Torn (5 page)

Hours later, the moonlight had long gone and Cheryl, her curfew approaching, was looking half asleep. Devin found his brain echoing the screech of Karston's mother, wishing the inept bass player had never bought the bass in the first place.

“Take it nice and easy, Karston,” he said, trying really hard to keep his voice calm. “Listen to the control track. Give it a count of four…no, you know what, forget that. You just pick a beat, any beat you want, and start playing. Just play. And don't stop. You can do it, man.”

Karston nodded. He nodded just like he'd nodded for the last ten takes he'd screwed up. But maybe, maybe even if Karston started early, or late,
or in the middle, Devin could slide the track along on the laptop screen and synch it up. All he had to do was play the right notes and the right tempo. In fact, Karston didn't even have to play the whole damn song. If he just got one verse and one chorus, Devin could cut and paste that part of the track over like text in a word processor, and use it to fill in the rest of the song.

Boom-dah-bom-dah-boom
. The low sound filled the garage.

Three notes, four…
Devin counted, nodding his head in time. On the fifth, Karston hesitated, then stopped completely. It would probably be faster to record the bass line one note at a time.

“I'm sorry, man,” Karston said, shaking his head.

It had been like this all night. Maybe Devin had been wrong to get Cody out of there. When they'd started, Karston was in the zone for three runs.

The zone? Ha. Who was Devin kidding? The only zone Karston was ever in was the Twilight Zone.

Devin removed his phones and tried to look at the clock on the wall without Karston realizing what he was doing. Almost eleven. Cheryl's parents were cool about her curfew, but even they
weren't going to let her stay out all night.

“Karston, what is it? You were doing great. What's going on with you?” Devin asked. He was trying to sound friendly, but couldn't quite hide the anger in his voice. He even wondered, briefly, if as his patience vanished he was starting to sound more like Cody.

The bass player shrugged. “I don't know. It's just gone. I think maybe it's too quiet. I can like hear the houses and I'm afraid I'm waking people up.”

Aghhh! It's too loud, it's too quiet. And I thought Cody was the group prima donna!

“There's no amp!” Devin said loudly. He battled his voice back down to a whisper. “It's just in the phones! No one can hear you except you and me.”

“I know, but you know, psychologically…”

Psychologically? Now we're talking psychological?
Should he tell him? Should he just say,
You know, Cody's dying to kick you out and I've been protecting you. You blow this simple stupid bass line again and I'm switching sides.

Yeah, that'd give Karston the confidence he needed.

“Okay, once more. Take a breath. I'll cut out the keyboard and the vocal. Just listen to me and
Cheryl on the rhythm and drums. Got it?”

Karston nodded. Devin clicked a button, then said, “Go.”

Karston bopped his head a few times, roughly in time. Devin watched as his fingers made for the first thick string. Then all of a sudden Karston stopped, shook his head, and pulled his headphones off.

“I need a break,” Karston said. “Is there any soda left?”

A break? You haven't laid down a single note!
Devin's mind screamed, but he said, “Yeah, in the fridge. Bring me a cherry coke. Want anything, Cheryl?”

Cheryl swiped some hair and a bit of sleep from her eyes with her fingers and shook her head. She waited until Karston disappeared into the house, then said, “I'm exhausted, Devin. Sorry, but I've got to get going.”

“What? But…but…”

She slid off the stool she'd been on for the last half hour. “I know, baby, I know. But this is more important for you—for all of us. Got to get the song done. We all want it out there before our next gig.”

“No. It's not more important. Don't I ever get to
decide what's more important?” Devin protested. He stood up and made some vague gestures of frustration with his hands. She took them in hers and steadied them.

“It'll go faster without me here. We'll make up for it. Promise. Kiss good-bye?”

He grabbed her, pulled her close, and pretended he was just going to give her a quick peck, but then he moved back, stared into her eyes a moment, and slowly moved back in, brushing his lips against hers, back and forth, like a feather, then pressing in.

If she hesitated, he didn't notice. He put his arms around her waist, lifted her off the ground and even closer to him. She wrapped her legs around his thighs, making herself lighter, and gave in to his frustration for a moment or two. When they heard something shift in the kitchen on the other side of the wall, she hopped down and pulled herself away.

“No,” she said.

“Yes,” he said. It was more a plea than a command.

