The Summer Man

Chapter TWENTY-SEVEN





Jeff called early on Tuesday afternoon, and Tommy’s mother called him down to the kitchen. Tommy picked up the phone to hear an open dare in Jeff’s voice. The carnival had come, they were setting up even now, and people would be going up starting tonight—when did Tommy want to go?

Tommy had worked everything out a hundred ways since Jeff had first mentioned the carnival, and his heart started thumping, loudly, but he was ready. He jumped before he could think twice.

“Cool, I saw the ad for that,” Tommy said, then hesitated. As though Jeff were asking him something.

“What the f*ck?” Jeff snapped. “You deaf?”

Tommy glanced at his mother, obviously lingering near the sink. “I’ll have to ask.”

He didn’t quite cover the mouthpiece. “Can I stay over at Jeff’s? He got a new game.”

His mother smiled, but she was frowning, too. “So you’d be staying in?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s the game?”

He’d thought of that, too. She didn’t like war games or the hardcore vice stuff, but she didn’t care about anything she considered age appropriate.

“One of those band ones, with guitars,” he said. “Rockstar Reality.”

Her brow smoothed. Maybe she was thinking about the free time she’d have for f*cking John Hanover, which she was still doing in spite of his very obvious feelings on the matter. He refused to talk to her about it, furious that she didn’t know what to do. She was his mother; she was supposed to do what was best for him.

“Sure, I don’t see why not.”

Tommy turned his back to her, sure she’d catch the anger or the lie in his face if she looked. He thought he was getting better at hiding things, but she’d been watching him so closely lately, he didn’t want to risk this triumph of deception. “Yeah,” he said. “I can stay over.”

Jeff wasn’t a total idiot. “Gotcha. Go log, I’ll be there in a minute.”

“Yeah, OK.” Tommy hung up and started immediately for the stairs, through the open arch next to the refrigerator.

“Hey, hang on a second.”

Shit. He turned back, making himself look irritated. “Jeff’s sending me some stuff. Important stuff.”

“That can wait,” she said. “You’re about to go hang out with him until midnight, aren’t you?” She was wearing sweats and a T-shirt and looked frumpy as she leaned against the sink, her hair tied back in a straggling tail. “I need to ask you something.”

Why don’t you ask, then, he thought. He hated feeling like she made plans to talk to him, like he was going to freak out or something if she didn’t plan. He felt unprepared. Worried. He’d been on the computer a lot, and not playing Warcraft…

“What?”

“Do you want to leave here?”

He wasn’t expecting that. “What? Why?”

“I’m concerned…I’m worried that it’s not safe anymore,” she said. “Those poor boys, disappearing. And what happened at the beach that day.”

She shook her head, her expression strange, twisted. “Maybe it was never safe. I’m just…I…”

She gave him her most loving, pleading, motherly look. “I love you, Tommy. You’re my baby. If anything ever happened to you, I don’t know what I’d do.”

He couldn’t tolerate that. “I’m not a baby.”

“No, of course not,” she said. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“What about Aunt Karen?”

“I don’t know, honey. I guess I’d ask her to come with us.”

“To where? To our new apartment?” It was tiny. He heard the sneer in his voice and felt slightly out of control. “What about Doctor John?”

“I—I don’t know.” She faltered, turning those pleading eyes at him again, which made him feel seriously pissed. What right did she have to make him feel so guilty? She was the one having sex; she was the one who’d dragged them to this stupid, dangerous place and taken up with a stranger. No wonder they got divorced. She wasn’t supposed to ask him for anything.

“Whatever,” he said, and his heart was pounding even louder than when he’d lied about his reason for going to Jeff’s, hot in his ears, he was leaving, turning away from her and going up the stairs, amazed that he was walking away from her, that he was angry enough to do it. That she was letting him.

Jeff was waiting for him when he sat down.

Smooth mufu.

what about u?

If Jeff didn’t have a plan, Tommy would be able to back out. He wanted to go, but he was afraid of getting caught, he was afraid something would go wrong.

Momll be out til midnite at least. Come over 6. we raid cabnet 1st, go up, b home by 11.

Tommy hesitated, felt a scramble of butterflies in his gut, of excitement, of daring, of fear, then sealed his fate with two letters: ok.





