24
The brick rambler was dark, and already Jem was breathing too fast. Sheared-off breaths. High in his chest. They burst into white clouds when he exhaled, and black specks floated in his vision.
It was the altitude. And it was all these damn hills.
He made himself take a deeper breath as he continued along the sidewalk.
Spine straight. Shoulders loose. Not really looking at anything.
Definitely not looking at that house. Just a guy out late on a walk.
Cold, but not cold enough that someone would wonder about a guy taking a walk.
He didn’t feel cold. He didn’t feel anything.
The tire iron bounced against his leg.
Frost covered the lawn. The streetlight made each blade of grass glitter, turned everything shining white.
Jem had to blink. His eyes felt gummy, and the lawn was so bright that it was like a glare.
They talked about that in movies sometimes.
And Tean had said something about it. Snow blindness.
When the whole world is white, and it can blind you.
But that was during the daytime, not at night.
So, it was just a trick of the light. It was just his eyes. If he could just get a damn breath.
Beyond that stretch of white lawn, the house was shadows. Nothing showed in those fancy new windows. No fairy lights glowed on the rooftop deck. He was out. Or he’d gone to bed. That was fine. Jem could wait.
We’re going to have a talk.
Sit down. We’re going to have a talk.
Sit down and don’t talk.
Sit down and keep your hands where I can see them.
Jem turned his head, like someone had spoken, and blinked a few times against the white cone of the streetlight. For a moment, he smelled bleach.
The slider was still unlocked.
It made him want to laugh. He eased the glass door along its tracks. But the Big Bad Wolf didn’t have to worry about locking his door. Everybody else had to worry, but not him.
Warm air met Jem as he stepped into the darkness.
The hum of appliances. Air whispering through ducts.
He slid the door closed, going slowly so that it didn’t make a sound.
Something—the smell of a candle or an air freshener—filled the air.
Something floral. Something thick and heavy.
Kids didn’t like smells like that. It was an old lady smell.
Enough light filtered through the slider and the windows—a million-dollar view—that he could see, sort of.
The quartz countertops were still clear.
The table in the breakfast nook too. Nothing stuck to the refrigerator, no notes or coupons or reminders.
The living room too. The pillows were perfectly arranged on the sofa.
The coffee table held a big fat candle, unlit, and nothing else.
On the carpet, footprints going back and forth marred the vacuum lines that were still visible.
Lots of footprints. Had the Big Bad Wolf gotten the jitters before going out?
He must have been hurrying back and forth, I forgot this, does this look good, should I try this instead.
Because he was going to see a bunch of fifteen- and sixteen-year-olds.
Because he wanted to make a good impression.
Sit down and keep your hands where I can see them. We’re going to have a talk.
Jem’s fingers opened and closed around the tire iron. The metal had soaked up the cold on the walk, and even though Jem didn’t feel cold, he was aware of an ache in his knuckles, like the joints had stiffened.
You’re going to stay away from Daniel.
You’re going to stay away from those kids, understand? Starting right now.
You’re going to stay away from those kids. No more dropping in. No more donations.
You’re going to—
If you touch him, I’m going to kill you.
Jem crossed to the garage. He eased the door open. The cream-colored Mercedes was there. The smell of cold concrete hung in the air. So, Wendell was home. And he’d been home for a while.
When Jem closed the door, he realized the house was cool.
It hadn’t registered at first because it was warmer than outside.
But as his body adjusted to the temperature, he could tell that the air in the garage wasn’t much colder than the air in the house.
Maybe the furnace was going out. Maybe Wendell liked to sleep cold.
Jem wouldn’t know; he hadn’t been in the house long enough.
Half a day, that’s it. And he hadn’t slept here.
Thank God he hadn’t slept here. Could you imagine?
He’d be awake all night. Waiting for the doorknob to rattle.
Waiting for a new shadow to creep along the wall.
Half a day, that was it. Maybe he liked to sleep cold.
A sound from the back of the house made him freeze.
A voice? A man’s voice? But then there was laughter, the canned stuff from TV, and Jem’s heart started beating again.
