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Authors: Pete Hautman

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BOOK: The Obsidian Blade
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Tucker looked outside. Their car was parked in front of the garage, so wherever they were, they hadn’t driven there. Maybe they had walked over to their neighbors, the Reillys, or into town. Or someone had picked them up.

Tucker searched the rest of the house, feeling increasingly uneasy. He looked in the basement, checking the root cellar, the furnace room, and the workshop, opening each door with an increasing sense of dread. He ran back upstairs to his parents’ bedroom and opened the door wide. Nothing. The bathroom looked reassuringly normal: three toothbrushes, his father’s shaving mug and brush, his mother’s fancy soaps and shampoos, the old-fashioned claw-foot bathtub. His father’s study at the end of the hall contained the usual desk, chair, and books — but not his parents. He sat in his father’s chair and thought. There were plenty of perfectly reasonable explanations, he told himself. One of his dad’s parishioners might have driven over and said,
Help me, Reverend. My mother is dying and she needs you to pray with her!

Of course,
his father might have replied.

Won’t you come along, too, Mrs. Feye? My mother always liked you. . . .

Nah,
Tucker thought,
not likely.
Nobody in their right mind wanted anything to do with his mother, not these days. Another thought hit him: what if his mom had gotten sick, and his father had to take her to the hospital? No, the car was still here. Unless the car had failed to start. Maybe they’d called an ambulance. Maybe his father had had a heart attack. Tucker’s brain reeled with morbid scenarios, none of which seemed likely when examined closely.

Whatever the explanation, the Reverend would not be pleased to find Tucker sitting in his study when he returned. Tucker turned off the light and closed the door behind him. He had looked everywhere — except in his own room. He pushed his bedroom door open and flipped on the light. Everything looked exactly as he had left it, except for a white envelope propped against his pillow. On the front, written in his father’s strong, slanting hand, was his name.

Tucker opened the envelope. Inside was a single sheet of paper with a typewritten message.

Dear Tucker,

Your mother has taken a turn for the worse, and I am taking her to seek treatment . . .

So they were at a hospital!

. . . to a place where, unfortunately, you will not be able to visit us.

I don’t know how long we will be gone, so I have contacted your uncle Curtis and asked him to take care of you. You may expect him to arrive first thing in the morning.

Your mother and I wish you to know that we love you very much. I am confident that Curtis will care for you to the best of his abilities.

At the bottom of the letter was his father’s distinctive, angular signature, complete with the stylized cross at the bottom:

Although the diskos had become passé among her peers, Iyl Rayn continued to maintain her existing network, relocating only those disks that were too easily accessible to corporeals. Still, creatures of flesh and blood managed to find the diskos from time to time. She devoted herself to observing those who employed the portals, with particular attention to the diskos located in and around the geotemporal intersection once known as Hopewell County, Minnesota.


E
3

T
UCKER AWOKE TO THE SOUND OF THUNDER
.

His mom would be upset. She hated storms. Then he remembered — his mother was gone. His father was gone.

He opened his eyes. Sunlight was pouring in through his bedroom window, but the thunder seemed to be getting louder. Tucker rolled out of bed and ran to the window. No clouds in sight. He could still hear the rumbling. A low-flying airplane, maybe? It was coming from the other side of the house.

The sound stopped abruptly — an engine shutting off. Tucker pulled on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, ran downstairs, and opened the door.

A large, black, battered Harley-Davidson was parked between the garage and the house. Upon it sat a helmeted, leather-clad man of greater than average size. The man climbed off the bike and removed his helmet. His head was shaved. Thick black eyebrows crowded the center of his face. A prominent nose crooked to the right, as if he were trying to sniff his own cheek. His long chin bristled with several days’ growth of black whiskers. His bright-blue eyes fixed upon Tucker and widened.

“I’ll be damned,” the man said.

Tucker did not doubt it.

“You Tucker?” the man asked.

Tucker nodded.

The man scowled. “You recognize me?”

Tucker shook his head. The man looked like a younger, beefier, outlaw version of Tucker’s father, but he was sure he’d never seen him before.

“Are you Curtis?”

“Nobody’s called me that in years. Call me Kosh.”

Kosh?
Tucker’s mom had called
him
Kosh that one time.

“But you’re my uncle Curtis, right?”

“That’s right, kid. You sure you don’t recognize me?” He walked toward Tucker, stopped about eight feet away, and peered at him closely. “I must be nuts. You look exactly like this kid I met one time.” He took in the house, the garage, and the path down to the lake. “The old homestead. I remember it being bigger.” He looked back at Tucker. “I suppose it’s too much to hope that your old man came back and saved me the trouble of looking after you. I see his car’s here.”

“They didn’t take the car,” Tucker said. “I think they went to some hospital.”

“That’s what Adrian said.” Kosh stepped closer, bringing with him the smell of sweat, leather, and motorcycle. “They left last night?”

Tucker took half a step back. “They were gone when I got home. They left me a note.”