Jeff’s mother was just leaving when Tommy came over. She was dressed in too-tight clothes and wore too much makeup. Jeff’s stepdad was a trucker, out of town for weeks at a time, and Jeff had mentioned a couple of times that she liked to go out with her girlfriends and drink too much, that she’d been doing it a lot this summer. She made Jeff promise to lock the doors and actually patted Tommy on the head while he was putting his stuff down, giving him a clear view of her cleavage. Jeff was obviously embarrassed, practically pushing her out of the house, and when the door had closed behind her he shook his head.

“She better watch it,” he said, cryptically, and led Tommy straight to the kitchen. Everything was green—the counters, the linoleum—and there was kind of a garbagey smell, like coffee grounds and garlic and frying. Big Blue was way nicer than Jeff’s house, but Jeff’s had better stuff to eat: Twinkies and frozen pizzas, white bread, shit like that. Jeff opened the fridge and took out two sodas, some store brand. Generic lemon-lime.

“Did you eat dinner?” Jeff asked.

“Not really…”

“Good. Me either. You get more drunk if you don’t eat first.”

Jeff listened for a minute, cocking his head toward the door, then heaved himself onto the counter, onto his knees. From the cabinet high over the stove he pulled down a bottle of something, handing it down to Tommy, then climbed down holding another.

Tommy looked at his, a bottle half full of what looked like water but was, of course, vodka.

“You mix it with something, you can’t even taste it,” Jeff said. He held up the other bottle, a small, rounded one labeled Peppermint Schnapps, mostly full. “This one’s clear, too. I figure we take some out and add water back so they look the same.”

Tommy nodded. That seemed reasonable. He watched as Jeff pulled down two water glasses and poured out alcohol from both bottles—only half-filling each glass—then carefully funneled water from the tap back into each bottle before returning them to the cabinet.

Tommy had no idea how to mix a drink, so he followed Jeff’s lead, pouring some of the soda into the glass Jeff handed him.

“Here’s to Jenny Todd,” Jeff said, holding up his foaming glass.

“Gotta drink to that.” He tapped his noxious-smelling concoction to Jeff’s.

Both boys drank, one big gulp each—and Tommy was immediately a hair away from throwing up, the thick, minty soda like fire going down his throat, like the worst cough syrup ever. He grabbed for the half-empty soda can and upended it, letting the carbonation wash the terrible mint out of his mouth. It was a close thing for a minute as the taste lingered.

Jeff made a tremendously funny face, his teeth bared, his eyelids fluttering. “Yahh,” he said loudly. For a second, he looked like he was going to throw up too, but then shook it off.

“Definitely more soda,” he said, his voice strange and raspy.

“And ice,” Tommy said.

They doctored the drinks, Tommy already feeling a kind of heavy heat in his stomach and in his knees, like he’d drunk nighttime cold medicine. As bad as the taste was, the second swallow wasn’t as god-awful as the first…his throat was going numb, maybe. Jeff was saying something about something at school, and Tommy tried to listen, but he was getting more and more preoccupied with what his body was doing.

“You feeling it?” Jeff asked. He wore a big, dopey smile.

Tommy nodded, his head rolling heavily on his neck. He felt good. A little off balance.

They drank more and carried their drinks to Jeff’s room and watched YouTube movies for a while, this one of a guy getting hit in the nuts over and over again, and they both laughed for a long time. Maybe it was the alcohol, but Tommy felt really good about Jeff, like they had a lot in common. They watched a bunch of stuff, but somehow Tommy didn’t realize that time was passing until Jeff said they could probably head up, it’d be dark soon. Magically, two hours had passed.

Jeff grabbed a flashlight, and Tommy went to pee, and totally peed on the ring in Jeff’s bathroom, then used like half a roll of toilet paper to wipe it off. He felt clumsy and strange, but he liked the feeling, liked that everything in his mind was a funny joke, that Jeff was his best friend and they were doing something exciting.

They stopped in the kitchen long enough to finish their drinks and for Jeff to carefully rinse the glasses and put them away—a complicated activity that Tommy could only watch, swaying, like his body was listening to music that he couldn’t hear—then headed outside into a hot, late day, the sunset brilliant orange and pink down on the bay.

“You’re walking funny,” Jeff said, as they started up the hill, through long shadows lying across the street. There were cars and people around, but not many and Tommy didn’t really notice, working too hard to not walk funny, and he saw that Jeff was practically tripping over his toes, his own walk a kind of controlled fall. Their shadows staggered in front of them, monstrously distorted.

