THE SILVER RING

Robert Swartwood

Also By Robert Swartwood

NOVELS

The Dishonored Dead

The Calling

NOVELLAS & SHORT STORIES

In the Land of the Blind

Spooky Nook

In Solemn Shades of Endless Night

Through the Guts of a Beggar

AS EDITOR

Hint Fiction: An Anthology of Stories in 25 Words or Fewer

The Silver Ring copyright © 2009 Robert Swartwood

“Blind Insight” copyright © 2000 Robert Swartwood

(previously appeared in Burning Sky, Adventures in Science Fiction Terror, issue 6)

Cover art and design copyright © 2010 Wyatt Perko

(www.oceanastro.com)

This E-Book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Robert Swartwood.

www.robertswartwood.com

Contents

The Silver Ring

Afterword

Blind Insight

Excerpt from THE CALLING

Excerpt from THE SERIAL KILLER’S WIFE

THE SILVER RING

1

Five minutes before the man with the gun entered the store, two little girls cut in front of me in line.

It wasn’t really their fault. I was waiting in line, yeah, but this being a convenience store, the tabloid magazines were stored on a rack beneath the counter, and I was turned toward them, reading the ridiculous headlines about even more ridiculous celebrities. Above me, the speakers in the ceiling poured out some song by Bruce Springsteen.

It was summer and the temperature was stifling and for the past week after work I’d been stopping in for a slushie. The movie theater where I worked was having a promotion with this chain of stores: bring in your ticket stub for a free sixteen ounce soda or slushie. The theater floors always littered with stubs, I figured what the hey and stocked up on ticket stubs.

So I was standing there, a Cherry Coke slushie in one hand and reading a recent headline about Tom Cruise, when the man who’d been in line before me finished his purchase and turned away. The two girls stepped up and threw candy bars down on the counter.

The cashier—a woman named Dorothy, who never seemed to have a night off because I always saw her in here—gave me a look, as if asking, You mind?

I shrugged, took a sip of my slushie, and reached into my pocket for a ticket stub.

Among some change and a pack of gum, my fingers touched something solid that at first didn’t make sense. Pulling it out, I realized it was a ring I’d found tonight while cleaning house seven, one of the biggest houses. It was silver and looked expensive and I’d meant to turn it in to one of the managers but then we’d gotten busy and I’d forgotten. And now here it was resting in the palm of my hand.

It had a neutral look to it, like it could belong to either a man or a woman, and I don’t know why, but right then I needed to try it on. Just to see if it would fit, I told myself, and so I slipped it onto my finger. Not that I knew much about jewelry at seventeen, but it fit perfectly.

Before I had a chance to slide it back off the two girls shouted, “Thank you!” and suddenly turned away. The one closest bumped into me, causing me to drop my slushie. It hit the floor and spilled reddish-brown slush across the linoleum.

The girl who’d bumped me stood completely still, her mouth open and her eyes wide. The other girl had to cover her mouth as she giggled.

“I’m so sorry,” the one girl said.

Outside, a car beeped, and the other girl said, “Come on, Mom’s waiting,” and then the girls were hurrying away, an electronic buzzer going ding-dong when they exited.

Dorothy was already coming out from behind the counter, a roll of paper towels in her hand.

“This is why I don’t have any kids,” she said with a sigh.

She looked to be forty, fifty years old. She had long gray hair. Because of the silver ring now on my finger, I happened to notice she wore nothing on any of her long fingers.

Tearing off a long piece of paper towel, she said, “Go get yourself another. I’ll take care of this mess.”

“It’s okay, I don’t mind cleaning this up. I’m used to it.”

She was already lowering herself down to the floor, holding on to the counter for support. “Used to it. What does that mean?”

“I work over at the movie theater as an usher. I’m always cleaning up people’s messes.”

“Is that how you get all those ticket stubs? I just thought you liked watching movies.”

I smiled. “To be honest, I don’t really have much time to see movies.”

She placed the long sheet of paper towel over the bulk of the mess, tore another sheet.

“Go get yourself another,” she said. “I’ll be fine here.”

Deciding it best not to argue, I turned and headed toward the back of the store where they had the soda and slushie machines. I reached for one of the sixteen ounce cups but then stopped.

The ring on my finger was glowing.

“What—” I started to say.

And that was when the electronic buzzer went ding-dong and the man with the gun entered the store.

2

“Get up off the floor, bitch!” The voice was loud, angry, scared, hyped up on some kind of drug. “I want the money! Everything you got!”

The ring continued to glow and I just stared at it, completely calm.

“Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!” the man shouted, and while I couldn’t see the front of the store I somehow knew he had a .45 pointed at Dorothy’s face—Dorothy, who had her shaking hands up in the air and was having trouble getting to her feet.

“Please, please,” she started to sob.

The man with the gun struck her across the face, knocked her back down. She landed in the spilt slushie.

“Don’t fucking talk,” the man said. He was Hispanic and his eyes were red and his name was Irving and he needed only fifty bucks for another hit.

How I knew all that I didn’t know, just as I didn’t know why I started to slowly turn around, began to walk toward the front of the store.

“Please, please,” Dorothy sobbed.

“Bitch, you don’t shut your goddamn mouth, I’ll shoot you.”

Dorothy went silent.

“Now get the fuck up and get me my money.”

Her hands still raised, her bottom soaked with slushie, Dorothy managed to get into a sitting position, lean forward, place her weight on one knee, and stand.

“Fucking hurry,” Irving said. He’d waited outside until those two girls left, until there were no more cars in the parking lot, and knew the woman was alone (thought he knew, anyway), and he needed that money, he needed it.

Now standing on trembling legs, tears running down her face, Dorothy started to turn back toward the counter. But her sneaker skidded in more slushie, causing her to slip, to wave her arms wildly, and Irving, already hopped up and wired, thought she was trying to attack him and did the only thing he could do to protect himself.

He shot her three times in the back.

Dorothy stood still for an instant, her arms no longer waving, and then fell forward dead.

“Irving,” I said, standing now at the end of the chip and candy aisle, just a few feet away.

He turned, his eyes even wider, and unloaded the rest of the bullets into my chest.

3

I stumbled backward, my body went limp, my legs lost their strength, and I landed on the floor and knocked my head hard.

I didn’t feel it.

I didn’t feel anything.

I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, at one of those speakers hidden somewhere in the plaster tile. Bruce Springteen was over—he’d been over—and now someone else was singing. I couldn’t tell who it was or what they were saying.

All I could hear was my heart beating in my ears. That and Irving cursing again, the sound of his footsteps as he ran for the door, the electronic buzzer going ding-dong.

And then silence.

I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. I wanted to do both so very much but I couldn’t. I just lay there and stared at the ceiling, at that speaker emitting music of someone I didn’t know, didn’t recognize, and before I knew it I closed my eyes.

For an instant I saw darkness.

Then I saw a glow through my closed lids—somehow I knew it was the glow of the silver ring on my finger—and I opened my eyes again, took a breath, and sat up.

The first thing I did was touch my chest.

There was no blood. No bullet holes. Nothing.

The second thing I did was scramble to my feet and look wildly around the aisle, searching for those spent bullets.

Everything in that aisle—the bags of potato chips and pretzels, trays of candy bars and gum—looked no more disturbed than usual.

The ring glowed on my finger again—I somehow felt it glowing, like a pinprick—and I turned and hurried over to where Dorothy lay on the floor in a growing pool of blood and slushie.

She was clearly dead, the back of her blue uniform shirt ravaged where the bullets had entered.

“Dorothy,” I said, like she would answer.

She didn’t.

I stood back up, reaching into my pocket for my cell phone, when the silver ring glowed again.

I stared at it, then looked back at Dorothy.

I placed my hand on her back—the hand with the silver ring that was still glowing, somehow brighter now.

I kept my hand there and closed my eyes.

And in the space of five seconds I saw Dorothy’s entire life—her childhood, her adolescence, her adult years—and I knew about her two cats at home, Mork and Mindy, I knew about her last boyfriend, a man to whom she’d been engaged, and how he’d beaten her almost every other day.

With my eyes closed, seeing all this, I also saw the growing pool of blood and slushie surrounding Dorothy’s body. I saw the blood reverse course, going against gravity and its nature to spread out, the blood instead returning to her body, her body dislodging the bullets, first the one, then the other, and the skin closing back up, repairing itself.

I opened my eyes, looked down at the ring.

It was no longer glowing.

Dorothy groaned, mumbled something, and turned over. Staring up at me, she said, “What happened?”

“A man came in here with a gun and tried to rob the place.”

“What?”

“It’s okay. You slipped, knocked yourself unconscious, and the guy didn’t know what to do, so he just bolted.”

“He didn’t see you?”

“I was still in the back. I was”—I swallowed, looked away—“scared.”

Dorothy sat up, wincing at the pain in the back of her head. She looked down around her at reddish-brown pool of slushie and shook her head. “Well this is certainly a mess, isn’t it?”

4

“Name?”

“I already told you.”

“Name?”

“David Beveridge.”

“Age?”

“I already told you that too.”

“Age?”

“Seventeen.”

Officer Titus, a large bulky black man with a shaved head, looked away from the pad he was writing on and glanced at his wristwatch.

“It’s eleven-fifteen,” he said. “Curfew for minors is eleven.”

At this point, my dad, who had been standing idly by wringing his hands, stepped forward.

“Okay, Officer, I think my son has answered all your questions. He was in the back when the assailant entered the store and he stayed there and didn’t see the man’s face. Now are we done here?”

My dad had arrived less than a minute after I called him. After all, we lived only ten blocks away and he had hurried here in his BMW in sweatpants and an undershirt.

The police—Officers Titus and Mallory—had pulled into the parking lot about a minute after Dorothy came to. I’d just helped her to her feet when the electronic buzzer went ding-dong and there the two cops stood staring at us with frowns.

Officer Titus took his time marking something down on his pad. He seemed bored, like he was too good for this type of cop work, probably believed he would someday make a great detective instead.

His partner, who had been inside taking Dorothy’s statement, came out the door and walked over to us shaking his head.

“Nothing on the tape.”

“Say that again?” Officer Titus asked.

“The tape was in the player and it was recording. Right before the perp came in, it all turned to static.” He noticed my dad, smiled, and extended his hand. “Assistant D.A. Beveridge, it’s very good to meet you, sir.”

Officer Titus gave my dad another look, something changing in his face. “Oh shit, I didn’t—”

“That’s quite okay,” my dad said. “So are we done here?”

“Just one more thing,” Officer Malloy said, stepping forward and taking my arm. In a soft voice he said, “David, what I’d like you to do now is glance across the street and see if you recognize any of those people as the guy.”

Officer Titus said, “The kid says he didn’t—”

“I know that,” Officer Mallory said. “But it’s a small store. He may not have seen the guy’s face completely, but he may have gotten a glimpse. Maybe even the color of his shirt or his hat. What do you say, David?”

We were right outside the store, the police cruiser next to us with its red and white roof lights flashing. It had drawn some attention across the street, a half dozen or so people milling around wondering what was what.

“Sure, okay,” I said and gave that side of the street a quick look—some Puerto Rican kids, two old black men, a tall bald guy with a thick goatee—and then I looked back at Officer Mallory and shook my head.

Officer Titus blew air through his nose but Mallory ignored it. He reached into his pocket, dug out a card, and handed it to me.

“If you can remember anything else, please feel free to call me, okay?”

My dad took the proffered card and slipped it into his pocket, smiling at me for the first time. “So are we done here?”

Officer Mallory nodded. “Yes, sir.”

5

My dad parked the BMW a block down from our brownstone. As he shut off the car, he said, “Where’d you get the ring?”

“The what?”

“On your finger. I don’t remember seeing it before.”

I glanced down at my left hand, lost for words, then said, “Just found it somewhere.”

We walked to the brownstone in silence, the block still but the city faint with noise. As we neared the house the streetlamps along the block flickered briefly.

“Strange,” my dad said. At the bottom of the stone steps he looked at me. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

He stepped forward, wrapped his arms around me, murmured, “I love you, son.”

I instantly felt that sudden pinprick on my finger and stepped out of his embrace. Staring up at him I studied his face, the furrows in his brow, the bags underneath his eyes.

Frowning at me, he said, “What is it?”

“You promised you would stop.”

“Huh?”

“You made a promise to Mom and me that you would never see her again.”

“David, what are you talking about?”

“You can’t even admit it, can you? You’re pathetic.”

The front door opened and my mom appeared in her wheelchair. “David? John? Is everything okay?”

I glanced back at my dad and saw him staring at me, his face suddenly tight.

“Yeah, honey,” he called. “Everything’s great.”

I turned away from him and hurried up the steps. Mom held out her arms, and I leaned down and gave her a hug.

“I was so worried,” she said. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“What happened?”

“It sounds worse than it really was.”

My dad was still standing at the bottom of the steps, staring down the block.

I placed my hand on the door and waited for Mom to roll back so I could shut it.

“What about your father?”

“He said he needed to make a call before he comes in.”

I shut the door harder than I probably needed to, hoping he would somehow feel my anger through the vibrations.

“Easy now,” Mom said quietly. “You’ll wake your sister.”

But apparently my sister was already awake, little eight-year-old Emma dressed in her Hanna Montana pajamas rubbing the sleep from her eye as she stumbled out of the living room.

“David?” she asked sleepily. “Is that you?”

“Hey, munchkin. Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

Mom said, “When your father received your call he was frantic and managed to wake her up. She’s been worried ever since.”

“Well I’m home now,” I said, smiling at my sister.

“You’re not hurt?”

“Not at all.”

“That’s good.”

“Want to take her upstairs and tuck her in for me?” Mom asked.

She was thinking about my dad and why he hadn’t come in yet. I knew this just as I knew Dad was still standing in the same spot I’d left him, his eyes now closed, wondering how I’d found out he was still sleeping around.

“Sure.” I leaned down, kissed my mom on the cheek. “Good night.”

I turned to my sister, grinned, and said, “I’ll race you to the top.” She was already turning away and scrambling up the stairs. I waited a few seconds and then hurried after, my mom laughing in that singsong way of hers as she watched us go.

“I win, I win, I win,” Emma cried when she reached the top, jumping up and down.

Of course she did; I always let her win.

6

After taking a long shower and brushing my teeth, I lay in bed and stared at the ceiling.

I thought about the silver ring.

About it glowing.

About Irving and how he’d shot Dorothy and me.

About how I’d seen darkness and then light.

About how I’d somehow healed Dorothy, brought her back to life, made her believe a different series of events.

About how I’d known my father was still cheating on my mom, even though he’d promised us he’d stop, that he was so very sorry and that he loved us so much and please please please would we forgive him?

I thought about what it all meant and what it could mean.

My mom, stricken with MS, forever confined to a wheelchair. She would never walk again.

Or would she?

I lifted my left hand up to my face so I could see the ring. Just enough light came in through the window that I could see it shine. I’d already tried pulling it off but it wouldn’t budge. It was like the thing was stuck, glued to my skin, yet it didn’t feel that way.

I’d touched Dorothy and brought her back to life.

My father had hugged me and I’d seen into his soul and the dark secret he was keeping.

I’d hugged and kissed my mother but her legs were still useless.

Why?

I didn’t know, but I planned to find out.

And lying there, staring at the ring, I realized what I needed to do next.

7

In the morning I found Mom and Emma in the kitchen. Emma was at the table, playing a videogame, Mom rolling between the lowered counter and the refrigerator making breakfast.

“Where’s dad?” I asked.

“Sleeping in.” Mom cracked open an egg, dropped the yolk into a glass bowl. “Would you like an omelet?”

“Thanks, but I’m kind of in a hurry.”

“It’s eight-thirty. What pressing appointment could you possibly have?”

“Josh invited me over yesterday,” I said, throwing one of my best friend’s names out there to give the story more plausibility. I opened the cupboard, pulled out a box of S’Mores Pop-Tarts, and slid two of them into the toaster. “He wants me to help him set up his new computer.”

“Oh honey,” Mom said. “But after last night”—she threw a glance at my sister—“are you sure you want to leave by yourself?”

“I’m fine, Mom.”

“Still …”

I walked over to Emma. “Munchkin.”

She didn’t answer, intent on her videogame.

“Emma, I’m sorry to tell you this, but you were adopted.”

Still no response, my sister biting her lip as her thumbs rapidly clicked the keypad.

I leaned down, kissed her on the head, then turned to the toaster as my Pop-Tarts popped up.

“Your father mentioned the police officers weren’t as friendly as they could have been,” Mom said as she whisked the eggs.

“He thinks everyone could be nicer than they are.”

“Still,” Mom said, concentrating on the task at hand, and I set the Pop-Tarts aside, walked over to her, took the glass bowl out of her hands, placed it on the counter, leaned down, and put my hands on her knees.

“I love you, Mom.”

I expected a sudden pinprick on my finger, for the ring to at least glow briefly, for my mom’s eyes to widen just a little as she felt her legs for the first time in years.

“I love you too, David,” she said, and it was clear nothing had happened, that her legs were still useless, and with my teeth clenched I stood straight up, turned, and left the kitchen.

“David?” my mom called. “What about your breakfast?”

But I kept walking, intent now on grabbing my bike and helmet, my stomach so empty I was starving but couldn’t eat a thing.

8

Officer Titus stood on the sidewalk just outside our brownstone.

“Hello there, David,” he said. “How are you?”

I navigated my bike down the steps, my helmet hanging off the handlebars and swinging back and forth. When I reached the bottom I stood there beside my bike, staring at the man who wasn’t wearing his uniform this morning but instead had on jeans and sneakers and a faded tee-shirt.

“What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to apologize for last night.”

“You mean you aren’t always a jerk to seventeen-year-old victims involved in an armed robbery?”

“Technically,” Officer Titus said, “as nothing was stolen, it doesn’t officially count as robbery.”

He smiled, meaning it a joke, but I just stared back at him.

