After Midnight

18
CRIES IN THE NIGHT

Either Judy, or someone else.
It had to be Judy, though. A woman’s voice, and coming from the right direction. Who else could it be?
If it was Judy, she’d missed my tumble down the slope and she wasn’t watching me now. My fall had roughed me up, but accomplished nothing. I got to my feet, wincing a couple of times.
Standing there, I searched my pockets. Tony’s wallet was still in my back pocket. I still had all the keys, too. Apparently, nothing had fallen out except the gun.
I wiped the sweat off my face and rubbed my hurts and itches and stared into the woods.
Nothing to see.
I heard the trees whispering quietly with the breeze. Birds and crickets and other forest sounds. But not another outcry.
Okay, I thought. What’s going on?
She’d shrieked like someone scared witless, or hurt, or both.
So, was it real or fake?
If fake, she must be trying to lure me into a trap. A gutsy move. A crazy move. Hell, I was bigger and tougher than Judy. I’d already beaten the snot out of her. And I had a gun. Her only real chance of survival was to avoid me.
But you never know with people. They do weird, stupid stuff sometimes. Especially when they’re scared. Maybe Judy thought she could out-smart me.
Maybe she’d figured out a great, flawless trap.
On the other hand, she might be in real trouble.
Either way, I didn’t have a choice. I had to go looking for her. And finish her off, unless somebody’d already saved me the trouble.
I wasn’t going anywhere, though, without the pistol.
I wanted to find my shoes, too, but they didn’t matter much. The .22 mattered plenty.
Turning away from the woods, I searched the grassy area around my feet, looking for the gun. I’d been aware of losing my shoes early in the fall, but didn’t have a clue as to when the gun had slipped out of my pocket.
It didn’t seem to be nearby, so I began to study the route of my fall. For the most part, the slope was clear of trees. A lot of moonlight got through. Before even starting to climb, I picked out half a dozen chunks of darkness. A couple of them would probably turn out to be my shoes. I saw nothing that might be the pistol, though.
I started trudging up the slope, taking it slowly, hunched over, my knees bent and my arms swaying. I must’ve looked like a kid playing elephant. It was a nice, relaxing posture. But I was too tired and hot to be comfortable. My shirt stuck to my back with sweat. My eyes stung. My face and chest itched with trickles of sweat.
I started out thinking the pistol would be the real problem. Because it was flat and so much smaller than the shoes, it might disappear in the grass. I even worried that I might not be able to find it at all.
But I found it first, only about fifteen feet up the slope. The way I was bent over with my arms swaying, I almost brushed it with my fingertips before seeing it. The pistol lay nestled in the thick grass. In the moonlight, its stainless steel finish looked gray like dirty snow.
I snatched it up.
Then I rubbed it against the front of my cut-offs to wipe off the dew from the grass.
Afraid of losing it again, I kept it in my hand.
A few minutes later, I came across one of the loafers. I slipped my foot into it and went looking for the other.
One shoe off and one shoe on…
“Help!”
This time, I recognized Judy’s voice. Or thought so, anyway. It’s how she might’ve sounded, squealing out a plea to be saved.
She’s gotta be in deep shit.
Or else a great actress.
But my guts told me this wasn’t faked.
So did my skin. Though burning hot and slick with sweat, I felt goosebumps spreading up my thighs and belly and breasts. The hairs on my arms stiffened. Prickles scurried up my back and the nape of my neck. My nipples tingled and got hard. Goosebumps crawled over my cheeks, my forehead. My scalp crawled.
It’s pretty much what happens every time I get a strong case of the creeps, the willies, the heebie-jeebies.
And I had them now.
Something about the sound of Judy’s cry for help, maybe. Or what it triggered in my imagination.
Something awful had happened to her.
Or someONE.
Something or someone worse than me.
Turning around slowly, being careful not to slip on the wet slope, I stared at the woods. There was nothing to see.
Judy’s cries had come from deeper in. The first had sounded nearer than the second. Was she running away from a pursuer? Or was she already caught, and being carried?
If he kills her, I’m in business.
But killing her was my job. It gave me a queer feeling to think of it being done by someone else.
Who? My prowler?
I hurried to find the other shoe. No more cries came from the woods while I hunted for it.
Is she already dead?
Did she get away?
This might sound odd, but I didn’t want either to be true.
