Thunderland (10 page)

He shrugged. He had not yet considered whether he would tell Linda about any of this. The subject floated like a giant storm cloud in his mind.

Rose chuckled. “Nah, you won’t tell her. After you get over this little guilt trip, you’ll be out looking for pussy again. Don’t call me next time, all right?”

“There won’t be a next time.”

She curled up on the bed and crossed her legs. She smiled sweetly. “Thomas, do me a favor, okay? Get out of my motherfucking apartment.”

“You don’t know me,” he said, compelled to explain that his rejection of her was not a mere temporary awakening of conscience. There would be no next time, no more “like father like son.” He was putting this crap behind him for good.

“Are you gonna make me call the cops on you?” Rose said. “I said to get out of my fuckin’ apartment!”

He got out of there. Rose didn’t give a damn about his morals, and he shouldn’t expect her to care. They hadn’t been friends; they’d been sex partners. Nothing more.

As he walked across the parking lot to his Buick, the idea that he’d used the woman purely for sex, and had let her use him in kind, disgusted him. He’d always used protection when he was with her, and had been tested recently (without Linda’s knowledge, of course), but he felt filthy nonetheless. The thought hadn’t bothered him before, but it bugged him now. Christ, what was wrong with him? He’d been behaving so irresponsibly, he was fortunate that he’d gotten off the hook with Rose so easily.

He climbed in his car. Under a clear night sky, he drove away from the apartment building and headed north, toward Spring Harbor.

By ending his association with Rose, he had taken a step toward proving to himself that he was not like his father. But another obstacle loomed, and he could thank Rose for reminding him of it. Was he going to confess to Linda?

He had to sit down and think it over, ponder every angle of the issue, then determine the best course of action.
Action
was the keyword. He would have to do something. If he did not take action and do the right thing, he feared he would eventually wind up like his father. Sick. Bitter. And alone.

Electric-blue lightning seared the sky, and thunder grumbled like an angry god.

Lying in his bed, clutching the bedsheet to his chin, Jason looked out of the nearby window at the building storm. Elm trees swayed in a fierce wind, and darkness pressed against the glass—a burned-out blackness that reminded him of ashes, death, and the end of all hope. He turned away from the window. Watching the turbulent night only sharpened his anxiety.

He stared at the dark ceiling, shivering, though the room was warm. He told himself to be brave, to face his fear like a man, but his voice sounded weak and unconvincing. Thunder clashed, shaking the walls. Lightning ripped apart the darkness, ghostly flickers playing over the furniture.

When he thought he might be spared from the terror that night, he heard the fateful sound: a door downstairs opening, then slamming shut.

His heartbeat accelerated.

He looked at the bedroom door. It was locked. But a locked door never seemed to make a difference. He checked out of habit and foolish hope.

Then he heard the footsteps. They clocked across the floorboards, each step loud and sharp, as if the walker wore a pair of combat boots. The stalker marched slowly, methodically, like a sadistic executioner approaching a doomed victim. With each strident footfall, Jason’s heart pounded harder.

He yanked the bedsheet over his head.

But covering himself seemed like a pathetic attempt at protection, hardly better than lying out in the open. He had to think of something else.

He threw off the cover and swung his legs to the side of the mattress. He slid his feet to the soft carpet, stood.

He heard the footsteps reach the bottom of the stairs. The invader began to climb the steps.

Frantic, Jason hurried to the door. Noticing his oak desk, he gripped the side of it and, straining, pushed it in front of the door. It probably would not stop the stalker, but it was better than nothing.

Thunder boomed in earth-rocking fusillades. A gust punched the window, like a furious spirit demanding entry.

The footsteps arrived at the head of the stairs.

He looked around wildly for a place to hide. Inside the closet? Behind the curtains? Under the bed? None of those spots seemed safe, but he had to choose one-quickly. He heard the stalker shuffling across the hallway, drawing closer to his room.

He dropped to the floor and scrambled underneath the bed.

Although the stale air under there felt cooler, he was suddenly sweating much more than before. Cold perspiration poured off him. Combined with the cool air, the icy sweat drove a numbing chill into his body that compelled him to curl into a fetal position, shivering, hugging himself for warmth.

Lying on his side, he had a view of those few inches near the floor not concealed by the hanging bedspread. At the moment, he saw only the oak baseboard at the bottom of the wall facing him, but that would change soon. The stalker was coming.

The doorknob rattled.

He tensed.

The doorknob turned again. Back and forth, back and forth. He imagined the knob, gleaming brass rotating left and right, and with each squeaky turn, he cursed the stalker. Although the stalker twisted the knob stubbornly, he would not enter through the door in the conventional manner. He was merely teasing Jason.

The doorknob quit rattling.

Jason listened.

He heard a soft hiss, like air escaping a balloon.

Then he heard footsteps inside the bedroom. So much for the desk’s usefulness as a barricade.

The stalker walked to the closet at the foot of the bed. Jason heard the closet door squeal open.