She laughed and pulled herself away. “No. Now, be nice to Karston.”

Devin let out a low moan. “I won't.”

“Yes, you will. You're a good guy. Stop pouting,” she said at the garage door. “I'm not going anywhere. Even with your weird new smile.”

He grinned at that. “Okay. Want me to drive you?”

“And do what with my car? It's less than a mile. I'm just going to head in, watch the tape of my boyfriend playing his great new song, then go to sleep. Hey, if you want me so much, write us a song about it.”

“You got it.”

“Nothing I can't play for my mother.”

“I'll try. But it won't be easy,” he said.

She smiled, waved, and walked off toward her two-seat Civic. He heard her car engine start just as Karston—wussy, lame, infuriating, date-ruining Karston—emerged from the house. Once he heard her drive off, he pressed the button on the garage door and the hum of its closing sealed them off from the night.

“Okay, Karston,” Devin said with a sigh. “Let's try it again.”

 

By one thirty
A.M
., all the energy from the earlier, successful portion of the recording session had
fled Devin. And Karston hadn't gotten any better. If possible, he was getting worse.

Devin pulled off his headphone and rubbed his temples.

“Maybe we should try again tomorrow?” Karston said hopefully.

With another bassist.

He should just tell him, get it over with, let him run home to his evil bat shrew of a mother and get used to a life retailing at Wal-Mart, where the cash registers practically operated themselves.

You wasted all your money on that stupid bass!

A thought struck him. “Karston, wait here a minute. I'm gonna…I'm gonna try to think a minute about what to do here.”

Karston nodded as Devin headed for the door.

He hit a few more off-notes:
budda, bahh, thung.

Devin stopped in his tracks and shook his head. “No—don't play, don't practice. Just…just sit there a minute, will you?”

“Okay,” Karston said. Devin saw from the way his head went down that he suspected something was up. He had to tell him, and he had to tell him
now. But he had an idea that might make it go down just a little easier.

He went through the door and closed it behind him, which left him in the small hallway that led into the kitchen. The lights were all off, but the drapes and shades were wide open, leaving the sharp corners and rounded counters of the kitchen bathed in the bug-yellow of the Meadowcrest streetlights. Twin candles sat on the breakfast table in the dining room nook, a reminder of the great romantic evening that might have been. Two filet mignon steaks were still on the counter, bits of blood from the cellophane pooling onto the blue and white dish below it.

Devin shook his head and picked up the dish. He cursed to himself as some of the blood sloshed out of the plate and onto the floor. What else could go wrong? He put the dish in the fridge and looked around for something to mop up the stain. When no sponge or rag appeared to his eyes, his tiredness got to him. Angry, he stomped his foot down into the largest drop of steak blood, grinding it into the tile with his toe.

When even the pleasure of that fled, he pulled out a few paper towels, wet them, and dealt with the mess.

It was time to deal with the other mess now: Karston.

His idea was this: His parents had left him two hundred dollars cash in a small envelope on the kitchen desk for expenses and “emergency” money. He'd tell Karston he was out of the band, but then give him the money as a down payment for the bass. That way, at least, he wouldn't be out all his money, and the bass would stay behind. Devin might still be able to finish the song himself tonight. Maybe he and Cheryl could get together tomorrow afternoon, before his folks returned.

Tired though, he couldn't make out in the near dark the white envelope they'd left him on the desk, so he flipped the light on. It was there, shoved under an old
Pennysaver
.

He counted the bills and stiffened. Forty bucks were missing, and he hadn't touched the envelope since his father had given it to him. Someone had taken it. No one else had been in the house today. The doors were locked. That only left the band.

Cody needed money. Would forty bucks have made that much of a difference to him? Maybe. One Word Ben was so into his Christianity the guy never even lied. Cheryl was out of the question. Karston?

Devin stormed back to the door, opened it, and stood half in the kitchen, half in the garage. He knew his face was full of suspicion, but he didn't care.

“Karston? Did you see an envelope on the desk in the kitchen?”

Devin didn't have to say another word. Karston picked his head up, eyes wide open like a deer caught in headlights. At first he shook his head no, but then his eyes started darting back and forth. He scowled, then scrunched up his face like he was going to cry or something. Finally his head went back down and he sort of slithered off the stool and put a hand slowly, deeply, into his front pocket and withdrew two twenties.