“Anyway, David, I just wanted to say sorry. I’ve been having some personal problems recently and brought it with me on the job, which I know I shouldn’t do, and—”

“If you’re trying to suck up to my dad, you’re talking to the wrong person,” I said, putting on my helmet and snapping the chinstrap together. I realized then I’d left my cell phone inside but didn’t want to risk going back in.

“Are you going for a ride?”

“No, I thought I’d just stand here with my bike and watch traffic go up and down the street.”

He made a face, looked down at his feet, and for the first time I felt sorry for him. I didn’t know why but I was being more of a smartass than usual. Maybe it had to do with his lack of professionalism last night, or maybe I was just cranky because I’d hardly slept.

“Look,” I said, swinging one leg over to straddle the bike, “I appreciate your stopping by like this and apologizing. No hard feelings, okay?”

He looked up, stared back at me, nodded slowly.

“See you around,” I said, because I couldn’t think of anything else to say, and I placed my foot on the pedal and pushed down and moved only an inch before Officer Titus spoke.

“By the way, David, that’s a nice ring you have there.” His voice was suddenly calm, measured, cold. “Where’d you get it?”

9

My grandmother’s nursing home was a large stone building located in the middle of downtown. In a way it was like the heart of the city, a dying heart, an irony that didn’t amuse many of its nearby residents.

I stood across the street next to the pole I’d just chained my bike and helmet to, staring at the glass entrance doors.

Through those doors were countless sick and dying people.

Through those doors were my grandmother and the Alzheimer’s that was slowly killing her.

Last night I’d brought a woman back from the dead.

This morning I’d wanted to heal my mother but couldn’t and now here I was.

Officer Titus’s appearance had thrown me. His apology, and then his innocuous question. It was one thing for my father to notice the ring and ask about it but a completely different thing for a stranger.

Who knows, maybe the ring had been reported stolen and Officer Titus remembered seeing it on my hand last night. Maybe he was a much better cop than I took him for.

After he’d asked his question I’d looked down at the ring as if I didn’t even remember it was there and shrugged and said it had been a present from my girlfriend, a promise ring to stay true to each other until we got married.

Officer Titus didn’t need to know that my girlfriend and I broke up three months ago.

All he needed to know was that it was my ring, mine, and nobody else’s.

I waited for traffic, then started out into the street, the entrance to the realm of the sick and dying growing closer with each step.

10

A sign in the lobby announced the nursing home’s visiting hours:

Monday - Friday 9:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m.

Saturday - Sunday 11:00 a.m. to 6:00 p.m.

Today was Saturday and it was barely nine o’clock. I knew the nursing home staff was strict regarding its visiting hours. Actually, in the two years my grandmother had been in this place, I had come to believe the staff was strict regarding just about everything.

The worst was a woman with the unfortunate name of Doris Hackman, who made Nurse Ratched look like Florence Nightingale. As luck had it, Nurse Hackman oversaw my grandmother’s floor.

I went straight for the main desk and the man who was sitting behind it, reading this morning’s paper. I was faintly aware of the sudden pinprick on my finger, and then I was standing in front of the desk waiting for the man to glance up and give me a bored look and tell me to come back in two hours.

He quietly turned the page.

I looked around, not sure what to make of this. I considered clearing my throat but instead noticed the bell on the counter and rang that instead.

The man jerked, looked up suddenly, stared at me with wide eyes.

Only, I realized an instant later, he was staring through me, because there was something in his eyes, something in the way they were focused that gave away the fact he wasn’t seeing me at all.

I looked around again, and this time noticed the mirror hanging on the wall off to my left.

I could see the counter and the man and the pot of flowers and the events calendar. But that was it.

The man frowned, shook his head, and looked back down at his paper.

I stepped back, glanced down at the silver ring on my finger, the ring that was now glowing its strange glow.

Okay, so not only could I bring a woman back from the dead, but I could turn invisible.

I was fine with that.

Just as long as it worked for what else I needed it to do.

I hurried toward the elevators, pressed the up button, and waited until the doors slid open and Nurse Hackman walked out. She was a large woman, the kind for which they invented the word bulbous, and she had an ugly face, rounded shoulders, frizzy hair.

I didn’t have time to step out of the way and she walked right through me, pausing only momentarily, glancing back with a frown before continuing on her way.

The doors started to slide shut and I jumped inside. I pressed the button for the third floor and waited until the doors opened again and I stepped out onto my grandmother’s floor. All the florescent ceiling lights were on—every single one—yet the floor still managed to exude a dreary and desolate feeling.

I walked past a nurse helping an elderly man climb into his wheelchair. It made me think briefly of my mother and how I’d placed my hands on her legs but hadn’t changed a thing.

As I walked I could smell the people around me, could smell the promise of death, and I wanted to stop at every room, touch every sick man and woman, and rid them of their diseases, reverse their biological clocks so they would begin to grow young.

And maybe I would do that, I told myself as I reached my grandmother’s room. Maybe I would.

The silver ring was still glowing, keeping me invisible. I placed my palm on the handle, pushed it down, and slipped inside.

11

The moment my grandmother’s door snapped shut again the ring stopped glowing. I glanced up at the mirror in her bathroom and I could see myself again.

I barely had time to relish the thought and experience of my invisibility before a groan sounded out in the dim room and I looked over at the woman in the bed.

She stirred, her small and frail head moving back and forth on the pillow. From where I stood she looked like a ghost, an emaciated and shriveled corpse.

“Grandma,” I said.

She groaned again, opened her eyes, looked at me.

“John?” she whispered in a long, drawn out voice.

I went to her bed and pulled up a chair next to it and sat down.

“No, Grandma, it’s David. I’m your grandson.”

“John … you look so … different.”

“Grandma,” I said, and something cracked in my voice. It was the same thing that had been with me in the kitchen when I tried to heal my mom, the thing that understood I had failed then and that I would fail now.

“John,” my grandmother said again in that dreamy way of hers, pushing down her bedcovers so she could reach out a hand to me.

I just stared at it—the wrinkled flesh, the brown nails—and I didn’t move. I couldn’t move. All I could do was sit there and smell the malodorous mixture of scents wafting from her dying body.

“John”—still holding her hand out to me—“what have you … been doing lately?”

“I’ve started another affair.”

“Oh,” she said, and lost the strength to keep her hand balanced in the air. “Well, that’s nice.”

I tried remembering a time when she hadn’t been like this. When she had been completely lucid and happy and would take me to the park and bring day-old bread so we could feed the ducks.

“John,” she said again, and that thing inside of me keeping me frozen snapped.

I stood, leaned forward, and placed my hand—the hand with the silver ring—on her forehead.

I closed my eyes, picturing the ring in my mind, willing it to glow.

“John?” she asked now, and I shushed her, told her to be quiet, and with my eyes closed I just stood there with my hand against her forehead, praying that the ring would suck the Alzheimer’s out of her body.

I stood like that for thirty seconds, a minute, five minutes, however long it took before the door opened and an angry voice said, “What in God’s name is going on here?”

12

Doris Hackman stood in the doorway, one hand on the handle, the other quickly reaching out and flicking on the light switch. Our eyes met for just an instant and then she stepped back, shouted, “Celia, call security, now!” and before I knew it she was running at me.

She was much faster than she looked. In the matter of only seconds she had made it across the room, her teeth bared, her hands already reaching for me. It didn’t cross my mind until that instant what it had looked like from her point of view: me standing over my grandmother, my hand on her forehead, but with my back to the doorway, it could easily have appeared as if I was trying to suffocate her.

“No, listen, look,” I said, already stepping back.

Doris grabbed me, pulled me away from the bed, and right then I felt that familiar pinprick and saw everything about this woman’s life, just like I had with Dorothy, and I immediately said, “King’s death wasn’t your fault.”

The woman paused, her hands still squeezing me, her eyes now going wide.

Staring back into her ugly face, I said, “It was your mother who forgot to chain him up that day. Not you.”

Frantic footsteps headed toward us up the corridor.

“That’s how he made it out into the road. That’s how he got hit by that truck. It wasn’t your fault like your mom later told you. It was hers.”

Two orderlies appeared in the doorway at the same moment Doris loosened her grip on my arm. That physical connection was lost but as I stared back into her ugly face, into her eyes, I saw something else that hadn’t happened yet but which she was planning.

“Want us to call the cops?” one of the orderlies asked.

“Don’t you do it,” I said to her. “He may be sick, he may have no family, but you don’t have the right to let him die.”

Her eyes widened again, her normally pale face suffused with blood.

“Nurse Hackman!” the other orderly said. They had both entered the room, were slowly approaching us. “Do you want us to call the police or not?”

She was staring back at me, shaking her head almost imperceptibly, whispering, “How can you … how could you possibly …”

“I know you want to help,” I said. “But it’s wrong, and you know it.”

“John?” My grandmother’s long, drawn out voice caused me to blink, to shake the possible images out of my mind: Doris Hackman standing over a dying man on this floor, feeling pity for him, considering the idea of accelerating his death. “What’s … happening?”

“Nurse Hackman,” the same orderly said, reaching out and touching her arm.

Just like me she blinked, shook her head as if awaking from a dream, and then looked at the two orderlies. “No, don’t bother with the police. Just escort him out of the building and make sure he never comes back.”

The two orderlies looked at each other.

“You mean ban him for life?” one of them asked. “Because I don’t think we can—”

“Just get him out of my sight,” Doris Hackman said. “I never want to see his face again.”

13

The orderlies were surprisingly gentle.

They led me down to the first floor and toward the entrance past the front desk where the man was still reading this morning’s paper.

Neither of them spoke until we reached the doors, and one of them said, “How’d you get in here anyway?”

I looked at him, then at his friend, then turned and walked outside.

The morning traffic had picked up. The temperature had risen a couple of degrees. The sun was hot on my head.

I went to the edge of the sidewalk and closed my eyes and clenched my teeth and squeezed my fists and did everything I could not to scream out my frustrations.

After a moment I opened my eyes and looked across the street toward where I’d chained my bike.

A figure stood beside the pole, a short figure wearing a long blue robe and cowl. This figure didn’t have a face, at least not one I could see. Where a face should have been was just darkness. Yet somehow I had the distinct impression the figure was watching me.

I took a step back, pivoted to my left, thinking I’d walk around the block and come back and hopefully that strange figure would be gone.

I went only a couple feet before I stopped again.

Another figure—wearing the same long blue robe, the same cowl, the same darkness where a face should have been—was at the end of the block.

I now pivoted one-hundred and eighty degrees, toward the other end of the block.

A third figure stood there too.

Looking around wildly—at the first figure, at the second and the third—I felt that familiar pinprick and glanced down at the ring glowing on my finger.

I didn’t know what it meant, and when I glanced back up I saw the figures were approaching, all three of them, coming quickly, and without thinking I turned and sprinted back toward the nursing home’s entrance.

The two orderlies were still in the lobby, talking to the man behind the counter. They saw me, started to stand up straight, started to speak.

I ran past them down the corridor.

Now they yelled, telling me to stop, but I barely heard them. Instead I somehow heard the three figures as they gave chase, now in front of the nursing home, now inside, moving in a strange fluid motion as if propelled by something other than their feet.

At the end of the corridor were double doors. I went through them, continued through the back of a kitchen, past the dishwashers, past two women talking with their arms crossed, and then I came to one of the back doors leading into the alleyway behind the building and I crashed through that and kept running.

I paused, looked left, looked right, then started running again, knowing the three figures had somehow overtaken the orderlies, the now confused orderlies, maybe finally calling the police. Any moment now those figures would come out through the same exit door and see me and—

I reached the end of a block just as the man stepped out from around the corner, a shotgun in his hands, aimed right at my face.

14

“Down!” the man shouted, and I dropped to the ground, pushed my face against the macadam, right as the shotgun roared.

My eyes closed, I somehow saw the three figures now out in the alleyway, the one in front being struck down.

The man stepped over me, racked the shotgun, pulled the trigger. The shotgun roared and took the second figure down, then the man did the same thing again—racked the gun, pulled the trigger—and one final BANG! echoed in the alleyway and the third figure lay flat on the ground.

For a moment there was silence.

Then the man growled, “Come on, get up,” and when I didn’t move, when I didn’t even open my eyes, he grabbed the back of my shirt and pulled me to my feet.

“Let’s go!” he shouted, pushing me forward.

My feet moved of their own volition, taking me to the end of the alleyway where they stopped, not sure where to take me next.

The man grabbed my arm, tugged me toward an old red Ford pickup.

“Hurry, get in.”

I said, “But what—” and glanced back down the alleyway … where the first figure was now sitting up, followed by the second figure, then the third.

“Goddamn it,” the man shouted, slamming the driver’s door shut, starting the engine, “get in the truck now!”

I sprinted to the passenger door, opened it, jumped inside just as the man slammed his foot down on the gas.

The truck jerked forward. It passed the mouth of the alleyway and I glanced over to see the three figures coming toward us and the man said, “Watch your head,” and pushed me down just as the rear windshield shattered and I cried out and he pushed the gas even harder bringing us to the end of the alley and then slammed on the brakes just as he jerked the wheel taking us out onto the main street.

I was hunched in the passenger seat, my eyes closed, my hands on my head. Seconds passed before I realized I was still alive.

“What—what—what was that?”

“Trouble,” the man said, keeping his eyes on the street as he swerved us in and out of traffic.

“But you shot them.”

“That I did.”

“And they—they got back up.”

“You noticed that, did you?”

“And then they … they shot at us?”

“Hey, nothing gets past you.”

At the upcoming intersection the light turned yellow and the man punched the gas, accelerating us through just in time.

I said, “Who are they?”

“You know exactly who they are.”

“I do?”

The man looked at me for the first time, nodding.

“But I … I don’t. I have no idea.”

“Let’s just say they’re not from around here.”

“What does that mean?”

“Come on, you can do it. Just say it. It’ll make this whole thing a hell of a lot easier.”

“They were …” I paused, swallowing. “Aliens?”

“Bingo,” the man said.

I glanced out my window, watched the buildings and cars and people streak past.

“Why were they chasing me?”

“You mean that isn’t obvious by now?”

When I looked back at the man he glanced at the ring on my finger.

“Is it theirs?”

The man laughed. “Kid, nobody owns the ring.”

“Then why were they chasing me?”

“Because that’s what bad guys do.”

The man had begun to slow, probably thinking we were now safe. The traffic light ahead turned red and he stopped and turned slightly in his seat.

“The name’s Cashman,” he said, extending his hand. “Alien bounty hunter extraordinaire. Nice to meet you.”

15

Cashman pulled out a pack of cigarettes from his jacket, stuck one in his mouth, went to put the pack away then held it out to me.

“Want one?”

When I didn’t answer he put the pack away, pulled out a lighter, lit the cigarette, took a long drag, then looked at me as he blew smoke out of the side of his mouth.

“See, I might not know everything, but I do know my etiquette. When I hold out my hand, tell you my name, you’re supposed to shake my hand and tell me your name. What—you never learned that?”

I was staring out my window. In a soft voice, I said, “This isn’t happening.”

“Say that again?”

“This whole thing,” I said, looking back at him. “This isn’t real.”

“Is that right? So that thing there on your finger, it hasn’t done weird stuff now, has it? Nothing that would seem—oh, I don’t know—unbelievable?”

I squinted at him, this tall large bald man with a thick goatee. He had large gold earrings in each ear.

“I’ve seen you before,” I said.

“Have you now?”

“Last night. You were across the street from the convenience store. Have you … have you been following me?”

“Not you. That.” Cashman using his cigarette to point toward my hand. “See, there’s a kind of … power the thing gives off. You might not be able to sense it. Hell, not many people could. But someone like me, someone who—”

“Hunts aliens?”

He grinned. “Why, yeah, exactly. People like me, our minds have sort of become attuned to the world outside our own. And when I sensed this thing here last night and I tracked it down, I knew trouble would be coming for it as soon as possible.”

We were leaving downtown now, headed toward the expressway.

“Where are we going?”

“Gotta lay low for a while. At least until I can come up with a solid game plan.”

“But won’t they find us?”

“Give them enough time they will.”

I stared back out my window, thinking about the past half hour. “Stop the truck.”

“What’s that?”

“I want to get out. I want to go home.”

“Kid, you go home, those things will follow you. Bad shit will happen, if you get my drift.”

The shotgun was between us on the bucket seat. I could still smell the gunpowder.

I grabbed it, held it up so it was aimed at Cashman’s face. “Stop the fucking truck.”

The cigarette still between his lips, he glanced in his rearview mirror, then slowed and pulled us over to the side of the highway. Slowly putting the truck in park, he said, “Now what, boss?”

I moved back against the door, kept the shotgun aimed with my left hand as I reached down and opened the door with my right.

“Now I’m leaving.”

“Oh yeah? And where are you going? We’re on the highway. The next exit isn’t for a mile and a half. You going to walk the entire way with that shotgun? Don’t you think that might make some people a little skittish?”

The door now open, I placed my right foot flat against the pavement.

“And then what are you going to do once you make it off the highway?” Cashman asked. He kept his hands on the steering wheel; the cigarette still dangled from his lips. “Last time those things came after you, you ran like a little girl. In fact, if I remember correctly—and I should, as it happened only ten minutes ago—it was me who saved your ass back there.”

“What are you saying?”

For the first time Cashman moved his head so he could look at me. “I’m saying stop being stupid. You don’t know what’s going on. I do. So why would you leave? At least stay with me until you find out what this is all about.”

“And what is this all about?”

“Goddamn it, kid, we don’t have time for that right now. In case you forgot, you’ve got a shotgun aimed at my head and we’re on the highway and God knows how many people can see us. So why don’t you put the shotgun down, shut the door, and we’ll get moving again.”

“Where are you going to take me?”

“Someplace safe.”

“And how do I know you’re not going to try to kill me once we get there?”

