Blood Ghost (The Hunting Tree Book 2) Page 7

  The week with the northern grandparents was magical. With the southern grandparents, it was misery.

  Seeing their car back at home on a Sunday morning, Don was sure which grandparents they’d visited.

  He pulled up in Kyle’s spot—off to the side of the garage—and turned off the key. He tried to smooth his hair in the rearview mirror and scrubbed his teeth with the side of his finger. He didn’t look presentable, but he probably looked better than Kyle. He got out and headed for the front walk.

  Don didn’t make it up the front porch stairs.

  Kyle’s dad, Seth Umber, pushed open the screen door and came down the first step with a thud. He moved like his feet were asleep and he couldn’t feel the stairs on impact. In his left hand he held a portable phone. He reached back and pushed the phone to his belt, like he intended to slip it into an invisible holster. Maybe he thought the phone had a clip on it and it would clip to his belt. Either way, the phone fell from his side and bounced off the brick porch. The plastic battery cover flew off on impact and disappeared into the bush next to the porch. A smile teased the corner of Don’s mouth as he tried to come up with a playful jibe for Mr. Umber’s clumsiness.

  Don stopped and his mouth flattened as he saw the look on Mr. Umber’s face. The man whom Don regarded as a second father—in some ways, easier to talk to than his own father—looked at the world with dead, unseeing eyes.

  Ms. Umber, Marianne, burst through the door and ran past her husband. She flew down the stairs, her feet barely touching them and crashed into Don. He held her up as she grabbed at his t-shirt.

  “What did you do? What did you do? You’re supposed to look out for him. He worships you. What did you do?”

  “What? Ms. Umber, what are you… what’s going on?”

  Mr. Umber, with his slow pace, finally reached them.

  “Kyle,” he said. He put his arm around his wife and put a hand on Don’s shoulder.

  “No, I’m Don,” Don said with a half-smile. It was an old joke. Kyle’s dad was forever mixing up their names. But right now didn’t seem like the time for jokes, and Kyle’s parents didn’t react. The half-smile left his lips.

  “Kyle, come with me,” Seth said. He turned and headed back for the house.

  Don didn’t correct him again. With Marianne Umber still hanging from his shirt, Don started walking forward. He heard the siren blurt a warning as it turned at the end of the driveway. Don looked over his shoulder and saw an approaching police car. It’s lights were flashing blue in the morning sun and it rolled to a quick stop at the end of the walk.

  “The police are here. We should see what they want,” Don said. His legs seemed to gain weight.

  “No, you come. You see,” Marianne said, still pulling at Don’s shirt. The pair shuffled forward, following Seth Umber into the house. They caught the screen door just before it clicked shut. Don took one last look over his shoulder towards the cops as he pulled on the door. Two officers stepped from the vehicle.

  The man closest was older and heavyset. The woman on the far side of the car looked young and fast, but she had to round the car to catch up. Don wondered which would reach the house first. Either way, he thought, he should hold open the door and let them in—show respect for their authority. Clearly something terrible had happened in this house where he’d spent roughly half his childhood, and Don had no desire to discover what. The answer was already in the back of his head. Something Ms. Umber said—you’re supposed to look out for him—held the key. Don sensed that if he stopped and thought for a second, he’d know what was in there, but a big part of him didn’t want that answer. It was the same part of him that still fought against Ms. Umber, who was pulling him inside. The cops would have to open the door for themselves.

  Kyle’s house was a split-level, and Kyle’s room was down four steps on the right. Don descended into the darkness. Had nobody thought to turn on the hall light? When they reached Kyle’s doorway, Don guessed what he would see. He would see Kyle’s blood spattered up the walls. He would see Kyle’s organs smeared across the floor. He would see sharp splinters of Kyle’s bones protruding from the ceiling and walls. He was wrong on all counts.

  There was just Kyle, sleeping peacefully in his bed. He was probably still sleeping off the bender of weed and whatever else he’d gotten ahold of after Don had brought him home last night. Don glanced at Kyle’s mom—alarmist, he thought—and pulled away from her grip. He walked over to Kyle and sat on the edge of the bed.