“Not as funny as you,” he said, and they both cracked up, leaning on each other for a moment. Tommy was glad it was getting dark; they probably looked drunk—he was pretty sure he was, anyway—and he thought that if he saw Jenny Todd tonight he might have to kiss her. Being drunk was awesome; he felt like he could say or do anything he wanted.

They staggered onward, Jeff telling some story about some guy, Tommy wishing they had more to drink—he was thirsty, and he didn’t want to lose the wonderful drunkenness—and neither of them noticed the man in the little blue car who drove past them three separate times on their way to the fairgrounds, a man with sandy, receding hair and a careful consideration in his gaze as he watched them through the gathering dark.





John continued to have a backlog of calls and clients, but it was official: as many people were canceling as showing up. He’d spent a free hour before lunch considering what Bob had found about Jenkin’s Creek, refining his interpretation of what was happening in Port Isley. The woman who’d written the letters to Bob’s friend, who’d called it a summer of evolution…he’d looked through his recent case notes and felt that her case affirmed what he’d already been thinking.

His three o’clock had canceled, and he had spent most of the hour trying to get someone at the police station to confirm that Eric’s assault had been pursued, that someone had been to speak with Eric’s father, but he’d been put on hold both times he’d called, the first time for nearly fifteen minutes, then been disconnected. An agitated woman finally took his number on try number three, but no one had called back. He’d considered walking over to the station but doubted he’d do much better, not before his four o’clock. No one answered the phone at the Hess household. Amanda had insisted that she didn’t want to leave town, but he was starting to think he should push harder. If Eric was dangerous—and it seemed he was leapfrogging over the lengthy stalker build-up, going straight for the scary stuff—and the cops weren’t going to be available, it would be best for her to get away from him. John couldn’t see sending her away alone, she wasn’t legally an adult, but she wasn’t a child, either; he couldn’t see making her leave if she didn’t want to go, and he wasn’t about to kick her out; she’d had enough of that for one lifetime. And in truth, they needed her. For whatever good had been done, was still being done, people had died, and Amanda believed there would be more; considering her ability to sense the cause of everything, to pick up “his” feelings, she might actually be instrumental in stopping further bloodshed.

He still hadn’t settled on any clear course of action when Sarah called, late in the day. Tommy was spending the night at a friend’s and would he care to join her for dinner…John hated asking Bob to stay again, but the idea of a whole night with her, especially with their future so uncertain…he spent the drive home trying to think of the best way to ask. He would have begged if Bob had declined, or taken Sid Shupe up on his offer to have Amanda over to his house, but Bob said he was happy to stay; he’d spent most of the day fact-checking on Jenkin’s Creek, on the phone or at the computer, and said that Amanda had stayed inside and read or watched TV, except for excursions to the garage to smoke cigarettes. They’d already made a plan to order in Chinese, barricade the doors, and watch movies, Amanda’s choice. Amanda wandered into the kitchen while they were talking and made a few jokes about making Bob sit through a zombie movie marathon, but she was distant, all wry surface, as she’d been since her revelation about the influence being a man, just after Eric’s attack the day before. She didn’t want to talk about Eric, her dreams, her tenuous connection with the summer man, her mother…she had an amazing talent for making her face an expressionless mask when John tried to lead their conversation anywhere she didn’t want it to go.

John brought up the idea that she leave town again, and she promptly changed the subject, pointing out that as of today, the carnival was at the fairgrounds. She had an idea that they could find some way to close the fun house down. Bob was as enthused about the idea as she was, and they promptly fell to planning. John left them to it, heading upstairs to pack a few toiletries.

He waved good-bye to Amanda and Bob on his way out, reminding them that he had his cell; they barely glanced up from their perusal of the delivery menu for Uncle Chan’s, only open in the summer.

The sun was setting as he drove to Big Blue, the streets deserted compared to only the day before. He’d heard from his final client of the day, and again on the radio on his way home from work: the alleged child-snatcher, a Port Isley local with an apparent history of exposing himself to children, had been apprehended in Oregon. The media had packed up and run after him. John shook the thought before it took hold. The idea of some sick man working his will on a child, an innocent, creating such horrific emotional damage, assuming the child was even lucky enough to be found alive…it made him feel cold with disgust, with horror and rage. If the guy had been caught in Port Isley, he would have faced a lynching. One John felt he would gladly attend…

But all this was only thinking, only his day before this moment, as he parked around the corner from the Victorian and walked back, feeling the stir of excitement in his belly, of anticipation as he jogged up the front steps, as he knocked and waited.

