The Devil Crept In Read online

  “I don’t know,” she said, unsure, and right away Stevie knew he should have never said anything about Jude’s threat. That’s what she was thinking about—Jude punching Stevie’s lights out, throwing rocks, stoning him to death. “I’d rather you two stay out in the yard where I can see you.”

  Stevie raised both eyebrows at her, then exhaled a little laugh like he was in on the joke. She was kidding, right? The yard? “The fort isn’t in the yard, retard.” She frowned and he blanched, immediately looking down to his feet. His mom didn’t like that word. “Sorry,” he said.

  “I know the fort isn’t in the yard.” She tossed aside the dish towel she’d been holding. “But the woods . . .” He could see it in her eyes, in the way she was gripping the edge of the kitchen counter with one hand: she was scared that, out in the trees, the psycho childnapper who had snatched Jude would grab her kid, too. Or that Jude would turn on him, become the danger rather than the ally. But in that very instance, No was the wrong answer, no matter how much she wanted to refuse her son’s request.

  “Okay,” she finally said, exhaling an unhappy sigh, giving in for the good of her nephew. Stevie spun on the heel of his sneakers, ready to bolt for the living room. “But I want you home by seven at the latest! The latest! Or I’m sending a search party!” And for that, Stevie was thankful. Because if Jude flipped his lid and finally shoved Stevie out of that tree house, it sure as heck would be hard to make it home for dinner on a pair of broken legs.

  · · ·

  Stevie and Jude were halfway down Sunset Avenue a few minutes later, but the farther they walked, the more Stevie began to doubt that Jude wanted to go to the fort at all. He tried to make conversation, talking about stuff he knew Jude loved, like the Avengers and how to get their moms to buy them the BMX bikes they wanted so that they could ride the trails instead of walking them like dopes. These were topics that, a week before, Jude would have discussed and debated for hours. But today, he remained steadfast in what was becoming typical silence, as though he didn’t know who the heck Iron Man or Captain America were, and he couldn’t have cared less about dirt bikes or riding trails. That lack of interest made Stevie nervous, but again, it could have been that Jude simply didn’t feel like talking. There had been plenty of times during their friendship when Stevie hadn’t wanted to talk, either, especially when he couldn’t keep his words straight.

  But after a few minutes of trudging in heavy silence, with one of those strays tailing their every move, Stevie couldn’t help himself. He breached the quiet. “Is everything okeydokey, smoky?”

  “Sure,” Jude said, his tone flat, affectless.

  Had his mom been as quiet at Aunt Mandy’s as she had promised to be? What if Jude had heard their moms talking and now he knew Stevie had ratted him out? Jude had no interest in going to the fort—he was just luring Stevie out into the middle of nowhere to beat the crap out of him for tattling.

  Stevie’s nerves flared up at the sight of their usual trail. Suddenly, he wasn’t so sure he wanted to go into those woods after all. Because if it wasn’t Jude kicking his ass, then it might be that hunchback thing crawling out of the bushes. And really, what would it care if there were two of them instead of one? Two boys meant more to eat.

  “What’s with you?” Jude asked, noticing Stevie’s hesitation. “Pick up the pace.”

  “N-nothing. I’m just, just, just—”

  “Scared?” Jude cut in. But rather than laying into Stevie for being a chicken, he looked up at the sky, as if bothered by the particular angle of the sun. Stevie wondered how it felt to be so seared and still be outside. Had that been him, he would be sitting in the kitchen with his head in the freezer and aloe vera gel dripping from every limb.

  And then there was the fact that Jude was scratching again. It was that same spot on his left arm. Tiny dotlike scabs had formed where blood had broken the surface. Every now and again, Jude would catch one of those scabs with a fingernail and yank it off, and Stevie would have to look away with a wince.

  “You know how you were on the news?” Stevie asked, searching for something else to talk about. “Did you tell that reporter lady you didn’t remember anything just to get her off your back, Jack?” Attack, hack, hacking, attacking . . . He clenched his teeth against the words. No, those particular ones wouldn’t be allowed to come out.

  Silence.

