The Pet

SIX

Birds of a feather.

He waited until well past eleven, until he was positive the boards in the hallway wouldn’t betray him. Then he dressed in his black denims and crept downstairs, took a flashlight from the hall closet and left the house by the back door.

The night had turned winter cold, and his breath gusted greyly from his lips, wafted back into his eyes. He stood with his hand on the metal knob until his vision adjusted, then moved in a low crouch toward the middle of the yard, the rod of white light bleaching the grass. He searched for depressions, disturbances, something dropped by whoever had been there before, whoever had been watching him through his window. He criss-crossed the yard twice and found nothing, did it twice again and decided to try the front, where the moonlight and the streetlamps would give him some aid.

Going back inside was out of the question.

He wanted desperately to convince himself that he hadn’t gone crazy. He wanted to find tangible evidence of a prowler— maybe Brian and Tar up to another prank they were going to blame on him — which he could then show to his parents, to prove he hadn’t lost his mind when he told them about the poster. Because he was going to have to. If he didn’t, and didn’t do it soon, one of them was going to notice and think he’d done something to it and make it too late to protest.

The street was quiet, empty, and even as he watched, many of the lights upstairs and down were switched off to yank the houses back into darkness.

Birds of a feather.

He zipped his jacket closed to his neck and sat on the front stoop, the flashlight on the step beside him. Dampness seeped through his jeans to his buttocks, and he shifted, stood, and walked down to the sidewalk.

This is crazy, he thought, and grinned at the word. Of course it is, because you are, jackass. The poster, the shadow, and thinking you’re the same as some murdering bum. Three strikes. Third out. Sanity retired and the ball game’s over.

Unless it was true.

Unless he and the Howler were closer than he could ever possibly imagine and somehow his subconscious had tuned in to that fact. And if so, he had to find the man, find out where he hid during the dark hours and bring the cops to him. Be the hero, just like he planned, and then dare his father to ground him again, doubt him, and look at him with those pitying eyes. Dare him to yell because he’d left the house without permission.

Crazy.

He hurried toward the park.

Crazy.

He slipped his hands into his pants pockets, thumbs hanging out, and tried not to come down too hard on his heels. He had to look casual, just out for a late night stroll, in case a patrol car came around and wanted to know what he was doing on the streets when there was a madman on the loose. He couldn’t tell them then. He couldn’t say that he knew the Howler, because they wouldn’t believe him. He had to find him, and his den, and only then would he be able to bring in the troops.

Halfway to the corner a car pulled over to the curb and the passenger door opened. He slowed and glanced in, and caught his breath when he saw Tar.

“Hey, Duck, does your mommy know you’re out?”

“Lay off,” he said glumly.

“Aw, poor Ducky. Hey, Brian, the Duck says to lay off.”

Pratt leaned over from the steering wheel and grinned. “Okay, Mr. Duck. Whatever you say.”

Don glared and moved on, and the car followed him slowly.

“Hey, Boyd,” Tar said in a loud whisper, “glad to see you found your jacket. Looks good. How’d you get the shit off?”

Don stopped, turned, but Brian drove on, his and Tar’s laughter filling the night.

He wanted to raise a fist, but it would have done no good and he would have only gotten into a fight. But it was them, and he groaned because his father would never believe it.

At the corner he stopped again, waited in shadow for a bus to pass, and in waiting considered heading down to Tracey’s. She’d be in bed but a pebble against her window might bring her out before her father woke up. He would talk to her. He would tell her. He would …

“Shit,” he muttered, and dashed across the boulevard, reached the park wall at full speed, and vaulted over without pausing.

A minute passed, and five before he got up from his knees and made his way to the central path. The park was so much his, he knew right away there was no one nearby, no one to overhear and question him, and take him back to the house.

He was alone.

And as he approached the oval and its curtain of white light he knew he was wrong.

There was something out there, out there in the dark.

Something familiar.

He slowed; he stopped; he sidestepped just before the trees fell away, and he squinted into the light.

There, he thought, craning his neck. It was over there, on the other side, not moving, only watching, and when his left hand reached around behind him he realized with a silent curse he had forgotten to bring the flashlight — he had nothing now he could use as a weapon.

Brian and Tar; it had to be them, back to make sure he understood their position. Beating the shit out of him; and when the police came, they would be sleeping soundly in bed and he would have to explain what he was doing in the park.

He backed away.

A hand rubbed at his mouth.

Crazy; if he wasn’t crazy before, he was sure crazy now for thinking of this stunt. The poster obviously had an explanation, the shadows were his nerves because of Pratt and his hatred, but this was complete madness.

A swift search of the nearest brush rewarded him with a four-foot length of dead branch. He hefted it, tapped it against his palm, and prayed frantically that he wouldn’t have to use it, though against what or who he didn’t know.

Then a voice behind him said, “Babyfuck,” and a hand grabbed his throat.