  “Hey, Kyle, get up,” Don said. Why was Kyle under the blanket? It was way too hot for that.

  “Kyle,” Don said. He jostled Kyle’s shoulder and leaned in. “Your parents are freaked out, man, get up.”

  Back at the doorway, Marianne put her balled fists to her mouth and skittered away.

  “They’re really freaked out,” Don said. He smiled. Kyle had a tiny conspiratorial grin on his face, like he was just faking being asleep so he could play along with the joke. Don had seen this smile more times than he’d seen his own face in the mirror. It was Kyle’s practical joke face—the one he’d apply when he was setting off a stink-bomb in the stairwell at school. It was the smile he’d use to convince Don to skip soccer practice so they could get high down at the lake.

  Don heard heavy feet stomping down the stairs.

  “The cops are coming, man. You need to call this off now, or they’ll arrest you or something.”

  Don shook Kyle’s shoulder again and Kyle’s eyes finally opened.

  The two people who came around the corner weren’t cops, they were paramedics. The big letters on their white shirts said so. Don glanced at them and then back to Kyle’s eyes. There was something wrong with his eyes. Kyle’s eyes were sunken, concave, like all the fluid had been removed. Don jumped up from the bed and the paramedics slipped in next to Kyle. Their busy hands moved all over Don’s friend as Don kept backing away. He bumped into Kyle’s desk and then shifted into forward. Once he had his legs moving the correct direction, Don steered himself for the door. The older, heavyset cop was standing in the hall. Behind, back in Kyle’s room, Don heard the paramedics counting, and unwrapping, and cutting.

  The cop put a hand on Don’s elbow. “They’re upstairs, in the kitchen.”

  Don nodded and his teeth clicked when his jaw flopped. He climbed the stairs and pulled himself along with the railing. More stairs, and Don looked at the kitchen. Only the young cop and Kyle’s mom sat at the table. The room looked empty. It looked lifeless.

  # # # #

  “Have a seat, Don,” the young cop said.

  Don pulled out a chair and winced at the sound the legs made on the floor. He sat down and folded his hands on the table. His face felt numb. From just behind his eyes, down to his jaw, he felt numb and he felt the sour pressure of mourning wanting to move from his sinuses and gush out his eyes. He swallowed the feeling back.

  The woman cop—PRESBY, the name tag over her right pocket said—was looking at Don’s eyes. Marianne was looking down at her own, balled fists.

  “Tell me what happened last night, Don,” PRESBY said.

  “Sure,” Don said. For a tiny fraction of a second, his mind protested. Tell this woman nothing, he thought. He tried to think of what he could say without incriminating his best friend. Then, with a sorrowful release, he realized that it didn’t matter. He turned over his trust to PRESBY. “Kyle came over for game night at my house, then we went to the movies. I dropped Kyle off here and went home. I got home about twelve-thirty.”

  “Why didn’t Kyle drive?” PRESBY asked.

  “He was… intoxicated?”

  Marianne raised her glare, but not all the way to Don’s eyes. She looked like she was trying to bore a hole in his chest with her eyes.

  “What did he take?” PRESBY asked.

  “He smoked some marijuana. I drove because I was sober. What happened to him?” Don asked.

  “You tell me,” Kyle’s mom said. “You were the last person responsible for him.�
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  “I don’t know what happened. When I left he was fuh… he was intoxicated, but he seemed normal. Amanda said he was upset because of Barney. Where is Barney?”

  “Amanda?” PRESBY asked. “Is that Amanda Hollis?”

  “Yeah,” Don said. “I mean, I guess. I’m not sure of her last name. I’ve only met her a few times.”

  “Of course it’s Amanda Hollis,” Marianne said.

  “She was at the movie?” PRESBY asked.

  “Yes. We picked her up.”

  “You and?” PRESBY asked.

  “Me and Kyle went and picked her up. I drove Kyle’s car,” Don said.

  The questions were interrupted by the creaking stairs. The fat cop appeared at the top. He nodded to PRESBY.