Here Cashman grinned, had to hold back a laugh. “You’ve been wearing that ring long enough to know by now I can’t do shit to you even if I wanted to. With that thing on you, you’re practically invincible.”

I thought for a moment, then said, “So then I shouldn’t be afraid of those things back there.”

“Look, are we going to play word games all day, or are we going to get moving?”

I thought for another moment, then shut the door and said, “Fine. But I’m keeping this thing aimed at you while you drive.”

Shaking his head, placing the truck back in gear, Cashman said, “Whatever makes you happy, kid.”

16

Just before we crossed over the river, Cashman took the exit for the warehouse district.

Keeping the shotgun leveled on him, I glanced out my window. I’d driven past this section of the city thousands of times, but that had been with my parents in their car as they cruised by on the expressway. Never had I actually come here. Nobody in their right mind would.

Many of the warehouses were abandoned, something I remembered my dad mentioning had to do with city legislation and red tape. Trash littered the streets. Graffiti marked almost every building. Boards covered almost every other window.

Cashman pulled up in front of a white stone building, placed the truck in park, and cut the engine.

“What is this place?”

“A speakeasy,” he said, already opening his door and stepping out. He turned, squinted back at me. “You coming or what?”

“It’s not even noontime. I didn’t think bars were open this early.”

“First, this isn’t a bar. Second, you’re a kid. What the hell do you know about bars anyway?”

I glanced back out my window. The street was deserted. I got out of the truck, keeping the shotgun aimed at Cashman.

He gave me a bored look, then started walking. We went around to the back of the building, to a narrow alleyway. He knocked on a door, waited, knocked again.

Eventually a voice said, “What’s the password?”

“Open up, I need to take a piss.”

There came the sound of the deadbolt clicking over, then the door opened. An older woman peered out of us.

“That’s not the goddamn password and you know it,” she said.

Cashman pushed his way past her. “Don’t mind the kid with the shotgun. He’s with me.”

She frowned at me, didn’t even glance at the weapon in my hands. “Shouldn’t you be in school?”

“It’s Saturday,” I said, stepping into the building. It was dark and cool and smelled like a kitchen. Which I guess made sense, because it was a kitchen.

Cashman opened a refrigerator, pulled out a beer. “Want one?” he asked me.

I shook my head.

The woman closed the door, turned the deadbolt, then said, “Can you please explain to me what’s going on here?”

“Haven’t you noticed?” Cashman took a gulp of the beer, wiped his mouth, and pointed the bottle at me. “He’s wearing the ring.”

The woman gasped. Her hands to her face, she said, “Oh my God, you really do have it on you, don’t you.”

I stood there silent, the shotgun now lowered toward the floor. “Okay, now that we’re here, tell me what’s going on.”

Cashman took another gulp of beer, watching me. He shook his head. “Not until you put that thing down. You’re making me nervous.”

“No.”

“Kid, do we really have to go through this? I’m not going to hurt you. Besides, wasn’t it me who saved your ass back there? And anyway, like I said, with that ring on your finger you’re practically invincible.”

The woman was standing very close to me now, her eyes wide as she tried to get a good look at the silver ring.

I gave it a moment, then said, “Fine. But I want you to tell me everything.”

Cashman shrugged, nodded, and held out his hand for the weapon.

I took the shotgun and racked it once, ejecting a round, then kept racking it until no more rounds came out. Four of them lay at my feet. I handed him the shotgun.

“Invincible, yes,” Cashman said, taking the shotgun with a smile. “Smart, no.”

And with the butt of the shotgun he knocked me on the side of the head.

Cue darkness.

17

“I told you this was a waste of time.”

“Shut up.”

“If anybody knew this would be a waste of time, it’d be you.”

“I said shut your goddamn mouth.”

“All you’re doing now is making a mess.”

“Do you want me to kill you? Because you know I will. I’d do it happily.”

I opened my eyes. Stared up at Cashman crouching over me.

He had a sledgehammer in his hands and was glaring at the old woman standing beside him.

She noticed me first. “Oh dear, look who’s awake.”

Cashman turned his attention back to me. He had a bored, irritated expression on his face. “Welcome back to the land of the living, David.”

I was in a supine position on a cold cement floor. The walls, I noticed as my eyes adjusted, were gray cinderblocks. I tried sitting up but found I couldn’t. My legs were chained to the floor, as was my left hand. It was stretched out beside me on the floor. All around it were bits and pieces of metal and wood.

“How do you know my name?”

Cashman hefted the sledgehammer as he stood up straight. He glanced at the woman and said, “This is going to be harder now that he’s conscious.”

“Do you want to knock him unconscious again?”

He shrugged. “I’m kinda interested to see what happens now that he’s awake.”

“Hey,” I shouted. “Why are you doing this?”

“There is no why, David. All there is is that ring on your finger, and I want to get my hands on it. Except, see, the thing won’t come off. But you already knew that, didn’t you? Yes, I can tell by the look on your face. You’ve tried taking it off but it wouldn’t come. See, it was the same for us, so what did we do? We tried cutting off your finger.”

Cashman stepped back, grabbed a butcher knife off a table, held it up for me to see the damaged blade.

“But the thing is, once the steel touches your skin, it becomes like butter. Like I told, you’re practically invincible. So for the past three hours we’ve been trying to first cut your finger off, then cut your hand off, but, well, we’re not having much luck.”

“But why—”

Cashman stepped forward, raised the sledgehammer up over his head, and brought it down with a grunt.

The steel tip raced toward my left hand spread out on the floor. I didn’t even have a chance to move it a centimeter before the hammer made contact.

For an instant the silver ring flashed and the hammer burst apart, exploding into a thousand pieces.

“Goddamn it!” Cashman shouted. He turned and threw what was left of the sledgehammer across the room. It sailed end over end until it bounced off the cinderblock wall, hit the floor, and went still.

I stared at my hand, at the ring that was no longer glowing. The hammer had in fact made contact—I’d felt its cold tip kiss the skin—but I hadn’t felt any pain. I hadn’t felt anything.

“See?” the old woman said. “Are you ready to give up yet?”

Cashman glared down at me, his teeth gritted. “Not yet. Bring me the chainsaw.”

18

Darkness again.

And in the darkness I saw my family, my parents and sister. In the darkness I saw them dead. Yet they were still alive. Their eyes wide, their faces pale. Screaming.

Something touched my face.

I jerked out of sleep.

The old woman was crouched in front of me, pressing a damp cloth against my forehead.

“Are you thirsty?”

I nodded.

She stood up, turned toward the wooden table, picked up a bottle of water, unscrewed the cap, then held it out to me.

I just stared at her.

“Go ahead,” she prompted.

I remembered then that my right hand wasn’t chained to anything and reached out and took the water and chugged it until there was nothing left.

The woman took the empty bottle back from me with a small smile. “You really were thirsty, weren’t you?”

“Why are you doing this to me?”

“Son, I’m not doing anything to you.”

“My parents are going to realize I’m missing. They’ll call the police.”

She produced that small smile again, only this time it was tinged with sadness. Shaking her head, she whispered, “You poor, poor boy.”

I couldn’t tell whether she was being sincere or sarcastic and looked away from her. Beside me on the floor were the remains of the chainsaw Cashman had used earlier.

“Are you scared?”

I looked back at her.

“Stupid question, I know.” The woman ducked her head, raised it back up. “My name’s Nancy by the way. I’d say it’s nice to meet you, but …”

“Why. Are. You. Doing. This.”

“Again, I’m not doing anything. It’s Cashman. He wants the ring.”

“Yeah, I kind of already figured that part out.”

She looked away from me, bit her lip, closed her eyes. She stayed that way for a long moment. “To be honest with you,” she said but then went silent.

“What?”

She shook her head.

“What were you going to say?”

She started to speak again, stopped, took a deep breath and whispered, “To be honest with you, I’m scared too.”

“Of what?”

“The Shadow Man.”

“Who?”

“He’s coming, you know. Cashman already contacted him. He’ll be here tonight. He wants the ring.”

“And what is he going to do once he gets it?”

Nancy shook her head, looked away from me again.

“Hey,” I said softly.

She looked back.

“You don’t have to do this. You can let me go.”

She stared down at me, just stared for the longest time. She seemed to be thinking of something and looked as if she was about to speak when the door at the top of the stairs opened and Cashman came down the steps. He had two large paper bags in his arms and was grinning.

“Had to make a quick stop at the hardware store,” he said. “Ready for round two?”

19

“This just doesn’t make sense.” Cashman took a long drag on his cigarette, then puffed out three small smoke rings. “I mean, why you? What makes you so fucking special?”

I was still chained to the floor, staring up at the ceiling. Cashman had brought back another chainsaw and a flame torch. Both had failed, so he’d stepped on my arm to keep it in place and emptied an entire clip of his gun into my hand. Still nothing.

“You’re just a fucking kid. Not even eighteen years old. Why would the ring choose you?”

I blinked, turned my head to look at him. “Choose me?”

“What—you think it was just by accident you came across the ring and decided to put it on?” Cashman dropped the cigarette, ground it out with his boot. “Nah, it don’t work like that.”

“What is the ring anyway?”

“Too complicated to explain.”

“Who is the Shadow Man?”

He seemed to freeze in place. “What?”

“The Shadow Man. Why does he want the ring?”

“How the hell—” He scrunched his face up suddenly, turned and kicked the wall. “Goddamn it! She sure does have a big mouth, doesn’t she?”

“Answer my question.”

“Fuck you, David.”

“What were those things earlier, the ones you saved me from?”

“Goddamn it!” he shouted again, this time kicking a broken piece of the chainsaw. It didn’t go very far, spinning across the concrete floor, and it looked like Cashman had hurt his foot in the process. “I’m gonna kill her. I’m gonna fucking kill her.”

He limped across the room, disappeared up the steps, slammed the door shut.

A moment later the lights went off, drenching me in darkness.

I closed my eyes, stared into my own special darkness.

Time passed—a couple minutes, maybe an hour—and then the lights came back on. I could hear the bulbs buzzing in the ceiling.

I opened my eyes just as the door opened and footsteps came down the stairs.

I expected Cashman but it was Nancy.

She came to me, shaking her head quickly. “Why did I ever say anything to you? Why?”

Again I tried sitting up but the chains stopped me.

“Me and my stupid mouth.” She stuffed her hand into her pocket, brought back out a small ring of keys. “One of these days I’ll learn. One of these days …”

She sorted through the keys until she found the one she wanted. Then she reached down, inserted it into the lock keeping my feet chained, turned the key. The lock popped open.

“What … what are you doing?”

“Freeing you,” she said, inserting the key into the lock keeping my left hand chained. “What does it look like?”

“But won’t Cashman … won’t he be angry?”

The lock popped open and she laughed.

“More than he already is? I doubt it. He’ll probably kill me for doing this, but I can’t let this go on. Not with the Shadow Man coming. That … that would be too awful.”

My legs and hand now free to move, they did nothing and acted like they were still chained.

“Come on now,” Nancy said, standing up straight and stuffing the keys back into her pocket. “Get up.”

I just stared back at her.

She sighed, stepped forward, leaned down so her face was only inches away from mine. For a moment nothing happened. Then her eyes rolled back in her head and her face changed—the skin looking like it was turning inside out, her white hair turning black as it grew shorter—and an instant later it was not Nancy that was staring back at me but myself.

“Get up, David,” this other me said.

My legs and hand found purpose again and I scrambled to my feet. I pushed myself against the cold cinderblock wall and just stared back at my sudden doppelganger.

“Run!” the thing shouted.

I ran.

20

Up the stairs, through the door, I came out into the kitchen and headed for the back door which we’d used to enter this place when something caught my eye and I stopped.

The shotgun that I’d leveled on Cashman while we were driving, the thing I had given him and which he had used to knock me unconscious, lay on one of the prep tables. The ejected shells were conveniently lined up beside it.

I hurried over and inspected the shotgun. It had been easy ejecting the shells; loading them would be another story.

Fooling with it, I kept glancing at the basement door, expecting Nancy or what had become of Nancy to make an appearance.

My hands were shaking. Blood pounded in my ears.

Finally I managed to insert one of the shells, lock it into place, then added three more.

Before I left I glanced back, expecting the door to open, expecting for some reason my parents do be there staring back at me, dead.

A second passed and nothing happened.

I went outside.

The day had worn on, the sun almost gone from the sky. I glanced at my wrist instinctively but I wasn’t wearing a watch.

The shotgun in my hands, I made my way down the alleyway toward the main street. I could see a few cars already passing by. Heavy bass thumped from one of them.

I came around the building to find the parking lot deserted. Maybe this was a speakeasy and maybe it wasn’t. Whatever the case, at least Cashman’s truck wasn’t here.

I stepped out on the street, looking back and forth for any traffic. That heavy bass had faded and now there was that constant and palpable silence that inhabits most cities.

Right then an engine growled down the street. Headlights appeared.

I started walking in that direction, trying to keep the shotgun concealed behind my back. The last thing I wanted to do now was spook a potential Good Samaritan and wished I’d left the weapon back inside.

With my free hand—my right hand, the one without the silver ring—I waved to the oncoming vehicle.

I stood there for maybe five seconds, waving frantically, until the shape of the vehicle became distinct.

An old red Ford pickup truck.

Cashman’s pickup truck.

Without thinking I brought the shotgun around and aimed it at the oncoming headlights, the engine now a ferocious roar, and fired.

The shotgun exploded and the windshield splintered but the truck didn’t slow.

It was coming for me, swerving right in my direction—fifty feet away, forty feet—and though the silver ring made me invincible I wasn’t going to take the chance.

I dove out of the way at the last second.

Hitting the ground hard, rolling, jumping back to my feet, I turned just as Cashman slammed on the brakes and spun the truck around to face me again.

We were less than fifty feet apart now.

Cashman was hunched over the wheel, glaring back at me. He kept revving the engine.

I lifted the shotgun, ejected the spent shell, and aimed it straight back at him.

A moment passed.

Another moment.

Then Cashman placed the truck back into gear and the tires squealed and it was racing toward me, coming closer, closer, closer, and I waited another second and then pulled the trigger, ejected the spent shell, pulled the trigger, ejected the spent shell, pulled the trigger, all in one fluid motion, like I was a natural, and I stepped out of the way just as the truck moved past me, the windshield completely shattered, glass raining down everywhere, Cashman slumped dead over the wheel.

The truck kept going though; Cashman must have still had his foot on the gas. It slowed speed but kept going, across the street, up over the curb, and then—bang—went right into the side of another abandoned warehouse.

I stood still for a couple seconds, breathing hard. I looked down at the shotgun in my hands, tried to remember how many shells I’d put into it. But I knew it didn’t matter. Cashman was dead.

Still, as I approached the pickup, I did so slowly, keeping the shotgun aimed even though I was now certain it would do me no good if I truly needed it.

Even though it had crashed into the side of the building, Cashman still had his foot on the gas, making the engine growl.

Stepping closer, raising the shotgun, I moved into a position where I would come up right beside the driver’s window.

There was no movement inside. He was definitely dead.

Keeping the shotgun aimed, I opened the door, reached in, and pulled Cashman out. His body flopped down on the ground with a dry thud. His foot no longer on the gas, the truck’s engine quit its whining and went suddenly silent.

I stared down at him, this man who had done everything he could to get his hands on the silver ring.

He was dead and I felt no remorse and I wondered briefly what that said about me, whether I could still be considered a good person.

I stepped over him, climbed up into the truck, slammed the door shut. The engine had shut off so I had to turn it again and again until it finally caught. Then I backed out, glanced one last time at Cashman, and punched the gas.

21

I had just gotten off the expressway and was headed downtown back toward home when the police officer pulled me over.

There was a brilliant flash in the rearview mirror, followed by a whooping siren, and then the rapidly spinning red and white lights.

I considered my options. Trying to outrun the cop was the first thing that came to mind. But then I remembered I had done nothing wrong. If anything, a cop was exactly what I needed right now.

Besides, the traffic light at the upcoming intersection was turning red so I had no choice but to stop anyway.

It was as I pulled the truck over to the curb—the truck that was completely beat to hell, no wonder the cop was pulling me over—that I remembered the shotgun on the passenger seat.

I looked at it quickly, opened my mouth, and muttered, “Oh shit.”

“Shut off the engine and slowly step out of the vehicle.” Apparently the officer wasn’t taking any chances after seeing the condition of the truck. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”

I considered my options again. Understood very quickly that I had only one.

I shut the truck off, opened my door, and with my hands raised stepped out onto the pavement.

“Now place your hands on the hood and do not move.”

I stepped to the front of the truck, noticing that the hood was quite mangled. I guess in my haste I hadn’t realized just what kind of target it was going to make me.

But this was okay, I thought as I placed my hands on the warm metal. The cop would come and I would tell my story and he would get me into protection.

Except my story would be a problem. You know, what with all the aliens and shape shifters and everything.

The cop had stepped out of his car, was now slowly approaching me. The radio on his belt squawked.

Not moving from my position, I said, “What seems to be the problem, officer?”

The cop didn’t answer. He kept walking, and from the corner of my eye I could see he had his hand on the holster of his gun. When he came within just a few feet, looked inside and saw the shotgun, the beads of shattered glass, he cursed and quickly drew the gun.

“Get down on the ground.”

“What?”

“Down on the ground!” he shouted. “Do it now!”

I pushed away from the truck, keeping my hands raised as I turned toward him. “Officer, please, you have to—”

“Get down on the motherfucking ground, asshole.”

I wondered briefly how long he’d waited to say that phrase.

“Okay, okay,” I said, and started to lower myself to the pavement, first one knee, then the other. “But please, will you just listen to me?”

The cop wouldn’t. While he kept his weapon aimed at me, he turned his head to speak into the mike Velcroed to his uniform, and that was when I felt the sudden pinprick on my finger.

I looked at the ring that was now glowing, looked back up at the officer who was speaking into his radio but suddenly stopped when he turned his attention back to me.

