Shadows Burned In (19 page)

“So what brings you back so soon?”

Elizabeth hesitated, though she felt she could trust him. At
least he hadn’t given her a reason
not
to trust him. “My dad got upset
because I got kicked out of class today. He revoked my 3V privileges for a
week.”

“Oh,” said the old man, nodding. “And you think that was
unfair?”

“Of course . . .” began Michael, but he stopped when he saw
Elizabeth shaking her head.

“Not really, I suppose. But a week without 3V is pretty
harsh. He thinks he’s punishing me for doing poorly in school. But . . . he
doesn’t understand.”

The old man leaned forward and the firelight danced on his
face. “Spoken like a million other children before you,” he said, nodding. “Including
your dad, I’ll bet. So, what doesn’t he understand?”

Elizabeth shrugged, looking at the floor.

“It’s the place she goes when her parents fight,” said
Michael. With that simple statement, all was revealed. Elizabeth felt her
cheeks turning crimson at hearing the truth blurted out so clumsily. But the
old man seemed not embarrassed at all.

“Ah, now I see,” he said. “Have you talked this over with
your parents?”

Elizabeth looked at him, astonished at the notion. “Are you
kidding?”

“Hmm, I guess that
would
be out of the question, now
wouldn’t it?” His tone was playful.

“You don’t know her dad,” Michael said.

“You might be surprised what I know,” said the old man, his
voice heavy. Michael took it as a sign that he shouldn’t respond. Rocky
continued, “So you came here to get away from your folks?”

Elizabeth nodded, again self-conscious. When he spoke it
like that, so directly, it seemed like such a trivial reason for disturbing the
old man’s evening.

“I didn’t want to come,” Michael said before he could stop
himself.

“Oh? Why’s that?”

The boy swallowed hard once, not daring a glance at
Elizabeth. “I’m afraid of ghosts.”

The old man laughed. “Is that what you think I am?” he asked
seriously. “A ghost?”

“No,” Michael said immediately, then paused and shrugged. “I
dunno. Maybe.”

“He’s afraid of Old Suzie,” stated Elizabeth.

“Am not,” said Michael, but unconvincingly.

“Well then,” said the old man, clapping his hands together
lightly, “let’s talk about Old Suzie. And ghosts.”

Long after Susan had gone to bed, David sat in his recliner
in the living room, the always-streaming
Web Report
on the screen. The
commentators were animated as usual, but he wasn’t really looking at the
numbers or listening to them. He was thinking about what Susan had said and
replaying for the thousandth time in his mind how he’d handled Elizabeth’s
dismissal from school. Maybe he
did
push her too hard. Maybe he expected
too much out of her.

Or not enough from yourself.

“What the hell does that mean?” he asked out loud. But his
brain didn’t answer.

Why
had
he moved back here? And why did he get so
upset when Susan asked him that question? Was it because of what she asked or
the way she asked it, in that accusatory, it’s-all-your-fault tone? But—why
had
he moved back here?

Web Report
was interrupted by a bulletin. The
prisoner who’d escaped from Huntsville still hadn’t been found. A 3-D picture
of Wayne Alan Kitts flashed on the screen, and the grizzled old face had a leer
to it that fit with his child-molester record. David focused on that.
That
was
why he’d moved them here.

Because it was a safer place. Huntsville was close to
Houston, and Houston was not safe, well-to-do neighborhood or no. But maybe
there was another reason. A need to come back here, plant the flag, reclaim the
territory for himself.

Maybe Susan was right about that. Maybe he’d merely been
selfish by insisting they come back here. Maybe his concern for Elizabeth had
just been an excuse.

No. He loved his daughter more than his own life. He truly
believed it was safer here. Or that he could
make
it safer here for her.
That he could come back here and slay the dragon that had slept idle and ever
present, breathing sulfur in the back of his mind for so long. And then nothing
could harm her. But somehow that quest, the one he’d never even known he was on,
had gotten twisted back on itself. And now his wife and daughter were pulling
away from him.
Leaning
away from him.

They felt safer sitting away from me. They felt the
need
to feel safer
.

How had things gotten so warped?

