Even Steven (12 page)

"I've kept pretty much current on all of those things."

"But can you prove it?"

The anger flared a little hotter. What would you bet that the old folks looking at the Caprice didn't have to prove anything? What would you bet that their sales guy actually looked at them while he spoke?

April took a long time answering. "Well, when you put it that way, I guess I can't."

Simenson's head bobbed as his fat fingers worked his calculator, and he jotted some numbers on a pad. She tried to read them, but he shifted just enough to block her view. When he reached for his blue book- which was actually red-April leaned forward in her chair, daring a whiff of cheap, fruity cologne.

"I took a look in the library before I came here. The blue-book value on the car is about fifty-three hundred."

Simenson laughed. "Well, I guarantee you I'm not gonna offer that kind of money. I've got to turn a profit, you know."

April's eyes narrowed. "How much then?" You sanctimonious fat slob.

He didn't answer at first, choosing instead to write himself another secret note. Finally he looked up and smiled from the nose down. "I can give you seventeen fifty."

April's jaw dropped. "Seventeen fifty! What is that, the down payment?"

Simenson grunted out a little courtesy chuckle, then chased it with a shrug. "Like I said, I've got to turn a profit."

"But I've taken terrific care of that car! It's in great shape!"

"Mileage is a little high, and the paint is beginning to fade a bit. You can't get top dollar with it in that condition."

"But, Jesus, seventeen fifty? You've got to be able to do better than that."

Simenson raised his hands as if surrendering. "Maybe I could on a different day, ma'am, and I'm certainly not the only game in town. If I were you, I'd maybe try selling it myself. That way you can get retail price. It's your call."

April glared. Something in Simenson's face put her on edge, as if he knew something that she didn't. Or, perhaps he knew everything. Was that even possible?

Then, she got it. He sensed her desperation, and in his business, that was all he needed. Desperation meant weakness, and weakness meant an easy kill.

"Unless you're in a hurry for the money," he added, and for the first time, the grin became genuine.

SUSAN AWOKE WITH a start, frozen with fear and not sure why. She'd heard a thump (was it a door slam?), and whatever it was, it had been loud enough to rock the whole house.

"Bobby?" she whispered. She wanted to yell, but only a whisper escaped her throat. "Bobby! What's happening?" Still, her vocal cords would not engage. She tried to stand, but when she found herself rooted in the Mother Goose rocker, as if tied in place by invisible ropes, she knew that it was all a dream. She'd have laughed at her silliness if she didn't hear footsteps climbing the stairs; someone heavy enough to make the risers pop under the strain of his weight.

Okay, this is enough, she thought. It's time to wake up.

But her mind wouldn't let her. It was a dream, wasn't it? She looked around. The boy still rested in his crib, and all the decorations on the wall were exactly as they were supposed to be, but somehow night had returned, the moonlight casting the kind of twisted, fingerlike shadows that only occur in the movies. It had to be a dream. The double-reverse dream where you convince yourself that you're really awake even as you sleep.

The footsteps never stopped. They climbed with an inhuman rhythm, so precise and so slow that they were meant to frighten. Whoever was approaching the second floor-whoever had glued her to

her rocker -- wanted to scare the living shit out of her, and he was doing

a terrific job.

Susan tried screaming again, just for the hell of it, but now, even the whisper was gone. Oh, Bobby, oh, God, Bobby, please help me . . .

The footsteps stopped abruptly just outside the door to the nursery, and Susan found she suddenly had a superhuman ability to zoom in on the doorknob. As she pulled in very, very close, the knob began to turn.

If it were a movie, the door would have groaned as it opened, but the Martins' house was still too new to have squeaking doors. Here, everything was pristine, in perfect working order, except for the places in the master bathroom where the moulding was pulling away, or in the shower where the grout had never fully sealed the gaps. No, the door didn't squeak. But it would have if this were a dream, wouldn't it? Did that mean that this was real?

Oh, God, Bobby, why aren't you here for me?

For an interminable moment after the door swung open, all she could see were the visitor's feet. He wore work boots that were covered with mud and blood, the rolled cuffs of blue jeans all but covering the tattered laces.

"Who are you?" she managed to say, but the visitor remained mute.

He took a step closer, holding something in his hands, arms outstretched, as if making a religious offering. Susan tried to see what it was, but her vision remained cloudy, the offering just out of focus, even as she saw the stoutness of the visitor's fingers, and the dirt matted under his fingernails. She concentrated hard, and as the zoom lens in her eyes started to move in closer, she found herself distracted by something that fell onto the offering. It splashed when it hit, making her jump.

What is it?

The man moved closer, and as he did, she thought she recognized the flannel shirt and denim jacket he wore. The jacket had holes in it, and they oozed blood, turning the blue denim black against the darkness of the nursery.

A chill seemed to set her back aflame and she tried to scream. But screams weren't allowed.

That's when she noticed the blood crusted on the man's teeth. And the hole punched in the top of his head. But I didn't do it, she pleaded. Bobby did it. Bobby is the one you want.

But the dead man shook his head. He wasn't here for revenge. He was here to make a trade. His gift for something she had. He thrust the offering closer to her, then motioned with his marble eyes for her to take it from him.

She knew what it was. Instinctively, she knew, and she wanted nothing to do with it. She pulled against the invisible forces that kept her mounted to her rocker, and she tried to scream, and she tried to call to Bobby for help, but nothing worked.

Unable to stop the inevitable, Susan finally dropped her gaze to the dead man's hands, and there lay Steven, so tiny in the corpse's giant palms, the umbilical cord still coiling out of his tummy and tied in a knot. The agony of going through this another time was more than she could bear. Her poor, poor baby lying lifeless in the visitor's hands.