  “Ms. Umber, they’re ready to take your son. You and your husband can come with us,” PRESBY said. The rest of her instructions were drowned out by Marianne’s wails. Marianne’s face tightened and melted and a moan emitted from between her clenched fingers. Don pushed his chair away and stood up halfway, not knowing if he should comfort her or run.

  Kyle’s dad, Seth, bounded up the stairs and pushed past the fat cop. He put an arm around Marianne’s shoulders and helped her to her feet. Seth’s face was transparent white, except for his red, puffy eyes. As the pair moved past, Don sat back down and shrunk away from Kyle’s parents. They had been his second family, but he was outside of their circle now.

  “We’ll send someone by to collect more information. You’ll be at home all afternoon, Don?” PRESBY asked.

  Don nodded.

  And just like magic, everyone swept out of the house. Don found himself alone at the kitchen table. The ticking of the living room clock was the only sound in the house. When the refrigerator cycled on, the sound scared Don so much that for a second he thought he’d pissed in his shorts. He stood and dug Kyle’s car key from his pocket. After setting the key on the table, he headed down the steps to the front door. They’d left it open. Don closed it behind himself and started home.

  # # # #

  “Can you do something with him? I’m going to mow the side yard,” Don’s dad said.

  Coming out of the woods, Don stumbled on the edge of the driveway and fell to his knees on the asphalt. He saw the bright, soulful eyes of Barney. Wes was holding him by the collar over near the tractor, which Wes had rolled out into the center of the driveway again.

  “Barney,” Don said. His voice broke at the end of the name and suddenly the tears came. That sour pressure at the back of his sinuses burst through and Don’s breath caught in hitching sobs. The German Shepherd pulled away from Wes and trotted over to Don, who grabbed him around the neck. “Oh, Barney. What happened?” Don asked, his face buried in the dog’s fur.

  “Donny?” Wes asked. He walked slowly to his son. “Donny, what’s wrong?”

  Don couldn’t find words. His brain shut down and his body lurched with each sob. He felt his father’s hands on his back, but he couldn’t speak or move. He felt Wes trying to pull him to his feet, but Don clutched Barney tighter. The dog let out a low whine.

  # # # #

  In the living room, with Barney coaxed up on the couch beside him, Don finally found his voice again.

  He explained about taking the car back, and the police, and the paramedics. Don didn’t tell his father how Ms. Umber had looked at him, or how she’d accused him.

  “Is he going to be okay?”

  “No, Dad,” Don said. His face squeezed shut again, but he waited a second and then forced himself to talk again. “I think he’s… gone.”

  Wes jumped to his feet.

  “What?” Wes asked. “Jesus. Where did they take him? We have to go down there. Oh my god.”

  “I can’t,” Don said. “I told the police I’d be here when they come by to talk to me.”

  “That doesn’t matter. Where’s the phone? I need to call Gwen.”

  “She won’t be available,” Don said.

  “She’ll be available for this,” Wes said. “She will.” He entered the number and held the phone to his ear. Don scratched Barney’s head and leaned down. Barney smelled. He would have to give him a bath before… He stopped the thought. He was thinking to give Barney a bath before Kyle got home, but Kyle wouldn’t be coming home. Tears started leaking from his eyes again.

  Wes was talking to his wife on the phone. Don could barely believe it. He’d been trained to understand that his mother was never reachable when she was at work. Wes ended the call.

  “She says not to come,” he said. “She’s already with Marianne and Seth. There’s nothing to do there but wait.”

  “Maybe we should go anyway,” Don said. He wanted to be there with his mom and Kyle’s parents. He wanted them to all be together.

  “No, we’ll stay here and take care of Barney,” Wes said.

  “I have to give him a bath,” Don said.

  “Good,” Wes said. “Use the tub downstairs.”

  Don nodded.

  “Come on, Barn,” he said.

  # # # #

  Wes sat on the sink while Don scrubbed the dog. He used his sister’s shampoo—it seemed like the mildest, but it didn’t lather very well. He used about a third of a bottle just to get the dog soapy. It smelled like green apples. Not real green apples, but that fake scent they always put in candy.