David stood up and walked from the living room, through the
hallway, and to Elizabeth’s room. He paused at her door, not wanting to wake or
disturb her, staring at the Parent-Free Zone sign. He remembered how it used to
be for him, his room. A base where no one could tag you to be it. That’s the
way he’d always felt about it when he was a boy. But he wanted to look in on
her, know she was safe in her bed. He cracked the door just a bit and, when he
couldn’t see very well, finally opened it all the way. And saw the gaping
window, its curtains billowing softly.

He looked around the room again, sure he must’ve just missed
her. “Light,” he said, and the overhead bulb blazed on. The room was empty. Had
she run away again? His anger boiled up from inside, all his previous thoughts
drowning in it. But then he noticed the bed.

It was a disaster. The covers were a mess, as if . . . as if
someone had taken her. She had struggled. They’d dragged her out the window.

They
.

The anonymous monsters that every parent knows really exist.
The ones that didn’t hide in closets. The ones that came through windows.

What had
Web Report
been going on about? The escaped
prisoner, Kidd or whatever his name was. Some detail was picking at David’s
brain, something about . . . the fugitive’s home town?

“Susan!” His panic overwhelmed his anger. “
Susan!
”

Chapter 18

Stumbling for the river, Wayne Alan Kitts yanked his legs
away from the bull nettles and Mesquite bushes grabbing at him. He didn’t need
to look back. He could already hear the dogs behind him. They wouldn’t stop, so
he couldn’t either. Motivated, his hands slapped at branches. The Trinity River
wasn’t far.

His breath sounded like a blade cutting wood, lungs aching with
the effort. His bones hurt with the tight grind of age. His side was splitting,
so he reached down to press, relieving some of the pain. When he felt the wet,
he pulled up short, brought his hand up to his face.

“Oh, shit,” he rasped. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

The blood cooled on his fingertips. The demon in the back of
his head tempted him to lick his fingers. He was very thirsty.

“Those sumbitches shot me!”

He stared at the blood in disbelief. Kitts had thought the
pain in his side was just the stitch you got from being old and out of shape.
Adrenaline had kept him from knowing any different before, but the high had
worn off now, and he felt every step, every year. It was like he’d been holding
a handful of top spades heading for that ace-high flush, and then drew a club—right
color, wrong suit. The stab to his psyche was almost as painful as the one in
his side.

But for one card I coulda won this little poker game. But
for one lucky bastard making one lucky shot, I coulda made it
.

He turned around and looked behind him, wishing he could
turn back the clock now that he knew how the game would end. Groundhog Day it,
try again tomorrow, and maybe next time the bastard wouldn’t be such a good
shot.

(too late for that)

“Goddammit!”

The blood coursing through his head was loud, too loud. Then
he realized the rushing sound was the Trinity. Couldn’t be more than fifty
yards in front of him. Now that he looked, Kitts could see the bright light of
the moon dancing off white caps in the river. It was high, flooding with the
first good Central Texas rain since July. Maybe he could float his way
downriver, pick up on the other bank and head out again to boost a car at some
all-night stop-and-shop on I-45.

(or maybe you’ll just bleed out)

Kitts took in a deep breath and his lungs stuck him again.
It felt like every time he breathed he tore the wound open further. He stuck
his finger in the hole and gritted his way through the exploration. He couldn’t
find the bullet and that was bad. That meant it was deep. Maybe gotten to the
vitals.

Vittles
, his grandmother’s voice said in his head.
She had always called dinner vittles when he was a boy.

Maybe that was why his lungs ached so badly, why he was so
out of breath.

It’s probably just old age and your slovenly ways
,
his head said in granny’s voice.

(you hope)

If I only had another chance
, he thought.
I’d
break out and they wouldn’t even
see
me
.

He fought a step at a time now for the river. “It was Stu,
that stupid fuck,” he told the nettles, struggling through. “
Stu
is
short for stupid fuck!”

He’d reached the river’s edge. A voice told him the water’s
roar would keep him from hearing the dogs. Those hounds didn’t need to hear,
and they could run a lot faster than he could. And a lot longer.

And they ain’t been shot
, the Cooler King in his head
said coldly.

He followed the current upriver with his eyes. About a quarter
mile down he saw a house on the bank, bright light against the black country
night. Kitts knew that house. The warden’s house. Ten years ago he’d been a
trusty and almost taken his chance then.