  Stevie glanced up from his feet only to realize he was being left behind. Jude had increased his pace, as if fleeing the conversation, continuing down the trail without him, that cat at his side.

  “Were you going to the fort when, when . . .” Stevie jogged to catch up. “Did you see someone, two, three? Or maybe, or maybe not someone but something . . . like I did? Like me?”

  “Like you?”

  “Like an animal, I mean. A mean animal. An animal.”

  “Why can’t you talk normal for once?” Jude continued to march. The cat ignored them, content in being part of the group.

  “W-when you went missing,” Stevie said, refusing to be deterred. “Do you really not remember?”

  “Can we get out of the sun?”

  Stevie nodded as he followed Jude a little ways down the path. They both tucked into a patch of shade, but Jude didn’t stop to rest, and neither did the mangy-looking cat. They both moved from shadow to shadow, avoiding the sunshine like deep-ocean fish.

  “Jude, I gotta tell you something.” The way Jude was walking—so unfaltering, razor-focused and determined—Stevie couldn’t tell whether his cousin was hearing him or not. He simply continued to walk ahead, his hands now shoved deep in his pockets as if to keep himself from bloodying his arms, his head down as though he were walking to the gallows. “Gotta tell you . . . Hey, can we stop on top for a minute? It’s important.”

  Jude didn’t slow. Didn’t turn his head to regard him. Out ahead, a second stray surfaced from behind a fern. Those things were everywhere lately. Stevie hadn’t ever seen them so active, or so eager to be near people.

  “Jude, can’t you wait? Don’t you get it . . . ? I saw something!”

  Jude slowed.

  “I went lookie-looing for you-ing, remember? I retraced our steps, thinking that maybe I’d find a clue, two, three, fo—” Stop it. Stop it! His fists came up, knocking hard against both temples. “I—I—I ended up at the road . . .”

  Jude was still now. Frozen. Staring at the path, glaring at it, as if trying to ignite the leaves beneath the soles of his All-Stars with a single, deadly look. His intensity raised a red flag, but Stevie had said too much this time to let it go.

  “There was something at the house . . . on the porch,” he explained, carefully choosing his words, speaking them slowly so his tongue wouldn’t betray him. “L-like an animal or, or, or something. I couldn’t see it real well. It was in the shadows, like it was hiding.” Like Jude was now hiding from the sun.

  “So, it was probably scared of you,” Jude concluded. “Who the hell wouldn’t be?”

  But the explanation only triggered a sudden shaking of Stevie’s head. “No, it wasn’t scared. I was scared. I turned to run, and I heard it behind me, chasing, chasing like, like, like . . .” Like it wanted to kill him. Except, had that actually happened? What if he had just been afraid? How was he supposed to pick apart his imagination from what had really occurred?

  “Like how you shoved your hand down the sink?” Jude asked. “Or how you thought Dunk was playing basketball with a severed head that one time? Or how you were sure Mr. Frosty had switched our ice cream for cold mashed potatoes that may have been poisoned? Like that?”

  Stevie stared at his cousin, speechless.

  “There’s something wrong with your head, Sack. You know that, right? You see things that don’t exist. You say things, do things, that don’t make sense. It was just another freak-out,” Jude said. “Like all the rest.”

  “No! I saw it again after that!” Stevie swore. “In the side yard beneath my window.”

  “You mean where yo
ur fucktard of a stepdad stores all his crap?”

  “It was there, Jude! It was crouched down. Hunched, you know? It was hairless, pale, like, like, like Dr. Evil’s creepy cat, Mr. Bigglesworth. You know Mr. Bigglesworth?”

  “Of course I know Mr. fucking Bigglesworth,” Jude snapped. “Why are you asking such stupid goddamn questions?”

  “Was that what it was? That it was, that—?” Stevie clamped his mouth shut, waited a beat.

  “What?”

  “Is that what took you?”

  Rather than answering, Jude turned and started to walk away.

  “Jude!” Stevie stood rooted to the ground, staring at his best friend’s back, a cat flanking him on each side. Was this how it was going to be, every question answered with a cold shoulder?

