Invaders From Mars (7 page)

I can still do that!
he thought as he rolled out of bed and slid his feet into his slippers. He grabbed his robe from the bedpost, then went to his night stand and opened the top drawer. He took out his flashlight and flicked it on; it worked. Before leaving the room, David peeked over the edge of Jasper’s terrarium. The lizard’s head was poking out from under a piece of bark.

“I’ll be right back,” David whispered.

He put the flashlight in the pocket of his plaid robe and quietly left the room, crept down the hall, and ran his hand along the bannister as he silently tiptoed down the stairs.

Once through the kitchen, he found the back door unlocked. That was odd; Dad was usually very careful about locking all the doors at night. Maybe after the excitement of the meteor shower, it had slipped his mind. David pushed the screen door open gradually, just a bit at a time, so the loud screech wouldn’t wake Mom and Dad.

Outside, the rain had stopped and stars were beginning to twinkle through breaks in the clouds. A low mist hovered ghostlike over the ground.

David took the flashlight from his pocket as he crossed the wet grass and flicked it on when he reached the trail. In the mist, the beam of light became solid, almost tangible, and David swept it cautiously back and forth before him as a blind man would his cane.

The trail was smooth, undisturbed. There was no sign of what David had seen earlier.

The night was alive with sounds.

Frogs croaked in the darkness.

Crickets chirped with a cheerfulness that seemed sinister in the night.

An owl hooted and shifted in the branches overhead.

Tentacles of mist curled around the posts of the split-rail fence; they seemed to be trying to escape the beam of David’s flashlight.

He spotted something on the ground and squatted down, shining the light before him. Footprints in the rain-softened ground were headed over the hill. He followed them with his eyes until they disappeared over the top.

Before David could stand again, something slapped onto his shoulder and, with a scream of fright, David fell on his side and rolled back down the trail, dropping the flashlight and swiping at the thing on his shoulder. The flashlight rolled down the path with him, its light darting over the ground and the bushes around David, adding to his panic.

David got on his hands and knees, gasping, and looked around frantically. A few feet away, staring at him stupidly, was a frog, fat and moist. Its throat bulged as it croaked.

David felt the fear washing off him as he touched his shoulder; it was wet and sticky.

“Stupid frog,” he whispered. He got up, brushing himself off, then picked up the frog. It squirmed in his hand restlessly. David tossed it to the side of the path, then realized that Copper Hill was thick with frogs. They seemed to come out in force at that moment, hopping this way and that over the path, croaking loudly, filling the night with their deep, throaty sounds.

David stepped over to his flashlight, which was no longer shining. He picked it up and flicked it a few times. It wouldn’t work. As he slipped it into his pocket again, wondering what to do next, he heard a soft
crunch:
leaves underfoot.

A twig snapped.

More leaves whispered.

Footsteps.

Slowly, with a tightness building in his chest, he turned and looked up the hill.

The sky above the hill was beginning to glow with the light of dawn and against the dim haze, a figure rose over the hill’s crest, walking slowly toward David.

“Dad?” David asked timidly. Then, when he was certain, he took a couple steps up the path. “Dad!”

He continued walking over the hill, but said nothing. His bathrobe hung on him sloppily, the untied belt dangling at his sides. He seemed tired, maybe even a little sick. David noticed, as he got closer, that Dad had that look on his face that often remained a day or so after the New Year’s Eve party at the base: tense, squeamish.

“Did you see anything, Dad?” David asked.

He didn’t even seem to notice David.

“Dad? Are you all right?”

Dad’s face relaxed, just a little, and he looked down at David, almost, but not quite, smiling. “Sure. Fine.” But he didn’t stop walking. David’s presence was apparently forgotten once again and the tight, sickly expression returned to Dad’s face as he walked by David.

Turning slowly as Dad passed, watching him head toward the house, David saw him stumble, then regain his balance. He looked down at Dad’s feet. On one foot he wore a dirty, ragged slipper; the other was muddy and bare. He rolled his head around as he walked, rubbing his neck as if it ached.