“I'm sorry. I'm really sorry, Devin,” Karston said, holding it out. “I was going to use it for some lessons.”

Devin felt sheer rage explode in his gut. It rose into his chest, rippled out into his head and arms. He was going to start screaming, tell that stupid son of a bitch exactly what he thought of him, tell him about all the times he'd stood up for him, how tonight he'd ruined things with Cheryl for his sake, then kick his sorry ass out of the band, out of his house and into the street where he just didn't care what would happen to him.

The first in a long torrent of abusive, ugly words was about to erupt from Devin's mouth when…

WHUNK!

Something heavy slammed into the garage door so fast and loud it made them both leap a foot.

“What the hell was that?” Devin said, taking a step forward.

In a flash, Karston was on his feet and next to Devin. “An animal?”

Devin shrugged. “Squirrels and raccoons come for the trash sometimes, but nothing that…”

WHUNK!

The garage door rattled visibly. It looked like some of the vinyl slats had actually bent from the force of the blow.

And then, all the lights went out.

“Okay, so maybe not a squirrel,” Devin said softly.

The garage door rattled again, but this time it wasn't a short, sudden noise. The white slats kept shaking, first the ones low to the ground, then higher and higher, making a more and more awful racket with each slat. After reaching eight feet, where the door met the ceiling, the shaking stopped.

“Crap, how tall is this thing?” Karston whispered.

Devin, more familiar with the sounds of his home, shook his head. “It's not tall. It's climbing.”

There was a bit of a creak, then a light thud, like a jumping child or small man landing. A skittering
went across the roof, sounding like long nails scraping against the tiles. Devin and Karston looked up into the darkness, trying to follow with their eyes. It slowed, tapped lightly, rushed to the far end of the garage roof, which connected to the rest of the house, then fell silent again.

“Call someone,” Karston said.

“No,” Devin said, making a face. “It's just an animal. Raccoons can get pretty huge. And the lights…”

A vaguely muffled explosion of splintering glass issued from above. Whatever it was, it had smashed a window.

Not an animal.

The rush of fear hit Devin hard and fast. It was stronger even than it had been when the car had cut him off in the road. This felt as if something in his chest had grabbed his heart and was trying to force it out of his mouth.

Human?

“This isn't over.”

Could it be the Slits? Had they followed him?

Above and deeper inside the house, it sounded like the furniture was being pushed around in the master bedroom suite.

“It's inside,” Karston squealed, his thin voice whiny and afraid.

The racket in the master bedroom grew. More things were being thrown around, as if in a rage. Devin wondered how he would explain the mess to his parents, then realized what a stupid worry that was right now.

Could Cody be playing some kind of sick joke? No. The Slits. It had to be. They were making some kind of point, taking revenge for messing with them. Even though he was still very much afraid, the thought focused Devin, made him angry. All he had to do was call the police. Response time for the local cops to get to Meadowcrest Farms was like two seconds. They'd show up in force and arrest all their criminal asses. There were advantages to having money.

Devin slapped his side, fingers feeling for his cell phone, then he remembered he'd left it outside in the car.

“Give me your cell,” Devin hissed, turning to Karston.

Karston looked at him like he was nuts. “I don't have a cell phone.”

Right. In addition to all his other attractive
qualities, Karston was also one of the only kids in Argus High School who didn't have a phone.

A loud bang from above made Karston shake worse than the garage door had. “What is that? I'm starting to freak,” he said loudly.

Devin grimaced and spoke quietly. “Shh! Calm down. Stay quiet. The stupid genius Cody borrowed money from the Slits for his new axe.”

Karston's eyes popped. “The Slits? The Slits? Let's get out of here!”

He raced over to flip the switch for the garage door, but with the power off, nothing happened. Idiot. Still, it was the right idea. Devin could grab the phone from the car and run to a neighbor's. He went up to the door and pulled. It rose an inch, but the bent slats wedged into the guide rail and the door stuck fast.

Oh crap.

The thrashing became more distant. Whoever it was seemed to be taking their time, maybe trying to do the most damage possible. Should he just bolt the door and wait it out until morning? But then they'd wreck his room, his things. His father's study, his mother's collection of Hummel figures. He and Cody had beaten them once before. He
could do something. But what?