Silence followed a moment later; maybe the Big Bad Wolf was flipping channels.
Maybe he’d just wanted to catch the weather.
Maybe it had been an accident and he’d sat on the remote.
Jem adjusted his fingers again, getting a better grip.
They were really starting to hurt now. He’d need some ibuprofen when he got home.
Maybe stick his hand in a bowl of ice. After.
In his head, it was like watching a movie. Flipping the light on. The shock on his face. Remember me?
But that didn’t make sense, not really. Because Wendell would remember the man from the other night, but not the child.
Maybe he’d remember the biter. But would he recognize that boy in Jem?
The thought was twisted, the way a reflection twisted on the edge of a mirror sometimes.
That was twenty years ago, Jem had to tell himself.
The light snapping on.
Remember me?
Sit down, keep your hands where I can see them, we’re going to have a talk, if you touch him—
The black specks in Jem’s vision thickened into a blizzard.
He took deep breaths again. The tip of the tire iron touched the floor, and he caught himself leaning on it like he was an old man. What in the fuck—
—are you doing—
—is happening?
The plan. Stick to the plan.
Jem crouched behind the kitchen counter. Anyone who wanted to get to the garage would have to walk past his hiding spot. He reached into his pocket and found the remote.
Stand up. Walk out of here. Go home. Go find Tean.
What are you doing?
I’m doing this, he thought.
And he pressed the button on the remote.
The garage door rattled up. The sound wasn’t all that loud, but at this hour, with the house dark and still, it was loud enough.
And when the door finished going up, Jem hit the button again, and the door clattered down.
He breathed slowly through his nose—deep breaths into his belly.
The black specks settled, but his eyes were still gummy.
He blinked, for a moment, he thought he wouldn’t be able to get them open again.
And then footsteps came from the other end of the house.
They were louder than Jem expected: shoes with thick soles on the floorboards.
They came across the living room hard, fast, urgent.
They passed Jem. No lights flicked on. Nothing.
The door to the garage opened, and the light from the opener—the light that came on automatically when you opened or closed the door—turned the kitchen walls yellow.
Jem got to his feet.
He opened his mouth.
The tip of the tire iron scraped the tile.
Wendell spun around.
But he wasn’t Wendell.
Too tall. Too big. Strong across the chest and shoulders. Backlit by the glow from the garage, he was just a man with a short haircut. And then he turned his head, and enough light fell across his face to show the scar.
Zeb.
Kai’s best friend. His second-in-command. Probably—if Jem had to put money on it—his sometimes fuck buddy, even if they called it something else.
The shock on Zeb’s face lasted longer than it should have. Not too bright, old Zeb. The right kind of guy to hang out with if you wanted to convince somebody it wasn’t gay to slurp on each other’s schlongs, as long as you kept your socks on.
Jem, though.
Well, Jem was gasoline. And this was the match.
He was already around the counter and closing the distance before Zeb realized he was moving. Jem brought the tire iron back like a baseball bat and swung.
Zeb stumbled back, and the tip of the iron whistled past him.
The blow had been too big, too exaggerated, and now the momentum carried Jem in the direction of the swing.
The tire iron hit the wall, and drywall crumpled.
The tire iron sank into the broken gypsum, and when Jem yanked on it, it stayed put—trapped in the wall board.
Zeb lunged forward.
Jem felt rather than saw the knife in his hand.
Too many fights. Too many guys who fought dirty.
He gave up on the tire iron and scrambled back.
The knife tugged on his coat. Zeb kept coming.
The knife darted in again, and Jem twisted.
He kicked a kitchen stool into Zeb’s path, and it bought him precious seconds as Zeb stumbled.
And then Zeb kicked the stool into Jem.
It hit him in the knee, and the pain was a short, white shock, and then Jem’s knee just felt hot.
He shoved the stool away. Whatever seconds he’d gained, he lost them getting free of the stool, and Zeb closed the distance again.
The knife caught the ambient light from outside, and the blade looked like a silverfish in the dark. Jem dodged—
Tried to dodge.