David frowned as Dad crossed the back yard and went into the house. Something was not right. Why was he wearing only one slipper? And why did he have that nauseated look on his face? He hadn’t even told David to go back to bed!

Something was definitely not right.

Stepping over frogs, David made his way slowly to the house, hoping Dad would be in bed when he got there. He didn’t like to see him like that. Maybe he would be better in the morning.

Looking at the sky, which was glowing a little brighter, David thought,
It is morning.

In his room, David sat on the edge of the bed, nibbling on his lower lip and nervously twitching a foot.

Coming up the stairs, he’d heard movement down the hall in his parents’ room. He’d ducked into his bedroom and shut the door, then, after a moment of thought, he’d locked it.

The hall was silent for a while, then David heard his dad’s hushed voice and more movement. The hall light was flicked on and its glow seeped under David’s bedroom door.

Soft footsteps.

The familiar creak of the floor just above the stairs.

The footsteps stopped for a moment, then continued along the hall toward David’s room. He pushed himself back on the bed, hugged his knees to his chest, and pressed against the headboard.

The light beneath the door was darkened by two feet.

“David?” Dad asked softly.

David grabbed his covers and pulled them over him, curling up in his robe.

“You asleep?”

Turning his back to his dad’s voice, David closed his eyes tightly, feeling cold.

The doorknob turned several times, its metallic clicks sounding like explosions in David’s ears.

His heart was beating so hard that he was afraid Dad might hear. He remained still, waiting, until he heard his dad’s footsteps receding down the hall. David opened his eyes, but he didn’t move. He decided he wouldn’t go downstairs until he knew Mom was up.

Guilt nibbled at David’s insides. He was angry at himself for feeling the way he did toward his dad. He loved Dad, trusted him, and knew that Dad would never do anything to hurt him.

But something was wrong. Something was different.

David got out of bed and quietly walked to the window. In the growing light of dawn, Copper Hill was a maze of shadows. Beyond and out of sight lay the sand pit.

What did Dad find over there?
David wondered. His next thought brought with it a deep chill:
What found him?

C H A P T E R
Five

D
avid stood at his bedroom door—showered, dressed, and ready for school. He had his books in his backpack, his pennies in his pouch. He faced the closed door for several moments before steeling himself, opening it, and stepping into the hall.

His parents’ bedroom door was closed. There was no one in sight. David could smell something cooking in the kitchen. He hoped that Mom was up.

On his way down the stairs, he heard his mom muttering in the kitchen.

“On the journal side,” she said, “we have our receipts . . . a little sales . . . some invoices . . .”

David stopped at the foot of the stairs. He couldn’t tell if she was talking to Dad or just to herself.

“Okay, in our ledger, we have accounts receivable . . . and payments . . . sundries . . .”

David went to the kitchen door and looked around. Dad was nowhere in sight. Mom was at the small bar that came off the counter, hunched over her books. He cleared his throat and asked, “Where’s Dad?”

“Did you make your bed?” she asked without looking up.

“It’s made.” He went into the kitchen and peered over her shoulder. He was so surprised at what he saw that he blinked several times, unable to suppress a tickled grin. She was writing notes on her fingers! Mom was
cheating!
“Mom, what . . . what are you doing?”

With a startled gasp, she spun away from the bar. “Nothing!” She slapped her books closed and pressed her hands on the covers. “Nothing,” she said again. “It’s . . . not what you think.”

“You’ll get caught,” he said, still grinning.

Her face relaxed and she smirked. “Nah,” she whispered, “not me.”

David could tell she was embarrassed at being caught and decided to change the subject. “Mom, where’s—”

“George,” she interrupted, looking over David’s shoulder, “you’re not dressed?”

David spun around and almost pushed his face into Dad’s stomach. He was still in his bathrobe, standing so close that David had to tilt his head way back to see his face. Dad looked down at David.

No smile.

No good morning.

No expression at all except that vague, queasy look.

David took a timid step back.

Dad had not yet combed his hair and spikes of it stuck out on the sides. His jaw was darkened by a shadow of stubble. One hand was in the pocket of his bathrobe, which looked mussed and slept in. His left foot was still bare and dirty.