Why didn’t you, at least you were younger and, oh yeah,
not
shot, said the King.

But the guards had watched him like a hawk, so he hadn’t
moved. That was when Deadeye Floyd Parker had been warden. Pretty soon Ramirez
had stepped up to the plate and taken his place, and Kitts was back on Shit Patrol,
never allowed to leave the walls.

That’s Ramirez’s house
, it dawned on him. And he realized
in that instant God was on his side after all. He hadn’t lost the game. The
rules had just changed. He would make it after all. And he’d get a little more
in the kitty to boot.

He dragged along the shallow shore of the Trinity toward the
house, keeping one ear cocked for the dogs he hoped he was confusing. He let
himself savor the images inside his head. Images of Ramirez begging for his
life, of Ramirez’s head caving in—the wet, cracking sound of his skull as Kitts
swung a crowbar or baseball bat or anything else he could get his hands on.

Thank you, God
, he thought, shivering.

Kitts almost slipped as he came up the muddy bank but caught
himself. He ignored the persistent pain in his side as he stood up. He never
took his eyes off the house. He saw now that it was the kitchen light that
shone on the river. He saw a figure moving inside, only a hazy form at this
distance. Kitts picked up his speed, the wound and hounds all but forgotten,
the adrenaline flowing again.

He sidled up next to the house and leaned against it for a
moment, then sank down to his knees, catching a ragged breath. He could ignore
the pain stabbing at him from his lungs, but not so easily the wave of nausea
drifting up his gullet. Kitts braced himself and slid forward till he was under
the kitchen window. He knew if he let himself sit there, it would be where
they’d find him, stuck like a pig and bled out. After another heavy breath, he
pushed himself up to a crouch, his popping knee joints protesting. The mud was
hard and cold under his knees. He could still hear the hounds, but they didn’t
seem any closer. Patting himself on the back for the river trick, Kitts
whispered, “Fuck you, bitches.”

His eyes crept up over the window sill. He blinked,
adjusting to the kitchen light, then ducked quickly as a figure moved into view
not two feet on the other side of the window. He heard the clank of dinner dishes,
scraps grinding down the disposal, plates slipping into neat rows in the sonic
dishwasher. Kitts chanced another glance inside. He saw her then, the light shining
around her.

Caroline
.

Ho-ho-ho, Ramirez’s wife now, not just some piece of the
week. Well, well, well
.

He’d only seen her that one time before, when Ramirez had
humbled him thirty years ago. Kitts remembered her coming to visit her beau on
duty like it was yesterday, that day he’d been scoping out the fence and
Ramirez busted his balls. Her name had stayed in his brain like a brand.

Caroline
.

Kitts wrapped his tongue around her name, caressed it. He
licked it into existence.

“Caroline,” he whispered.

She had been in her late twenties then, Kitts guessed,
remembering what he’d seen. A brunette in jeans, cowboy boots, a sleeveless
buttoned shirt, sunglasses.

A walking-talking reason to escape was what she’d been.

Full breasts and narrow hips, the slimmest hips he had ever
seen on a woman, and he could tell just by looking at them they hadn’t yet birthed
any babies. She had given Ramirez a sweet smile of promise and affection, and
Kitts had stopped his escape planning and recorded the moment as she’d leaned
up to kiss the sergeant on his cocksucking mouth, her scarf blowing in the
breeze. Kitts had imagined her soft closeness, the smell of a woman, the thing
he thought he missed most about sex with them. As she’d her beau, Kitts’s own
lips had pursed as if he were Ramirez. He’d kissed her name on the wind.

Caroline
.

He’d masturbated in his bunk for weeks to the vision of her
on that basketball court until her face had been lost among the thousands of women
they smuggled in over the Web. Eventually, he’d forgotten her in a blonde,
brunette, and redheaded montage of tits, cunts, and asses. That is to say, he’d
forgotten her face. But never her name.

Caroline
.

And now, here she was on the other side of the window.
Anything but his vision, anything but his fantasy.

Wrinkled. Tired. Washing dishes.

Her skin resembled the dishrag slung over the lip of the
sink—used up, wrung out one too many times.

Look what Ramirez has done to her
.

