Dismember Read online

  “What?” Trevor asked through clenched teeth.

  “I’ll give you a hint,” he said. “It comes in little white envelopes.”

  Trevor brightened. “Can we go get it now?”

  Mike nodded. He hadn’t actually forgotten the mail, had noticed that the mailbox’s door was slightly ajar when he drove past on his way out earlier that afternoon, but he knew Trevor enjoyed the long walk to the mailbox on the main road, and on the days Trevor stayed with him, he left the mail until they could go and get it together.

  He hadn’t planned on taking the trip to the mailbox right away, and might have waited until the next day and gotten two day’s worth in a single excursion, but the house needed a chance to warm up, and the walk would not only provide the necessary time, it would also give him a chance to stretch his legs and get his blood flowing again. The drive up from Foothill had taken no longer than usual, but as had been the case when he hiked across the Mountain View’s parking lot, Mike was ready for the exercise.

  Trevor reached out to close the door, but Mike told him to leave it open, and Trevor obeyed unquestioningly.

  “You gonna bring your little friend with us?” he asked, indicating the action figure.

  Trevor nodded and said, “Yeah. He wants to see where we live.”

  “Ah,” Mike said simply. He wondered how it felt for his son, having two homes, two bedrooms, two toy boxes into which he had to split his belongings. Couldn’t be easy. He’d often wondered if he and Libby should have toughed it out for Trevor’s sake, wondered if they were inflicting permanent psychological damage. Trevor flew his toy through the air, smiling, and Mike guessed he didn’t have it too bad off.

  With night drawing ever closer, they walked together away from the house. The trip to the mailbox and back, normally about a thirty-minute ordeal, at least by foot, was prolonged by Trevor’s constant stops to retie his shoes. Mike could have offered to help, could have double-tied the sneakers so they never came undone again, but Trevor obviously took pride in his impending mastery of the task, and Mike would never have dreamed of taking away his son’s confidence.

  Trevor’s new shorts, still pleated where they’d been folded on the shelf in the mall, poked out from his thighs as if they’d been starched. Mike reminded himself to run them through the washer back at the house. Although Trevor had a decent supply of outfits here, most of his clothes stayed at Libby’s house, where he spent the majority of his time.

  They collected the mail in the last of the day’s light, and Mike squinted at the return addresses. Circulars, credit card advertisements, and bills, some of which he’d have to deal with eventually, but nothing exciting. He handed the stack to Trevor, who clutched it to his chest like it was found treasure. Later, at home, he would go through the pile one piece at a time and ask Mike exactly what they were. It was a kind of ritual they had. Mike wasn’t sure why the mail held so much fascination for Trevor, but he always indulged the boy’s questions, sometimes marveling at his seemingly endless curiosity.

  For part of the walk back, Trevor skipped, humming a song under his breath that Mike thought he recognized—might have been the theme to one of the Saturday morning cartoons—but couldn’t place for sure.

  Halfway back to the house, Mike’s stomach growled. Libby said she and Trevor had already eaten an early dinner, but Mike hadn’t had anything since lunch, which had itself been only a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a handful of tortilla chips, and although his left wrist was bare, he knew from the setting sun that it was about eight o’clock.

  “You hungry, bud?” he asked.

  Trevor shrugged and then said, “I guess not. But maybe later we can make some popcorn and watch a movie.”

  “Yeah, sounds good.” Mike kicked at a rock. It was stupid, and petty, but he wished Libby had waited so he could feed Trevor himself. They didn’t get a chance to have many meals together.

  Although, to be fair, he hadn’t exactly planned anything; he wasn’t sure what, if anything, he had in the cupboards. Some soup, maybe a can of chili, and he was pretty sure there was half a pack of hot dogs. No buns, though. If he made some for himself, he’d have to use regular bread.

  Mike sighed softly and kicked at another rock.

  Back at the house, Trevor hurried in to check the temperature.

  “Tons better,” he announced from inside.