“I'll go get the phone in the kitchen,” Devin said. “I'll have to be fast, before they come downstairs.”

He was talking to himself, really, but Karston heard. “I'm not waiting for you alone in here! What if they get you?”

Karston was looking more frightened with each passing second. Devin wasn't doing much better; his heart was beating fast and his breathing was short and frantic.

“Okay, we'll both go in. I'll grab the phone,” Devin said slowly, trying to catch his breath. “You open the sliding door off the dining room. Once I dial, we'll go out onto the deck and head for a neighbor's house. I won't even have to say anything; the police will come and they get here in like less than a minute.”

“Really? Mrs. Wroth next door once called and it took two hours.”

“Different neighborhood, Karston. Got it?”

“Got it.”

His own hand shaking, Devin moved for the door, but Karston pulled him back.

“What if they come downstairs before I get to the door?”

Devin clenched his teeth. “Then hide. Just hide. And stay quiet.”

“Where? Where should I hide?”

Devin whirled on him, furious. “Geez, man! There's a cupboard and two closets in there. I dunno! Fold yourself up and put yourself in the freaking toaster oven! Hide! This isn't like playing the bass, Karston! You've
got
to pull yourself together.”

Karston nodded, but it was the same nod Karston had given him a hundred times that very night, right before he loused up the simplest bass line in the world. And here was Devin doing what he always told Cody not to, yelling at him, making him more nervous.

A sick feeling in Devin's stomach made him wonder if he might really die for this pathetic sack of self-consciousness. Whoever the Slits sent this time had to be worse, right? No. No, no, no. Everything would be fine. The sounds were still upstairs. The phone and the door weren't that far. He just needed Karston not to freak out.

He put his hand on Karston's shoulder and felt how badly he was shivering. He shook him, patted him, looked him in the eye. “We're going in now,
okay? Just head for the door, slide it open, and run. That's all you have to do. You can do it.”

Can't you?

All his pity for Karston vanished as he realized that in a situation like this—life or death—Karston could drag them both down.

Wasn't that what Cody was trying to say? Could that be Cody up there?

Swallowing, Devin walked up and felt the cold knob in his hand. He turned it and pulled the door open a crack, letting filtered street light into the sealed garage. He could see clearly enough, but all he had was a view of the small hallway that led to the kitchen, the door to the pantry closet, and the small room with the washer and dryer. The open door also gave him a different sense of the sounds. The banging was still violent, but more muffled, more clearly distant. The empty garage had acted like a big drum, amplifying the noise and making it echo.

Feeling like he could make it, Devin opened the door further. He stepped in, feeling Karston too close behind. If he stopped short, Karston would stumble right into him. So he didn't; he kept walking, out into the wide kitchen, past the beige Corian counters that looked yellow-gray in the
night. He made for the phone that hung on the wall next to the far cabinet.

As he moved, he felt Karston still annoyingly close behind, so he waved him ahead, pointing toward the sliding door. Karston ambled on like he had all the time in the world, not moving nearly fast enough for Devin's taste. Devin got so wrapped up watching him, he nearly forgot to grab the phone when he reached it. As Karston finally made it to the sliding door, about ten yards from where Devin stood in the cavernous house, Devin grabbed the receiver, punched 911, and waited.

Almost instantly, there was squawking on the phone. An operator had picked up. Should he say something? If he had a whole conversation with them, he was afraid the Slits might hear. Sound traveled quickly through the air vents of the house. He could often hear his parents fighting down here, even when they spoke in what they thought were whispers. He thought about just dropping the receiver and going for the door, but wasn't sure.
Would
they come if he didn't speak? That's what his father had always said. He was usually right about that sort of thing.

“Come on!” Karston called, waving toward the open sliding door.

Great. Devin couldn't believe it. The idiot was still there, waiting for him at the door. Perfect.

Devin was about to keep the phone and run for the door when something rumbled, stumbled, and rolled down the main staircase. It sounded as if it had half leaped, then tripped down the carpeted stairs. Now it was scratching on the foyer's marble floor, clicking as if trying to get traction, like a dog making a turn on a slick, hard surface. What could be making such a weird noise? Had the Slit brought a pit bull with him? And carried it up the side of the garage and into the house? It didn't matter much. From the foyer, Devin knew, there was a perfect view of the dining room and the sliding door.

