But if that were true, why was the DNA recognizably human? Did demons even have DNA?
Preposterous or not, I needed to go to the police. The only other choice was to try to stop him myself, and I didn't even know where to begin. Shoot him? Stab him? He could heal back from some pretty serious wounds, so I doubted either of those would do any good. Besides that, I knew it would be wrong. I'd spent too much time protecting myself from thoughts of violence to stumble into it now. The monster behind the wall strained and growled, awake and anxious to be set free. I didn't dare let it out—who knows what it would do?
My only dilemma, again, was how to get the police to believe me. I had to give them more than just my word—I had to offer some kind of evidence. If they came by and looked at Mr. Crowley's house, they probably wouldn't find anything.
He was being too careful now, and hiding his tracks too well.
If I wanted them to know for sure, they had to see what I'd seen—they had to catch him in the act, save his victim, and see his demon claws for themselves.
The only way I could do that was to study him, and follow him, and call them when he made his move. I had to become Mr. Crowley's shadow.
9
The hardest part was the first step: out my door, across the street, and up Mr. Crowley's walk to his front porch. I hesitated before I knocked. If he had seen me at the lake—if he had any suspicion that I knew his secret—he might just kill me on sight. I knocked. It was several degrees below zero, but I kept my hands out of my pockets, ready to balance if I had to run.
Mrs. Crowley opened the door. Was she a demon, too?
"Hello, John, how are you today?"
"I'm fine, Mrs. Crowley, how are you?" I heard a creak in the house behind her—Mr, Crowley moving slowly from one room to another. Did she know what he was?'
"I'm fine, dear, what brings you out here on such a cold evening?" Mrs. Crowley was old and small, the most stereotypical "little old lady" I'd ever seen. She wore glasses, and it occurred to me that Mr. Crowley didn't— did he steal new eyes every time his old ones wore out?
"It snowed last night," I said. "I want to shovel your walks."
"On Thanksgiving?"
"Yes," I said. "I'm not really doing anything else."
Mrs. Crowley smiled slyly. "I know why you're really here," she said. "You want some hot chocolate."
I smiled—a careful, practiced smile designed to look exactly like a twelve-year-old boy caught in an innocent trap. I'd worked on it all night. Mrs. Crowley gave me hot chocolate every time I shoveled their snow; it was the only time I was ever invited inside. I was here today because I needed to be invited inside—I needed to see if Mr. Crowley was healthy or sick, and how bad he was. Eventually he'd have to kill again, and if I wanted to send the police to catch him in the act, I needed to know exactly when it happened.
"I'll put some on the stove right now," she said. "The shovel's in the shed." She closed the door and I walked around the house, my feet crunching softly in the snow. It had begun.
Mr. Crowley came on to the porch a few minutes later, the picture of health; he walked straight and tall, and never coughed once. His new limbs were working well for him. Mr. Crowley walked to the edge of the railing and watched me. I tried to ignore him, but I was far too nervous to turn my back on him. I stood up and faced him.
"Good evening," I said.
"Good evening, John," he answered, as cheerful as I'd ever seen him. I couldn't tell if he suspected me or not.
"Did you have a nice Thanksgiving?" I asked.
"Just fine," he said, "just fine. Kay cooks a mighty fine turkey, I'll tell you—best in the state."
He wasn't just watching me, he was looking all around—at the snow, the trees, the houses, everything. I'd almost say he was happy, and I guess that made sense. He had a brand-new set of healthy lungs—he literally had a new lease on life. I wondered how long it would last.
He wasn't going to kill me. He didn't seem to suspect that I knew his secret at all. Satisfied that I was safe for now, I went back to my shoveling. ,
For the next two weeks, I spent my days shoveling snow, and my nights praying for more. Every two or three days, I found a new excuse to see the Crowleys—shoveling another snowfall, or chopping firewood, or helping carry in the groceries. Mr.
Crowley was as nice as ever, talking and joking and kissing his wife. He seemed a paragon of good health, until one day I noticed a laxative while unloading a grocery bag.
"It's his tummy," said Mrs. Crowley with a mischievous grin. "Us old folks can't eat like we used to—things start to fall apart."
"I thought he looked pretty healthy."
"Just a little problem with his digestion," she said. "It's nothing to worry about."