Night Terrors: Savage Species, Book 1 (5 page)

Sam stopped and spat toward the valley. How much longer would his creditors wait for him? Six months? Half that?

He turned and peered down the line of woods until, in his periphery, he spotted Charly Florence’s house.

With a flutter in his belly, Sam realized Charly was standing on the back deck. She had her baby boy on her hip—didn’t she always?—and was bouncing him gently to get him to stop screaming. Sam could hear the little guy caterwauling as though someone had ahold of his ear and was giving it a vicious twist.

“Teething, I’ll bet,” he said.

Charly shifted the boy to her other hip, caressed his back, bounced him some more, her pretty knees flexing as she tried in vain to make the little guy feel better.
Where’s your husband?
Sam wondered. Then,
How’d you ever end up with that jackass anyway?

Better stop that kind of thinking
, his father’s voice admonished. The man had been dead six years this August, but Sam still talked to him every day.

He lingered on Charly’s turned back a moment, the shimmering blond hair, the curve of her hips, the killer legs. Just the way a woman should be, he thought. Not plump, but a little meat on her bones.

He turned away with an effort. A woman like that, with her dazzling smile, her playful personality and best of all, a brain in her head…why did she have to be chained to a bastard like Eric Florence?

Sam sighed. He couldn’t escape the Florences these days, it seemed. When he wasn’t daydreaming about Charly, he was checking his voicemail to see what complaint her husband had lodged that day. Sam had gone to the drugstore earlier to get something for his allergies. He happened to buy a newspaper, and who should he see on the cover of the sports page? Coach Eric Florence and his Western Indiana Golden Eagles. To torture himself, Sam had read the whole article. How Florence had been promoted from lead assistant to head coach after the old one was fired, how he became the youngest coach to lead his team to the Sweet Sixteen this decade. How he’d signed a lucrative extension that spring. His highly rated recruiting class.

The article failed to mention how much of an asshole he was.

Sam slapped a mosquito on his forearm. When he lifted his hand, his palm was smeared with blood and mosquito guts.

What are you doing out here?
his dad’s voice asked.

Where am I supposed to be?
he answered.

It’s Friday night—go to the Cactus and meet a nice woman
.

Pick up a barfly, you mean, and engage in a meaningless one-night stand.

Better than feeling sorry for yourself while the mosquitoes drink you like a cocktail
.

You’ve got a point there.

Sam turned back and let his gaze wander to Charly’s back porch.

She was gone.

You know
, his dad told him,
some people call what you’re doing stalking
.

I bought up the lots, didn’t I? Don’t I have a right to inspect them?

You’ve inspected them four nights this week. That’s stalking.

“So I’ll bring my binoculars next time,” Sam said. He cut across the lot labeled EIGHT until his boots met gravel. From there he made the short trip back to his pickup truck. The blue exterior was coated with dust, the tires spattered with old mud. Sam took out his George Strait keychain, opened the door, reached in and fired the ignition. He’d stand out here awhile so the dually could cool off.

He almost convinced himself he wasn’t just hoping for another glimpse of Charly.

Charly thought,
If Jake doesn’t stop screaming soon, my eardrums are going to burst
. He’d been cranking since morning, and it was what time? She paced the floor again and checked the clock on the nursery dresser: 9:37.

It wouldn’t have been so bad if she could’ve trusted Eric to brush the girls’ teeth and read to them, but that would require his leaving the basement—his
man cave
, he called it, a phrase that sent chills of irritation down her spine. What he did down there she had no idea. He claimed he was watching game film, but every time she walked in on him he was either on the phone or visiting some fantasy football website.

He made good money, yes, but couldn’t he donate just a little of his time as well?
My job is to provide for this family
, he’d declared on multiple occasions.
Your role is with the house and the kids
.

Saying kids like an afterthought.

Jake’s wailing broke off a moment, and Charly held her breath, hoping the hurricane had passed.

Then he erupted again in a voice loud enough to make her eyes water.

“Please, Jakers, please,” she said. “Please let Mommy have a break.”

Jake thrashed in her arms, his little eyes brimming with tears.

Oh, where the hell was Eric? When she was on the phone with someone, he could hear every word; he often grilled her after she hung up just to make sure she wasn’t talking to some man. But when Jake was screaming or one of the girls got hurt, Eric was as deaf as a stone.

And tonight he’d insist on sleeping in separate rooms.
The way you get in and out of bed to check on the baby drives me nuts
, he often said.

A damning voice spoke up within her:
Then why don’t you confront him, Charly? Stick up for yourself instead of being steamrolled?

What am I supposed to do?
she asked weakly.

Give him an ultimatum
, came the answer.
Be a man and raise your family or get the hell out.

But he makes the money.

Of which you’ll get half.

But—

No buts! He’s got himself a fine situation, doesn’t he? You give him free cooking, free housekeeping, free sex—

Not every time.

Most
of the time. And he gets to remain a perpetual adolescent. Hanging out with his buddies. Doing God knows what on recruiting trips—

Please stop.

Staying in hotels with his female assistants—

Charly shook her head, Jake’s wails escalating.

You try to run from it but you can’t.

No.

The kids are young enough. He’s barely a factor in the girls’ lives.

Please stop.

Divorce him, Charly.

He won’t let me.

You coward! You measly, mewling, spineless excuse for a woman!

Charly rushed out of the nursery, Jake braying into her shoulder.

You’re ruining four lives, and all because you can’t face him, can’t do what needs to be done.