I was invisible again. I knew it by the way the cop’s eyes widened, by the way his body suddenly tensed. And he wasn’t looking at me like he had before with those cold, hard trained eyes; now he was looking through me.

The radio squawked again, the dispatcher asking the cop to repeat what he’d just said.

The cop stood there, his eyes still wide, his mouth now opened.

I got back to my feet, watching the cop carefully. He didn’t notice a thing.

How much longer the ring would keep me invisible, I didn’t know. All I knew was that right now I was less than two miles away from home.

Turning my back on the speechless cop, his radio still squawking, I started running.

22

At some point between where the cop had pulled me over and my house, the silver ring had stopped glowing and I became visible again.

I barely noticed.

I just kept running as hard and as fast as I could and didn’t even slow when I reached our block or when I reached the steps to our brownstone.

What slowed me was the front door. It was locked—something I should have assumed—and I had to ring the bell repeatedly until my dad opened it.

“David?” he said incredulously. “Where—where have you been?”

I pushed past him into the house, hurried over to the table just beside the door where he kept his wallet and keys and breath mints and other junk he’d acquired over a typical business day.

“Where is it?” I said, sorting through the loose dollar bills and change and plastic-wrapped toothpicks.

My dad shut the door. “Where is what?”

Before I could respond my mom rolled into the hallway. She actually gasped when she saw me, placing a hand on her chest.

“Honey, what happened to you? Where have you been?”

Upstairs I heard my sister shouting, “David? Is David home?”

I ignored both of them and turned back to my dad. “The cop from last night, Officer Mallory, he gave you his card. Where is it?”

“I think I have it in my study. Why?”

I was already turning, hurrying around my mom, through the kitchen and into my father’s study. Surrounded by bookcases, his desk stood in the middle like an island. I went to it and started rifling through the papers on top until I found the cop’s card.

Dad stepped into the room. “David, what is the meaning of this? Where have you been?”

I picked up the phone on his desk and dialed the number on the card and then listened as the phone rang, hoping that I wasn’t making a mistake by calling Mallory. He’d shown patience and intelligence last night and he knew about what had happened—or at least some of what had happened—and right now I felt calling him was a better chance than trying to get through to someone at 911, someone who would transfer me to someone else who would then transfer me to someone else …

“Hi, this is Frank Mallory,” the voice mail prompt began, and I closed my eyes and listened to the rest as my mom and Emma both entered the study.

Then there was the beep and I started talking.

“Officer Mallory, this is David Beveridge, from last night. I need you to call me back as soon as possible. Please, it’s important.”

I left the house number and hung up the phone and then just stood there for a long time, staring down at the cluttered papers on Dad’s desk.

“Honey?” Mom said.

I looked up.

She glanced at my dad, cleared her throat, and in a cautious voice said, “Did you visit grandma this morning?”

Right then the doorbell rang.

“I’ll get it,” Dad said, already turning to leave the study, but he wasn’t fast enough.

I flew around the desk, past my parents and sister, through the kitchen, back into the main hallway to the front door.

Holding my breath, I peeked out the window. Then exhaling, I turned the lock and opened the door.

Officer Titus stood on the other side. Wearing street clothes like he had this morning, he wasn’t the first cop I wanted to see, but he certainly wasn’t the last.

“Hi, David,” he said, smiling brightly this time, “I was in the neighborhood and wanted to stop by again to—”

I reached out and grabbed his arm and yanked him into the house. Slamming the door shut, I said, “Thank God you’re here.”

Dad was standing in the kitchen doorway now, completely perplexed. “David, what the hell is going on?”

I looked at him and Officer Titus and shook my head. For the first time the miles I’d run caught up with me and I leaned forward, gripping onto my knees, and took a deep breath.

“You’re not going to believe me even when I tell you.”

Dad said, “What is that supposed to mean?”

The phone rang. Mom answered the extension in the kitchen. She said a few words, then called out my name.

“It’s for you.”

I looked at Dad and Officer Titus again, wanting to tell them everything but realizing just how difficult that was going to be. I hurried into the kitchen, took the phone from my wary-looking mother, and placed the handset to my ear.

“Hello?”

“David, this is Frank Mallory calling you back.”

“Oh, it’s okay now.”

“What’s okay now?”

“Officer Titus is here.”

There was a silence.

Then: “What the fuck are you talking about?”

The tone was one I never thought Frank Mallory could produce.

“Look,” I said, turning and finding that everyone was in the kitchen now—my parents, Emma, Officer Titus—“I’m sorry to have bothered you or whatever, but I needed help and that’s why I called you. But now Officer Titus is here and he’ll take care of the situation.”

“Kid”—Mallory’s voice completely toneless now—“I don’t know what your game is, but that’s impossible. James Titus was found dead this morning. He was murdered.”

23

Mallory disconnected the call—had he been on a landline, he no doubt would have slammed it—and I slowly glanced back up to see my parents and sister and Officer Titus.

Only the man standing beside my father wasn’t Officer Titus.

It said, “Uh-oh,” and then its eyes rolled back in its head, its skin began to change color, hair began to grow on its chin, and seconds later Cashman was grinning back at me. “Surprised?”

Dad, having witnessed the transformation, said, “What the—”

Cashman pulled out a gun, aimed it my dad’s head, and pulled the trigger.

Both my mom and sister screamed at the same moment, their shrill cries almost drowning out the gunshot.

As Dad fell to the ground, blood gushing everywhere, Cashman said to me, “That was for fucking up my truck.”

He shifted his arm so the gun was now aimed at my mom, pulled the trigger again.

“And that was just for fun.”

The phone was still in my hand, now doing its monotonic beeping. It was on a cord but it was a long cord and I threw it right at Cashman’s head, shouting, “Emma, run!”

The cord wasn’t long enough and Cashman should have known but he still flinched, moving the gun and firing but the aim was wide, taking out a cabinet door, and Emma managed to sprint past him.

A vase of roses was on the kitchen table, something that hadn’t been there earlier this morning and which I was certain my dad had purchased out of guilt. I picked it up, chucked it at Cashman, just as he fired at me.

In the confusion I don’t know if I felt the familiar pinprick or if the ring was now glowing; I just ran forward, right into him, knocking him down. Out into the hallway where Emma was trying to unlock the door but having trouble keeping her hands steady, tears falling down her face, her chest heaving.

“Emma, hurry!”

She immediately turned and sprinted up the stairs.

I glanced back in time to see Cashman getting to his feet, trying to take aim, and I started climbing the stairs too.

When she reached the top Emma kept running, went straight for her room, slammed the door shut. She even locked it and I had to bang on it, shout for her to let me in. Cashman fired below, three consecutive gunshots. I didn’t know what he hit. But I could hear him, his heavy feet on the steps hurrying toward us.

“Emma, please!”

Cashman, his feet pounding the stairs, almost to the top.

“Open up!”

I glanced back and saw the top of his bald head, then his eyes, then his grinning mouth, and then his gun as he raised it.

Turning back, I banged on the door once more, and this time I became aware of the sudden pinprick and the next thing I knew I was taking a step forward through the door just as a bullet pierced the spot right where my head had been.

24

Emma was cowered in the corner of her room, strangling one of her stuffed animals against her chest. She was sobbing, and when she saw me she screamed.

I hurried to her, lowering myself to my knees, taking her into an embrace.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay.”

Out in the hallway Cashman shouted, then started banging on the door. With each bang Emma screamed again and again.

“Shh, listen to me.” I held her tight, whispered into her ear. “We’re going to get out of this, okay? Everything will be fine.”

Even now I don’t know why I lied to her like that. I guess it was just my job as an older brother to tell her what she needed to hear.

Cashman, having come to the conclusion he wasn’t going to kick the door down, began shooting at the lock.

Emma screamed and screamed.

“Listen to me,” I said, holding her tight. “We’re trapped in here. We need to get out.”

“No, no, no,” she whimpered, her faced pressed against my chest. “Mommy and daddy, they’re …”

But she couldn’t say the word, as if by voicing the word it would mean they were actually dead.

Cashman kept firing at the lock. This side of the door was starting to splinter.

I shook my sister hard, growled into her face, “Shut up and listen to me, okay?”

For a moment she went silent, staring back at me with wide eyes.

“I’m going to open that door. And when I do, I want you to run. I want you to go to the front door, unlock it, and run as fast as you can. Go to the Sunoco station three blocks down. You know the one I mean?”

She just stared back at me, unblinking. It might be easier to have her run to a neighbor’s, but there was no guarantee anybody would answer, and if they did, there was no guarantee they would answer in time.

“Emma, you have to do this,” I said, shaking her again, and whatever it was keeping that needle skipping in place on the record of her mind finally caught and the music began to play again.

She nodded.

I quickly stood and turned and walked toward the door, the door that Cashman had stopped shooting and was now kicking again. The wood was splintered and was about to give any second.

I strode up to it and gripped the broken knob, hoping it would still turn. It did and I opened the door.

Cashman was in the process of lifting his foot for another kick. He paused, glaring at me, and right then I felt what I’d been expecting—that familiar pinprick—and rushed him, wrapping my arms around his body and shoving him into the wall.

“Emma, go!”

Behind me I could hear her feet pattering across the floor, past us, and down the steps.

The silver ring was still glowing, making me invincible, but it wasn’t giving me superhuman strength. Cashman was able to push me off without trouble. He’d dropped his gun when I rushed him and now he grabbed it, rose to his feet, hurried toward the top of the stairs.

“No!” I shouted, jumping to my feet, running, and as Cashman took aim at my sister sprinting down the steps, I threw my entire weight into this rush and lifted off the ground, flying through the air, closing my eyes.

I hit him right as he pulled the trigger, his aim went wide again, and with my momentum I sent him stumbling toward the banister, the banister that wasn’t strong to begin with. It cracked, and he turned, began to raise his gun at me.

I rushed him one last time.

Giving it all I had now, my teeth clenched, I barreled into him.

The banister gave and we both fell over. We were weightless for only a second, nothing more, and then we hit the ground hard, Cashman on his back, me on top. Only I didn’t feel any pain, not with the silver ring still glowing.

I was only faintly aware that Emma had managed to unlock the front door, open it, and escape.

Below me, Cashman groaned, mumbled a curse, and I stood up, prepared to run for the open door.

I took only two steps when I stopped.

My sister had appeared in the doorway again, her face now pale.

“Emma?” I said, but it was needless. A moment later I saw the reason why.

Nancy, back to appearing like the old woman she wasn’t, was right behind my sister, the barrel of a shiny silver revolver aimed at Emma’s head.

Behind me, Cashman finally got to his feet. He had quit groaning and was now laughing.

“About fucking time, Mom,” he said. “What took you so long?”

25

“Humans are stupid. Not pathetic, okay? Don’t go confusing my words like that. After everything your species has gone through and survived, I can’t quite call you pathetic. But stupid? You better believe it.”

We were back in the warehouse district, parked in a black sedan. The river was in front of us; a large abandoned building was directly to our left.

“See, David, I knew what you were going to do even before you did. Trying to get the ring off your finger was a waste of time. Yeah, I should have known it from the start, but still I wanted to try. But then I was just getting pissed, and bored, and decided to mix things up. After all, we had time to kill before the Shadow Man could make an appearance.”

Cashman was in the driver’s seat, smoking a cigarette. I sat in the passenger seat. In the back was Nancy and Emma, Nancy holding her gun pointed straight at my sister’s head.

“So we played a little trick on you, so what? Mom back there acted like she was scared, let you go, and immediately called me. I was waiting down the street the entire time. I’ll give you credit though. I really didn’t expect you to shoot at me like that. It took balls, and for that I salute you.”

Glaring back at him, I said, “You didn’t have to kill my parents.”

“No, you’re right. I didn’t have to. I wanted to, and so I did. Just like I killed that cop. All I had to do was touch him, just get a sample of his DNA, and I could instantly copy him. But, well, the guy was an asshole, you know?”

“I don’t understand why you’re doing this anyway. I thought you said as long as I’m wearing this ring I’m invincible.”

“Practically invincible,” Cashman said, taking one last drag of his cigarette and stamping it out in the ashtray. “The keyword there is practically. Yeah, nothing can hurt you as long as you’re wearing the ring. Why else do you think we brought your little sister along?”

In the backseat, Emma, who had managed to stay quiet this entire time, whimpered.

Cashman grinned at me. “See, your species is stupid.”

“Where do you come from anyway? What planet?”

Both he and Nancy seemed to find this question quite amusing.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” Cashman said, lighting another cigarette. “It’s just a very human question for you to ask. See, my species, those things chasing you earlier, the Shadow Man, and a thousand other beings, we don’t come from other planets. We just … we come from other planes of existence.”

“You mean like dimensions?”

Cashman shrugged. “If you prefer that word instead, sure.”

“And what’s so special about this ring?” I don’t know why, but right then I thought as long as I kept him talking, kept him from hurting Emma, we would be okay. “Why is this Shadow Man coming for it?”

Cashman took a long drag of his cigarette, staring out his window. The surface of the river rippled, the lights reflected off it making it look like diamonds.

“Well?” I prompted.

“In every plane of existence—every dimension, as you like to say—there are different worlds. One big infinite universe, but a million different worlds. And that silver ring right there on your finger, it’s the one constant between them all.”

I glanced down at the ring, the thing which hadn’t glowed since I was back in the house.

“What are you saying—that it’s the most powerful thing in the universe?”

Cashman laughed again, shaking his head. “No, David, that’s where your human mentality stops you. The silver ring isn’t the most powerful thing in the universe. It is the universe.”

26

“The Shadow Man isn’t his real name, you know. Fact is, I don’t even know his real name. In his world, with his language … well, it’s just easier to call him the Shadow Man. And let me tell you, he is one mean motherfucker. I’d put him right up there with Genghis Khan or Joseph Stalin. This guy, he pretty much took over his world. Those who refused to worship him, he killed. The ones who agreed to worship him are now his slaves.”

Cashman lit himself another cigarette, took a drag, puffed out three small smoke rings.

“So why are you helping him then?” I asked.

“Me and Mom, we’re kind of … outcasts from our world. The Shadow Man promised us if we delivered the silver ring we could go back. Not only that, we’d be wealthy and powerful. Like royalty.”

“You don’t think he’s going to double cross you? Like use the silver ring to destroy your world?”

Cashman grinned as he kept staring out at the rippling water. “Kid, the Shadow Man wants to only destroy one world, and it’s this one.”

“Why?”

“Beats me. But the truth is nobody likes you humans. You’re all too arrogant. Self-centered. Nobody here wants to believe in the existence of other life in the universe because none of you want to share, even though it’s not like you’ll ever be able to visit other galaxies. Selfish bastards, that’s what humans are. You ask me, the Shadow Man would be doing the rest of the universe a favor.”

I glanced back at Emma, my little sister sitting with her head down, her hands in her lap. Nancy kept the gun trained on her head, the barrel steady.

“Let my sister go,” I whispered to Cashman.

He shook his head. “No can do, kid.”

“She doesn’t have to be here.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.”

“I can’t even take this stupid ring off even if I wanted to. So how the hell is the Shadow Man going to get his hands on it?”

Right then the streetlamp flickered. It was just small thing, nothing more than an unsteady flash, and Cashman clapped his hands.

“Showtime,” he said, stamping the cigarette out in the ashtray.

“What are you talking about?”

He jerked his head toward the warehouse. “The Shadow Man’s here.”

“But … how do you know? The only thing that happened was the light flickered.”

“That’s right. How else do you think we travel between the planes of existence? We don’t use flying saucers. All we do is just burst through the fabric of your reality, and by doing so it creates an electrical shortage. Just a flicker, like you said, so nobody ever really thinks twice about it.”

He took a deep breath, smiled, and opened his door.

“Shall we?”

27

There was an electrical box just inside the door. Cashman had to flip the switch back and forth several times before something caught and the lights in the ceiling turned on.

The warehouse was huge. At least three stories tall, it stretched to about the size of half a football field. It was clear it would take awhile for the lights in the ceiling to come on fully.

Unfortunately, Cashman didn’t want to waste anymore time.

He knew better than to bother with a gun. He just led me straight toward the center of the warehouse. Emma and Nancy trailed us, Nancy keeping her gun pressed against Emma’s head.

We had almost reached the midway point when a soft, low voice echoed in the darkness around us.

“Stop …”

We stopped.

“You have done well, Cashman …”

“Well,” Cashman said loudly, “I do what I can.”

“The boy has the silver ring, yes?… Let me see it …”

The voice sounded like it was coming from every direction.

Cashman nudged me.

I raised my left hand up high.

“Yes …” the voice said, excited now. “Very, very good …”

Behind me, Emma began sobbing.

I wanted to turn back to her, try to say something comforting, but right then the Shadow Man showed himself.

He sort of materialized in front of us. Pieces of darkness pulled from the edges of the warehouse, swirling about, until standing only a few feet away was the distinct shape of a man.

Cashman, despite his assurance the Shadow Man would not double cross him, slowly backed away.

I stayed motionless, staring back at this thing that began to form features: eyes, a nose, a mouth.

The mouth moved when it spoke.

“Give me the ring …”

“I can’t.”

The black eyes seemed to darken for an instant.

“Do not play games with me, boy … Give me the ring …”

I held my hand up again, pulled at the ring that wouldn’t budge. “See, it won’t work,” I said, then I lowered all my fingers except the middle.

The black eyes seemed to flash even darker.

“Cashman”—the soft, low echo voice becoming harsher— “bring me the girl …”

Emma was still sobbing. She couldn’t seem to stop. She even tried running away when Cashman went for her, but he was quicker. He picked her up, carried her toward the Shadow Man, and placed her on the ground. She tried to run again but the Shadow Man reached out with his dark hand and held her in place.

She screamed.

“Now, boy,” the Shadow Man said, “give me the ring …”

“I told you, it won’t come off. See?”

And I frantically tried taking the ring off again, pulling as hard as I could.