She opened the door and reality shifted, became the brightest and clearest it had been all day. Here was his life, her smile an open book, an invitation, a promise, and the fog he’d lived through from the last time until now was gone. He was complete.





It appeared that Amanda was serious about the zombie marathon. John had a setup so his television could show movies off the net, and Amanda’s first pick was the remake of Dawn of the Dead. Having seen the original in the theater, Bob didn’t expect to be impressed, but the movie was actually pretty good. If incredibly gruesome.

Amanda seemed to enjoy his reaction, initially, but she began to fidget after a few moments. She seemed restless.

“You doing all right?”

“Food’s here,” she muttered.

He listened, hearing nothing over the sound of the movie—and then a car door slamming at the side of the house.

“Pause it if I’m going to miss anything good,” he said, and stood up.

The .38 was in the back office, but the timing was right for it to be dinner. He walked toward the front door. Amanda paused the movie, and when he looked back she was watching him, her face suddenly paler than usual.

“Wait,” she said, as he stepped to the door. She half rose from her seat.

Cautiously, Bob looked through the peephole. The young man on John’s front step held up two laden plastic bags, knotted at the top. He was the regular delivery guy, a townie in his early twenties.

“Uncle Chan’s,” the guy said.

“Yeah, hang on,” Bob said. He raised his eyebrows at Amanda. “It’s fine, I recognize him.”

She didn’t respond, only stood all the way up as he opened the door, reaching for his wallet. The kid smiled. “Hey, Mr. Sweet and Sour Chicken!”

“Great, that’s great,” Bob said. “Hear that, Amanda? I’ve got a reputation.”

She looked relieved. Bob had paid for the food over the phone, but he always kept a couple of fives in his wallet. He fished one out now after signing the receipt, and the kid’s face lit up.

“Hey, thanks.”

Amanda had come to the door, and she took one of the bags of food, Bob the other. He closed the door, locked it, and nodded toward the kitchen.

“You get the plates and forks, I’ll get drinks. What’ll you have?”

“Whiskey, neat,” she said, and grinned back at him as they walked. “Or Snapple, whatever.”

A knock on the door. John handed the food to Amanda.

“He must’ve given me the wrong copy or something,” he said. At her worried expression, he chuckled, shooing her toward the kitchen.

“What are the chances,” he said, unlocking the deadbolt, opening the door even as he heard delivery kid’s car door slam at the house’s far side.

Eric was holding a gun, a small semiautomatic, pointing it at Bob’s face.

“Ah, shit,” Bob said, rearing back—and before he could consider the action, lunging forward, pushing the gun up and away as Eric’s face registered surprise. Eric wheeled back, jerking the gun down, and it seemed to explode in his hand, and a burning fist slammed into Bob’s left side accompanied by a deafening roar.

Bob fell down.





Amanda had just stepped into the kitchen when she heard the gun, so loud that her ears rang immediately. She heard her own shriek, though, and dropped the takeout. The bags split open, an order of fried noodles spilling across the floor in a pea-specked, greasy mass.

Eric.

For what seemed like an hour she froze, so terrified that she didn’t know if she could move; he was here, he’d shot Bob, he was going to come in and kill her, put a bullet through her skull, and she’d be dead. She was still staring down at the spilled noodles, and they were still spilling, settling to the floor, and she realized only a breath had passed, there was still time, and she ran.

Through the kitchen to the back door that let out next to the porch, fumbled with the deadbolt, got it, outside, the shot still echoing in her head, she could feel her heartbeat in every part of her body and adrenaline charging her muscles, delivery guy! Plan, she had a plan.

She tore left, around to the front of the house, bare feet thumping on the warm ground. The delivery guy was stopped halfway down the block, brake lights shining, a pickup of some light color. In the last of the day’s light, she could see the driver craning to look back, his eyes wide.

She took a single running step toward him, and then the truck screeched away, blowing the stop sign at the corner. She turned and saw Eric on the front steps, saw that he was pointing a gun at the retreating truck.

“Call the cops!” she screamed after him, screamed to anyone listening. Her plan hadn’t gone past escape with delivery guy. She was at sea. “Call nine one one! Rape! Fire! Fire!”

Her next words were muffled as he clasped a hand over her mouth, his body pressing into hers from behind. He used his gun arm to pin her arms to her body. She struggled for a second, felt his strength, and went still.

“Shhh,” he hissed, his voice hot in her ear. “Stop it. I didn’t mean to shoot; he grabbed the gun. It was an accident. He’ll be fine. Come inside with me, I’ll show you.”