Kitts couldn’t believe his eyes. The vision of her reaching
up, kissing her then-boyfriend. Sometimes he substituted himself in Ramirez’s
place when he remembered it. It all came rushing back to him, as if he were
standing on the court again, three decades ago, watching her lean up and kiss
Ramirez all over again.

It should’ve been you. Cheated again
, he thought.

The old woman washing dishes inside the house seemed a
surreal corruption of the woman he’d first met. Someone had abducted the body
of that goddess and sucked the life out of it. Kitts cursed the fact that he
could still recognize her, because that meant it was really her. Caroline. Not
as he’d remembered her—until he’d forgotten her—but what she had become.

Old
.

She glanced without seeing toward the window, and he ducked
his head again. Moving on his hands and knees, Kitts made his way to the front
of the house. There was no car in the front driveway, so Ramirez must be gone.

(prisoner escape)

Of course he’s gone, dumbass. Jesus, worse than Stu
.

“
Fuck off
,” he whispered.

Kitts staggered to his feet and slowly climbed the wooden
steps of the porch. He turned the front doorknob slightly. The knob was a
little squeaky but not locked. He cracked it open and heard the dishes still
clinking in the kitchen.

Moving inside, he slowly closed the door behind him. Looking
around, he allowed himself a moment to notice the normalcy of it all. The coat
closet, the family portrait of someone’s ancestors on the wall.
Prob’ly hers.
They’re white
, he thought. The hardwood floor. The light from the living
room. Insignificant things, unless you haven’t seen them in thirty years.

The dishes clinked and clanked. Kitts stepped quickly into
the living room. It was a dull yellow in color, and he thought it fit Ramirez
to a tee to have a piss-yellow living room. A couch, two chairs, a coffee
table, a 3V center, all the amenities of home. Ramirez’s home, anyway.

But Ramirez wasn’t home.

(prisoner escape)

Which meant that Caroline was likely alone. Ramirez had
never had any children; it was common knowledge and a running joke around the
prison.
No Deadeye Floyd Parker, this one. Ramirez cain’t shoot straight,
haw-haw
.

Kitts walked over to the mantel piece. He picked out a poker
from the fireplace tools and leaned on it for a minute as his side flared up
again. His belly felt bloated, though he hadn’t eaten in hours. But strangely,
after all his exertion to escape, he wasn’t hungry. In fact, the thought of
food made him more nauseous. But he ignored that, feeling the cold steel of the
fireplace poker in his hand.
Lost one poker game earlier
, he thought,
smiling at his own word-play.
Now I’ve got me a new hand to play.

He heard the dishwasher begin to hum. She was finishing up
in the kitchen. No, not
she
.

Caroline
.

Kitts sat down in what he assumed was Ramirez’s recliner and
waited for her to come out.
Can Caroline come out to play?
his thought
giggled. But he didn’t laugh out loud. His side hurt too much.

“Rudy?”

The chair faced the 3V center, away from the kitchen door.
All Caroline could see was the top of a man’s head in the chair. It was gray
like her husband’s but dirty. She thought it strange that she didn’t really
recognize the back of her own husband’s head.

“Hello, Caroline.”

Not quite her husband’s voice.
Not even close
.

Against all common sense, she walked over to the chair. The
man stood up and Caroline rared back. An abomination clotted with mud and blood
stood in front of her. The now-battered cardboard armor that had protected
Kitts as he climbed over the razor wire made him look like he’d donned a
hellish version of a child’s robot costume for Halloween. His left side was
wet. Caroline looked down and had the fleeting thought that the blood stain where
he’d sat in Rudy’s chair would be hell to get out of the fabric.

“Wha-what do you want?”

The abomination smiled. “Thirty years ago, if you’d only
asked me that question. Instead, you laughed at me.”

Kitts raised the poker in his right hand. Caroline’s mind
screamed at her to run, but her feet seemed deaf.

She knitted her eyebrows, trying to see past the dirt and
years. “I don’t even know you.”

“You don’t . . .” The man gasped, the poker faltering. Caroline
assumed it was the stitch in his side. She had been married to law enforcement
long enough to know a gunshot wound when she saw one. “How can you say that to
me?” the dirty old man asked.