It slid off my finger with no trouble at all.

“Yes …” the Shadow Man said excitedly.

I stared down at the ring. Then I looked up at the Shadow Man and Emma. Then I looked over to my left, where Cashman and Nancy stood. They’d slowly been moving backward, as far as they could from us without making it too obvious. By now they were maybe thirty feet away.

“What are you waiting for?” the Shadow Man asked. “Do you want me to kill your sister?”

“No.”

“Then give me the ring … GIVE IT TO ME!”

I kept staring down at the ring, expecting it to glow.

Blinking, I glanced up at the Shadow Man.

Glanced back down at the ring.

Glanced back up at the Shadow Man.

I didn’t understand—not everything—yet somehow I did.

“Fine,” I said. “You want the ring so badly, catch.”

And I tossed the ring, not in the Shadow Man’s direction, but in the direction of Cashman and Nancy.

They both knew what was going to happen before it did. Maybe Cashman was right; maybe his species was smarter than us humans.

Nancy made a sound like a strangled scream; Cashman just yelled.

The Shadow Man dissolved at once, the strands of darkness whipping in circles toward Cashman and Nancy.

And still the ring flew through the air, turning over and over.

Less than fifteen feet away … less than ten … less than five …

It began to glow when it reached the two of them.

The Shadow Man reached them at the same time.

He materialized suddenly, catching the glowing silver ring in both black hands—

And at once there was an explosion of bright intense light, followed directly by screams and cries of anguish.

It was only there for a second or two, nothing more, and then the light blinked out. The screams and cries stopped. Cashman and Nancy and the Shadow Man were gone. All that was left was the silver ring, now falling to the ground.

I started walking then, not toward the ring but toward my sister.

Emma was sobbing again, and I lowered myself to my knees, wrapped my arms around her, held her tight. I smoothed back her hair with my hand—the hand that had just seconds ago worn the silver ring—and I whispered to her that it was okay, that everything was okay.

The lights in the ceiling flickered and we were suddenly no longer alone.

28

Before there had been only three figures in long blue robes and cowls. Now there were three hundred, all crammed into the warehouse, surrounding us.

I had managed to get Emma to calm down, sobbing into my shirt. But when she sensed the figures around us, she looked up and screamed.

I stood up, keeping a hand on my sister’s shoulder. It had only been a minute since I took the silver ring off but already I felt lost without it.

All the figures were motionless, the round darkness of their cowls facing us. Only one moved forward, the one closest to the ring. It reached out a pale, skeletal hand, picked the ring up and cupped it in its palm. It slowly began to approach us.

Emma screamed again, holding onto me now, her fingernails digging into my leg.

“What do you want?” I asked.

The figure kept approaching.

My sister’s fingernails digging even deeper, I shouted, “What do you want?”

The figure came to a stop only a few feet away. For some reason I expected to smell something awful coming from its body—decay and death—but there was no scent at all.

Beside me, Emma had buried her face in my stomach.

I stood my ground, keeping my hand on her shoulder.

The figure raised its hand, the one cupping the silver ring … which had begun to glow.

The silver ring thanks you, said a voice both inside and outside my head.

“For what?”

For helping eliminate the Shadow Man.

“That’s not his real name.”

No, but you could never even begin to comprehend his real name.

“Why me?”

Why not you?

“People died. My parents died.”

Many people die. It is just the way of the universe.

“That’s not the type of universe I want to be part of.”

The figure didn’t reply. The ring in its hand kept glowing.

“What are you anyway?”

We are the protectors of the silver ring. The protectors of the universe.

“Yeah? Well judging by the past twenty-four hours, you’re lousy at your job.”

We do only what the ring commands. And it commanded us to come here to this planet so it could find you.

Emma had loosened her grasp on my leg, still scared but understanding that these figures meant us no harm.

“Now what happens?”

Now the ring will grant you one request for your troubles.

I glanced down at my sister, glanced back at the figure. I shook my head.

“I want nothing from the ring.”

The ring knows what you want. It also knows you think it cannot work. But you are wrong.

“How? Cashman and the Shadow Man … they would still be alive.”

Remember, both time and space are infinite. They cross over into one another. What has happened here tonight will never change.

I glanced down at my sister.

Emma, tears drying on her face, looked up at me.

“What do you want to do?” I asked her quietly.

She whispered, “I just wanna go home.”

I looked back up at the figure, at the silver ring still glowing in its cupped hand, and nodded.

“Let’s do it.”

29

Five minutes before a man with a gun planned to enter the store, two little girls cut in front of me in line.

It wasn’t really their fault. I was waiting in line, yeah, but this being a convenience store, the tabloid magazines were stored on a rack beneath the counter, and I was turned toward them, reading the ridiculous headlines about even more ridiculous celebrities. Above me, the speakers in the ceiling poured some a song by Bruce Springsteen.

It was summer and the temperature was stifling and for the past week after work I’d been stopping in for a slushie. The movie theater where I worked was having a promotion with this chain of stores: bring in your ticket stub for a free sixteen ounce soda or slushie. The theater floors always littered with stubs, I figured what the hey and stocked up on ticket stubs.

So I was standing there, a Cherry Coke slushie in one hand and reading a recent headline about Tom Cruise, when the man who’d been in line before me finished his purchase and turned away. The two girls stepped up and threw candy bars down on the counter.

The cashier—a woman named Dorothy, who never seemed to have a night off because I always saw her in here—gave me a look, as if asking, You mind?

I shrugged, took a sip of my slushie, and reached into my pocket for a ticket stub. I pulled the ticket stub out, rubbed my thumb over the print, and then stepped aside when the two girls shouted “Thank you!” and turned away.

Neither one of them bumped into me as they hurried toward the entrance, an electronic buzzer going ding-dong when it opened and closed.

I stepped up to the counter and handed Dorothy my ticket stub.

As she punched some buttons on her screen she asked, “Did you enjoy the movie?”

“It was okay.”

“I’ve been meaning to see it. I’m a huge fan of his.”

“Me too,” I said, trying to remember what movie had been printed on the ticket stub.

“I loved him in that other movie. You know, the one about World War Two?”

I made a face, like I was trying to remember, and then shrugged. “I can’t think of it.”

“Oh well, no big deal. You have a good night now, okay?”

“Thanks. You too.”

That electronic buzzer went ding-dong when I left the store and then I just stood there on the curb sipping my slushie.

For the most part the city was quiet. I could hear a siren off in the distance. A few cars passed back and forth on the street.

And across the street, pacing back and forth, was a Hispanic man in a baggy gray hoodie. He kept looking at me, taking nervous drags on his cigarette.

I kept standing there, sipping my slushie. More than once I had the crazy notion of lifting my hand and waving. Maybe I’d yell something like, “Hey, Irving, how’s it hanging?” but maybe not.

Yes, I remembered his name. I remembered everything. That was the silver ring’s deal. I could go back but would be forced to remember all the events of the previous twenty-four hours. The silver ring didn’t seem to care that I would remember. After all, who would believe my story anyway?

Irving didn’t leave his spot across the street. He kept smoking, kept pacing, until a few minutes went by and the police cruiser pulled into the parking lot.

By then I had already finished my slushie. There was a little left in the bottom and I slurped it too fast, causing brain freeze.

The two cops got out of the cruiser. They headed for the entrance. As they walked I glanced across the street and saw Irving already hightailing it down the sidewalk.

“Evening, officers,” I said, opening the door for them.

Officer Titus walked by me without even a glance. Officer Mallory did what was expected and nodded at me and said thanks.

I let the door shut and just stood there for another minute or so. I took a deep breath and let it out. Then I tossed the empty cup in the trashcan and started for home.

30

Dad was standing outside our brownstone. He was talking on his BlackBerry, and when he saw me he turned away and said a few quick words before finishing his call, turning the phone off and slipping it into his pocket.

“Hey there, chief, how’s it going?”

I hadn’t realized it but as I walked down the sidewalk my hands had begun to clench into fists. I’d been thinking about this the entire way here—my dad’s continued infidelity even though he’d promised us he was done and would never do it again.

“Who were you just talking to?”

“Huh?”

“On your BlackBerry”—gesturing toward his pocket—“you were talking to someone when I walked up.”

“Oh, that. That was just business.”

I closed my eyes, took a breath, and unclenched my fists.

“Really? Well that’s good. I mean, as long as it’s just business, me and Mom and Emma have nothing to worry about. It’s not like you would ever … well, you know. I mean, you did promise us it would never happen again. Right?”

He stared back at me, just stared for the longest time. Finally he nodded and said in a very soft voice, “Yeah, that’s right.”

The streetlamps along the block flickered. It was just a small thing, something hardly anybody would notice, but still I glanced around me, then up at the sky, before settling my gaze back on my dad.

“Good,” I said, and started up the steps.

Like before, he didn’t follow me and just stood there, staring down the block.

I let myself in and closed the door behind me.

My mom wheeled herself into the hallway. “Welcome home, honey.”

I leaned down, gave her a hug and kissed her on the cheek. “I love you, Mom.”

“I love you too, David. Where’s your father?”

“Still outside on the phone. You know, business.”

“Yes,” she sighed.

Frantic footsteps pattered into the hallway, Emma shouting, “David’s home, David’s home!”

Mom said, “Little Miss Hyper here is ready for bed. Wanna tuck her in for me?”

“Of course.” I turned to my sister and grinned. “I’ll race you to the top.”

She was already turning away and scrambling up the stairs. I waited a few seconds and then hurried after, Mom laughing in that singsong way of hers as she watched us go.

“I win, I win, I win,” Emma cried when she reached the top, jumping up and down.

Of course she did; I always let her win.

Afterword

In 2000, I wrote a 22,000-word novella called The Silver Ring. I was eighteen. I submitted it to a major science fiction and fantasy magazine (I’m sure you can guess which one) and it was rightly rejected. In the rejection letter the editor said it was “ambitious.” He was being too kind. What was ambitious about it was the length. At the time it was the longest thing I had ever written. But it needed work, and I knew it, and so I put it away and didn’t think of it again until the spring of 2009 where I took it back out and rewrote the entire thing. Keeping the main storyline the same, I managed to cut out 4,000 words while adding in almost three times the amount of action.

Thank you for reading The Silver Ring. To show my gratitude, I have included a bonus short story: “Blind Insight,” which was published in 2000, the same year I originally wrote this novella. To mark the differences in my writing, I have kept the story the same as it was published, word for word. Enjoy.

BLIND INSIGHT

SUDDENLY HE AWAKENED, and found himself in a darkness he never thought could exist. He was lying down and could feel the cold metal of the ship pressing against his body. There was something in his mouth, too, a pair of rather small balls which seemed to be shoved back in his throat. He tried to get up, tried to say something, but those balls denied him the action. He attempted to cough them up, to get rid of them, but they seemed stuck, not moving. With effort, he managed to sit up, and in doing so coughed, swallowing the two balls.

His mouth now clear, he called, “Hello?”

There was no answer, only silence.

Now standing, he reached out in front of him to feel if there was anything in his way. Slowly, he began moving his arms around his body, stretched out as far as he could, hoping to touch a wall, a table, something that might give him an idea of his position.

Carefully, he began walking forward, one slow step in front of the other. His arms were raised before him, and for a moment the idea entered his mind that he might look like a zombie in one of those old horror movies his parents never wanted him to watch when he was a kid. He would stay up late, though, when his parents weren’t home, and watch those classic B movies. Horror movies had always been entertaining, but science fiction was what had directed his life. If it hadn’t been for sci-fi, he never would have wanted to fly in space, and wouldn’t be here now.

But where was here, and when was now?

He couldn’t remember anything. Only that he had been on another mission, just the usual exploration. They had landed this time on a new planet, a rock about the size of Earth’s only moon. Then … well, he couldn’t remember what had happened next. But now here he was, slowly putting one foot in front of the other, blinded by this deep darkness.

It took only a few moments before he finally felt the cold surface of the wall. He began to walk beside it, following it the best he could. The button to turn on the lights was located beside the door somewhere in this room. All the rooms were the same. It seemed that his was the only ship that hadn’t been upgraded with voice-activated lights.

He continued to make his way to the right, both hands flat on the wall. He began to wonder which room he was in, why everything was so silent and still, when his foot struck something on the ground.

“Whoa,” he said, catching his balance. He slowly reached down to feel what he had almost tripped over. It felt as if someone had misplaced their zero gravity suit. The material was the same—at least it felt the same—but there was more to it than just the suit. It seemed to have substance, too.

He leaned a little closer, moving his hand upward. It was definitely someone’s zero gravity suit, but …

“Jesus Christ!” he said suddenly, as he felt the body. This wasn’t just a suit left forgotten on the floor. There was someone in it.

He was breathing quickly now, his breath rigid from the scare. Without thinking, he nudged the person, hoping to awaken them. But he knew it was no good even before he realized there would be no movement or answer. Whoever this was—Mark, Eric, Wayne, or Jenny—they were no longer in the world of the living.

He let out a deep sigh of regret and thought about what he should do—nothing like this had ever happened to him before—and decided it would be a good idea to close the person’s eyes if they weren’t already. Sure, why not? He had seen it done plenty of times in movies after someone had died with a blank stare. The eyes were always closed by someone else, to leave them in peace.

I should do that, too, he thought briefly, as he slowly moved his hand over the cold, still face. He could feel the chin, the rough feel of stubble, and quickly decided this body was anyone’s but Jenny’s. She was one of the pilots, along with Eric. Mark was the navigator, and Wayne was everything else—expect captain; that was his job.

“Poor soul,” he whispered. His hand traced over the man’s nose, then up to his eyes. Feeling for the eyelids, he moved his hand slowly … and realized with sudden terror that this man had no eyes. The sockets were hollow, and for just an instant his own fingers probed, sliding easily back toward what was left of the dead man’s brain.

He gasped, took a step back, his mouth open in a silent scream. He could feel his heart racing, beating like it never had before, and suddenly he wanted to sit down and be alone, just wanted to forget about everything. How easy it would be for him to simply do that, but he knew he couldn’t. Obviously something had happened when they landed on this planet, something that wasn’t good. He thought again about calling out for someone but decided against it.

Doing so might lead whatever had taken this dead man’s eyes to him, and he did not want that. Instead, he made his way blindly around the body, feeling for the wall, and moved again to the right, in search of the button for the lights.

As he moved he thought about the dead body, about how it would feel to die himself. He didn’t think he would feel much pain if it happened. Ever since that one mission a few years ago when he had gotten his central nervous system damaged he could no longer feel pain. He was able to push himself harder than almost anyone—or anything else. Sometimes it was a blessing, but it did have its drawbacks. Luckily for him he was rarely aware of what they were.

Finally, after about a minute, his hand came in contact with a familiar button which turned on the lights. For a moment he did not see who was dead behind him. He was afraid to look into the face, into the face of a now dead friend, and see both eyes missing. In addition, his imagination began to play, to speculate what else might be missing from the body. If the eyes were gone, what else might possibly have been taken?

“I don’t even want to know,” he muttered, and quickly pressed a button for the lights.

There was only darkness.

“No,” he said, discouraged, and pressed the button again, and again.

Still, there was no light.

“Damn it.” He slammed his fist into the cold hard wall. In a normal person pain would now have been racing through his body, but he felt nothing. This was one of the brighter sides of his damaged nervous system, though he probably wouldn’t find out until later if he had broken anything. At least he got his anger out; that was good. He tried the lights one more time with no luck.

God, don’t let it be the power source, he thought as he stood in front of the door. Without the power source they would be stuck on this planet until someone else came along, and the chances of that happening were slim. It had been his idea to travel out this far, about ten light years father than they were supposed to. This sector wasn’t even on most of the universal maps.

He stood in front of the door for a long time, waiting for it to open. It usually took a moment or so for the motion detector to kick in and open the door. But, he now realized, without the power source this would not happen. Opening the door could be done manually, but it would take some strength. He reached out and found a grip on the door he could use.

With a breath he began to pull to the side, where the door normally slid into the wall. Slowly, it began to move, little by little, until there was enough space for him to get through.

There was no light in the corridor, and it was even colder than it had been in the room. Faintly, in the distance, he thought he heard some kind of tapping, like something with long nails walking swiftly across the metal.

“Hello?” he called out, his voice sounding tired and somewhat frightened. “Can anybody hear me?”

He looked down the corridor and then up, hoping to hear a sound that could lead him in a good direction. What he heard was that faint continuous tapping sound. What is that? he thought, then heard the quick footsteps and the frantic breathing behind him. He turned and said, “Who’s there?”

The footsteps halted and there was a gasp. He could tell almost immediately who it was. “Jenny,” he said, relieved, “what’s happened? Has the power source been damaged? Why aren’t there any lights?” He could hear her breathing, and in his mind pictured her standing there, mouth open, waiting to say something but finding she didn’t have the strength.

Softly, she said, “Captain …”

“What?” He took a step forward.

The faint, distant tapping seemed to be increasing. It sounded as if it were close.

“I thought … you were dead,” she whispered.

“What are you talking about?” he said, taking another step forward. “What’s happened?”

“I don’t know, sir,” she said, and he could tell she was shaking her head. In his mind he saw tears falling down her cheeks. “Sir, are you all right?”

“What do you mean?” He then remembered punching the wall. Maybe he had broken his hand after all, maybe it was busted up in a bloodstained mess. Then he thought again about the power source and asked if it was damaged.

“Yes,” she said hesitantly, “it’s been damaged.

The tapping was getting closer, louder.

“Look, sir,” she said, “we have to get out of here. Quickly.”

“Why? This is my ship, what’s happened to it?”

“I … I don’t know, sir. But—”

“Can the power source be fixed? Can we at least get some light in here?”

The tapping was louder, closer, but he still heard her sudden gasp.

“What is it, Jenny?” he asked.

“Sir,” she said, “we have to go. They’re coming.”

“Who’s coming?”