She shook her head violently, trying to get her mouth free from his fingers. They tasted like salt, like dirty sweat. Some f*cking psychic.

“Just come inside. You’ll understand, I can explain everything.”

Amanda caught hold of her stuttering thoughts, focused on keeping her body still. She took a deep breath and understood what was happening because she’d known that they would meet again, and she knew how to play it from a hundred movies about girls being terrorized by estranged boyfriends. The best, the only option was to convince him that she wasn’t going to run or fight, that they were pals, still an “us,” and she wasn’t going to blow it too f*cking soon like the stupid chicks in the movies, she was going to use her head.

She sighed, leaning her head against his arm, and he hesitated, his breathing rough, and he totally had a hard-on, she could feel it against the small of her back. He took his hand away and relaxed his grip.

Do what you have to do.

“We have to take care of Bob,” she said. Firmly. “Right now. First.”

He hesitated again. Then stepped back, letting her go. She turned and walked past him, making her face blank, letting him read whatever he wanted. She’d had years of practice, and it often calmed her mother down. She had to focus; Bob, first priority, and she knew that Eric wanted her, wanted to be with her, and she would play it as hard as she could, as real as she could until the police came, the delivery guy would call them, someone would call.

Bob, then stall. Bob. The front door was standing open, but she didn’t see him, only saw—

“Oh,” she said, and realized she saw Bob’s feet, that was all, he was down. She hurried, her body desperate to move anyway, to run, and she had a horrible fear that he was dead—and knew that he wasn’t, even before she ran up the front steps, the welcome mat scraping her feet, and dropped to her knees, to his side. She could feel him, fighting against the pain. He was lying flat on the floor. He held his right hand to his chest, just under his left armpit—his left arm wasn’t moving at all—and was pale and breathing shallowly. His shirt was dark, but she could also see that the fabric was wet all around his fingers, and of course there was blood on them, there was that, but his eyes were also open, and he was looking at her.

“Hold still,” she said, trying to think; stop the bleeding, that was first—

Bandages, f*cking move!

She stood and ran to the kitchen; there were clean dishtowels in the drawer under the silverware. She stepped over the greasy fried noodles, she remembered seeing them ooze out like the Blob, already that was, like, ten years ago, but really only two minutes, three, maybe. Her hearing was still mostly just a high-pitched whine from the gunshot that had started this nightmare.

She grabbed all of the towels and stumbled back to Bob. Eric was standing in the open doorway, a look of misery and anger on his face as he stared down at Bob. At least he wasn’t pointing the gun; his arm was lax at his side, but she was aware of it, she couldn’t help being aware of it, the control that he was wielding.

Don’t f*ck this up, don’t let him see you afraid, don’t look him in the eye…no, that was dogs. She felt a little dizzy. She’d thought that things were coming to a head, and she’d known that she would see Eric again, and that it was going to be a bad thing. But she hadn’t expected anything to happen so soon, or involve Bob being shot.

Everything’s going to happen, she thought from nowhere. No more waiting.

“I’m going to press a cloth over it,” Amanda said. She folded the dishtowel and folded it again. “Stop the bleeding. Can you move your hand? When I count to three.”

Bob nodded, then winced at the movement.

“One—two—three.”

He pulled his hand away, and she could see the hole in his shirt and bright blood underneath. She promptly pushed the makeshift bandage over it, pressing down…he let out a groan through clenched teeth, but then started taking deep breaths, ragged, careful. Eric stood there.

“It was an accident,” Amanda said, catching his gaze. “He just wants to talk, that’s all. I can talk to him, OK? While we’re waiting for the ambulance. We’ll be fine. Eric doesn’t want to hurt me.”

“OK,” Bob said, although the look he shot at Eric was an extremely black one.

“I didn’t mean to shoot him,” Eric said. His tone was defensive. “I was going to make him leave us alone for a few minutes.”

She ignored him. “How bad is it? What hurts?”

“My left arm,” Bob said. “It hurts like hell to move it at all. Tore a muscle, maybe. Maybe one of my ribs, too.”

“Can you hold this one on, tight?” Amanda asked. “I have to see if—if there’s another place. Uh, exit wound. Underneath.”

Bob took another breath and was careful not to move his head again. His right hand crept to cover hers.

“Yeah. Go ahead.”

She slipped her hand out from beneath his, his fingers were cold, and he pushed down on the dishtowel.