“What happened to your other slipper, Dad?” David asked reluctantly.

“I lost it.”

“Do you want coffee?” Mom asked.

Dad seemed uncertain. “Ummm . . . yeah.”

Mom poured some and handed him the steaming cup. Dad set it on the table.

“George,” Mom said, tilting her head as she looked him over, “is anything wrong with you? Are you all right, hon?”

Half of Dad’s mouth curled into a boyish smile as he shrugged. “It’s kind of muddy out there.”

“Are you sure there wasn’t anything over the hill, Dad?” David asked.

Dad looked down at him. His face was a blank stare for what seemed a long time, then he smiled fully, slowly extending his hand and touching his forefinger to David’s nose.

“Nothing,” he said. “It was just . . . a bad . . . dream. That’s all.” He pulled a chair out and seated himself at the table.

“Waffles are coming up,” Mom said cheerily, tending to breakfast.

David hardly heard her. He leaned against the bar silently watching Dad.

Tendrils of steam curled under Dad’s nose as he lifted the cup of coffee to his mouth. Touching the rim to his lips, he began to gulp the coffee, taking big, long swallows until it was gone.

David put a hand on the edge of the bar and clutched until his knuckles were white as he watched steam flow from his dad’s mouth. He expected a pained reaction, at least a wince. The coffee had obviously been very hot and drinking it so fast
must
have hurt! Dad only smacked his lips a few times and stood, taking the empty cup back to the pot for a refill.

Amazed, David followed him with his eyes and noticed something on the back of his neck, something small and dark. He only got a glimpse of it before Dad turned from the coffeepot.

“I could’ve gotten that, hon,” Mom said, dishing up breakfast.

Dad ignored her, took the small bottle of saccharine tablets from the counter, and returned to the table. As he scooted his chair up, David stepped behind him and looked at his neck.

It was a cut, puffy and bruised, with black dried blood still clinging to it, just above the collar of Dad’s bathrobe.

“What happened to your neck, Dad?” David asked, alarmed.

Dad immediately put a hand over the spot, fingering it.

“A branch must’ve nicked me,” he said casually, adjusting his collar.

David stepped closer, trying to get another look at the cut, but it was covered by the collar.

Dad turned and smiled at him. “Sit down, David. Breakfast is ready.”

As David took his seat, Dad poured saccharine tablets into his coffee. He plopped nearly half the little white tablets into his cup.

Mom turned from the counter with a plate in each hand, setting them on the table. “Honey,” she said to Dad, “why don’t you let me take a look at it?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Let me see. It might need a Band-Aid. I could—”

“No!”
Dad snapped.

Mom flinched at his tone. “Okay. Fine.” She turned to David. “Eat your breakfast before it gets cold. I’ve got to go.”

David ignored his mother as she bent down and kissed him on the head, staring instead at Dad, who poured the rest of the saccharine tablets into his coffee, emptying the bottle. He took a few big gulps of the coffee, looking satisfied as more steam swirled from his lips.

“Bye, darling,” Mom said, kissing Dad, too. Then she gathered her books from the counter and started out of the kitchen.

“Mom!” David said, his back stiff. He wanted desperately for her to stay. Something was wrong.

“Hurry up and eat, David, or you’ll be late again,” she called over her shoulder as she disappeared through the doorway.

David stared at the empty doorway until he heard the front door close. He looked at the clock: 7:20. The ticking seemed thunderous in the silence.

Dad stared across the table at David, his breakfast ignored, steam rising from his cup.

Mom knocked on the kitchen window, startling David. “You’re not eating!” she exclaimed through the glass. She turned and hurried to the car.

David bit his lip, fighting the urge to bound out of the kitchen and stop her. What would he say? If he tried to explain to her the icy dread that was growing inside him, he would only sound crazy. With a helpless, sinking feeling, he watched her back the car out of the driveway and disappear down the road.

David looked at his breakfast. His stomach was burning with tension and the mere thought of putting the waffles and eggs and orange wedges into his mouth made his throat feel tight.

Dad continued to stare unflinchingly at David. His face was stone, his eyes empty and unblinking.