“I don’t know, sir, but—”

“What about the lights?” he demanded suddenly. He was tired of this darkness, wanted nothing more to do with it. He thought briefly of the body he had found, of how awful it must look, and decided before he did anything else he wanted to see Jenny’s face.

“Sir,” Jenny said, “the lights …”

“Yes? What about them?”

The tapping was very close now and it seemed to come from everywhere. In his mind he could see Jenny’s expression of horror as she wanted to get away from there. Whatever the tapping was it had something to do with what had happened after they had landed.

“The lights are on, sir,” Jenny said, quickly, and he could feel her grab his arm and begin to pull. “Now come on, sir, we have to get going!”

“But—”

The tapping became even louder. He could hear breathing now, too, breathing that sounded inhuman, alien. He felt his face for just a moment, just an instant, and remembered when he had first woken up, remembered the two small things stuffed down his throat.

Jenny’s hand was no longer on his arm, and somewhere behind him in his own darkness, she began to scream.

Continue reading for an excerpt from Robert Swartwood’s supernatural thriller The Calling.

When eighteen-year-old Christopher Myers’ parents are murdered, something is written on his bedroom door, a mark in his parents’ blood that convinces the police the killer has targeted Christopher as the next victim. To keep him safe, he travels away with his estranged grandmother and uncle to the small town of Bridgton, New York. And it’s in Bridgton that he meets an extraordinary young man who has come with his father to stop an unrelenting evil. Soon Christopher learns of the town’s deep dark secret, and how his parents’ murder was no accident, and how he has been brought to Bridgton by forces beyond his power—forces that just may threaten the destruction of all mankind.

Praise for The Calling

“The Calling is a powerful, gripping and terrifying novel, the sort that possesses your whole life while you’re reading it; it’ll stalk you through the day, and inform your dreams. Swartwood has delivered a novel that will become a classic.”

— Tim Lebbon

Prologue

Life isn’t fair.

It’s an old adage, a tired cliché, but you know this to be true. You’ve known it all your life, ever since you were a boy.

Like when you were forced to eat all your Brussels sprouts before being allowed to leave the dinner table. Or when you twisted your ankle on the first day of middle school practice and couldn’t play soccer for the rest of the season. Or when you asked Lydia Mynell out and she said no and then avoided you for the next two weeks, which you later admitted was a pretty impressive feat in itself as your lockers stood side by side.

Life isn’t fair, but who said it would be?

Your parents certainly didn’t.

Not your father, an intelligent, hardworking man who has been laid off three times from jobs at which he excelled. A college graduate, he now works as an assistant grocery manager at the local Giant, earning much less than he did at all of his previous jobs.

Not your mother, a smart, compassionate woman who teaches children with special needs. You were thirteen when she was diagnosed with breast cancer. You were fourteen when she began her treatments, when she lost her hair and over the course of five months went through at least a dozen different wigs.

Your parents are a testament to the fact that life isn’t fair, yet they’ve never complained. Even when your father worked at a temp agency to help make sure the bills were paid on time, even when your mother lay in what everyone believed was her deathbed, they never said boo.

They always stayed positive, no matter what happened. Always smiling. Always holding hands. Always telling you they loved you.

It’s because of them you began to understand it doesn’t matter that life isn’t fair. No matter what it throws at you, how many curveballs, it’s your job, your purpose, to do your best. To never complain. To always put one step in front of the other and keep walking.

Then one morning, the day after your high school graduation, you wake to a faint distant buzzing noise. You open your eyes, roll over in bed, and look at your alarm clock. It’s eleven-thirty. The distant buzzing is coming from your parents’ room. You’ve heard it for as long as you can remember, and it’s okay, because soon the buzzing will be turned off.

You roll back over, reposition the pillow, and close your eyes.

And still the buzzing continues: a repetitive bwaamp-bwaamp-bwaamp-bwaamp that has begun to drill into the side of your brain.

You sit up, propping your elbow on the bed, and yell for someone to turn it off. You wait a few moments for a reply, maybe even silence, but all that answers you is the buzzing.

You yell again, louder this time, and glance back at your own alarm clock. This early morning insanity has been going on now for five minutes. It feels like an hour. Grumbling under your breath, you throw off the sheets and get out of bed.

Opening your door, you yell for your father. No answer, so you yell for your mother. No answer still, none except that annoying low bwaamp-bwaamp-bwaamp-bwaamp, which is much louder now that you’ve stepped into the hallway. You call out one final time, but when still no answer comes, you start to make your way toward their bedroom.

Their door is closed. You knock, once, and call their names. Once again, no answer comes, and for the first time in the couple of minutes you’ve been awake, you begin to worry.

Placing your hand on the doorknob, you notice you are shaking.

When you open the door the first thing that hits you is the smell. Like a massive fist, it knocks you back just a couple steps, and for a moment you aren’t even aware of what you’re staring at: you aren’t aware of the two bodies on the bed, of all the blood.

Your stomach tightens. The house begins to spin. Putting your hands to your mouth, you back away. You realize you’ve stopped breathing and in your throat bile is rising, and you look around the hallway, at once feeling frightened and alone.

A dream, you tell yourself, this is just a nightmare, and any moment now you will wake up, you will open your eyes to the sound of a distant buzzing coming from your parents’ room—the same very buzzing now crying out inches from their dried blood and cold flesh.

Bile is still in your throat, but you’re able to keep it down, you’re able to start breathing again. Lightheaded, disoriented, you turn away and head toward your room, the only thing you still know and trust.

And you see it.

On your door, you see the thing that will no doubt haunt you for the rest of your life. You see it and you know that this is no dream, that this is no simple nightmare. All this is real, all this is reality, and you are left standing there staring, trembling while your parents’ bodies lie motionless behind you.

Only later does the nightmare begin.

Chapter 1

The church parking lot was deserted. I parked in the handicapped space closest to the entrance. The trailing police cruiser parked in the handicapped space beside me, and for a moment I expected the officer behind the wheel to shake his head, motion for me to back up and park in a regular spot. But when I looked over at him he had already shut off his car and had this morning’s paper open in front of him.

Pastor James Young was waiting for me at the entrance. A man in his early fifties, with light brown eyes and a round, pleasant face, he wore chinos and a red polo shirt and shook my hand the moment I stepped inside.

“Christopher,” he said solemnly, “how are you doing?”

“Honestly?”

He nodded.

“Honestly, I’m exhausted.”

It was June 6, 2003, and my parents had already been dead for a week.

Without a word Pastor James Young led me toward his office. The hallway was long and deserted, its carpet shaded midnight blue with a design of blood red diamonds scattered throughout. Just as we entered the lobby, I glanced up at the support beam in the ceiling and saw a body hanging from a noose.

“Christopher?” The pastor was a few paces ahead, looking back at me with a frown. “Is everything all right?”

I blinked and the body and the noose were gone. It was just a normal support beam, thick and wooden, its weathered look clashing with the flawless white paint.

“Ever wonder the truth?”

“It’s just a story,” I said, because I knew it was just a story, some ghost story a kid no doubt made up one day during service because he was bored. But ever since I was young I’d heard the stories, the rumors, the myths of that crossbeam.

Staring up at the ceiling, Pastor James Young said, “The way I heard it, when this place was built fifty years ago, a local man came late one night and hung himself there. Supposedly he had done something awful, something he thought was unforgivable, and figured killing himself like that was the only way.”

I wondered briefly how many times the pastor had told this story. For as long as he’d been here, he was no doubt asked about the beam. Did the story change slightly every time he told it—did he add something new? Or did he have the thing memorized and got so bored with the telling after so long that it was like saying one of the many Bible verses they make children learn in Sunday school?

“The only way for what?” I asked.

“Forgiveness. Redemption, maybe.” He shrugged. “Who really knows?”

Then we were walking again, down another hallway, and seconds later we were in his office, Pastor James Young behind his large oak desk, me in one of the two chairs facing him.

“Now,” he said, “what is it I can help you with?”

“To be honest, I’m not really sure you can help me at all.”

He forced a smile. “I can always try.”

Despite the church’s size—its attendance for both morning services was close to one thousand on any given Sunday—his office was tiny. Besides the desk, which took up a good quarter of the room, there were three filing cabinets huddled in one corner, and a large bookcase that covered nearly an entire wall. Books mostly on theology filled the shelves. A bonsai tree sat on a table behind his desk, and while it was positioned to receive sunlight from one of the two opened windows, it looked as if a few of its tiny branches had begun to wither.

“How much do you know about what happened last week?”

He looked down at his desk, moved a stack of papers from one side to the other, and sighed. “Just that your parents were murdered. That you found their bodies. That the police first suspected you of doing it but then cleared you.”

“That’s it?”

He nodded.

So that sounded about right. Those were the key facts, the essential information, that was put in the papers. Not about what was painted on my bedroom door. Not about how it was supposedly a calling card from the killer saying I was next.

“I’m going away for a little,” I said. “For a week or a month, I don’t know how long. Steve … well, he wanted me to talk to a psychiatrist before I left. Wanted to make sure I’m okay in the head.”

The frown appeared on the pastor’s face again. “So then why did Police Chief Carpenter ask that I speak with you?”

“Because I told him I’d rather see you instead.”

“Why?”

I glanced away, toward the wall that had random pictures of different sizes scattered all over a large corkboard. Many were of Pastor James Young and his family—his wife and two sons—while others showed him together with various church families. One of those church families was my parents. Taken at what looked like a church picnic, the pastor standing between my father and mother, all three of them with their arms around their shoulders, smiling at the camera.

“Christopher? Why did you want to see me instead?”

I leaned forward in my seat. Opened my mouth but didn’t say anything.

“Are feeling okay?” James Young asked. “You look pale. Do you want something to drink? I can get you a bottle of water. Or—” His eyes shifted to something on his desk. “How about a lollipop?”

It was then that I noticed the jar of lollipops on his desk. Together they created the color of the rainbow. I remembered it was one of Pastor Young’s trademarks, to always have a lollipop or two in his suit jacket every Sunday morning. Oftentimes a child might start acting up, begin crying, and while he was in the lobby he would hold out a lollipop and say, “Hey now, no need to be sad.” It was the same thing he’d said to me the day I was baptized. I had been five years old. I was nervous, having to go out in front of a full congregation of strangers, and began crying. And James Young, the good pastor that he was, pulled out a red lollipop and leaned down, smiled and said, “Hey now, Christopher, no need to be sad.”

It had been true then, but now, thirteen years later, my life had been turned upside down. Family that I’d hardly even known existed was now a part of my life, and I would soon be traveling with them to New York to hide away from what could only be called a sociopath.

“What’s that?” I said, pointing past the jar of rainbow-colored lollipops at something else on his desk. “You’re not recording this, are you?”

He gave me a peculiar look, then glanced down at the tape recorder resting beside his telephone. He placed a hand on it, shaking his head. “No, of course not. Before you came I was listening to a tape Matt Hatfield sent me yesterday. They had a speaker over at Trinity last weekend he wanted me to hear. The man travels around the country with his—”

“Do demons exist?”

A breeze came through the opened windows, causing the bonsai tree to shiver.

Pastor James Young said, “I’m sorry?”

“Demons,” I said. “Do they exist?”

“That’s why you wanted to see me? To ask me about”—he cleared his throat—“demons?”

“Actually, I’d originally wanted to discuss the indifference of God. You know, that whole why-does-bad-stuff-happen-to-good-people debate.”

“And you don’t want to discuss that anymore?”

“Not really. Pardon my French, but I figure if we did discuss that, you’d give me one long line of bullshit, and I really don’t have the patience for that right now.”

“So instead you’d rather ask me about demons.”

“That’s right.”

“Any particular reason why?”

“Just curious.”

He was silent for a moment, just watching me, before speaking. “Why, yes, of course they exist.”

“Can you prove it?”

“They’re mentioned in the Bible.”

“No, I mean something more substantial.”

“I baptized you when you were very young. If you don’t mind my asking, Christopher, are you still a believer?”

“That doesn’t pertain to my question.”

“But it does. Because if you believe that God exists, then you believe that Satan exists. And if you believe that they exist, then you must also believe that angels and demons exist.”

“But how do you know?”

He opened his mouth, started to say something, then shut it. Seemed to think for a few seconds, before saying, “Faith.”

I shook my head. “That’s not good enough.”

“Okay, then what about ghosts? Do you believe that ghosts exist?”

I didn’t say anything.

“You know it’s funny, but people around the world are more apt to believe in the existence of ghosts than they are in demons. Maybe that’s because through the ages people have come to think of demons as these little red creatures with horns and tails and pitchforks. But they’re nothing like that. They … they’re just like angels in a way, but no longer good.”

He leaned forward in his chair, setting his hands on the desktop.

“Some people also believe that when you die, you become either an angel or a demon. This is untrue. Angels and demons, they’re completely different species than us. They were here close to the beginning of time and they’ll be here toward the end of time, but we humans … our existence lasts only in a blink of God’s eye.”

He paused.

“Christopher, I’d really like to help you here, but I can’t do that unless you tell me what’s going on. Why are you asking about demons?”

I glanced at the wall of pictures again. “Last week,” I started to say, but then faltered, lost my voice. I cleared my throat and tried again. “Last week, after what happened, I remembered a dream I had about a year ago. In the dream I was walking around a massive store, like a Walmart, and it was completely deserted. Eventually I needed to take a piss so I went into the bathroom. It was really bright inside and silent, so much so when the door shut it echoed.”

My eyes had focused on the picture of my parents.

“So then I’m standing there at the urinal, just minding my own business, when someone comes out of one of the stalls. He doesn’t flush the toilet or anything, he just opens the door and comes out. And … and somehow I’m seeing all of this, like from a third person point of view. I see myself standing at the urinal, and I see this man walking from the stalls toward the sinks. To get there, he needs to pass me, and I don’t really think too much about it, because why should I? But it’s right when he passes me, his shoes echoing off the floor, that he suddenly steps forward, wraps his hands around my neck, and starts choking me.”

I blinked, looked back at the pastor.

“And at that same moment I woke up and I … I couldn’t breathe. It was like someone was standing right over me, trying to choke the life out of me. I couldn’t move. I tried waving my arms around but I just couldn’t move. And it was still dark in my room but I could have sworn I saw someone leaning over me, right there in front of me with his hands around my neck. And … well, I eventually managed to fall off the bed. Once I hit the floor I could breathe again. And I looked around, trying to catch my breath, and in every corner I expected to see someone there, someone … you know, the person who had just tried choking me. It was still early in the morning, both my parents were asleep, so I went back to bed. But I couldn’t sleep. I just lay there and watched the corners, figuring that the moment I closed my eyes, the shadows would move and the person hiding there would come back out and finish the job.”

I paused, cleared my throat, and said, “You know, I think I could go for a bottle of water after all.”

Pastor James Young swiveled in his chair and opened a mini-fridge underneath the table behind his desk. He pulled out a bottle of Deer Park and handed it to me.

I uncapped it and took a few sips of the water, then wiped my mouth and set the bottle aside.

“Okay,” Pastor James Young said after a moment, when it was clear I wasn’t going to speak. “So you think … it was a demon that tried attacking you?”

“I didn’t. I thought it was just one of those dreams that was really real. Like when you dream you’re playing baseball and the ball comes right at your head and you jerk up out of sleep the moment it almost hits you. But I told my parents about it the next day, and my mom”—glancing once again at the corkboard—“she put the idea in my head. She said that I was being oppressed.”

“Do you think you were being oppressed?”

“I don’t know. But after last week, after … after finding my parents like I did, I’ve been thinking a lot about that dream. Because you know how you asked me earlier how I’m feeling? I’m exhausted, yeah, but ever since last week, I’ve felt just like I did that morning a year ago. Just lying in bed and watching for one of the shadows in the corner to move. Because I know what this guy is waiting for, the bastard who killed my parents.”

The pastor looked even more uncomfortable than before. He glanced down at his desk, started to move that stack of papers but then thought better of it, took a deep breath. “What do you think he’s waiting for?”

“He’s waiting for me to close my eyes. He’s waiting for me to go back to sleep so he can come and finish what he started.”

Chapter 2

Here is how the police reconstructed the last couple hours of my parents’ lives:

After the West Lanton High School graduation Friday night, after hearing their only son’s name announced and then watching him receive his diploma, after tracking him down through the sea of students and parents afterward so they could give him a hug, so they could get a few pictures of him in his maroon gown and mortarboard, they told him they were very proud of him and then got ignored when their son spotted some friends and said he had to leave, that he’d see them later.

Somewhere then in the gymnasium lobby they met up with Jack and Celia Murphy, whose older daughter, Melanie, I had dated for nearly two years. We had since broken up, but over those two years the Murphys had become close friends with my parents. So my parents met them there and engaged in some small talk, before deciding to meet at the Friendly’s along the highway. There they ordered ice cream sundaes and the men talked about hunting while the women talked about books. According to their waitress, whom the police only identified as Bethany, they spent nearly two hours at their table, taking their time with their desserts, getting their water glasses refilled every half hour. Then, around ten o’clock, my father and Jack Murphy argued over who was going to pay the check. Neither of them agreed to split it. They actually ended up playing a game of Rock, Paper, Scissors, and then got into a heated debated on whether it was one two three go, or one two and then go on three.

“It was kind of cute,” Bethany told police. “They sort of acted like brothers.”

In the end, my father came out victorious, his Rock beating Jack Murphy’s Scissors.

At ten-fifteen, in the Friendly’s parking lot, my parents said their goodbyes. My mother and Celia Murphy hugged, my father and Jack Murphy shook hands, Jack promising that he was going to beat my father next time, and then my parents left. They stopped at a gas station on the way home, my father filling up the tank of his Volvo, then going inside to purchase a quart of milk and a fresh loaf of bread. This the police confirmed from credit card receipts and the gas station surveillance video and the night clerk. My parents drove directly home, where they arrived at somewhere between ten-forty and ten-fifty. This was confirmed by Bud Donnelly, a forty-two-year-old investment banker who lived next door with his wife. He had just gotten back from taking his cocker spaniel for a walk when my parents pulled into the driveway.

