Without dwelling on it, Streng scooted off the rooftop, ankles tight together, knees bent. The gutter held for a second, then the aluminum split. Streng lost his grip and fell.
He hit faster than expected, and then the ground slipped out from under him in an unnerving way, causing him to pitch forward and fall again, his hands unable to stop his chin from cracking against the dirt.
Streng’s vision lit up, sparkling motes swirling before him, and his jaw ached like he’d been hit with a bat. He reached around, felt the loose pieces of wood surrounding him, and realized he’d landed on Sal’s firewood cord, stacked up against the house for winter burning.
Streng forced himself to his hands and knees, spat out the blood that was filling his mouth, and tried to get his bearings. He was in the back of the house. The Jeep was parked on the side.
Streng ran for the car.
Aging, Streng often mused while lying in bed at night unable to sleep, is the body’s deliberate and systematic betrayal of the soul. First the appearance withered, gray hair replacing brown in every place hair grew and even a few where it had never grown before. Wrinkles began at the eyes and mouth, then sent out tributaries to the forehead, cheeks, neck, hands. Everything sagged, including memory. And then when self-esteem was something you could find only in old pictures, the aches and pains ensued. Eye strain. Arthritis. Insomnia. Constipation. Shin splints. Bad back. Receding gums. Poor appetite. Impotence. The heart and lungs and kidneys and prostate and liver and colon and bladder all sputtered like a car low on gas. And then the indignity of disrobing before a doctor one-third your age, only to be told that this is the just the aging process, completely natural, nothing can be done.
Streng fought getting old. He fought it by exercising, and eating right, and supplementing with so many morning vitamins that his stomach rattled for two hours after breakfast. But as he ran for his car, half as quickly as he could run just fifteen years ago, he once again cursed his failing body and the laws of nature that allowed this to happen.
He cursed again when the man in black fell into step beside him.
“Where are you going?” the man said with his foreign lisp, his breath as easy as Streng’s was ragged.
Streng couldn’t outrun him. He slowed, stopped, and then faced the man, raising his fists. Though he was hardly the 195-pound slab of muscle he had been in his youth, a few of those muscles still functioned.
“So you want to fight?” the man asked.
The sheriff threw a roundhouse punch, aiming for the stranger’s neck. The man sidestepped it and in a single fluid motion grabbed Streng’s hand and began to squeeze it.
The pain was instant and excruciating. It felt like getting caught in a door, the bones grinding against each other. Streng yelped.
Then combat training kicked in. Streng grabbed the man’s shirt, swiveled his right hip behind the man’s right leg, and flipped him.
The move was executed perfectly. Too perfectly, and halfway into it Streng knew what was happening. The man didn’t let go of Streng and used the momentum of his fall to catapult Streng legs over head, slamming the sheriff onto his back.
Streng stared up at the black sky, his wind gone. He noticed many things at once: the cool grass tickling the back of his neck, the pain in his coccyx that shot down both legs, the spasm in his diaphragm that wouldn’t let him draw a breath, and the soft, effeminate laugh of the person about to kill him.
“You’ve had some training,” said the man. “So have I.”
Streng felt a hand clamp under his armpit. It squeezed. Fire exploded behind Streng’s eyes, and he screamed for perhaps the first time in his sixty-six years. It was like being pinched with pliers, and even though Streng tried to roll away, tried to push back the hand, the pressure went on and on, driving out every thought other than make it stop.
“That’s the brachial nerve,” the man whispered in Streng’s ear. “It’s one of many nerves in the body.”
The man released his grip, and Streng wept. And as he did, he hated himself for the tears, hated himself for being a frail old man that this psychopath could manhandle like a toy.
“I have some questions for you, Sheriff. Do you think you’ll be able to answer them for me?”
Streng wanted to be defiant, wanted to give this man nothing. But his lips formed the word before he could stop it: “Yes.”
“That’s good. That’s very good.” The man’s breath was warm, moist, on Streng’s ear. “But I think I’ll still loosen you up a bit first.”
The man grabbed Streng’s left side and squeezed, fingers digging hard into his kidney, prompting such intense, jaw-dropping pain that Streng passed out midscream.
Duncan Stauffer awoke to the sound of Woof barking. Woof was supposed to be a beagle, but Duncan had a lot of dog books and decided that Woof looked more like a basset hound. Woof was pudgy, with stubby legs and floppy ears and sad red eyes. It was funny because even though his eyes were sad, Woof played all the time. All the time. Duncan wondered how he could be so fat, since he ran around all day.
Woof barked again, and Duncan sat up. The dog normally slept on Duncan’s bed, sprawled out on his back with his legs in the air. He left only to get a drink of water, let himself out through the doggy door to poop (Mom called it “doing his dirty business”), or greet Mom when she came home from the diner.
Duncan looked over at his SpongeBob digital clock next to the bed, but it wasn’t on for some reason. Instead he checked his dad’s watch, which he wore all the time since Mom had the links removed so it could fit.
The watch told him it was twelve forty-three.
Woof barked once more, a deep, loud bark that sounded exactly like his name, which was the reason Duncan named him Woof. But this wasn’t the welcome-home bark that Woof used when Mom came home. This was Woof’s warning bark, the one he used for his fiercest enemies, like the squirrel who had a nest in the maple tree out front, or the Johnsons’ gray cat, who liked to hiss at Woof and scare him.
“Woof! Come here, boy!”
Duncan waited. Normally, Woof came running when Duncan called, jumping on him and bathing his face with a tongue that was longer than Duncan’s foot.
But Woof didn’t come.
“Mom!” Duncan called. “You home?”
No one answered.
Duncan didn’t mind being by himself while Mom worked late. He was ten years old, which was practically an adult. His mom used to insist that he have a babysitter, and the one she usually got was Mrs. Teller, who was all bent over because she was so old, and sometimes she smelled like pee. Duncan liked her okay, but she made him go to bed early and wouldn’t let him watch his favorite shows on TV, like South Park, because they said bad words, and she always wanted to talk about her husband, who died years ago.
Duncan didn’t like to talk about death.
After a long session with Dr. Walker, the therapist convinced Mom that Duncan was mature enough to stay home alone, if that’s what Duncan wanted. Which he did. Duncan knew what to do in the case of any emergency. He’d taken the Stranger Danger class in school. He had three planned escape routes if there was a fire. He knew not to let anyone in the house, and how to call 911, and to never cook on the stove or use the fireplace or take a bath while home alone. He thought Mom was being a little crazy about the bath thing, like Duncan would fall asleep in the tub and drown. But he listened to Mom anyway, and she trusted him, and for the three months he’d been without a babysitter it had worked out fine. Duncan hadn’t gotten scared once.