  “What?!” Jude abruptly turned around, his eyes narrowed, just like when Stevie had visited with him in his backyard. “You expect me to buy your crazy fucking story? That you’re seeing fucking monsters?”

  Stevie was taken aback by Jude’s aggravation. “I’m just worried . . . s-scared that—”

  “That what? Godzilla is going to crawl out of the woods and get you? You made it up inside your head, dude.” He thudded a finger hard against his own skull. “Nothing but the same old crap. This is why your dad left, Sack. He couldn’t handle it.”

  A wad of tears clogged up the back of Stevie’s throat. First it had been the Dr. Seuss insult. Now he was responsible for his father running away. You should be relieved, Stevie thought. He’s being a dick. He’s back to his old self again. But there was something about Jude’s rage, about how the angrier he became the harder he scratched at that spot on his arm.

  “M-my mom said that asking you about what happened would m-make you mad,” Stevie warbled. “But don’t you get it?” He gave his friend an imploring look—a friend who, at that very moment, was more interested in kicking at a rock jutting out of the path than listening to what Stevie had to say. “Remember that Max kid? That Max kid? What he did, that kid, Max?” They’d heard the story a billion times.

  “Yeah, I remember the Max kid,” Jude said, a little less angry now, possibly feeling bad for bringing up Stevie’s dad the way he had. “But nobody knows what happened to him, and what happened to him didn’t happen to me. I’m not some stupid baby who got lost in the trees.”

  “B-but what if you just got lucky?” Stevie blinked at the audacity of his own question. What if you were minutes from being torn to pieces like Max had been? It wasn’t the prettiest picture to stick in Jude’s already post-traumatic head, but Jude didn’t seem to be phased by the insensitivity. He just stood there, scratching at his arm. The cats continued to hover, but were starting to lose interest.

  “Sorry,” Stevie told him. “Sorry, Jude, I’m sorry, so sorry. I’m really glad you’re home. Really, really glad.” He didn’t want Jude to get the wrong idea. If he hadn’t come back, Stevie didn’t know what he would have done. His mom was right—he needed to drop it. Aunt Mandy could have been right, too. Sometimes it was better to simply be happy that something had righted itself rather than questioning why it had occurred.

  “You’ve gotten real weird, Sack,” Jude said. “Worse than ever. Like someone twisted you up.”

  Stevie tried to come up with a reply, but Jude didn’t feel like waiting. Rather, he turned down the path and continued in the direction of their fort, still scratching.

  Pleading could work. “The Tyrant won’t be back from work for a long, long time. Wanna watch Unsolved Mysteries? Maybe we can get my mom to drive us to the Y.” Nothing. “Dunk can take us to a movie.” He was willing to try anything, no matter how slim the chances, just to walk in the opposite direction. “W-we went to see Jurassic World and there were velociraptors. It was good. I’ll watch it again if you wanna go see it, you wanna? I’ve got some money saved that I’ve been saving in my room that we can get it if we go back, Jude. Let’s just go back.”

  Jude wasn’t listening. He was still walking forward, cats at his side, taking the path that would lead them into the glowing green shade far from town.

  And yet, despite all his good sense, Stevie continued to follow.

  Because he had to.

  There was something out there. Something bad. He was sure of it. And he loved Jude too much to let him go alone.

  20

  * * *

  ROSIE SPENT THE DAY staring at that red sneaker, eventually tucking it into the drawer with all the collars she’d collected throughout the years. And thank goodness for that, because just that evening, a police cruiser pulled up to the house, lighting up the woods like a carnival with a swivel of red and blue. She stood at the front window, her mouth dry, her mind reeling, because how did they know? She had taken all the precautions, had spent the entire day making sure she’d done everything to cover Otto’s tracks. The only way they could prove the dead boy had been there was to swab the backyard for DNA, and even then she wasn’t sure they’d find anything. It had started to rain again. The lawn was soaked so thoroughly that there were pools among the pitted grass.

  And yet, there they were: two police officers in rain slickers, sliding out of their car, dragging their feet along crumbling paving stones, their guns holstered upon their hips. One held a clipboard. The other spoke something into a walkie-talkie attached to his shoulder. Would they interrogate her first, or would they slap the cuffs on her wrists, no questions asked? Because that was the only reason for their being out there. The shoe. The body. Somehow, despite her efforts, they knew.

