Part 8 (2/2)

I didn't connect any of the stories with Reggie; when he would disappear all day, I figured he was just babying those maple trees again. I wanted my uncle to be okay. One Sat.u.r.day morning, I followed Uncle Reggie, curious as to why he hadn't invited me to harvest with him since the storm. He jerked through the woods carrying a stuffed burlap sack. After every fifty feet or so, Reggie would stop and flick a glance over one shoulder. Maybe he knew I was following him; maybe he wanted me to see.

I drifted behind, feeling some fear swell where there shouldn't be fear. My stomach tightened, squeezed by a giant's hands. This was Uncle Reggie, right? The guy who taught me all the secrets of the maple trees and how to tap the best sap?

Deep in the woods, Reggie dropped the sack, reached inside, and yanked out a dog, a little black terrier with a wide red collar. That's about all I could see. Reggie took the dog over to a tree-the mutt was squealing like mad, kicking its little puppy feet. A knife flicked out of Reggie's sleeve, and he flayed that dog alive; his hands ran red as he shook its body over the tree, rubbing the blood all over.

When I close my eyes, I still see that awful, red-black blood pulsing between Reggie's fingers.

I ran away, headed for the house, but tripped on a downed maple branch that let out a loud pop. My ankle throbbed; the blood in my veins hammered against my skull. Reggie had me by the collar before I could scramble to my feet. I smelled the awful, warm, dog odor. He spun me around-I swear he had no irises, just pure oil-slick in his eyes, dancing around loose in his skin-tight skull. The gleam was gone-replaced by nothingness.

”Blood will have blood, won't it boy? We bleed the trees...what do they get?”

I shook. Tears came.

”They're real thirsty.” He smiled, and his teeth jutted out, brown and awful. ”I'm going to need something bigger.”

I pushed him away-he must have let me go; I quaked like the last autumn leaf to fall in a gale, b.u.mbling my way back to the house. When I got home, I stripped off my stained jacket-marred with Reggie's b.l.o.o.d.y hands-and threw it in the furnace, too frightened to tell anyone.

Susie VanNuyck vanished the next week. Rumors blew through the valley. News vans parked in the village square and laid siege to the VanNuyck house for a while. She was my age, and Mom started escorting me everywhere. Reggie kept eyeing me, daring me to say something until I finally cracked, and sobbed to my folks who, in turn, called the sheriff.

Reggie went quietly, except just before they shoved him in the back of a cruiser, he lurched free and lunged at me. ”They were thirsty, boy. Crying to me in the cold night. I had to feed them something warm...” The officers wrapped his arms in their rough fists and tossed him in the waiting car.

I thought about the scars criss-crossing his arms and the time he wandered during the snowstorm. I saw the little terrier bleeding in Reggie's hands. I tried to remember Susie's face-we'd gone to school together-but I lost the memory in a wash of black.

The Addison County Sheriff found carca.s.ses of some two dozen small animals out in the reduction shed, but no Susie. Without any evidence, the kidnapping charges wouldn't stick. Reggie served a good deal of time for his other crimes, but Mom says he is out of prison now. He never came home. I imagine he's probably out there, somewhere, babying those trees again.

Chapter 42: Quiet Time.

He sent away for the box six weeks ago. Finding the ad in the back of an old issue of Carnage Corps at the comic shop, he tore along the dotted line and pushed the rough, pulpy paper inside his waistband. His breath froze in his chest as he walked past the clerk. Heart ready to burst, his rubber soles pounded against asphalt, and the ad flew away with the next day's mail.

The box arrived on a rainy day. The boy scooped it into his arms, brushed his damp sneakers on the rug in the foyer, and rushed to his room to read the instructions.

His father was first, and the boy snuck into the living room while the television prattled away and the old man snored in his recliner. Following the directions, he started at the man's feet, peeling back the flaps of the box and pulling the man's toes inside. His father stirred, but did not wake. With a hushed sucking noise, not unlike a noodle dancing into one's mouth, the box took care of the rest.

Later that night, he added his mother and sister--each with a propensity to mutter in her sleep. The box made short work of both. Swoooosh. Swooosh. Cardboard flaps tucked together, and he tacked them down with a slick length of packing tape.

He affixed the return label that came with the box and set it on his stoop for the postman. Then, exhausted from his work, the boy crawled under the warm weight of his quilt, pulled an extra pillow to his chest, and slept until noon, the first solid night of sleep in ages.

Chapter 43: Policy Woes.

The memorandum, delivered by a man in green, made it clear that the accident was unfortunate, and the company took the remains to the Hall of Resurrection. A nice gesture, Molly thought, to send a real live person to deliver the news. She called for a taxi, and sped to the Hall.

Molly watched the cityscape melt into a blur through the tinted faux-gla.s.s. She began to imagine life with a new Roger. Death on the job usually meant retirement with a full pension; they could leave for the lunar cruise as soon as his coordination and muscular function were back. She pondered the possibility of a small cabin on one of the new Aleutians. Perhaps, with the pension and death bonus, they could live their dreams now instead of scrimping and saving for another fifteen years.

”Destination achieved,” barked a metal-box voice from the front of the taxi. ”Hall of Resurrection.”

Molly slid her fee card, nodded to the robot, and hopped from the cab onto a white platform. The doors of the hall stood twenty yards away, tall, sweeping doors emblazoned with silver imprints of Davinci's man. The slogan, ”New Life Now”, arched above the entrance in large, block letters. She smiled at a few people milling about and hurried into the hall.

In the lobby, Molly dodged the great Resurrection Fountain, a stylized sculpture of a man rising from a frothy pool, his hands stretched toward the sky. She sidled to the reception desk and waited while the attendant tapped away on her keypad.

”Name?”

Molly started. ”Oh, me? Molly Preutis.”

”No ma'am, name of client?”

Molly's face stained red. ”Sorry, I've never,” her eyes floated to the domed ceiling, ”well, I've never been here before. Roger. Roger Preutis. That's my husband.”

The attendant nodded. ”Yes. Someone will be with you in a moment.”

”Thank you.” Molly stepped away from the desk and scanned the room, fully realizing the beauty of the grand statue. She moved to the edge of the pool and looked into the bubbling water.

”Almost hypnotizing, isn't it?”

”What?” Molly looked up and found herself face to face with a thin plank of a man with a smudge of black hair and thin gla.s.ses. ”Oh, yes.”

”You're Molly?”

”Yes...”

His hand extended and shook hers. ”Quinton Boge. I'm a case manager here.”

Molly pulled her hand away, his skin suddenly feeling cold. ”There's been a problem, hasn't there?”

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