Charly flipped on the bathroom light, placed Jake in the little blue baby chair. His beet-red face fixed on hers a moment, incomprehension plainly stamped there. Then he let loose with an anguished, trilling cry that reminded her of a deranged chipmunk.

“Please, baby,
please
give Mommy a break.”

She tore open the medicine cabinet and knocked a pair of orange prescription bottles into the sink. Neither was the one she sought. She scanned the remaining three bottles on the top shelf and spotted the one she was after, the sleeping pills her doctor had prescribed.

She threw a glance back at Jake and sucked in air. He’d twisted in his chair so that one leg was dangling over the edge, his red face mashed in the fabric.

Should’ve buckled him in
, her conscience admonished.

“
I know
,” she said, teeth clenched.

She wrestled Jake back into place, clicked the white buckles, and looked in the mirror.

The haggard face staring back at her looked like someone else’s.

Grimacing, she shook out a couple pills, hesitated, then tapped out two more.

Oh that’s smart
, her conscience said.
Why don’t you smoke some crystal meth and really screw the kid up?

“Go to hell,” she said and popped the quartet of lozenge-shaped pills into her mouth.

Maybe you’ll choke
, the voice said merrily.
Then your children can be raised by their devoted father!

A horridly vivid image imposed itself in her mind: Eric playing a video game with his buddies while Kate and Olivia fed Jake bits of carry-out pizza.

Charly leaned over the toilet and let one of the sleeping pills plop into the water. Then, giving herself no opportunity to change her mind, she filled a plastic cup and downed the remaining three pills at a gulp.

Fantastic!
Now you’ll only be out cold for twelve hours instead of sixteen! But I’m sure good old nurturing Eric will make sure Jake gets his breakfast.

Tears stinging her eyes, Charly bent over the chair, unbuckled Jake and lifted him. He was still crying, but his demeanor seemed slightly less frantic.
Probably wore himself out
, she thought. Patting his round rear end—definitely overdue for a diaper change—she returned to the nursery, where she slumped in the nursing chair and drew up her shirt. As Jake latched onto her breast, his blue eyes rolling white in ecstasy, she caressed his sweaty head.
The pills won’t be in my milk yet
, she thought,
and on the off chance they are, maybe they’ll help you sleep
.

Charly stretched out a leg, hooked the footstool with her toes and dragged it closer. She propped her feet up and leaned back. Jake’s warm body had mostly stopped shuddering, his drags on her nipple long and forceful. It relaxed her too. Charly closed her eyes and put Eric out of her mind. She supposed Kate and Olivia were still waiting on their bedtime stories, but the girls were sympathetic toward her plight. Though she made sure never to badmouth their father in front of them, Charly was sure they sensed the injustice. They saw who fed them, who tended to their needs. They could do without reading for one night…they could see that their teeth got brushed…they would be fine…

Charly awoke with a start. She’d been snoring. She opened and shut her mouth, a foul taste slicking her tongue.

She remembered Jake.

Gasping, she looked down and discovered him sleeping cozily in her lap.

Charly blew out a quavering breath. Good lord, she could’ve dropped the poor child. It was pure luck that had prevented a serious accident.

What were you saying about being such an amazing mother?

Charly peered across the room and saw by the digital clock it was 11:06. Yawning, she carried the baby over to his crib and gently laid him inside. She remembered the baby seat in the bathroom earlier, Jake nearly writhing his way out.

“My strong boy,” she said, patting his hindquarters.

Charly checked to make sure the red light of the baby monitor was on, then she went out, shutting the door as quietly as she could.

Chapter Five

Jesse was sweating his balls off. The heat within the tent was equatorial, the scorched air stagnant and rank.

Worse, he hadn’t brought anything to cover his arms and legs, so even if he did decide to escape from this stinking sarcophagus Linda passed off as a tent, he’d be eaten alive by the mosquitoes. Could a person catch malaria in Indiana?

Jesse breathed through his mouth, but the odor still made his eyes water.

The smell of these tents always reminds me of the forest
, Linda Farmer had said.

Sure
, Jesse thought.
A forest filled with decomposing bodies and dog shit
.

Whoever had set the tent up possessed quite a sense of humor too. Outside, the ground looked uniform enough, but the area under Jesse’s tent resembled the surface of the moon. Divots and mounds near the door, the ground near the window a horror show of rocks and shards of what felt like broken glass. And that didn’t even take into account the heat. If he didn’t get outside soon he’d combust.

Jesse struggled to take in air, willed his bladder to stop complaining. He’d already gone outside to piss three times. Emma thought little enough of him as it was; if he kept making trips outside she might add incontinence to the reasons why she’d never sleep with him.

Footsteps sounded outside his tent. Jesse sat up, listening.

Emma? Unable to sleep and wanting company?

Not likely.

Colleen, then? What would she be doing at—he checked his watch—a quarter of midnight?

Probably the same thing you’ve been doing. Better not disturb her or you’ll get one heck of an eyeful.

Jesse pictured Colleen’s manly body squatting in the weeds and shivered.

“Hey,” a voice outside whispered. “You awake?”

The voice was male. Jesse crawled to the window and strained to see who it was, but the figure stood just out of his vision.

“
Hey
,” the man said again, more urgently this time. “You up?”

Slowly, the familiarity of the voice coalesced into a mental picture.

Marc Greeley, the professor’s handsome assistant.

Sniffing around Emma’s tent.