  The doorbell chimed. The house constricted, shrinking in on itself like the White Rabbit’s Wonderland cottage. Rosie clutched the window curtains, willing the cops to go away.

  The doorbell rang again, and a whimper escaped her throat. She could hear them talking, muffled on the opposite side of the door, probably deciding which one would draw his weapon, which one would tackle her to the ground.

  A stern knock now. Authoritative. We know you’re in there. If she didn’t answer, she was only giving them probable cause.

  “Coming!” She tried to singsong the word to suggest nonchalance. After all, she had nothing to hide. Pulling open the door, she gave the officers a cheerful smile. “May I help you?”

  The cops—Myers and Sanderson, according to their name tags—gave her a pair of tight-lipped smiles. This was strictly business. If they caught an eyeful of her son, there would be condemnation above all else. And after first-degree murder, they’d throw in a charge of child neglect.

  “Missus Aleksander?” Officer Myers looked down to his clipboard, making sure he got the name right. Like he hasn’t been staring at that thing the entire drive over here, she thought. More than likely, he simply didn’t want to look at her pallid skin, her washed-out face, her widely spaced eyes.

  “Yes, that’s me,” she said.

  “Ma’am, we’re looking for a boy . . .” Myers handed her a small picture. Glossy. Smeared with fingerprints. The edges were bent, as though it had been pulled out of a back pocket one too many times. The child she’d discovered in the backyard had been mangled, and in a way she had been relieved. Had she been able to see what he had looked like in life, she would have broken beneath the weight of her own culpability. But now, there he was, back from the dead, staring up at her from the rectangular confines of a school photograph.

  “Maxwell Larsen,” Myers said. “Six years old.”

  “Oh no.” Two involuntary words. Six? Too young.

  “He’s gone missing from Deer Valley just up the road,” Myers continued. “His folks think he may have headed into the woods. He had a dog with him. We thought that maybe he’d wandered this way.”

  A beautiful little boy. Blond hair cut in a typical bowl. Blue eyes. A shy smile that suggested both bashfulness and mischief. He wore a black turtleneck beneath a vest striped that looked homemade by either Mom or Grandma, specifically for picture day. Maxwell Larsen. The child Rosie wished Otto had been. The son that should have been hers. The son
that she deserved.

  “Ma’am?”

  She felt her face flush. A tremor rippled just beneath her skin. She handed Officer Myers the photo, unable to look at it any longer, not sure how a stranger’s child was able to so thoroughly reflect her dead husband’s gaze.

  “You haven’t seen him, then?” Myers asked, taking the snapshot back. A few steps behind him, his comrade, Officer Sanderson, was scoping out the place, looking for a body, a trail of blood, a satanic symbol scrawled onto a wall.

  “I’m sorry.” She couldn’t look either of them in the eye. “I don’t get visitors up here. It’s much too far. The trails aren’t maintained.”

  The cops waited, possibly for a confession.

  She looked up just for a moment, just in time to see Myers’s attention flick past her shoulder. He was looking inside the house just like his buddy, trying to see if she was making up stories, hiding the Larsen boy in there somewhere. Perhaps she had him lounging in a cauldron while it simmered over a fire—little boy stew, what witches eat.

  “He may have been out this way, but without him knocking on the door . . .” She shrugged. Sorry. The forest was endless. He could have gone anywhere. “Would you like to come inside?” She took a backward step and swung the front door wider; a bold move. But despite her sudden bout of courage—or was it stupidity?—her heart was pounding hard enough to make her feel faint.

  “You live alone, Miss Aleksander?” Officer Myers asked.

  “Yes. For eight years now. My husband passed away a while ago. Dr. Ansel,” she said. “You may have known him.”

  Officer Myers didn’t, but Sanderson perked at the name. “I think I remember him,” he said from behind his colleague. “He was my little sister’s physician. Real sorry to hear about what happened, ma’am. A little late, but my condolences just the same.”