieved it.

And the dark urges were already beginning to take form in his mind once more. The urges to strike out, to pass the pain his father had inflicted on him to someone else.

No!

He wouldn’t give in to it! Not this time!

He slammed the window shut and forced himself to go back to the bed, stretching out on it, wrapping his arms around the pillow and burying his face in its softness.

Make it go away, he silently begged. Make it go away!

Storm, whimpering softly at his master’s distress, jumped up onto the bed and stretched himself out next to Joey, licking gently at the boy’s cheek.

But Joey, the dark urge within him increasing its grip on his soul, was completely unaware of the dog’s gentle ministrations,
for already he was preparing to slip out into the beckoning darkness of the night.

“I keep thinking maybe we should have just gone home,” Tamara Reynolds said, snuggling closer to Glen Foster and stretching her feet out to toast her toes in the heat from the campfire. The darkness around her suddenly seemed threatening, and what had struck her as the gentle quiet of the forest the last time she and Glen had gone camping, now seemed more like an ominous silence. “I mean, after what those people said—”

“Come on,” Glen interrupted, slipping his arm around her. “It was nothing. So a tent got torn up. They don’t even know what did it, and no one was here when it happened. Besides, it was days ago, and nothing else has happened since, has it?”

“And there’s hardly anyone here now, either,” Tamara reminded him. “All the smart people went home.”

“You mean all the chickens went back to their roosts,” Glen replied. “As far as I’m concerned, this makes it even better. Just us, and one family on the other side of the campground.” He flopped back, pulling Tamara with him, and stared up at the moon that was just visible through the treetops. “Now tell me anything’s prettier than that.”

Cuddling against him, Tamara told herself that he was right, that whatever had destroyed those people’s tent was long gone. And besides, maybe the damage wasn’t as bad as they’d heard. Stories always got exaggerated, didn’t they? “It
is
nice.” She sighed, some of the tension in her body starting to ease. As Glen rolled over to kiss her, she wrapped her arms around him, pressing herself even closer. “Tell you what,” she whispered. “Why don’t we go to bed early tonight?”

“What do you mean, early?” Glen teased, nibbling at her ear. “It’s almost eleven.”

“Then let’s go to bed now,” Tamara suggested, her fingers starting to work at the buttons of Glen’s shirt

“A good idea,” Glen agreed. “Let’s do it!”

Disentangling themselves from each other, they stood up, and Glen began banking the fire, covering the coals with
ash so they’d still be alive in the morning. “Go ahead,” he told Tamara. “I’ve gotta take a leak, then I’ll be with you.”

Tamara frowned uncertainly. “You’re going to leave me here all by myself?”

“I’m going to leave you here for all of two minutes,” he promised. “See that tree over there?”

Tamara nodded.

“Well, it looks like an outhouse to me, and that’s as far as I’m going. Okay?”

“Okay. But I still think we should have just gone home.”

Glen grinned wickedly in the flickering light of the dying flames. “Give me a couple of minutes, and I’ll make you forget every fear you ever had.”

As Tamara went into the tent, Glen moved to the far side of the campfire, stepped into the forest, and began relieving himself. But even as he emptied his bladder, he kept his eyes and ears open, for despite what he’d told Tamara, he, too, kept remembering what the family camping on the other side of the creek had told him. Yet all day, and through the evening, the most threatening thing that had come along was a family of raccoons that had crept out of the woods, circled carefully around them, and then tried to break into the ice chest. Glen had chased them off, moved the chest to the far side of the campfire, and put several heavy rocks on its lid. If a bear
did
come along, the rocks wouldn’t stop it, but at least the chest was far from the tent.