“I need to talk to you,” Eric said. He stepped over Bob’s feet, moving around him until he was at Amanda’s side. He crouched next to her.

“Kind of busy at the moment,” Amanda said.

“You know what? F*ck him. He’s trying to make you crazy. You think you got scared, but it’s him, him and that f*cking pervert doctor, they’re trying to make you crazy. He grabbed for the gun. I didn’t pull the trigger, even.”

He looked hard at Bob. “Maybe he meant to get shot.”

“Oh, that’s brilliant,” Bob said, panting. “What a great plan.”

“You shut the f*ck up, or next time won’t be an accident. And if you hurt her, if I find out you hurt her, you’re dead…”

Amanda pulled gently on Bob’s skinny hip and leaned down to look, saw fresh blood on the other side.

“Shit,” she said, because there was more bleeding to stop, but that was good, too, that meant there wasn’t a bullet inside him, and there weren’t any major organs right at the surface right there, were there?

She folded and pressed a second cloth to where the new blood seemed to be coming from, pushing up, and quickly stuffed the other cloths underneath, holding it in place, feeling more freaked by the second.

“You’re going to be OK if you hold still,” she said, meeting Bob’s eyes again. “Seriously. Don’t move. I have to go talk to Eric now.”

“Stay in here,” Bob said. He looked dazed but coherent.

“Hey, f*ck you,” Eric said. “You caused enough f*cking trouble, you know that?”

Amanda stood up, drawing his attention away from Bob, and Eric rose with her. “We’ll be in the kitchen,” she said. “We call an ambulance, then we can talk. Bob, don’t f*cking move.”

Before either could respond, she turned and walked into the kitchen, walked away from Bob. She’d told him clearly that she could handle it, and why she thought she could; she hoped he’d been able to read her, she hoped she’d be able to pull off acting like she knew what she was doing. Eric was upset and confused, and she thought that if she took the lead, he’d follow.

Eric walked in behind her. There was a little fifties-style Formica table tucked at the end of the sink’s counter, where the kitchen window overlooked the side yard, and there was a phone on the cabinet over it, a landline. She went straight for it, picked it up, dialed 911.

“We don’t need any interruptions,” Eric started, half raising the gun, and she glared at him.

“Could you wait one minute? God!” She let a measure of her anger out, enough that he could see it was real. Enough to make him forget that he was holding a gun. “It was an accident, fine, I got it. You want to talk, OK, great, we’ll talk. But first I’m going to call an ambulance so you don’t go to jail for f*cking murder, and then I will talk to you, do you—hello?”

Medical, she said, in answer to the query stated by a woman with a mechanical voice, maybe a million miles away for all she knew, and she made up a story, fast. Her uncle accidentally shot himself, they were at—shit, she didn’t know the address, the very last house on Eleanor, before the park. West? West of the park? She didn’t know, the side facing the bay, top of the hill, please hurry, he was in a lot of pain. She punched one of the numbers as though she was turning the phone off and set it the counter, leaving the line open.

“Don’t shoot me,” she said. If the robot woman was listening, she’d advise the police accordingly.

“No, never,” Eric said, oblivious to the phone. He tucked the gun in his belt. “Where’s your bedroom?”

“Upstairs.”

“Show me.”

He stepped aside, let her walk past, and she turned left, climbed the stairs, still feeling the pump of adrenaline through her body. He wanted privacy because he wanted her; the lust coming off him was even stronger than his anger, and she couldn’t imagine having sex with him but thought she might have to. F*cking was what was driving his obsession, and that was her fault; she’d been all over him for weeks…if she had to put out now so that no one else died, she’d do it; she felt like she deserved as much. A few minutes of acting, of invasion, and it would be over, and the cops would be right behind the paramedics, wouldn’t they? They’d bust his ass for shooting Bob, and he’d go off to jail, and his rich father would see to it that he got help, finally. The hoped-for outcome was in direct contrast to how she felt, to what she suspected was going to happen, but she was afraid to think any further in that direction, afraid that her growing dread meant the very worst thing.

They walked to the bedroom she’d been using, which had a nice double bed with a fluffy duvet thing on it and two overflowing bags of her clothes and stuff on the floor. There were no chairs in the room, just the bed to sit on, and she didn’t bother trying to evade the inevitable. She sat down at the head of the bed, and he at the foot, facing her. He held the gun in his lap.

