Dismember

THIRTY-FIVE

Hank watched the boy flip the phone open and closed several times before sticking it into his breast pocket. He hadn’t said goodbye, seemed to have been cut off mid-sentence. Lost his connection, Hank thought. It surprised him that the kid had managed to make a call from way out here in the first place. Of course, he didn’t know much about all these newfangled electronics. Maybe they had special phones for country folks, better antennas or something. He waited for Davy’s reaction.

The boy only stood there looking clueless, staring at the sky as if he thought he could fly away. Hank wished he could tell him there was no place to go, that if there had been he’d have gone himself, but that was something the boy would have to learn on his own.

Tell Mommy I love her, the boy had said.

Hank had smiled at that. The logical thing for the Pullmans to do, of course, was call every cop in the state and send them Hank’s way with a gun in each hand and a grenade pin between their teeth. But it was hard to be logical when you thought your little boy was in trouble. Hank knew. They’d call the authorities, of course—any good parents would—but they wouldn’t be able to stay put afterward. They’d come. They’d both come. And long before the cops. Fate wouldn’t screw him over a second time. Not today. It just wasn’t possible. Hank pushed out from his hiding spot feeling like he’d won the lottery. His toothpick bobbed, and he flipped it around with his tongue.

Davy didn’t see him at first, but when he did, he jumped back and fell onto his rear end, screaming and looking like he might wet his pants. Hank wouldn’t have been surprised—Davy didn’t exactly have the best control over his bladder. Not that it was the kid’s fault, of course.

“You’re a sneaky little guy, aren’t you?” Hank closed in on the boy, who had stopped screaming, who stood stiller than a headlit animal in the middle of the road. Hank shuddered a little and wasn’t quite sure why. “How in the world did you out?”

Davy had his hand on his breast pocket, as if the phone might still do him some good.

“Hand it over,” Hank said and flapped his fingers. The toothpick slid from one side of his mouth to the other.

The kid pretended not to know what he was talking about, and Hank could admire him for that, but he wasn’t in the mood for playing games. He rushed the boy, pried his hand away from his pocket, and pulled out the cellular phone.

Although Hank was in most ways glad for the phone call Davy had made, he couldn’t let it show. Fathers had to maintain a certain level of respect. He spun around and whipped the phone at a nearby tree. It spun through the air three times and smacked. Hank was no Nolan Ryan, but he’d definitely gotten some heat on the throw, and he hit the tree dead center. The cell phone exploded. One second it was a high-tech piece of equipment, the next a plastic cloud raining down springs and hinges and shards of cheap casing.

Hank turned back to the boy. “What about Georgie?” he said coolly, as if the phone-throwing outburst hadn’t happened at all. “He loose, too?”

Davy shook his head.

“Good.” Hank chomped his pick. He didn’t especially believe Davy, but he touched the boy’s shoulder, gripped it but didn’t squeeze it, and said, “Let’s get back,” as if everything was hunky dory and they were at a father-son picnic headed for the three-legged race instead of in the woods at night, Hank covered in blood and Davy nearly stiffer than the severed leg in the station wagon back yonder.

“Wait,” Hank said. “First, you need a replacement.”

“A what?”

Hank didn’t respond. He found a thick piece of bark on the ground and handed it to Davy. “Here.”

“What—”

“Put it in your pocket. Where you had the phone.”

“Why? I—”

“Just do it!”

Davy cringed but took the bark and slipped it into his pocket.

“Okay,” said Hank, “now move.” And for a wonder, Davy did.

Trevor let himself be led back through the woods. He’d done what he could, and although he would have preferred to stay away from the bad man until help came, he guessed he could tough it out a little longer. It wasn’t like the guy was hurting him, really, just squeezing his shoulder. Trevor guessed he’d bring him back to the room with no windows, back to Zach, lock him up again, and that was fine. When they came to rescue him, a locked door wouldn’t keep them out. They’d get the key, and if not the key then they’d break the door in, and it would THWACK against the wall just like in one of his comics.

He saw the house through the trees, the parked truck and the chopping block. Trevor wished he were a big guy, a grownup. He’d have knocked the bad man to the ground, punched him in the face until he bled, then gone back to the house alone and rescued Zach and the doggy both. He could have driven them away in the truck and been the hero. He looked up at the man beside him and knew he could punch his very hardest without doing more than tickling the guy.

They crossed the yard and re-entered the house.

When they’d come the first time, Trevor had been scared. This time, although still scared, he also felt a little proud. He’d done it, after all. He might not be a hero, but he’d made the phone call, had crawled through the crawlspace above the ceiling with all the yellow stuff and the spiders and bats, had gone into the dark woods until the red cell phone got a signal. That was something at least.

It was darker inside than out. They passed the kitchen, where Trevor had left the pile of ceiling in front of the refrigerator, and sped down the hallway to the locked door. Trevor stayed behind the crazy man, trying not to bump into anything, wondering how the man kept from hitting furniture or smacking into walls.

Light shone beneath the door, enough for Trevor to see the bad man’s shoes and his own, but not much else.

Clack click.

The door swung open, and Zach looked out at them from the pile of blankets.

“Georgies are supposed to watch out for their Davys,” the man said.

Before Zach could respond, the man shoved Trevor into the room and re-locked the door. Trevor squinted, held his hands in front of his face to keep away the worst of the light.

“What happened?” Zach whispered. “Did the phone work?”

“Yeah,” said Trevor, but in a distracted way. He looked at the floor beneath the hole in the ceiling, which the man either hadn’t noticed or hadn’t said anything about. “Where’s the mess?”

On the pile, Zach smiled. He lifted up the corner of the blankets and showed Trevor the gray gunk. “I thought if I hid it he might not notice our getaway hatch. At least not right away. Guess I was right.”

“You think you can get me up there again?” Trevor asked.

Zach got up and rubbed his hands together. “I can sure as heck try.”

In the bathroom, Hank stood in front of the sink. He splashed water on his face, washed the blood and the dirt and the sweat down the drain. He ran wet fingers through his hair and tried to get the worst of the gore out of there, too. He found an especially thick wad of blood behind his ear and scratched at it with his fingernail.

He wasn’t normally an overly hygienic person, sometimes went two or three days between showers, but these were special circumstances, and if he’d known the bloodshed was over, he’d have taken his second shower in less than twenty-four hours, which would have been a record. He settled for washing his face, his neck, and his hands. He took off the button-up shirt and tossed it onto the floor by the toilet, where his most recently chewed toothpick floated like the miniature timber from some shipwrecked model boat. The shirt was ruined, as were the pants. A perfectly good birthday suit. What a waste.

Hank turned up the water. The soap was an old, graying bar of Irish Spring. He scrubbed his skin with it until he’d covered his top half with a thin, bubbly film, then washed off the suds and repeated the process. When he was finished, he only looked a little better, but he felt like a new man.

He dried off with a pink towel that had started the day white and left the bathroom.

It would be a while before anyone came for the boys. In the meantime, he needed to rest. Not nap—there wasn’t time for that—but rest, sure. He considered Mr. Boots’s bed, but only briefly. He couldn’t rest where that monster had slept, couldn’t lay his head down on the old man’s drool-crusted pillow. There was a sofa in the living room. Not a comfortable piece of furniture, but not exactly a bed of nails either. It would do for a short rest.

He made his way into the living room, sat down on the springy sofa, and paused only long enough to kick off his shoes before lying his head on one armrest and propping his feet on the other.

Thirty seconds later, despite his intentions, he was asleep.

When he woke, the whole world had gone crazy. That was, the whole world but him.