Vicky cast a sidelong look at Allyson. “Told you not to ask.”
Despite his nonchalant attitude, Dave trailed a bit behind them as they walked, effectively shielded from any approaching adults, keeping the joint low at his side when not pressed between his lips.
Every house they passed displayed a variety of Halloween decorations, but most had at least one jack-o’-lantern on their steps or beside the front door and faux cobwebs stretched across bushes, windows, or doorways. Except Allyson’s house, which was the exception that proved the rule.
Vicky nudged her with an elbow. “Something bothering you?”
“What do you mean?”
“You seem tense,” Vicky said. “Instead of relaxed. Like you usually are. After your morning run. What gives?”
“Yeah, well,” Allyson said. “My mom is a liar. She told me she invited my grandmother tonight, but she didn’t. She never even contacted her.”
“How do you know?”
“I called her.”
“Your grandmother?”
Allyson nodded.
“That’s bullshit,” Dave chimed in.
“What’s your mom’s deal?” Vicky asked. “Why would she say that?”
“She literally just tries to keep me away from her. Turns into a nutcase this time of year.”
“If I were you guys,” Vicky said, “I wouldn’t celebrate either. I’d put up a Christmas tree instead. Just skip over all the spooky Halloween shit, right?”
Feeling the effects of his joint, Dave nodded seriously. “Jumping to Thanksgiving would make sense. Puritans, cornucopias, plagues, starvation, slaughtering the Indians. That stuff isn’t creepy at all.”
“Dave,” Vicky said. “You’re rambling.”
“What can I say? I’m a ramblin’ man.”
“Oh, brother,” Vicky said, shaking her head. Turning to Allyson, she said, “Does she ever talk about it?”
“Pretty much all she talks about. It defines her life. She’s been traumatized ever since. You should see her house.”
“Freaky.”
Dave frowned in thought. “Wasn’t it her brother that cold-blooded murdered all those babysitters?”
“No,” Allyson said. “I think people made up the bit about them being related because it made them feel better. Like it couldn’t just happen to anyone.”
“I mean, that is scary,” Vicky said with a sympathetic shudder. “To have a bunch of your friends get butchered by some rando crazy person.”
“Is it though?” Dave asked. “I just feel like the world has way worse shit now. One dude just killing a few people, I don’t know.”
Vicky glanced back at him in disbelief. “Her grandmother is a badass and was almost fucking murdered, Dave!”
“And she escaped!” he said, taken aback by Vicky’s explosive reaction. “And he was caught! He’s, like, super-incarcerated right now.” He held up both hands in a placating gesture. “I’m just saying it’s not like the absolute worst thing that has happened to a person. By today’s standards.”
Vicky stopped in her tracks and whirled around to face him. “Shut up, Dave. Stop talking.”
“I’m sorry,” Dave said. “I sensed myself going on a rant and didn’t know how to eject. Sorry.”
Allyson was almost as surprised as Dave by Vicky’s defense of her grandmother’s ordeal. While Vicky frequently teased Dave, busting his balls now and then, her tone usually remained in the snark zone rather than emotional outbursts.
Noticing another jack-o’-lantern on a decorative bale of hay, Dave’s eyebrows rose, a glimmer of mischief in his eyes. Or perhaps he merely wished to deflect attention away from his rambling faux pas to escape Vicky’s ire. “You guys cool if I explode this pumpkin head?”
With a flicker of a smile, Vicky said, “Yes, please.”
Allyson plucked the stem lid off the jack-o’-lantern. “Go for it.”
Dave fished what looked like an M-80 out of his jacket pocket and lit the fuse with the dwindling roach, which was almost short enough now to burn his fingers.
“Houston, we have ignition,” Dave said, dropping the firecracker through the carved opening. Allyson replaced the lid. Dave set the jack-o’-lantern on the sidewalk. Allyson could hear the fuse sizzling. “Go!”
As they ran clear of the blast zone, Dave yelled, “Wooooo! Happy Halloween!”
Allyson glanced over her shoulder at the muffled whump!
Orange chunks and pumpkin gore splattered the sidewalk, a nearby fence and the rear quarter panel of a white SUV. The three of them couldn’t stop laughing.
4
Basically, Laurie Strode had turned the backyard of her farmhouse into a shooting range. Although the term “backyard” in her case was an oversimplification. The rear of her property was bordered by wilderness, secluded from any neighbors who might file noise complaints or poke around where they might inadvertently place themselves in her line of fire.
Of course she could have honed her marksmanship skills at a traditional shooting range, reserving her land for holiday cookouts, family get-togethers, rounds of badminton and horseshoes. Hell, even a garden. But that stuff hardly mattered. Family was kind of a sore spot, though not by her choice. She had to honor her daughter’s wishes—as much as it pained her. And though she enjoyed lawn games as much as the next person, shuttlecocks and horseshoes were impractical for self-defense.
Besides, a backyard shooting range made regular practice as easy as rolling out of bed. Less likely to skip practice under those circumstances.
When it came to self-defense there were no excuses for Laurie. She hadn’t let her guard down in a long time. Not that it helped her psyche. She hadn’t felt safe—truly safe—in forty years. But she was prepared…
Taking aim with her Smith & Wesson revolver, she fired shot after shot at the head-and-torso silhouette target attached to a wooden frame twenty feet away until the gun was empty. With the smoking barrel held upright, she gazed with satisfaction at the grouped shots. Tight cluster. Center mass. At this distance, headshots were a crapshoot.
A lot had changed in forty years.
Laurie didn’t have to gaze into a mirror to acknowledge the lines etched on her once youthful face, the price of time—and of relying on whiskey as a crutch when the remembered fear rose up unbidden. And the dark circles under her eyes reminded her of too many sleepless nights. Long nights of fear, real and imagined—remembered fear as fresh as that night so long ago, and the senseless grotesqueries that clotted her nightmares. Over time, fear for herself had spread like an insidious stain to include the greater burden of her family—first a daughter, and then a granddaughter. And yet, instead of paralyzing her, the fear galvanized her. She’d spent her life in a cycle of endless preparation. Because as much as she practiced and readied herself to face the fear again, in the flesh, a sliver of doubt gnawed at her subconscious. The doubt that no matter how much she readied herself, she would fall short, fail herself and those she loved…
Yes, a lot had changed—but the fear remained as potent as ever.
She reloaded the revolver.
This close to the wilderness, among the stacks of used car tires and sandbags, and in front of a wall made of interlocked railroad ties, she’d set up a bunch of department-store mannequins purchased at a steep discount from yet another brick-and-mortar victim of the growing trend of online shopping. Pale and staged in various poses, the mannequins presented a ghostlike aspect, especially in the twilight hours. And when an occasional fog rolled in, the mannequins seemed like cemetery residents risen from their eternal sleep to walk the world again. For Laurie, they weren’t intended as decorations or to evoke emotion in anyone. They had a simple, practical purpose.