“I want you to look at me,” he said. He stood up, moving closer so that their knees were touching, so she could smell his breath. “I want you to look inside, so you can see that I would never hurt you, ever…like you did with that doctor.”

He made the word sound insulting. “Are you kidding? You think I can concentrate? You just shot Bob.”

“You have to see. Take some deep breaths, calm yourself down. I love you. Just let yourself be still and feel how much I love you.”

He was serious. She was deeply embarrassed for both of them.

“If I do that, will you put the gun down? Like, away?”

He nodded solemnly.

She closed her eyes, humoring him, taking a deep breath, blowing it out…and then found herself reaching for him with her thoughts as he put his free hand on her leg. She covered his fingers with her own, breathing deeper, Bob was going to be OK, this was recon, she should be welcoming the chance to find out how to manipulate him into doing no further harm, keeping him out of her pants, his fingers were as cold as Bob’s had been and she didn’t see anything but she heard—

—drop your weapon—

Stop

freeze I’m gonna shoot if you don’t drop it now drop it now

She didn’t recognize the voices, but that didn’t matter. She opened her eyes, slightly astounded at what she’d just done. “You have to get out of here. Seriously. Cops are coming; if they see you with a gun, they’re going to shoot you.”

Shit, and they’ll be expecting a hostage situation. She’d thought she’d been so clever with the whole don’t-shoot-me bit, wanting to make sure no one got hurt.

Maybe this wasn’t something that could be changed.

His hand slid farther up her leg. “I’ll put the gun down. Tell me that you want me, I’ll put the gun down.”

Oh Jesus. “Would you listen to me?” She enunciated each word clearly. “They—are—going—to—f*cking—shoot—you.”

His breathing had gone husky. She made her legs relax, and his cold hand slipped between her thighs.

“I thought you wanted to talk.”

“I do,” he said. “I just, I ache, looking at you and not touching, you know?”

“Uh-huh,” she agreed. “You really want to be caught by the cops while you’re f*cking?”

“At least I wouldn’t be holding a gun,” he said, and then his hand was pushing against her. She was wearing pajama bottoms and a tee, not the slightest bit sexy, but he thought she was beautiful, she could feel him, hot heavy tits pressing against my chest and her dilated eyes open mouth tongue—

She felt a flush travel through her, a shadow of his want, and pulled away, disturbed by the sensation. Bob was still bleeding on the floor downstairs.

“You say you love me, stop trying to f*ck me for like two seconds,” she said. “What is it you want me to see?”

“I do love you,” he said. He met her gaze, and she saw the flat, self-absorbed shine of mania in his; he looked like he hadn’t slept in days. “I know how I feel, and I know what makes you feel good. What do they want, have you asked yourself that? A divorced shrink and a guy old enough to be your grandfather? All this shit they’re telling you—I don’t know why they’d want to f*ck with your head, but that’s what they’re doing. I’m here, I’m real…we’re real, together, all the rest of this, whatever they told you, it’s not reality.”

Amanda nodded. “Right; no way I’d be scared of you. You have a gun, you shoot my friend, you flip out totally like we’re star-crossed lovers or some shit, and now you’re my reality. Not the slightest bit nuts.”

She thought for one terrible second that she might have pushed too hard; he only stared at her, but he decided to forget what she was saying, to not even hear it. She could feel him do it. He was so firmly committed to his version of things that nothing else was going to edge in.

“You have to get away from those f*ckers,” he said. “Come with me. We’ll get out of here, just go.”

How old was he, ten? “Go where? You have a car, a destination…?”

“I don’t know. Down the coast, somewhere nice. Wherever you want. California. Mexico. Just get away from all this bullshit, someplace we can be together. We can take my father’s car.”

He closed the small distance she’d managed between them. He leaned forward, slipping the gun behind him, leaving it on the bedspread. She felt her heart hold for a beat. He wasn’t touching the gun. His arms went around her, pulled her close, and he wrapped a hand beneath her ass, bringing her up and into his lap.

“I love you,” he said again. “I want you so bad.”

She closed her eyes, let herself be kissed. There was no siren, but she thought she heard an engine out on the street. The front door was still open; Eric hadn’t closed it before following her, she was sure. They’d find Bob first, get him help, and come upstairs with weapons drawn.

“Get rid of the gun first,” she said.

He leaned back, cupping her breasts through her shirt, keeping up the eye contact, which was getting ludicrous and creepy. “You don’t trust me yet. You’re holding back. I want you to feel what I’m feeling. I want you to know what you’re doing to me, right now.”