  “He’s just skin and bones,” Wes said.

  “Yeah, he’s been sick. He’s supposed to have a vet appointment tomorrow. I guess he’s going to miss it,” Don said. The words made him even more sad, if that was possible.

  “No, you’ll take him. You can use my car,” his father said.

  “I don’t even know when it is, and I’m supposed to work tomorrow.”

  “I’m sorry, but you’re going to miss work and you’re going to take care of that dog. You can call the vet in the morning.”

  “Okay,” Don said.

  He gave Barney one final rinse and then tried to press most of the water from Barney’s fur. The dog held his head low. Wes handed his son towel after towel until the dog was damp and fluffy. Don lifted Barney from the tub and the dog shook, coating the bathroom in a mist of apple scent. Barney left wet footprints on the bath mat.

  Don took Barney upstairs to wait for the police to come interview him.

  He fell asleep on the couch, clutching Barney to his chest. Don spent the rest of the day waiting and sleeping. Barney never left his side.

  # # # #

  “Donny?”

  Don opened his eyes, then blinked, then squeezed them shut again. He had a pounding headache and the light from the kitchen hurt his eyes. Through the windows he saw that it was already dark out.

  “Don?” his father asked again, a little more forceful this time.

  “What?” Don asked. He winced at the fresh spike of pain that drilled into the side of his head.

  “Barney has to go out. He’s been pacing near the door for five minutes.”

  Don jumped up, his headache forgotten. He looked at the front door and then bounded down the stairs to the back door. He found Barney whining and scratching at the sliding door.

  “Hold on, buddy,” Don said. He ducked into the workshop and came back with a short piece of rope. He tied it to the silver ring on the dog’s leather collar and led him out into the night. Don was barefoot and still wearing the clothes he’d hastily donned that morning.

  It was still hot, but a few degrees cooler than the unbearable temperatures they’d already endured. Barney nearly dragged Don out into the night. The dog marked the bushes, a couple of trees, and the swing set. Then Barney turned his attention to the woods. The dog wanted to out through the underbrush and out into the woods. Don figured that Barney had more business to attend to out there, but he didn’t want to let go of the rope. What if the dog ran away? What would he say to Ms. Umber? She didn’t even like Barney that much, but what would she say?

  “Sorry, Barnyard, you’re with me.”

  Barney pawed at the ground.
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  They stomped through the low brush at the edge of the woods for awhile, but Barney did not seem satisfied, and he didn’t conduct any business there. Don sighed as he leaned against a tree. It was still early in the year for mosquitoes, but in a few weeks, he wouldn’t be able to stand out here this long unless he wanted to donate a pint of blood to the local insect population. The ticks would be bad this year if it stayed this hot and dry.

  Barney whined. His sharp ears were pointed deep into the woods.

  Don listened too. He thought he heard something, but it was too faint—right on the edge of his perception.

  “Come on, Barn. We need to get you home and find you something to eat,” Don said.

  He tugged at the rope. Barney held his ground.

  “Barney, come on!”

  Then he heard it. He heard something take three steps. It took three steps and made a sound—a laughing, chittering, cooing sound. Don’s blood ran cold. He pulled on the rope.

  Barney started barking. He barked frustrated, high-pitched bursts as Don pulled. When Don had wrestled the German Shepherd back to the grass, the dog turned and ran with him. Don slid open the door and Barney ran inside. Don slid it shut and locked it. He stared out into the night for several minutes before he could tear himself away. He had the feeling that if he stopped looking, something would come out of the night and creep up to the house.

  Upstairs, he found Chelsea sitting at the counter and his father cooking at the stove.

  “I have to take Barney home and get him some dinner,” Don said.

  “Wait a few minutes and I’ll go with you. I’m going to take some food to their house,” his father said.

  Don went back to the couch and waited with Barney. Chelsea came over and sat on the floor next to the dog. He rolled over and invited her to scratch his belly—the old dog always loved the girl.