They must have heard Karston. That was it. They'd heard him, and now they were coming for him.

“Run!” Devin hissed.

“Come on!” Karston answered, still not running. Was he being stupidly loyal or just paralyzed with fear?

Out of the corner of his eye, Devin caught a moving shadow in the foyer. There was no way
he'd make it to the sliding doors. But Karston could, he was standing right in front of them. And getting rid of Karston would triple his own chances of surviving.

“Don't wait! Just go!” was the last thing Devin said to Karston. Then, hoping he hadn't spoken too loudly, he raced back to the little hall in front of the garage door and hid in the pantry closet, pressing his back into the hard wire shelving to get the vented folding doors closed in front of him.

He figured Karston would be able to make it out the sliding door in time. He was, after all, only inches away. A turtle could do it. A turtle with bad legs. They might chase him out, but if Karston screamed for help, someone would hear him. And the police, the police would be here any minute.

But what if they didn't chase Karston? What if they headed for the garage? That was where they first tried to get in. Fortunately, the door had a dead bolt. When it was locked, you needed a key to get back in from the garage. If the Slits walked past Devin's hiding spot and entered, he could slam the door and lock them in. The door might give if they pounded it, but it would still slow them down enough for him to get out.

But that didn't happen. They didn't head for the garage. Instead, no sooner was Devin wincing from the spikes of the wires pressing into his back than he heard his band-mate call out, nice and loud, “Devin!”

Ack! Ack! Ack! Ack!

Shut up, Karston! Just shut up and run! For once in your life do the right thing!

“Devin! Help me!”

Devin furrowed his brow. He heard pain in the voice. A kind of craziness. Did the Slits have him? No.

Shut up! Just run! Save yourself and save me!

“Devin! He…”

There was a rush and a gasp. Something hit Karston. It sounded like it took him down. Devin was about to leap out, to try to help, but sirens filled the air. The police. The noise would drive the Slits off faster than he could. So he waited, counting the seconds, redeciding, until there came a weird guttural sound, like maybe that pit bull had been wounded. It was followed by a shredding, of cloth, or something thicker.

Karston started screaming. It wasn't even words, just raw air forced through tight vocal
chords. Hearing the sheer agony in that voice, Devin spilled from the pantry closet and jumped into the shadowy kitchen.

The first thing he made out was a long smear of red along the white floor. It ran all thirty feet from the sliding doors into the kitchen. At the end of the kitchen, Karston was crumpled on the floor, looking more like a pile of laundry than a person, while something short and squat hovered in the darkness above him.

Devin's heart pounded. The sirens grew louder. Red and white lights flashed in from the window.

What the hell was that? A person?

A squarish head twitched on burly shoulders. Devin thought for a second he'd made eye contact, but decided that those couldn't be eyes.

It was too dark. Things were happening too quickly to be sure of anything. What came next had to be a trick of the light, an illusion caused by all the shadows and Devin's fear—it just had to—because as the figure stood and leaped over the Corian counter, Devin could swear its arms, which seemed hairy or wrapped in fur, were nearly twice as long as its short, stocky legs.

It bounded over the counter as if it were a fish
and the air were water. Its freakish shape sent expensive pots and pans flying. It hit the dining room floor amidst a clatter of metal and Teflon, then dove out the open sliding door that Karston had been too stupid or frightened to use himself.

Was it a dwarf? Some kind of bear? Devin was sweating, aside from being confused and frightened. He wondered if whatever it was hadn't been trying to trash the upstairs at all, but was just leaping around, an animal stuck in a too-small cage. Or a monster.

He snapped the elementary school fantasy from his head. It was some short, asshole body builder with a knife, that was all. He'd heard the sirens coming and jumped the counter for a faster escape.

Devin raced up to Karston and knelt beside him. He was cut up, badly. But what kind of knife could do something like this? His forearms jutted up at the elbows, but neither they nor his hands moved. His lower torso didn't move, either. The only part of him that did move was his head. It rocked back and forth, as if trying to pry itself away from the pain of his paralyzed body.

Shaking, Devin forced himself to move in closer.
The head steadied. Karston looked at him. “Sorry about stealing your money, Devin,” he said weakly. His voice sounded wet and phlegmy, almost like he was gargling.