  Mike smiled and reached through the door to activate the porch lights. When he’d moved in, there had been only a single bulb over the front door and another in the back, where a second set of porch steps descended into the back yard. He’d added track lighting along all four sides of the house along with floodlights to shine out across the property. With the porch lights switched on, the place was brighter than an airport runway, although thankfully much quieter. Sometimes Mike came out onto the porch at night to sit in the dark, listen to the sounds of nature, take it easy, but the rest of the time he liked to see where he was going and what he was doing.

  He circled around the side of the house to the back corner of the porch, where the grill sat covered but otherwise ready to go. The charcoal was of the lighter-fluid-already-added variety, which Mike found well worth the extra money; he dumped in a load of the briquettes and tossed lit matches onto the pile until it caught. He licked his lips. He had ketchup and mustard in the fridge and maybe a small jar of dill relish. Even on regular bread, a couple of over-cooked dogs would really hit the spot.

  From behind him came the sound of a sliding window. His son peeked out from behind the screen, the curtains framing his face like wisps of ancient, whitened hair.

  “Sure you don’t want a hot dog?”

  “Nah.” Trevor pressed his face against the screen until his nose was almost perfectly flat. “I’m gonna watch some TV, okay?”

  “Sure,” Mike said. “Just don’t wear out your eyes before movie time.”

  “Kay.” Trevor disappeared behind the curtains as they drifted back together. He’d left the window open, which was fine.

  Inside, Mike heard him plop down on the sofa and flip through channels. He knew before he heard the telltale sound effects that Trevor would end his search on the Cartoon Network. He replaced the grill’s hood and slid the vent on the top to allow the fire a little oxygen. In the living room, Trevor giggled, and Mike found the sound heartening.

  Although Mike had always been a loner, a bit of a recluse, he’d never imagined he would spend his life alone. A wife, a couple of kids—that had always been his dream. Just a small group of immediate family with whom he could share himself and his life.

  Now that Libby was gone and Trevor along with her more often than not, he sometimes got lonely in a way his younger self never would have imagined. Trevor’s laughter lifted his spirits, reminded him that he hadn’t lost his dream of a family altogether.

  With the charcoal flaming in front of him, he wouldn’t have seen much beyond the porch railing, but the fire was hooded now, and Mike was backlit. The side yard came slowly into focus, and something out there in the periphery of his vision grabbed his attention.

  He couldn’t identify it at first. He focused but still couldn’t quite make it out.

  Inside, Trevor’s cartoon segued into a commercial, and the boy took the opportunity to re-familiarize himself with his new toy. Mike heard him drop off the couch and onto the floor, pictured him sitting there cross-legged and puffing out his cheeks to make the explosion sounds that always seemed to come, whether the action figures were fighting or not.

  Mike looked out at the yard again, seeing the fractured line and thinking it might have been something on his eye, a scratch or a hair. He blinked twice, but whatever the thing was, it was still out there.

  This side of the porch had no stairs, but he was still spry enough to hop the railing and land on the other side without doing more than jolting himself a little. He did so, and his shadow floated across the ground in front of him as he moved.

  What the hell is that? He stepped over to t
he narrow trench and prodded it with the tip of his shoe. Looked like something had been dragged through here, though what it had been and who had done the dragging Mike didn’t know.

  Weird. He kicked at the track again, then shrugged and turned away.

  Inside, the cartoons had restarted. Mike followed the sound. He could check out the yard tomorrow in the light. For now, he was hungry, and the hot dogs smelled delicious.

  SEVENTEEN

  Dave Abbott hadn’t bothered to go back for the truck. As with the rest of his stops that day, he’d visited the neighboring property more than once during the last several months, and he knew the quickest way there was straight through the woods.

  Although he hadn’t found himself a convenient path in this particular stretch of trees, he picked his way through the dense vegetation with only a few minor detours. Behind him, the sometimes-graceful Georgie bumbled along. He’d slipped and fallen twice, had cut his knee open on a moss-covered outcrop of rock just after they’d left the Pullman residence, and had avoided tripping face first into a patch of poison ivy by only a couple of inches.