“Can I see it?”

Tucker ran back inside to get the note. When he returned, Kosh was standing on the path looking out over the pond, his hands tucked in the back pockets of his black jeans. Tucker took the opportunity to check out the bike, an aging, battle-scarred Harley. Nearly every exterior surface was dinged, dented, crumpled, or scratched. The studded black leather seat was worn nearly through — it had been crudely patched more than once. The chrome plating had peeled away from the exhaust pipes, revealing rusting steel beneath. Tucker circled the bike, marveling that it had made it all the way to Hopewell. The license plate read KOSH5, implying at least four other Koshes — or, more likely, that this Kosh owned several other bikes.

Kosh came back up the path. Tucker handed him the note. Kosh read it, then held it out between his thumb and forefinger as if it were a dead mouse.

“That’s it?”

“He left it on my pillow.”

“Huh. Not even a God-bless-you.” He released the letter and watched it fall to the ground.

“My dad doesn’t believe in God.”

Kosh raised an eyebrow. “Since when?”

“I don’t know. A year, I guess.”

Kosh laughed, shaking his head and slapping his dusty, greasy thigh to show Tucker how much he was enjoying the joke, whatever it was. Tucker felt himself getting angry.

“Do you know where they went?” Tucker asked.

Kosh stopped laughing but continued to shake his head. “They could be on the North Pole for all I know.”

Tucker felt himself getting angrier. “I don’t know why he’d want you to take care of me anyway. He doesn’t even like you.”

Kosh shrugged. “I never liked him much either, kid. But blood’s blood. All I know is Adrian called and told me I’d be babysitting you for a while.”

“I’m fourteen. I don’t need a babysitter.”

“Not saying you do. But here we are. Big brother has spoken.” He gave Tucker a searching look. “So, Emily’s not doing so good?”

“She sees ghosts.” Tucker was instantly sorry he’d spoken, as if saying bad things about his mother would make it more true.

Kosh’s lips tightened. “I don’t know how she kept her marbles long as she did. Fifteen years with Adrian would drive anybody nuts.”

“She’s not
nuts,
” Tucker said, louder than he meant to. “She’s
sick.
The doctor said she has something like autism. He called it RAD. But Dad says the doctors don’t know what they’re talking about.”

Kosh nodded somberly. “Yeah, Adrian told me they could do nothing for her. He said he was going to try something else. Probably took her to some faith healer or witch doctor or something.” He gave Tucker another long look, then put his hands on his hips and turned toward the house. “Guess we better get busy shutting this place down.”

“What?”

“Turn off the water, shut off the electricity —”

“Wait — how come?”

“We can’t just leave it, kid.”

“Leave? Who’s leaving?”

“You and me, kid. You’re coming to live with me.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you.” Tucker ran up the porch steps and into the house.

“If you think I’m staying here in Hopeless, you’re crazier than your old man,” Kosh said.

Tucker slammed the door and locked it, his heart hammering. He could hear Kosh just outside, muttering curses. Maybe he would give up and go away. But then what? He could go to live with the Krauses. Or maybe just stay at home and hope that his parents’ absence would go unnoticed. He could make up a story, tell everybody that they had gone to visit a sick relative, and wouldn’t be back for a few weeks. That would buy him some time. Or he could live in the abandoned Hopewell House, like the Phantom of the Opera. He had sneaked into the abandoned hotel once with Tom and Will. Some of the rooms still had beds, dusty but serviceable. When one room got dirty, he could simply move down the hall. Tom and Will would bring him food, and what they couldn’t get for him he would steal.

He was wondering how he would stay warm come winter when Kosh banged on the door.

“Open up, kid. I know you can hear me.”

Tucker imagined Kosh smashing his fist right through the wood panel.

“C’mon, kid, I just want to talk.”

“My name isn’t
kid,
” Tucker yelled at the door.

“Okay, then. Tuck. Open the door, Tuck.”

“It’s
Tucker.
” Only his father called him Tuck.

“Tucker, then. Would you please open the door so we can discuss this?”

“I’m not leaving.”

“Okay, okay! I won’t make you go if you don’t want to.”

“How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

“You don’t. But I am.” In a softer tone, he said, “Look, I just rode two hours to get here. You could at least offer me something to drink.”

If Kosh wanted to, he could probably knock the door right off its hinges, Tucker thought. His parents wouldn’t like that. He unlocked the door, opened it, and backed away. Kosh stepped inside.

“Thanks.” He walked past Tucker into the kitchen, and opened the refrigerator. “No brewskis?”

“My parents don’t drink,” said Tucker.

“Look at all this food. What are we going to do with it?”

“Eat it,” Tucker said.

“Oh, right. I forgot. You aren’t leaving.” He found a bottle of apple juice, sat down at the kitchen table, and drained it in one long swallow. “You know what’ll happen if you stay here, don’t you?”

BOOK: The Obsidian Blade
3.1Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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