And then the baby's feet kicked, and she saw him breathe. He was alive! Oh, sweet Jesus, Steven was alive! But why? Why had this demon brought him back? What was it he wanted?

The little boy from the woods stirred in his crib.

But of course. He wanted to trade. A baby for a boy! She could just hand over the stranger and then have her beloved Steven back. But what would happen then? What would happen to the little boy? She knew, of course, but did she care? Wasn't the trade worth it?

Honest to God, her heart actually hurt, it was pounding so hard. What was she to do? How could anyone ask her to make a decision like this?

And then Steven moved again. He stretched, as if awakening, then yawned. Creases formed in his little forehead as he contemplated waking up, and then finally, his eyes opened. They were big and brown, just like his father's, and as he looked at her, she saw the love in them, and the recognition. He wanted to be with her. He wanted to be alive again.

The little baby opened his mouth, as if to speak to her, and as he did, a huge gob of blood from the dead man's head landed squarely on Steven's nose, obliterating his features.

Noooo!

This time the scream came easily. It rose like a siren from the darkness of the room, abrading her throat and bringing tears to her eyes. It rose and rose in volume and pitch, peaking in a tone that she'd never heard before.

The images of the man and the baby disappeared in the fog of noise, and with them, the darkness went away, too. It had been a dream, after all.

But the screaming. It just kept going, rattling her nerves and hurting her ears. But it wasn't she who made all the noise. It was someone else.

The boy!

Instantly, she was wide-awake, and she launched herself out of her chair, eyes wide open, scanning the room for whoever or whatever was harming the boy.

God only knew how long he'd been like that, shrieking his head off, the bars of the crib clenched tightly in his hands as he rocked his body violently back and forth in an effort to get away. His dark eyes were huge, just like before, but in the daylight the fear that burned behind them looked somehow even more desperate.

Susan was on him in seconds, scooping him up and hugging him tightly to her. He was beyond hysteria, beyond anger, in a place where she'd never seen anyone, let alone a child so young. He fought her at first, struggling to free himself from her grasp, but then he seemed to recognize her, and he finally agreed to hug her back. His face felt hot against the base of her neck, and while the fear seemed to have drained from him, he still fought for control of his breathing, each inhalation coming in halting, choking sobs.

"Shh, shh, shh," she cooed, stroking his filthy, matted mane which seemed easily two inches too long for a boy so small. "You're fine. Everything's just fine."

But nothing was fine, and she found herself wincing against the lie. Things were as bad and as terrifying as they'd ever been. Whatever unspeakable traumas this boy had endured, they both knew that they wouldn't go away merely with a hug and a place to stay. Someone had hurt this child deeply and scared him beyond any level of fear that Susan could comprehend. Even if the person responsible for that violence lay dead in the woods, the emotional trauma would live on inside this little boy forever.

Susan made a silent pledge right then and there never to lie to this helpless child again.

"I don't know what happened to you, sweetie, but I promise you that no one will ever hurt you again so long as I am here. At least you're safe okay? I can promise you that much. You'll be safe." She rocked him as she whispered the words in his ear, over and over again. She thought as she cooed nice words that perhaps it didn't really matter what she said exactly, so long as the tone was right. This boy needed loving more than he needed assurances he didn't understand, and as she carried him back to the rocker, he seemed to relax, and his breathing returned to normal. He still clung tightly, but she could feel his little muscles relaxing.

Within five minutes, he let go completely and was looking curiously around the room. The knot of anxiety had left his face, too, leaving behind a look of peace; neither happy nor sad, but at least the terror was gone.

And God, did he stink! Susan wasn't sure that a mere bath would do what needed to be done for this little boy. A steam cleaning, perhaps. Between the combined smell of sweat and grime and a dirty diaper, the odor was enough to take her breath away.

"What do you say we clean you up?" she asked lightly, and her words ignited a violent protest.

"No!" he yelled, and he arched his back, sliding out of her grasp and landing on his feet,

The reaction startled her, even as she was pleased to hear a voice out of the little guy. "But you stink, little buddy. We need to give you a bath."

He stomped his foot once and shook his head. "No."

"I won't hurt you."

"No, no, no, no, no!" And he took off for the door. Fast little bugger, too. He was at the door with the knob turned before Susan could even rise out of the chair.

"Wait!" she shouted, but her voice only propelled him faster. What could be wrong? What had she said to frighten him so? By the time she got to the door, he was already halfway down the stairs, turned backward and sliding down the risers on his tummy. He was free, and he wasn't about to be caught again.

"I'm sorry!" Susan yelled. "Come on back." Oh, my God what have I done?

Then she caught the look on his face. That wasn't fear she saw; it was a smile, and at that second she realized that this was part of some long-standing routine. He wasn't afraid of the bath; he was playing the chase-me game. Well, two could play at that.

"Come back here, you stinker!" She laughed and hurried down the sweeping steps hoping to catch up. No way. He had cleared the foyer and was loose in the house. Susan rounded the corner into the barren living room in time to see a shadow dart across the floor of Bobbys library. She heard the sound of casters against the hardwood floor and looked up in time to see the desk chair swivel just a little bit. He was hiding under the desk.

Susan stepped through the doorway into the library, but made a point of turning her back and peering into the kitchen.

"Where, oh, where, might that little boy be?" she asked the room. "I wonder if maybe he's in here?" With dramatic, exaggerated movements, she made a show of peering behind the bookshelf and the curtains and the door. She even checked under the rug; everywhere but under the desk. "Well, that's a shame. I was really hoping that maybe that cute little boy and I could get a clean diaper and a clean face and maybe eat a couple of cookies. What a terrible, terrible shame."