  Although there was still some sunlight in the sky, it might as well have been night within the woods. Dave had fantastic night vision, but Georgie had no such advantage. Despite the urge to hurry onward, Dave limited himself to a brisk walk. He didn’t want to lose Georgie in the woods, didn’t want to have to go back in and look for him later after he’d taken care of the Manny situation.

  He touched rough bark and maneuvered easily around the tree, watching over his shoulder to see if Georgie did the same. The boy bumped his shoulder into the trunk but didn’t fall.

  Dave hadn’t exactly planned it this way. By now, he’d expected to have both boys and the woman, had figured that adding Manny to his collection would be the mission’s last step, but he wasn’t frantic. Everything would turn out all right. He’d get Manny and then go back for the Pullman boy. The woman had proved to be a disappointment, and Dave had already mentally chastised himself for not having a backup, but he would find a way to fix that, too. He was in charge now. It was his responsibility. He wouldn’t fail.

  Up ahead, he caught sight of the dog. The light shone brighter out there—though some trees still grew in the yard, as with the Pullman place, it was far more open than the woods they’d just been through—and Dave could clearly make out Manny trotting toward a little girl on the back patio. Although he had seen the girl before, he didn’t know her name. Manny carried a ball almost too big for his mouth, and Dave wondered why the girl hadn’t gotten him something more fitting.

  He guessed the answer was simple enough: she was a stupid little abusive bitch.

  The dog stopped moving and looked at the section of forest from which Dave now emerged. Dave slowed, waited until Georgie walked into him from behind, and then watched the girl walk over to Manny and follow the dog’s gaze.

  From behind him, Georgie seemed to have seen what was happening.

  “No,” he said, “leave her alone.” He grabbed the sleeve of Dave’s ruined blue shirt and gave it a tug. Though not a weak gesture, it wasn’t enough to bring Dave to a complete stop. He continued moving.

  Her, he thought. What exactly did the boy think was going on here? He grabbed hold of Georgie’s wrist, saw the instant fear in the young eyes, and ignored it. He picked up his speed, then picked it up again, and before long he was sprinting. The land slopped down from the woods to where the girl and her dog crouched, a long, open, dandelion-covered hill. Dave’s legs pumped and flexed beneath him. He trampled flowers and grass, kicked up clouds of dust and small pebbles, dragged Georgie along behind him. He couldn’t have covered the distance any faster if the incline had been covered in snow and he’d been on a pair of skis.

  And there was Manny. The Manny of his childhood had been smaller, a little tubbier. His replacement was a much sleeker, more distinguished-looking animal. Dave heard the dog bark before he heard the girl scream. Georgie hung onto his sleeve, doing his best to slow Dave, but Dave wouldn’t have stopped now if he’d had a grand piano chained to his wrist. He ran right up to the huddled figures, wrapped his hand in the girl’s hair, and jerked her away from the dog.

  She toppled away, and Manny pounced. His front paws hit Dave in the chest and started scratching, as if the dog were trying to dig a hole through Dave’s chest. The claws didn’t get through Dave’s shirt, much less the skin, but they did rip off his front pocket. Dave’s toothpicks and the few small replacement twigs scattered, some of them sticking into the dog’s fur until Manny’s wild thrashing shook them free. Dave let go of Georgie’s arm and got a good hold on Manny’s collar before the dog could lash out and chew off a hunk of his flesh.

  “Easy,” he said, straining to control the quaking animal. “Easy, Manny. Quit it.”

  The girl had landed hard on the ground but had hopped back up with the kind of elastic resilience that seemed to be the exclusive domain of young, slim children. Her hair looked wild where he’d grabbed her, twisting away from her head like she’d just gotten up from a long night of restless sleep. She took a step away from the commotion, glanced over her shoulder like she was thinking about running for the house, then came at Dave instead and kicked him hard in the shin.