He said to them, “So Chris finally graduated, huh? Congratulations.”

“Don’t congratulate us yet,” my mother said.

Bud said, “What do you mean?”

My father said, “She means once Christopher finally graduates college, then it’s time for congratulations.”

The three of them apparently got quite a chuckle out of that.

Once inside the house, it becomes only speculation. As their only child, who’d lived in that house for eighteen years, I can pretty much assume my dad took off his tie, unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt, and sank into his recliner to watch the news. My mother probably took off her heels, her earrings and necklace, before sitting at the dining room table and grading papers until eleven-thirty rolled around and my father called her in to watch the opening monologue of The Tonight Show. Depending on who the first guest was, they turned off the TV and headed upstairs, where they undressed, brushed their teeth, and got into bed.

I arrived home at about five-thirty in the morning. It was still dark outside. I came in the backdoor, took off my shoes, and went upstairs where I literally passed out on the bed and did not wake back up until six hours later, when the repetitive blaring of my parents’ alarm clock yanked me from my sleep.

I thought about this when I returned home that Friday afternoon. It was the first time I’d seen the place since last week. I’d been staying in a Motel 6, under constant police protection. The house was still a crime scene, but since I was going away for a while, Steve said he’d allow me back in the house for a few hours to pack. Driving through my neighborhood, I tried spotting changes in the houses, in the trees, in the cars parked in driveways or along the street, but everything looked the same. Then I pulled up in front of the house I’d grown up in and looked at the two-story as if for the first time. It looked the same, yet it didn’t. The grass needed mowed, sure, and the conspicuous yellow and black crime scene tape strung up around the property would have to go, but besides that … it still didn’t look right.

There were two cars already parked in the driveway. One was a black Ford Explorer, the other a township police cruiser. Standing between them, their arms crossed, Steve Carpenter and Dean Myers seemed to be deep in conversation.

I got out of my car and started up the drive toward them. Both men had noticed me pull up, had glanced my way, then went back to their conversation. It was as I neared that my uncle uncrossed his arms and extended his hand toward the police chief. He said, “Steve, thank you for all your help. I really appreciate it.” Then he was walking toward me, saying, “Chris, how did everything go?”

“Good.”

He nodded and said, “Great, I’m glad to hear it.” He glanced past me at where my tailing cruiser had parked across the street. “I think Mom’s resting right now, so we should hopefully be back around two o’clock. Okay?”

I told him it was. Then we just stood there for a moment, neither one of us saying anything. I stared at my uncle, who was staring back at me. He stood just under six-feet, his black hair shaved into a crew cut, a trimmed mustache hovering just above his upper lip. I didn’t know much about him except that he was thirty-seven, unmarried, and had spent some time in the military. Now he worked as a deputy in New York. He and my grandmother had come down Monday, for the funeral on Wednesday. I hadn’t seen or heard from either of them since I was six years old, the last time I visited New York with my parents. Something happened the next year, something that involved my father’s father, and that was why all communication had been cut. To be honest, until Sunday night when my uncle had been contacted and then called me, I didn’t even remember they existed.

“All right, Chris,” he said, “we’ll see you then.”

I watched him get into his Explorer, then watched him as he backed out of the driveway. I waited until he’d turned the corner, until he’d disappeared behind houses and trees, before turning back toward Steve.

“Well?” he said as I approached. “How did everything go?”

I told him the same thing I’d told my uncle, not wanting to impart the real reason I went to see Pastor James Young.

“Good,” Steve said, but his voice somehow betrayed him, making it clear he didn’t believe things were very good at all.

He was wearing his gray uniform today, his silver badge catching some of the sun. An older man, large but not overweight, he was widely known for his gentle nature, for his fairness and patience. But I remembered the rage in his eyes for the first two days, when he had been convinced I’d murdered my parents. It remained constant until I’d gone through all the lines of questioning, until I’d passed the polygraph test, until the forensic lab came back and confirmed that my DNA was nowhere to be found in my parents’ room. Until two of my friends hesitantly stepped forward to admit that I’d been drinking and smoking pot with them at a party until about five a.m. Friday night.

“Is everything cleaned up in there?” I asked finally. Meaning, was the mark in blood taken off my door?

Steve shook his head. “Not everything. Some things we still had to keep there in case we need to come back to it.” Meaning, yes it was.

A light breeze picked up, rustling the leaves in the massive oak in the front yard.

“Believe me, Chris,” Steve said, “this is the best route right now. We just … I can’t afford to keep twenty-four hour protection on you anymore. I’m sorry.”

“No, you have nothing to apologize for.” I glanced at the cruiser parked across the street, the police officer inside who’d somehow gotten stuck babysitting me. “I understand how things are.”

“Trust me. You’ll be safe up there in Bridgton. Your uncle will be able to keep an eye on you. Nothing’s going to happen to you. I promise.”

I didn’t say anything to this. I didn’t tell him that he shouldn’t make promises he wasn’t certain that he could keep, not when a week had gone by and the police had no leads at all on who had murdered my parents. No evidence found inside the house. No apparent motive for the crime. No apparent entry point. It was like the killer had been hiding in the shadows of their bedroom the entire time, waiting for them to close their eyes, before stepping out and cutting their throats.

Steve said, “I know there’s some tension between you and your grandmother and uncle. I sensed it at the funeral. Hell, I sensed it a few minutes ago when Dean went over to talk to you. But whatever happened in the past, things change. People change. You’ll all get over whatever happened too, I know you will. It just takes time.”

A car drove down the street. We both watched it. For a moment I thought it was somebody with the news, somebody doing a drive by to see if anything had changed here, and now wouldn’t they get a nice surprise to find that the victims’ son was standing right in his own front yard with the chief of police? But it was Darren Bannister in his blue Buick Rivera, the old man only glancing at us as he drove toward his home three houses down.

I said, “Do you even know what happened eleven years ago? When I was seven, why my dad cut off all ties with his family?”

Steve shook his head.

“My grandfather tried to kill me. When I was seven years old, he came down here and kidnapped me and tried to kill me.”

Steve opened his mouth, started to say something, then must have thought better of it. He waited a moment, letting that sink in, before saying, “Like I told you, Chris, it just takes time. Everything will work out. We’re going to catch this guy. I mean, hey, look at what happened to Kevin Parker and his wife. That worked out for the best, right?”

Kevin Parker, one of the town’s few celebrities (though could a best-selling author really be called a celebrity?), had lost his wife nearly eight months ago. Some thought she had just run off, but as it turned out she had been kidnapped. A few days ago she had been found again, somewhere in the Adirondacks, but from what I could tell the Lanton Police Department had had no hand in the rescue.

I said, “So you’re certain it wasn’t Grant?”

Steve sighed. “Again, yes, we are certain Grant Evans had nothing to do with your parents’ murder.”

“You talked with him?”

“Chris—”

“He has an alibi and everything?”

“Chris, believe it or not, we know what we’re doing. And for the final time, Grant is not a suspect. I know you two had your disagreements in the past, but trust me, he’s clean.”

Our “disagreements” was me beating the shit out of him a month ago in the cafeteria, for seemingly no reason at all.

“Anyway,” Steve said, stepping forward and patting me on the shoulder, “you take care of yourself. I’ll be in contact with your uncle daily. Hopefully in another week or two you’ll be back here and everything will have cooled down.”

He shook my hand, smiled once more, then got into his car. Just like with my uncle, I watched him as he backed out of the driveway and pulled away. Then, in the sudden silence, which somehow overpowered the typical summer sounds of birds chirping and busy traffic out on Rockwell Road, I noticed the distant growl of a lawnmower. Also there were kids playing somewhere close, probably in someone’s backyard. I tried imagining what they were doing; playing tag, maybe, or swimming in a pool. It didn’t really matter. All that mattered was that life went on just as it always did. People live, people die, and still the world turns. It all seems so obvious, so standard, until someone close to you actually dies, and you notice the world hasn’t stopped. Then the realization hits you that when you die, the world won’t even hesitate, because it doesn’t care at all.

Chapter 3

I was a half hour into packing—going slowly, taking my time in a room that had become alien to me—when the doorbell rang. I paused, thoughts of who it might be racing through my mind: Steve, my uncle, a reporter … or my parents, waiting dead at the door like the son in W. W. Jacobs’s “The Monkey’s Paw.” I shook the image from my mind—

my parents standing side by side, staring ahead with no eyes

—and hurried downstairs. When I opened the door, the officer who’d been waiting in his cruiser across the street stood staring at me.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Myers, but there’s a gentleman here who says he’s your neighbor down the street. A Darren Bannister?”

Before I could even open my mouth to ask who he meant—from all I could see it was just the two of us here on the porch—he stepped aside. Behind him, cowering like a lost kitten, was one of the oldest men in the world.

“Hello there, Christopher.”

I nodded to him, then told the officer he was fine. Once the man had left, walking across the lawn toward his car, I forced a smile.

“So, Mr. Bannister. How are you?”

Short, hair whiter than snow, he was dressed in baggy jeans and a yellow short-sleeved shirt. He wore thin glasses that looked as if they’d been made during the Depression. He’d lived three houses down from me all my life. His wife had died years ago, and ever since then he’d been living alone. When I was younger, I made twenty dollars mowing his lawn or shoveling his driveway, depending on the season and how much I needed the extra cash. In his hands now was a brown paper-wrapped package.

“Oh, I’m just fine.” He had a thick Irish accent and a rustiness in his voice from smoking all his life. He smiled, showing the yellow teeth he had left. Then, just as quickly, his expression became somber. “I was at me daughter’s house all last week. Just got back Wednesday. Heard about your parents. I’m sorry, Christopher, really. They both were fine people.”

I thanked him. “What can I do for you, Mr. Bannister?”

“Here you are.” He held the package out to me. “Yours.”

“Mine?”

He nodded. “Had it for … oh, five years, I’d say. Your granddaddy mailed it to me. Said I was to give you it when … when something bad happened. And I’d say what happened was quite bad indeed.”

“My grandfather?”

Darren Bannister simply nodded, not taken aback by my sudden incredulity.

I stared at the package in his hands. It was a mail parcel, which looked just as old as Bannister himself. I said, “What’s in there?”

“Don’t know exactly. Your granddaddy wouldn’t tell me. Just said that I was to—”

I grabbed the package out of his hands, held it up to my ear as if to listen for the ticking of a bomb. There was nothing, so I weighed it in my hands. It felt like a book.

“How did you know my grandfather?”

Now that his hands were free, the old man didn’t seem to know what to do with them. Finally he put them in his pockets, shrugged and said, “I met him the couple of times he came down here to visit you and your folks. Then … you know, after he went away, he wrote me every once in a while. Asking how you and your family were doing.”

“And you never thought that was odd?”

“Course I did, Christopher,” he said, actually sounding cross. “But his letters seemed so sincere, I just couldn’t ignore them. So I wrote him back, told him I’d try to keep him updated, but I never did after that one time. Then I received that in the post and didn’t know what to think. Your granddaddy said I was to give it to you if anything happened. Said if I knew I was going to die or get real sick, I should find someone else to give it to you. Figured I’d ask me daughter, if that was the case. Sounds queer, I know, but that’s all I can tell you.”

I kept staring down at the package in my hands. Eventually I blinked, looked up at the old man, and said, “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that. I apologize. It’s just—”

He held up a dry gnarled hand, shaking his head. “Don’t you worry about it, Christopher. You’ve already been through so much, you don’t need to apologize about nothing. But I wanted to make sure you got this. I tried dropping it off yesterday but nobody was here. Then I was passing by here earlier and saw you so … ” He forced a smile and spread his hands, palms out, as if to say, And here we are.

“Thank you,” I said. “I appreciate it.”

He may have nodded, or forced another smile, or stuck his tongue out at me. I have no idea. I just continued standing there, staring down at the package, and the next thing I knew the old man had turned away and was walking down the porch steps. I watched him for a moment before I stepped back inside my own house and shut the door. I walked directly toward the couch and sat down with the package in my lap.

I didn’t want to open it. Whatever was inside, I didn’t want to know. It felt like I had Pandora’s Box in my hands, that if I opened it I would unleash a whole new evil into the world.

Come on, I thought. You can do this. Evil doesn’t exist. There’s nothing hiding in the shadows.

The packing material was old and worn, like thin cardboard; I didn’t even need scissors. Once it was opened, I hesitated a moment, then looked inside. A book, just as it had felt like. I pulled it out and set it on the coffee table, then glanced inside the package to see if there was anything else. Nothing, so I tossed it aside and picked up the book.

It was thick, maybe four, five hundred pages long. The cover was brown and bare. Nothing was printed on its spine. I opened the first page to find an inscription. It was done in pen. I assumed it was my grandfather’s hand.

Christopher, this is the fruit of my labor. I am sorry for what happened. Hopefully someday you will understand. Read Job 42 for guidance. Your life depends upon it. I love you.

I read it twice then turned to the next page. I recognized it immediately. Not just from the title, but from the text as well. Genesis—the first book of the Bible. The entire text was in the same hand as the inscription.

I flipped through the pages. They were all the same, all written in pen by my grandfather’s own hand. All the books of the Old Testament.

“Well, I guess the jury’s no longer out,” I said. “He was a fucking nutcase.”

I tossed the book on the couch and then headed back upstairs to finish packing.

Fifteen minutes before my uncle and grandmother came to the house, I sat in front of the computer and tried to compose an e-mail to Melanie. She was in Europe somewhere, having left the day after graduation. Before going to college in the fall she wanted to visit another continent, wanted to spend her summer doing something more engaging than visiting Ocean City, Maryland for the week. So she was over there now, doing whatever it was she was doing, and she had sent me an e-mail a few days ago, which surprised me, a simple note saying how very sorry she was for what happened and that she hoped I was doing well.

Now here I sat, wanting to reply to her but not being able to think of anything good enough to write.

After ten minutes of just staring at the screen, I closed the box.

The computer asked me, SAVE CHANGES TO E-MAIL?

I clicked NO.

Two o’clock arrived, but my uncle and grandmother did not. I wasn’t worried. I knew my grandmother had trouble walking, that the trip down here had been exhausting for her. She was sixty-eight and needed the help of a cane to get around. Her skin was pale, sprinkled by a few freckles and moles on her face and arms. She had spent most of her life in the Restaurant Industry, which was another way of saying she’d been a waitress. It wouldn’t surprise me if she had taken an extra half hour with her nap and was slow getting around.

I packed two suitcases, which now rested in the trunk of my car. There was no extra room in Dean’s Explorer, not with everything he’d packed to bring down, or else I’d ride up with him. The idea hadn’t occurred to Steve until earlier this week, when he first met my uncle. Had he known ahead of time, Dean joked to the police chief, he would have brought a U-Haul.

I sat on the porch steps, trying to ignore the officer in the cruiser. He hardly seemed to notice me anyway. Couldn’t be fun at all assigned to babysit an eighteen-year-old. Even if that eighteen-year-old was being stalked by a murderer.

When I checked my watch and saw it was two-twenty, I got up and went to the door, unlocked it and stepped inside. I stood at the bottom of the stairs and stared up. On my trips in and out of my room, I had kept glancing at my parents’ bedroom door. It was closed. After I’d turned ten or eleven or twelve, I never once stepped foot inside their room, only briefly saw inside if the door was open when I walked past. I’d never had any desire to go inside, knowing that that was their private place, just like my room was my own private place. But today, as I kept passing their closed door, I kept wondering what was behind it.

I started up the steps, taking them slower than usual. The eighth step creaked, just as it always did. Then I was on the landing, staring at their door. I remembered the last time I opened it, the repetitive buzzing coming from behind. I remembered what I saw and felt.

The first thing I noticed when I opened the door was that the sheets had been taken off the bed. The center of the mattress was stained dark with blood. I took a few hesitant steps inside, feeling like an intruder.

There wasn’t much to the room. No pictures or paintings on the wall besides the blue floral border a few inches below the ceiling. Two windows, two closets, the strong scent of lemon disinfectant, and hardly anything else.

I took another step forward, still uncertain what I was looking for, when I noticed the dresser. It sat against the wall next to the door. It was huge, made out of oak. The bottom half was drawers, the top half a large mirror. On both sides were three shelves each, and just by glancing at them I realized the left was my father’s, the right my mother’s. This was where they stored their mementos, their little keepsakes that told just who they were.

I went to my mother’s side first.

On the top shelf were books. Hardcovers that didn’t look familiar to me at all, except one with the title Peace Like a River. I remembered it was one of my mom’s favorites, because she’d tried getting me to read it more than once. Along with these were dozens of cards. Hesitantly I took them down, began flipping through each one. They were birthday cards, anniversary cards, Mother’s Day cards. Some were from my dad, but all the rest were from me, ever since I was old enough to scribble my name. I could tell by the handwriting which cards had been written when I was very young; these were the ones with little notes attached. Misspelled lines like Your the bestest mommy in the hole wide world and If I found a genies bodle I’d give you it so you could have ALL the wishes soon shortened to lines that read I hope you have a good b-day and Have a good one. And, in the last two years, I hadn’t even included any notes, but just signed my name with an obligatory and unfelt Love.

I put them back on the shelf, suddenly feeling empty inside. I turned my attention to the second shelf, which held a small necklace tree with some of her jewelry hanging. Beside it sat a piece of crystal that was shaped like a swan. And beside the crystal swan was a ceramic umbrella, sitting upside down so its ceramic pole was erect. I picked it up. It was light green, the color of freshly grown grass. It was small and rested easily in the palm of my hand. It was clear that the pole had been glued together with the umbrella. My mom had found me the glue the day I came home crying. I’d been in fourth grade, had made it in Art, and on the bus it had snapped off. I wanted to give it to her and was angry because now it was ruined. But she told me it was okay, that everything can be fixed (her own little saying, one which made her a liar once she died), and helped me glue it back together. I gave it to her then, and she gave me a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

I set it back where it was, turning my attention to the third shelf. Bottles of perfume rested there, nothing else.

