There were no cars for fifteen minutes at least, judging by the sun. When he did eventually hear an approaching motor, he wasn’t sure if it was a hundred feet away or a mile. Hard to tell. Sound had a funny way of carrying up here.
He’d been sitting with his back to a tree. Now, he got up and hurried onto the road. He stood there with his hands over his head, ready to wave down the motorist, ready to scream for help as loudly as his throbbing throat would allow and beg for a ride to the nearest police station.
I’d just find another boy, Mr. Boots had said.
Dave lowered his hands. He imagined a station wagon with two small boys in back. He imagined Mr. Boots grabbing one of the boys and dragging him back to the room with no windows, tossing him on the not-bed of blankets, pressing his wormy lips against the boy’s ears and…
No. You can’t think like that. It’s not your problem. You’ve got to get while the getting’s good.
Dave thought he might be able to live with himself if he ran, might be able to pretend Mr. Boots would never find himself another boy, that the authorities with their guns and their handcuffs and their sharp-toothed dogs would hunt him down and lock him away.
Yeah right. If you run, he’ll be long gone by morning. He’ll find a new place to hole up, find a new boy, a new choke toy.
Or maybe not. Maybe he’d be too busy hunting Dave down, peeking in windows and picking locks.
And that was what Dave was really afraid of: spending the rest of his life looking over his shoulder, jumping at shadows, screaming anytime anyone closed a door or put on a pair of heavy boots.
What choice do you have? It’s either run and be scared or stay and be terrorized. Lose lose.
Dave rubbed his throat.
I’d just find another boy, he’d said, to replace you.
The car was getting closer. The buzzing of its motor became a grumbling. Dave looked toward the trees, up the road, back at the trees.
He remembered another car. A station wagon. He wanted to run down the road, meet the approaching car, see if it was his mom and dad and brother and dog. But then he remembered the moose, the crash, Mr. Boots. And he remembered the rotting corpses.
Replace you.
The grumbling became a roaring. The car couldn’t have been more than a couple of bends away. Dave started to raise his arms again, but then he growled and ran and dove into the bushes, screaming at himself to go back, screaming at himself not to. He dropped to the ground and watched the vehicle pass.
You idiot. Get out there. This is your chance.
No, it wasn’t. He had a chance to do something more than just escape. He had a chance to make things right. He wasn’t exactly sure how yet, but he was beginning to get an idea.
It was an old truck. Dusty. From his position, he couldn’t see into the windows, couldn’t see much more than the spinning, dirt-kicking tires.
He closed his eyes and waited until the sounds of the motor had disappeared altogether, and then he got up and turned back toward the house.
He wondered what kinds of sounds Mr. Boots would have made if it had been him under the ax instead of the rabbit. He wondered if he would have screamed.
And then he thought he heard something move in the woods. He spun around and stared at a spot between two thick trees.
Was that a flannel shirt?
Even squinting his eyes, he wasn’t sure. Maybe it hadn’t been anything.
Or maybe it was.
He imagined Mr. Boots lying in the bushes, holding a riffle or a bow and arrow.
Don’t be ridiculous. You really think he followed you all the way out here?
Yes, of course he must have. He wouldn’t have let Dave go. He was crazy, but he wasn’t stupid. If Dave had tried to flag down the truck, how long would it have been before he felt a tug in his chest and looked down to see an arrow punched through his shirt or a bullet’s exit wound dripping blood and shredded innards.
He stood still for a long time and waited for another sound or flash of movement. When nothing happened, he said as loudly as his throat would let him, “I’m going back now.”
There was no response.
He waited another few seconds, and then headed back the way he’d come.
As always, he couldn’t say whether he was doing the right thing or not.
NINETEEN
Marshall wore a three-piece suit too warm for the season and too dressy for what he claimed was a casual visit. Libby wondered if he’d been at a meeting or a party and hadn’t bothered changing before stopping by, or if he’d put on the suit specifically for her. To impress her. Normally her thoughts didn’t tend toward such vanity, but in Marshall’s case, it wouldn’t be the first time he’d done such a thing. She couldn’t help but pity him.
Libby searched the kitchen for a vase despite an urge to run the daisies he’d brought down the garbage disposal. She peeked occasionally back at Marshall, who was wandering through the living room staring at the pictures on the walls and the knickknacks on the shelves. He’d visited the house once before, but for only a minute, not long enough to do much snooping. “I hope this wasn’t a bad time,” he said, moving from his investigation of the mantle to the bookshelf where Libby kept her paperbacks.
Libby let an uncomfortable silence draw out before saying, “Well, actually, I wish you’d called. I…this wasn’t the best day. I think I’d rather be alone tonight.”
She peeked again, saw Marshall pull a book from the shelf, skim the back cover, and return it.
She wiped her hands on a dishtowel and waited for him to say What happened? or Tell me about it, but instead he answered, “Oh, come on. You’ve got time for a little visit, don’t you? I drove all the way over.”
Libby rolled her eyes and brought the vase of flowers out from the kitchen. Marshall turned and smiled at her while she set them down on an end table. He shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked a little on his feet. The gesture reminded Libby of the security guard at the Mountain View, who had done the same damn thing. Except Marshall looked nothing like that hulk of a man. He was small, maybe an inch taller than Libby and certainly no heavier than a hundred and fifty pounds. Although a relatively young man, thirty-two if Libby remembered correctly, his hair had already thinned and made him look middle-aged. He had thin lips, not so thin glasses, and a red, Irish complexion, though he’d told her on their first and last date that he didn’t think any of his ancestors had ever been to the land of ire, wording it just that way and laughing as if he’d said something witty.
“You want a beer?” she asked.
Marshall seemed to consider before replying, “No thanks. I don’t suppose you’ve got any coffee perking.”
Perking, Libby thought, what century does he think this is?
“I guess I could brew a pot,” she said, trying not to overemphasize the brew. “But then you’ve really gotta go, okay?”