  Dave saw it coming but was too entangled with the dog to pull away. He yelped and lost his hold on Manny’s collar. The dog backed away a few steps and shook himself. He bared his teeth again and crouched, looking less like the distinguished show dog he’d first appeared to be and more like a wolf or a hyena. Spittle flew from his lips, and the muscles beneath his hide flexed and twisted; he looked like a burlap bag full of snakes.

  The girl bared her teeth too, though she looked more like a poorly groomed monkey. Dave sensed Georgie circling around behind him and marveled at how quickly things had gotten out of his control.

  Easily solved, he thought. He reached into his pockets and drew out the twin blades. Both Georgie and the girl stopped, she wilting and looking close to tears, he simply ceasing his clandestine movements. The dog was not as impressed. He continued to growl, his big ears pulled back and flat against his head, his hindquarters low to the ground, preparing for another leap. Dave would have to keep an eye on Manny; the poor thing didn’t recognize his own master.

  Behind him, Georgie said a single word, and Dave tensed.

  He said it the same way his mother had in their kitchen back home, not out of control or hysterical, but in an almost frighteningly matter-of-fact tone: “Run.”

  The girl looked away from the knives and past Dave.

  “Run,” Georgie said again. “Get into the house and call—”

  Dave swung around and nailed Georgie on the side of the head with the blunt end of one of his knives. Georgie, who’d obviously expected something of that nature, had raised his hands up to protect himself, but the strike came before he could get them any higher than his belly button. Georgie dropped to the dirt, scrambling and holding himself while blood poured from the new wound on his already injured head, and for a second Dave simply stared at him.

  What did you do? An image of heavy boots flashed in Dave’s head, and he quickly looked down at himself, sure he’d find the things laced to his feet, but he saw nothing down there but his own pair of shoes. Okay, but something still feels wrong here. I would never hurt Georgie. Would I?

  He felt the sudden weight of the dog on his back and the animal’s hot breath on his throat. He whipped around, managed to fling Manny away from him and onto the ground beside Georgie. Then he dove at the girl and grabbed her arm, pinching the knife between his palm and her bicep but not cutting her. Not yet.

  “Okay,” he said and felt he’d managed to regain at least some control of the situation. He backed a few steps away from Georgie and Manny. The girl reached over and scratched him on the back of his hand, and he did nothing, though the attack brought back painful memories of the crummy kitchen where he’d killed Georgie’s old mother.

  “Cut out the shit,” he
hissed at her, “or I’ll cut out your eye.” He flicked the knife in front of her face for emphasis, and she went deathly still.

  “Georgie.”

  The boy had both hands plastered to his face and rolled back and forth on the ground.

  “I’m sorry,” Dave said. “I shouldn’t have hit you—daddies don’t hit their boys—but if you don’t stop your mewling and get up and help me, I will hurt the little girl.”

  The girl, who had already tensed, now became so rigid she might have been carved from marble. The dog growled, moving uncertainly from side to side, but no closer to Dave. That was good, a situational step in the right direction.

  Georgie took one hand away from his face and lifted his head to look at Dave. His scalp had split just beside the abrasion he’d gotten in the tree fort earlier in the day. The blood had run horizontally across his forehead and now caked in his eyebrows and down the ridge of his nose.

  “You wouldn’t hurt her,” he said, sounding pained, but obviously trying not to show it. “You’d better not.”

  Dave raised his eyebrows, looked down at the girl’s face, and brought the knife up in a long, sure swing. Like chopping off the last quarter inch of a snowman’s carrot. The tip of the girl’s nose arced up through the air and then fell to the earth. It bounced once and rolled for about a foot. When the little button of skin and cartilage came to rest, it didn’t look like anything that had ever been attached to a human body.

  The girl’s first shriek, one of surprise at the crude plastic surgery, the nose job from Hell, ended when the pain, which had to be tremendous, kicked in. Her shriek became an ear-piercing wail. For a second, the blood didn’t drip, it poured, as if Dave had opened some ghoulish faucet on her face. The girl reached her free hand to the stub, probably meaning to hold in the blood, but ended up brushing against the raw wound and only hurting herself worse.