“You’re…” She focused on his face, let the sensations come…and felt her stomach knot, her defenses slamming down. Beyond a height of arousal she’d never personally felt, disorienting all on its own, his thoughts were desperate, screaming billboards proclaiming his love. Beneath that, everything was dark and sexual, threaded with feelings of brokenness and a driving desire to have what he wanted, to persevere until she gave up and was sorry and they lived happily ever after. There was nothing resembling reality in his thoughts, not even a little. Maybe most frightening of all, he’d already forgotten that he’d just shot someone. Bob was nowhere in his mind.

“Eric, listen to me,” she said, grasping for reasons that he might believe, stilling his hands with hers. “I saw you getting killed by the police, that’s why I freaked out, that’s why I took off, you are holding a gun and they shoot you down. It’s going to happen here, tonight, now. Hide it under the bed, put it in a drawer, just get rid of it. Please.”

Eric looked into her eyes. “Then will you come with me?”

She had to resist an urge to scream. “Yes. Hurry.”

He smiled, and in spite of her fear, her disgust, she felt like crying suddenly, he looked so much younger, like a little kid. Tears welled in his eyes.

“I’ll do whatever you want,” he said. He shifted her onto the bed and picked up the gun. He ejected the magazine, a clumsy, unpracticed move, and pulled the top part back, popping a bullet out. He tossed the gun and the magazine and the bullet onto the floor, and she felt a huge surge of relief. He was f*cked-up and a selfish dick, and he’d hurt Bob, but he didn’t deserve to die.

He surged forward like a wave, was all over her, his hands on her breasts, his tongue in her mouth. She thought of Bob and heard the creak of the stairs, and Eric was pulling her comfy pants down and off, and her underwear, and she was going to endure the sex, she didn’t see that she could get out of it, except he was still fumbling at his belt, kneeling between her legs when the door was kicked open.

It was that f*ck-knob Kyle Leary, posing like a cop in an action flick, holding a gun much bigger than Eric’s, something heavy and black. He took in the scene, saw the gun on the floor, shot a look over his shoulder. He turned back to where Eric and Amanda had frozen.

“Drop your weapon!” he shouted.

Amanda looked at Eric. They both looked at the empty handgun on the floor.

She looked at Leary again, sweating, his face red—and felt the poisonous immensity of his presence, the poison defining itself to her in a surge of sick realization. Leary was going to shoot Eric. He wanted to kill someone, he wanted to shoot a bad guy, a rapist. What she felt was wasn’t heat and excitement, it was deliberate murder.

“Stop!” Amanda screamed, and no wonder she hadn’t recognized her voice, it was shrill and mad, she was f*cking Cassandra, doomed to tell people the truth and have it make no f*cking difference.

Eric instantly held his hands up, still holding his belt. It fell from his hand, landed on the bed, slid to the floor.

“Freeze! I’m gonna shoot if you don’t drop it now, drop it now! Don’t do it, buddy!”

Leary still sounded frantic, his voice high and strained, but he took a second to aim carefully for Eric’s stunned expression, his own fixed with a sudden wide grin. Amanda could hear footsteps crashing up the stairs behind him, but they weren’t going to be there in time—

Leary fired three times in a row, the gun bouncing in his hand, and Eric was blown back and over to the side, crumpling over her left leg, trapping it, she had the briefest sense of jetting blood and that the shape of his face had changed, that it was crooked where his right eye had been, and then she was screaming, kicking desperately to get away from him, her naked legs spattered with his hot blood.

She screamed and screamed and when she ran out of breath, she stopped. Leary pointed his gun at the floor, his lips moving but she couldn’t hear him, her ears were ringing so badly. Another cop, a pinch-faced red-headed woman, Cam Trent’s mother, came in behind Leary. Leary said something she couldn’t hear; Trent looked at the gun on the floor, nodded, said something back.

“What the f*ck,” Amanda gasped, looking at the fat-faced cop, Leary; she wouldn’t look at Eric, she couldn’t. She could barely hear her voice. “You killed him.”

He leaned forward slightly and spoke, his lips outlining his words as much as his voice. “You’re safe now.” The mask of compassion he wore couldn’t entirely cover his excitement. Blew him away, he thought, again and again. He was going to rape her and he had a gun, armed and dangerous, he shot that guy and I blew him away, blew him AWAY, honest-to-God 10-55 right here!

“Motherf*cker,” Amanda whispered, and rolled on her side and curled into a ball.