Finally, I found the loafer. I slid my foot into it, then turned around and started making my way down the slope again—carefully. I’d found out the hard way that the slope was tricky and not as gentle as it seemed.
Safe at the bottom, I broke into a run. And ran like crazy until I came to the picnic table. There, I stopped and listened. Mostly, all I heard were my heartbeats and my hard breathing.
What’s he doing to her?
The sick bastard.
I thought about what he’d done to the glass door.
Might not even be him.
I stepped past the end of the table, took my usual route to the creek, and knelt in the water. Then I twisted around and sat down on the bottom. A tricky thing to pull off, one-handed. But I managed to do it and keep the pistol high and dry.
No, not because I was afraid of getting my ammo wet.
As a fan of mysteries and thrillers, I’ve read enough to figure out that most people who write them don’t know squat about firearms. (That goes double for the people who make movies and television shows.) One thing I know, and some of them don’t, is that ammo won’t get hurt by a little dip in the creek.
The reason I kept the pistol high was in case I needed it fast. I didn’t want to shoot it and find out, too late, that I had a barrel full of water. I wasn’t sure about a .22, but some guns can blow up if you pull a stunt like that.
(Anyway, I just wanted to make that clear. I don’t want you to read my book and think I’m one of those idiots who worries about a little water wrecking my ammunition.)
Okay.
So there I was, sitting in the creek and holding my pistol overhead while I rested and cooled off. The water sure felt good. Cool and smooth. With my left hand, I cupped some of it into my mouth.
And there I sat.
Not really wanting to move.
The water felt great, rushing against me. And it tasted great, too. Fresh and woodsy.
But I was wasting time.
Scared to move.
On my right, the woods loomed high, hiding the moonlight. A kingdom of darkness. It was where I needed to go. Judy was over in that direction.
But so was whatever horrible creature or person had made her shriek.
I didn’t want to go there.
I felt safe in the creek. And the area to my left seemed even safer. That’s where the picnic table was. The one I’d had Judy on. I could see a bit of it through the trees. In that same direction was the slope to the parking lot. And Judy’s parked car. And the roads out of the woods.
In that direction, nothing bad would happen to me.
I could even drive away in Judy’s car, leave it somewhere in town, and walk home.
I wanted to do it.
To put an end to all this. To stop being scared and tired and hurt. To go home and lock myself in my good, safe room above the garage and maybe never come out again.
I longed to do that, and forget all about Judy.
And save myself.
Whatever got her might get me.
Leaning forward, I lowered my shoulders and head into the creek.
I would’ve looked very odd to anyone watching me.
All they’d see was my arm sticking up, holding the pistol high. Like the Lady of the Lake with better weaponry.
I’ve got a gun, gang. What the hell am I scared of?
I stayed under for a while longer. Then my lungs started to ache, so I came up for air. And struggled to my feet. And trudged through the knee-deep water, my shirt clinging like someone else’s sodden skin, my shorts so wet and heavy that they hung low on my hips, ready to fall.
I climbed the bank on the side of the creek where the forest began. With the pistol clamped under my left armpit, I tugged my cut-offs up and tightened the belt. Then I took off my loafers, emptied them, and put them on again.
I was shivering slightly. No matter how hot the air is, it always feels chilly when you first come out of water. Also, I hadn’t gotten over being scared.
The pistol gave me enough courage to go on, but it didn’t make me fearless.
I was still vulnerable.
After all, a .22 doesn’t pack much punch.
And I’d never counted the rounds in the magazine, so I didn’t know how many cartridges were left. They were singlestacked, I knew that. Fully loaded, a magazine that size might hold about eight or ten.
I’d already fired one.
And maybe it hadn’t been fully loaded to start with.
I could find out how many rounds were in the gun. But not without unloading it. Which didn’t seem like a great thing to try. In the dark, I might drop a couple of cartridges and lose them on the ground. Or what if somebody came along while I stood there with a handful of loose ammo?
Doesn’t matter, anyway. When I run out, I run out.
Let it be a surprise.
I started walking into the dark woods, keeping the pistol down close to my side, raising my left arm in front of me for protection against crashing into tree trunks or low branches. I walked slowly, unsure of where my feet might land. Very soon, the chill from the water went away. The air again felt hot and heavy. Here, surrounded by trees, I felt no breeze at all.
I walked without knowing where to find Judy.
Just that her cries had come from deeper in the woods, somewhere east of the creek.
I walked slowly in that direction and tried not to make much noise.