He swore silently.

The stalker likely knew where he was hidden. But he wanted to prolong the search, raise Jason’s terror to a fever pitch. Jason wanted to fight back, wanted to grab the guy and pulverize him for playing these mean-spirited tricks, but he cowered under the bed, not daring to move. What sane person would attack a man who could walk through doors?

The closet squeaked shut.

Trembling so badly he was certain he would give himself away, he tried to hear where the stalker would head next, though from past experience, he knew exactly what would happen. He listened out of a vain hope that his fears would not be realized.

The stalker walked across the room, to the windows. He ruffled the curtains.

Jason ground his teeth.

For a moment, silence, as though the stalker were deliberating where to look next. Then, Jason heard the inevitable: footsteps approaching the bed.

He drew himself into a tight ball.

He desperately wished he could fold up into himself and vanish. Or shrink as tiny as a gnat. Anything to get out of there. His heart banged wildly.

A pair of sleek black leather boots stopped beside the bed, inches away from Jason’s face.

The boots shone in the darkness, emitting a strange, silvery glow.

Jason heard the sound of movement: the visitor beginning to bend down.

He clenched his hands into fists. He was caught between wanting to see the stalker’s face and never wanting to know the man’s identity.

Slowly, the stalker lifted the hanging bedspread. Higher, higher, higher ...

The instant Jason would have seen the face, he shut his eyes and screamed, exploding out of the nightmare.

“Hey, you all right?” Shorty said.

Heart thudding, Jason groaned. He lay curled up like a pill bug and wedged under something. He unclenched his hand, touched the object above him. It felt like a table.

“You crawled under the card table,” Shorty said. Crouched on the floor, he peered at Jason, his face a black oval in the dark den. “Damn, that nightmare of yours must be an ass-kicker. You okay?”

“I’m alive, but I feel awful.” He squeezed from underneath the furniture. “Man, how embarrassing. I was hidden under there like a little kid afraid of the bogeyman.”

“Don’t worry, I ain’t gonna tell anyone,” Shorty said.

Outside, thunder bellowed. A continuous sizzle of rain pattered on the roof. Jason went to a window and lifted the drape. The stormy night had a burned-out look that reminded him of his nightmare. Shivering at the similarity, he dropped the curtain.

“What time is it?” Jason said.

“Almost four in the morning. Ain’t nothing happened. We’re the fools here, man. The Stranger’s probably snoring like everyone else.”

“Maybe so. But I think sleeping in shifts is a good idea. In case something does happen.”

“Anyway, it’s your turn to watch,” Shorty said. “Four o’clock, remember?”

“Yeah.”

Shorty handed him the flashlight and the sheathed knife. Jason clipped both items to his waistband.

“Watch your back, don’t fall asleep, and if you see anything, holler,” Shorty said. “I’m taking my butt to bed.”

Shorty slipped inside his sleeping bag, which lay beside Brains, who slept soundly on a pallet. Brains’s shift had been from ten o’clock until one; Shorty’s had been from one to four; and Jason’s ended at seven. Jason had slept six hours, but he felt as if he could use six more. His muscles ached from all of yesterday’s activities.

According to their plan, the designated watcher had to make a circuit of the house every thirty minutes, checking all vacant rooms such as the living room, dining room, and kitchen, and enclosed spaces such as the laundry room, closets, and bathrooms. Shadowy niches were to be inspected with the flashlight, and close attention was to be given to all doors. Not knowing the true nature of their adversary, they had to guard themselves as though anticipating a physical threat. But if their nemesis proved to be something unearthly, their plan might be a waste of time: the stalker in his nightmare could walk through doors....

Don’t think about it,
Jason cautioned himself.
It’s only a dream.

He began his circuit. He went to the laundry room, which was located just off the den. He shone the flashlight within. He saw a clothesline from which dangled a few shirts and blouses. A washer and dryer. A large sink. Containers of Tide and Clorox standing on a small table. A plastic laundry basket. But no Stranger. He closed the door.

He already had the feeling that he had a long shift ahead of him. He swept the flashlight beam across the dark corners of the den. Nothing.

He climbed the stairs to the first floor, emerging in the kitchen. The refrigerator hummed. Raindrops drummed against the skylight. Flashlight in hand, he searched the area, pausing at the back door to see if there were any signs offorced entry. He found nothing suspicious.

He sighed. He had a
very
long shift ahead of him.

He checked the rest of the ground floor. The breakfast nook. The dining room. The living room. The bathroom. The coat closet. The front door. Nothing.

He went upstairs. He trod quietly, not wanting to awake Brains’s parents or sister, none of whom had any idea what was going on, and all ofwhom thought the three boysjust wanted to hang out overnight, play video games, and eat pizza. He checked Brains’s bedroom. Couldn’t check his sister’s room, so scratch that one. Couldn’t enter his parents’ room, either, so forget that one, too. The bathroom. The guest room. The hallway closet.

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.