Don screamed without making a sound as his hand spasmed and the branch fell from his hand, and before he could attempt to break free, an arm banded hard across his chest, pinning his own to his sides. Brian! he yelled silently; Tar, for god’s sake, get the hell off me! But his head was forced back, and when he lowered his gaze from the spin of the treetops, he saw the tweed sleeve, the dried blood, and he knew.

Panic flared and made him hollow. But he was not going to die. Amanda was dead, and Sam was dead, and he was not going to die because he was not anyone else, not just a name on the news; he was Don Boyd, and Don Boyd didn’t die. Not yet. God, not yet.

The Howler was too strong to fight, and he had no choice but to let himself be dragged around the rim of the pond, his neck close to breaking, his breathing harsh and shallow, the back of his head hot from the breath that came from the monster’s mouth.

“Babyfuck,” said Tanker Falwick. “You sure are one stupid baby fuck, boy.”

Don swung one leg around and braced a heel against the concrete. The man grunted, and Don whimpered at the pain that blossomed along his spine, but progress toward the dark was momentarily halted.

Falwick whispered, “You wanna bath? Like the whore? You wanna bath, punk?”

A vicious kick to a calf, and Don went down, the fingers whipping away from his throat to grab a’ patch of hair. His eyes watered, and his left arm was taken by the wrist and bent up along his back.

“Look, you punk!” the man gasped in his ear. “Stop fucking around and look! See that dark shit there? That’s blood, pal. Blood. From the whore. Beautiful, ain’t it? Must be a gallon of blood there, at least a goddamned gallon. And you know something, punk? They can try for a hundred years, they ain’t never gonna get that whore’s blood outta there.” A cackling laugh, and Don’s face was pressed closer to the ground. “Hungry, boy? You wanna lick it, punk? You wanna—”

“Please,” Don managed.

“Oh, my, listen to that.”

He swallowed phlegm and acid, blinked away the tears, and wondered why he couldn’t have been built like Fleet or Tar so he could leap out of the man’s grasp, turn, and beat him to a bloody mess where Amanda had died.

Tanker forced his face even closer to the ground, and when his nose touched the cold cement, he shut his eyes tightly.

“Please,” he said, less pleading now than commanding.

“Aw, babyfuck, you getting mad at the old sarge? You getting mad at me, punk?”

He was. He didn’t understand it, but he was. He was terrified of what was coming, and enraged at his helplessness, and he didn’t want to die and there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it, not a thing, just like always.

“I–I won’t say anything, honest I won’t.”

“Aw, the punk’s begging. Ain’t that nice. They all do, y’know, punk. They all beg at the end. They think they’re hot shit, but they all beg at the end.”

Not the end, he thought, suddenly contorting his body in hopes of breaking the hold. But his head shrieked at the pull of hair, and his thigh burst into flame when a heel jammed into it, and his jacket and shirt where the man had gripped them from behind closed around his chest and restricted his lungs.

“They all beg, the little whores, and it don’t do any good. Say good-bye, punk. You little white trash shit.”

Don gagged as his head was pulled back; his eyes opened and stared, and then he lashed his right hand around and caught Falwick on the biceps with an elbow. The man grunted his surprise, dropped the hold on his hair, and Don jabbed again swiftly, scissoring his legs until he was over on his back, his left arm still behind him but pinning Falwick’s arm there as well.

And he saw the man’s face.

The same hard-lined face, the same grubby man he had seen under the bleachers.

Falwick spit at him, clubbed the side of his head with a fist, and rose, dragging him up, releasing the bent arm and spinning him around. Laughing. Coughing. Four times around until he let go with a squeal and Don pinwheeled into the pond, landed sitting up and shaking water from his eyes.

A mistake! he thought jubilantly; and I can outrun him.

But first he had to outmaneuver him or distract him, and the man in the tweed jacket and fatigue pants was standing right there on the edge, watching him smugly, licking his lips and lightly rubbing his arm.

“You gonna run?” Falwick asked with a sneer. “You gonna try for it, boy? If you are, you better get up, or I’m gonna cut you where you sit.”

It was unreal.

It was something happening to someone else in a dream.

It was like … and Don saw himself on the movie theater screen, rising vengefully from the cold water and lunging to the apron, whirling to plant a foot solidly in the man’s chest. A bone snapped. Blood gouted from the man’s scabbed lips. Another foot to the stomach, a lethal fist to the chin, and the Howler fell backward, rigid and unconscious, into the pond.

On the screen.

“Goddamn punk,” the Howler said in disgust. “You’re all the same, you fucking little punks. All the goddamned same. You ain’t got no guts. You’re baby fucks, you don’t deserve to live.”

Don eased himself along until he felt the apron press against his back.

“Good,” Falwick said, nodding. “Very good. You’re trying for a head start.”

A car horn sounded shrilly on the boulevard. The screech of panicked brakes, the prolonged, sickening crunch of metal slamming into metal.

“Well, shit,” Falwick said.