His knee gave out, and he fell.
He rolled as he hit the floor, the movement carrying him into the living room.
Panic clawed at him—he’s going to kill you—and Jem shoved it back down.
He came up on his good knee, twisting his wrist frantically to uncoil the paracord looped there like a bracelet.
The hex nut swung wildly as Jem tried to get enough of the cord loose for him to swing it.
Zeb charged.
It was a full-on sprint, with a big guy—a strong guy—behind it.
Jem only had the paracord halfway free, but he swung the hex nut as hard as he could and tried to throw himself out of Zeb’s path.
He felt the hex nut connect, but kneeling like he was, he couldn’t move fast enough, and Zeb crashed into him.
The knife was a hot wind on the side of his head.
Jem screamed as the collision carried him and Zeb to the floor.
He got an elbow up and drove it into Zeb’s ear, and Zeb bellowed and twisted away.
Jem kneed him between the legs, and he felt the pain of it ripple through Zeb.
And then that silverfish came out of the night again, flashing in an arc toward Jem’s throat.
He leaned back. The steel whispered past him.
And then Jem bent forward and caught Zeb’s arm.
The other man was still turning into the slash, his body twisting as he followed through, but Jem held on.
Zeb kneed him in the side, but Jem clutched more tightly, his nails digging into the canvas of Zeb’s coat.
They rolled again. Zeb came up on top, but Jem still had hold of his arm.
Zeb clubbed Jem on the side of the head, and Jem’s vision split.
When it came together again, everything had doubled.
Zeb’s coat slid up his arm to expose the muscled flesh beneath.
Jem tried to keep hold of the canvas, but his fingers started to slip.
As soon as he lost his grip, Zeb would use the knife.
Jem clawed at the fabric.
He felt himself lose his grip.
Zeb pulled away.
But before the other man could get free, Jem stretched up—torso, neck head, everything drawn out as far as he could.
And he bit him.
Skin. Sweat. Then blood.
Zeb screamed.
The other man threw himself backward. He kicked out at Jem. He shoved his head, trying to force him away. The movements were uncoordinated, panicked. And Zeb was still screaming.
The knife thudded against the floorboards.
Jem relaxed his jaw and scooped up the blade. He got himself up on one knee, his other arm raised to block whatever was coming next—a fist, one of Zeb’s big boots.
But Zeb skittered away from Jem, pushing back with hands and feet like a spider.
He hit a wall and got himself upright. Blood ran down his arm and painted the back of his hand.
In the low light, it was black, and it made a trail of black drops across the floor.
Zeb yanked open the slider and disappeared into the night.
Cold air began to filter into the house.
The faint, outside noises of the valley: traffic, and the breeze in the peach trees.
Jem’s mouth tasted like metal and something else—another body. Zeb’s. He got to his feet and started to spit, then stopped himself. He had to rinse out his mouth. He had to get it out of his mouth. He took a step toward the hall bathroom.
At the end of the hall, a fan of light spread across the floor from Wendell’s bedroom.
Jem’s knee was still hot and didn’t want to hold him up, so he limped toward the light.
He breathed through his mouth. He didn’t want to close his lips.
He didn’t want to swallow any of it. But breathing like that made him aware of it, of how strong the taste was, of it starting to dry on his chin, getting sticky, making the skin stiff.
The light was yellow. Steady. He remembered, vaguely, that he’d thought Wendell was checking the weather before bed.
He used his elbow to nudge the door open. And then he stood in the doorway and stared.
The blood started at the threshold, splashes of it, but it got thicker toward the center of the room.
The bed was soaked with it. What was left of Wendell—burned, cut, taken apart—was stacked in the middle of the mattress.
Pieces of him. In the fall, Tean had used a pair of pruning shears to snap branches at the joints.
On the wall, they had written in blood, GROOMER.
His first thought was: Someone needs to help him.
But he was beyond help. He was beyond everything.
And his second thought was: I’ll help you.
And hands that smelled like bleach.
And the fact that this was all his fault.