He had nothing to say.
When the battle came, they would live or die. When the fight was so real, the choice so clear, even a coward could feel brave.
What other choice did he have?
CHAPTER 14
With a dry, stale mouth and a very full bladder, Emily rolled over and stared for several moments through heavily lidded eyes at her alarm clock. It was twenty-one minutes past three o'clock on Friday morning. She was barely cognizant of the low droning of voices from the flickering television screen. Upon her return to the house late the previous night, she had locked the place up tight and fidgeted nervously for some time before finally drifting off.
In her dreams, a hideous face had peered through leaves and branches at her, taking on ever more monstrous proportions as the dream repeated itself, changing and mutating as the night wore on. It wasn't quite a nightmare, since nothing beyond that took place in the dream. Still, it unsettled her sleeping mind and now, as she woke, she felt grumpy; even a bit edgy. The sound of the television cut through to her conscious mind now, and she found it aggravating.
Pushing herself up to a sitting position, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed and winced as a sharp pain spiked through her head. There was Advil in the drawer in her nightstand, and she made a mental note to take some just as soon as she had relieved the pressure in her bladder.
Eyes open only enough so that she wouldn't smash into a wall or the door frame, she shuffled into the master bathroom, leaving the light off. The flickering from the television was enough to guide her nocturnal excursion. With her panties around her ankles, she let her eyes close once more, and sighed softly with relief as she let her bladder go.
From somewhere downstairs came a muffled thump.
Emily's eyes snapped open; she was wide awake now. The stream of her urine stopped instantly, and she forgot any urge she might have had to continue. Forgot her headache. Forgot her dreams.
This was no dream.
As silently as she was able, she stood and pulled her cotton panties up her legs, fitting them into place. Gently, soundlessly, she stepped back into the master bedroom. On the TV screen she saw a large ship with sails flying, and thought she remembered the film: Green Dolphin Street, or something like that. She reached out to snap the set off, and then held back. That was sure to draw attention. Instead, she walked around the bed — not wanting to make any springs creak by laying across it — and picked up the phone. She dialed 911 as quickly as she was able and waited far too long for the line to be answered.
When the operator finally picked up, Emily spoke in a low voice, praying the TV noise would cover for her.
"There's someone in my house," she said, then quickly added her name and address before hanging up. No need to stay on the line now, she knew. The police would be on their way soon.
But what if it wasn't soon enough? That was the overriding thought in Emily's mind, the one that prompted her to slip silently to her bedroom door. It was open, and she was grateful for that. She'd meant to get around to squirting some WD-40 on the hinges, but just hadn't had the chance. That was the kind of thing that Thomas had always done. Theirs had been a good partnership, a comfortable division of labor, for a long time. Before it all went to hell. She still didn't quite understand why that was. The Thomas and Emily of ten, even five years before, wouldn't have let that happen.
Entropy. Shit happens. Things rot.
When you aren't looking, the world turns and your whole life is fucked up beyond recognition and first your son and then your ex-husband get taken off the chessboard without any warning whatsoever.
And then some insidious little motherfucker with a cruel glint to his eye and a stupid smile on his face sneaks into your house in the middle of the night, and the world just keeps sliding down the greased pole of life into . . . shit.
"No," Emily whispered, anger mixing potently with fear.
It was all catching up to her now, as she stood with her back to her bedroom wall, ears attuned to even the slightest sound. But there were no sounds. Not the thump of someone moving below, or the creak of a foot on the stairs, or the distant wail of police sirens. She had a moment where she wondered if she hadn't overreacted. Perhaps it had been nothing. Some local punk throwing an egg at the house or her purse sliding off the edge of a chair where she hadn't placed it as firmly as she'd thought.
That's what she wanted to believe.
Then she tasted copper in her mouth and realized that she'd bit her own lip and blood flowed into her throat. Emily began to cry and could not understand why. She was angry, and she was afraid, but the crying made no sense to her.
Quickly, she wiped the tears away. It felt like her eardrums pulsed with her rapid heartbeat. Silently, she slid around and bent over slightly so that she could peek out into the hallway.
Nothing. No one in the hall. No one, as far as she could see, on the stairs. Her decision was made and her body was moving before she even realized what she was doing. Emily moved across the hall and into Nathan's room without making a sound. Her eyes darted back and forth, scanning the toys for one particular object, something she'd been convinced he was too young for when Thomas had first brought it over. She'd been right, too. The thing was too unwieldy for the boy. At least for now. But Nathan wouldn't let Emily stick it in the basement for when he got bigger. He'd insisted that it stay right there in his room at all times.
It stood against the wall next to Nathan's bookcase. Emily reached out and grabbed the shaft, then hefted the classic wooden Louisville Slugger over her shoulder.
Out in the hall, one of the steps creaked. Third from the top. Emily recognized the sound well. The creak had been there since the Randalls had first moved into the house.
Emily nearly squealed with fright but caught herself. She stood for a moment, breathing deeply, trying to calm down and slow her heart, which seemed to be about to shatter in her chest. She tossed her blonde hair over her left shoulder and crept to the wall inside Nathan's room. For a moment, she saw herself in the mirror over her son's bureau, and her eyes widened at how ridiculous she looked. She had a Tweety Bird t-shirt and her panties on, and that was all. With the bat over her shoulder, she looked absurd.
Somehow that only terrified her more.
She could feel him. Out in the hallway. So close. With her back to the wall, she stood just inside the door and waited for the intruder to come into Nathan's room. She could hear the TV from her bedroom, and for a moment it distracted her. Then she tried to listen to what might be there beneath that sound. It was crazy, of course. She wouldn't be able to hear him breathing or anything.
Then, as if on cue, she was proven wrong. Out in the hall, just outside Nathan's room, probably, she surmised, at the door to her own bedroom, she heard someone snickering. A low chuckle, but going on and on. It wasn't something on the television, either. This was real, and close by, and terrifying. She felt like she might throw up, but when the sound stopped, it brought her up short, and Emily stood up straight again, ready to bring the bat down at the first sign of someone entering the room.
As she straightened, the bat gently bumped the wall behind her. Emily closed her eyes tightly, squeezed out a few last tears, and then held her breath. She'd given herself away for sure, telegraphed her position to some lunatic who was truly enjoying the dread and terror he was inspiring in her.