Don looked over his shoulder, not daring to believe it. An accident. The police. He stumbled to his feet, cupped his hands around his mouth, and shouted. Scrambled to the apron and started to run.

Falwick was in front of him, arms spread, fingers waggling at him to try it.

Don made a feint to the left, to the right, but the Howler only stood there, his hands up and out now, showing him the nails that had grown into claws.

A cry and a wild turn, and he was racing up the path toward the ball field, head high and arms pumping, trying to ignore the agony in his neck and thigh, trying not to listen to the man chasing him and closing ground, wheezing a laugh and snarling like a dog let loose from its leash.

Out of the trees and across the grass, heading for the north exit. There were houses there. He could yell. He could break a window. He would get somebody to come to the door, see what was happening and call the police. He could still be a hero; he could still get home and still be alive, and jesus please don’t let me die I don’t wanna die not like Amanda.

The Howler appeared at his side, pacing him easily and grinning. “Hey, punk, this the best you can do?”

He faltered, and the man bellowed and snapped a clubbed fist into his chest. He fell forward, still running, feeling the fire around his heart while he scrabbled on hands and knees before his elbows gave out and he slammed to the ground. Panting. Crying. Furious at himself for being such an idiot, furious at the Howler for not letting him live, furious at the whole fucking world for all their goddamned rules!

He tensed, waiting for the blow.

He looked up, grass and dirt stuck to his cheeks, and saw the Howler standing over him, hands on his hips.

“You done, punk?”

He sagged, curled, and felt his mouth open slowly.

“Little bastard.”

The Howler looked up at the sky, at the moon, and cocked his head as though listening to instructions from the night. Then he reached down to grab the jacket, and Don wriggled away, twisting until he was crab-walking on his buttocks.

“Christ,” the Howler muttered, reached again, and froze.

The kid’s eyes were open in terror, but he wasn’t looking at him.

Falwick snorted, reached again, and froze again when he heard it behind him Iron striking iron. Hollow. Slow.

“What the fuck?”

Don felt his lips begin to quiver, felt the cold from the ground travel up through his clothes to cling to his skin, but he could neither move away from the man who was turning aside nor could he look somewhere else, to see something, anything, that proved he wasn’t crazy at all.

Iron. Striking iron.

Stones on a hollow log.

Wood against wood.

The hooves of a black horse clopping softly on the earth.

Falwick shook his head, rubbed his eyes, shook his head again and lifted his hands. “What the hell is this?”

The stallion was on the far side of the diamond, more shadow than substance, its sides gleaming black, its mane untouched by the wind that rose from the light of the moon. It moved without moving its head, gliding across the basepath, across the pitcher’s mound, across the grass, and stopping.

Falwick tried to look behind it, to see where the owner was and if he would have to kill more than once tonight; Don pushed himself backward, not daring to believe it.

“Fuck off,” Falwick said then, and turned back to his prey with a this is it, pal grin.

The horse snorted and pawed the ground.

Falwick looked over his shoulder, and Don saw the blood drain from his grimy face.

The horse, moving again, deliberately, more slowly, was half again as big as any Don had ever seen. Its muscles rolled and flexed like black waves over black water; its tail was arched and twitching, its forelock blown back between ears that lay flat along the sides of its massive head; and the eyes were large and slanted, and a dark glowing green.

“You?” the boy whispered.

It paused, and looked at him, and he saw from his vision’s corner the Howler backing away.

“You?”

The horse waited.

Don looked to Tanker Falwick, closed his eyes, and saw Amanda.

I could be a hero, he thought, and who would believe me?

His eyes shut more tightly and saw his empty room, heard his mother call him Sam, heard his father as much as call him a liar. Teachers pushing him. Tracey not calling. Brian and Tar and Fleet and all the others. The rainbow lights behind his eyelids stung like dull needles; his fading black eye felt as if it were bleeding at the edges; and then he saw himself on the park grass, his eyes open and blind, his throat torn and bleeding.

The horse waited.

His eyes opened again, the stinging gone, the images gone, and the animal was still there.

I’m crazy, he thought; and suddenly the nugget in his chest expanded, exploded … and he felt nothing at all.

“Yes,” he said flatly. “Yes. Do it.”

The animal waited a moment longer, then headed straight for the Howler, its gaze fixed on the man’s chest, its legs lifting higher, coming down harder, and striking green sparks from the earth beneath its hooves.

When it was ten yards away, Falwick groaned in terror and whirled to his left, bolting for the trees, and the stallion rose against the moon, forelegs snapping out, mane billowing now as steam flowed like dark smoke from its nostrils.

Then it ran.

And the ground was silent except for the slap of the Howler’s shoes, silent except for the sparks snapping into the dark, green and trailing and dying before landing.

Don rolled to his knees, his right hand closing unconsciously over the branch he’d dropped earlier, and he watched as the Howler veered to the left, swerved to the right, and spun around just as the horse reached him and reared.

Don shouted.

Falwick screamed.

And the stallion came down on him, sparks streaking to green fire.