Resting on the mantle in front of the mirror itself were pictures. They were all of me. A few showed me when I was in middle school, one with me in my basketball jersey, another with me and Mel, dressed in our best, before some formal. Only one showed me with my parents. It rested in the center of the others. In the picture I stood in the middle, my father on my right, my mother on my left. I couldn’t tell where the picture was taken, but people were in the background and it had been inside. It reminded me of the picture back on the corkboard in James Young’s office, except in this one only two of the three were genuinely smiling back at the camera. Those, of course, were my parents, their smiles real and wide. My own smile was crooked, clearly forced, and I was staring off at something over the cameraman’s shoulder.

I turned my attention to my father’s side of the dresser. Instead of hardcovers, he had five paperbacks on the top shelf, all by the same author. My eyes drifted over two titles—Cat’s Cradle, Breakfast of Champions—and then lowered to what rested on the next shelf. It was a small stuffed plush of one of the Looney Tunes. The Tasmanian Devil, his hands held out at his sides, his mouth open wide showing all his teeth. I remembered winning it at some carnival when I was a freshman, by tossing a ping-pong ball into a goldfish bowl. When I brought it home, he had been in the kitchen doing some work at the table, and I had said, “Hey Dad, guess what I won for you.” It had been behind my back, and when I brought it around his face actually lit up with a smile. He thanked me, told me it made his day since he’d been swamped with work, and I had nodded and said sure, no problem at all. But the truth was he had just been in the right place at the right time. Had Mom been there in the kitchen instead, I would have given it to her. Had neither of them been there, I probably would have taken it along with me up to my room, or else tossed it in the trash.

I reached forward, intending to simply touch the brown stuffed animal, when the doorbell rang. I jumped and stepped back. Looked about the room once more, my eyes purposely skipping over the blood on the mattress, and then hurried downstairs.

I didn’t realize until I reached the landing that the picture of me and my parents was still in my hands. I folded it up, stuck it in my pocket.

When I opened the door, Dean stared back at me. His face was expressionless at first, but then he smiled. “Sorry,” he said. “A little behind schedule, I know. But I talked to Officer Armstrong”—he jerked a thumb back at the street—“and he’s going to follow us until we get to Manheim. Ready?”

For an instant, an image flashed in my mind: a body lying in what I somehow knew was a hospital bed.

I blinked, shaking it away.

“Whoa there,” Dean said. He sounded more upbeat than I’d heard him all week. “You all right? You look like you, I don’t know, like you just saw a ghost or something.”

I forced a smile and stepped outside, pulling the door shut behind me. “No,” I said, turning the key in the lock. “Just a little lightheaded. No ghosts here.”

And it was true; I hadn’t seen any ghosts.

Not then.

Continue reading for an excerpt from Robert Swartwood’s forthcoming thriller The Serial Killer’s Wife

Five years ago Elizabeth Piccioni's husband was arrested for being a serial killer. Her life suddenly turned upside down, she did what she thought was best for her newborn baby: she took her son and ran away to start a new life.

Now, living in a quiet part of the Midwest with a new identity, Elizabeth is ready to start over. But one day she receives a phone call from a person calling himself Cain. Cain somehow knows about her past life. He has abducted her son, and if Elizabeth wants to save him she must retrieve her husband's trophies—the fingers he cut off each of his victims.

With a deadline of 100 hours, Elizabeth has no choice but to return to the life she once fled, where she will soon realize that everything she thought she knew is a lie, and what's more shocking than Cain's identity is the truth about her husband.

CHAPTER 1

THEY WERE DISCUSSING the different ways to kill the child molester.

Or rather Chad Cooper was discussing the different ways, sitting at his place at the lunchroom table, slicing an apple, while the rest of them stared at him in stunned silence.

“Drowning him might not be the best idea,” he said, his focus on the apple, “as it raises the question of just how you get a chance to push and then keep his head under water. Maybe a hit-and-run would be better. No, you know what would be best? An icicle. Don’t they say that’s the perfect murder weapon?”

He paused, suddenly noticing the palpable silence, and looked up. He was in his forties, his brown hair thinning, his potbelly beginning to grow more pronounced by the semester. A Social Studies teacher for eleven years, he was known for being one of the students’ favorite teachers in the middle school. He always incorporated movies into his lessons and would sometimes bring in his guitar and play popular songs whose words he’d change around to help the students remember certain vocabulary words and important dates and places that would appear on their tests.

“I’m sorry”—his voice now suddenly gruff—“did I say something inappropriate?”

How the conversation had even turned to Reginald Moore nobody could begin to guess, but they all knew Chad’s frustrations, what with the convicted sex offender having moved into his neighborhood just a few weeks ago.

“Chad,” Eileen Peters sighed, an English teacher for fifteen years, the eighth grade team leader who seemed to always have her auburn hair in a bun, “we all know how you feel—”

“No you don’t. Especially you, Eileen. You don’t even have kids.”

The silence that followed this was more than palpable. Eileen’s face had begun to redden. It was true, she had no kids, because, according to gossip, she was barren.

Chad, who normally had a cheery disposition, didn’t even seem fazed by the fact Eileen now looked like she was about to cry.

“And the worst part?” He shoved an apple slice into his mouth. “They let him move into a house less than three miles away from the elementary school. I mean, seriously, what the fuck is that?”

Nobody spoke. Nobody moved. Nobody even looked at Chad now as he chewed his apple slice and shook his head. He scanned the table, trying to find supporters, somebody to back him up with just a simple nod. But none of his colleagues would meet his eyes. And so it made sense that, after having exhausted the normal route, he would turn to her.

“What about you, Sarah?”

Lunchtime on Fridays had always been a treat for her, the Oakville Middle School eighth grade teachers winding down after a stressful week, the men going without ties, the women wearing jeans, happy to know that in only a few hours the weekend would start and it would be another two days off before they had to come back in on Monday and do it all over again. They’d sit around the three long tables pushed together to create one large table, their brown-bagged lunches placed in front of them. During the week one or two teachers might work at one of the half dozen desks set up around the room, grading papers or prepping tests. But not on Friday. No, Friday was a time when everyone shared lunch together, joking, laughing, telling stories.

She found herself clearing her throat in a demure sort of way. “I’m sorry?”

“You have a son. He’s what—five, six years old?”

She gave a cautious glance around the table. “Five.”

“Okay. So how would you feel if a registered sex offender moved in right down the block from you? Wouldn’t you be a little, oh I don’t know, upset?”

For the first time in a long while she reminded herself that she wasn’t supposed to be here. She was a teacher’s assistant, yes, but this room, this table, was for the teachers. Those men and women who had taken four years of college to earn their education degrees, some who had gone on to earn their master’s, who applied and interviewed and were eventually hired as first-year teachers, always the toughest job for any teacher, having to prove your worth not just to the faculty and staff and school board but to the students, yourself.

Where she should be right now was in the cinder-block room connected to the cafeteria, a sterile place filled only with the continuous buzz of the Coke machine in the corner, of myriad conversations from the seventh and eight graders out beyond the door propped open with a makeshift wooden stopper. There she should be with the other teacher assistants, the other substitutes, but over the past two years she had slowly stopped eating her lunch in that room and transitioned to this room, with the real teachers, the place that felt more comfortable, and they had welcomed her with open arms and she had enjoyed every moment of it, every moment except this one.

“Well?” Chad said, chopping off another slice of apple much harder than was necessary, his focus on her turning into a glare.

“I imagine I would not be happy about the situation, no.”

That glare continued, but only for a moment, and then Chad grinned, gave one of those half-laughs, and turned back to the rest of the table.

“See?” he said. “Even Sarah wouldn’t be happy about a child molester moving in next door. And the truth is, none of you would either.”

“Chad,” Dick Cummings sighed, a Phys Ed teacher of fourteen years who had no choice but to endure his name, “none of us said—”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Chad snapped. He’d brought up the paring knife so it was pointed toward Dick, held it there for a second or two before he noticed the expressions on everyone’s faces. Pulling himself together, he quickly lowered the knife, placed it on the table beside his napkin and the remains of his apple, and stood up. “I’m … sorry. I think I just need to take a walk.”

And then before anyone could say a word he was gone, the door closing behind him with the finality of a period, and at once everyone released a breath at the same time.

The phone on Eileen’s desk rang.

As Eileen got up and went to her desk, everyone else started talking.

“The ironic thing?” Gail Costello said, an Art teacher. “He considers himself so liberal. Always about pro-choice this, no death penalty that. I mean, I wouldn’t be happy if that pervert moved in down the street from me either, but don’t be a hypocrite.”

This was followed by nods of assent, more murmuring, and before she knew it Eileen called her name.

“Sarah? You have a phone call.”

She frowned as she met Eileen at her desk, wondering who would be calling her at this extension. Maybe Todd if he had a free period that coincided with this lunch hour. Anybody else would have her cell phone number and would try her there first, and when she didn’t answer they’d leave a message if whatever they wanted to discuss with her was important enough. Then again, that was doubtful too, as pretty much nobody had her cell phone number.

Eileen gave her a forced smile, one that reminded her she wasn’t supposed to be here in the first place, was just a lowly teacher’s assistant whose lunchtime was meant to be sequestered in that cinder-block room just outside the cafeteria with the rest of the “non-faculty.”

She took the phone with her own forced smile, then waited until Eileen had started away before placing the phone to her ear and saying hello.

“Elizabeth Piccioni?” said the voice on the other end, a dark and robotic-sounding voice.

She let only a moment pass before saying, “I’m sorry, I think you have the wrong person.”

“Elizabeth”—that dark and robotic-sounding voice having no emotion whatsoever—“how would you like me to kill your son—fast or slow?”

CHAPTER 2

SHE WAS IN the hallway, headed directly toward room 218—Mary Boyle’s Earth Science—when Chad Cooper came out of the men’s room and stood directly in front of her.

“I want to apologize,” he said.

Her body was shaking, blood was pounding away in her ears, that for an instant she didn’t hear him—didn’t even see him standing there—and automatically went to step around him.

He moved to the side so he was standing in her way again.

“Sarah, please. I acted like an asshole back in there, and I wanted to—”

“I have to go.”

“What?”

“Chad”—speaking between clenched teeth—“get out of my way.”

“But—”

She pushed him, much harder than she intended, catching him by surprise and knocking him off balance. He stumbled backward, tripping over his own feet and falling to the floor.

“What the fuck?” he said loudly, then quickly shut his eyes and raised his shoulders, hoping no student (or administrator) had heard him.

She was already walking past him, ignoring him as he called her name, asking what was wrong, what her problem was, then, under his breath, calling her what sounded like crazy bitch.

That last bit almost stopped her, her body shaking even more, the blood so loud in her ears she could hardly hear her own thoughts. The idea of turning around, stomping back toward Chad, slapping him across the face appealed to her in a way she knew was wrong. She even paused for an instant, considering it, then continued forward, passing different Art projects taped to the walls, one of them having pulled away from the wall and hanging limp, like it would fall down at any moment.

She hurried around the corner, came to the room, tried the door but it was locked just as she knew it would be. Fumbling then in her pocket, bringing out the keys, she thought briefly of Eileen, thinking that she wasn’t a complete non-faculty because at least she had a room key. As she opened the door she could hear her cell phone vibrating in her bag located beneath the shelf behind the teacher’s desk.

A minute, that terrible voice had told her, she had one minute to answer her cell phone, and as she sprinted past the desks to the front of the room, tore open her canvas bag, she knew that Chad Cooper had caused her to miss her deadline, that when she found her phone the sixty seconds would be up.

The phone was still vibrating when she found it and pressed the TALK button and held it to her ear.

“Three seconds left,” the voice said. “I didn’t think you were going to make it.”

So far—from leaving the lunchroom, to her encounter with Chad Cooper, to entering room 218—she had managed to hold back the tears. Now they sprang freely, running down her face.

“Why are you doing this?”

“Do you know what I find interesting? You denied being Elizabeth Piccioni only once. Then I mentioned killing your son and you immediately dropped the pretense. Why do you think that is?”

“Please”—clearly sobbing now—“I don’t know what this is about.”

“I also find it interesting that you ended back up in a school. Only you’re not a real teacher now, are you? What’s the proper word for someone like you?”

Her legs had become much too weak so she pulled out the chair and sat down and propped her elbow on the desk and cradled her head with her free hand.

“Elizabeth? I asked you a question.”

“Teacher’s assistant,” she murmured. “I’m a teacher’s assistant.”

“What does that pay—barely minimum wage? Do you even get health benefits?”

“Please … let my son go.”

“Okay.”

She paused, holding her breath.

“I mean, you present such a solid argument. Plus, you asked nicely. Why shouldn’t I let your son go?”

She stared down at the desktop, at the tests spread out before her. They were the ones she had graded only a few hours ago, Mary reviewing them before she added the scores into the computer.

“Elizabeth?” When she didn’t answer, the voice said, “Elizabeth, answer me.”

“What?”

“If you haven’t figured it out by now, I’m not going to let your son go. I will promise you this, though—if you do exactly what I tell you to do, you will get him back alive and without a scratch.”

Steeling herself, taking shallow breaths, she said, “What do you want from me?”

“We’ll get to that. First, let’s go over the usual bullshit. No police. No talking about this to anyone. I’m keeping tabs on you, and any slight indication you’ve broken my simple rules, your son dies.”

She was silent, staring down at the test on top of the pile, a quiz about volcanoes and earthquakes that was scored a 63%. It belonged to Dillon Bockian, a sweet boy but not very bright, whose parents she was pretty sure paid him hardly any attention at home.

“Elizabeth?”

She’d been sniffing back the tears, wiping at them, but one managed to escape and flee down her cheek. It paused on her chin and hung there for a second before it fell, splashing on the red ink marking Dillon’s test.

She whispered, “Who are you?”

“You can call me Cain.”

“The world’s first murderer.”

“Well, that’s open for debate. If anything, I think he was just a troubled, misunderstood individual. Now, Elizabeth, listen carefully, because I’m going to say this only once.”

CHAPTER 3

LEAVING SCHOOL WASN’T as easy as she had thought it would be.

Just as Cain quit giving her instructions and disconnected, the bell rang, signaling the end of lunch. A moment later the door opened and in came Mary Boyle, her long gray hair trailing behind her, Mary’s lips pressed together in a strange kind of smile as she approached the desk.

Elizabeth said, “I have to leave.”

Mary ignored this statement completely, striding right up to her and gently squeezing her arm. “He shouldn’t have signaled you out like that in there—believe me, we all agree about that—but you really shouldn’t have pushed him down like you did. He was attempting to apologize, you know.”

“What?”

Before Mary could respond the sound of frantic footsteps filled the hallway outside the door, sneakers squeaking against the linoleum, and then the door opened and the students began trickling in, first Roxane Leonard, her dark hair wrapped in a tight braid, followed by Kevin and Justin Humphreys, twins identical in every way except a slight birthmark on Justin’s left ear.

More of the children entered the classroom, one after another, and though Elizabeth tried not to—though she tried to keep her mind as blank as she possibly could—she saw Matthew’s face in each of their faces, his eyes, his ears, his nose, even his crooked smile, and then Dillon Bockian came in and the tears threatened again, Elizabeth wanting to rush to him and take him in an embrace and tell him that he didn’t have to be scared of anything, he was a bright boy and would always be bright.

But no, wait, she couldn’t do that, because some psychopath had taken her child, someone who had given her instructions, a deadline, and that deadline had been for five minutes and now how many precious seconds had she wasted here with Mary Boyle?

“I threw up.”

Mary turned to her, raising an eyebrow. “I beg your pardon?”

For an instant her hands clenched into fists, the nails digging into her palms, Elizabeth wondering what kind of idiot still said I beg your pardon? these days. Mary Boyle, that’s who, and while Elizabeth had heard her say it countless times before—mostly during class when a student mumbled an answer to a question—the fact that this woman would say those four words now, to her face, while her child was someplace unsafe …

“I vomited. I’ve been sick all morning. Something I ate for breakfast, I think.”

“You know,” Mary Boyle said, turning toward her desk to start tidying up the scattered papers, “food sickness usually isn’t the very last thing you ate. Most people think that it is, but … Ms. Walter? Ms. Walter, where are you going?”

Elizabeth, her bag hanging over her shoulder, headed straight for the door. She had to pause as a few more students straggled into the classroom, each of them smiling at her and waving and saying, “Hi, Ms. Walter,” but she ignored them all and then was through the door, her pace increasing with each step.

How many seconds had passed, turning into minutes, how many of those minutes had expired so far? Cain had only given her five, no more, and she had wasted them on Mary Boyle.

“Sarah?” said a voice behind her, what sounded like Eileen’s, but Elizabeth kept walking, headed for the nearest exit, deciding she wasn’t going to check out first with the office, why should she? Yes, normally she would, but this wasn’t a normal day, far from it, and besides—thinking this as she pushed through the exit door, took in a deep breath of the crisp fall air—a half hour ago she had been Sarah Walter, a teacher’s assistant, but now she was Elizabeth Piccioni, a person she thought she would never be again.

Her phone began vibrating as she reached the parking lot. She hesitated, then started running, her sneakers slapping against the macadam as she rushed for where her car was parked.

But the phone would vibrate only four times before going to voicemail—she knew this for a fact—and she couldn’t let that happen, not to Cain, who had promised extreme violence against her son in the event she failed to comply with his instructions.

On its third vibration she pulled the phone from her bag and placed it to her ear, nearly shouting, “Yes, I’m here.”

“Are you in your car yet?”

She suddenly stopped running, not wanting the sound of her shoes or her ragged breathing to give away the fact that she had not yet made it to her car.

“Yes,” she said, as calmly and coolly as possible.

“I don’t believe you.”

She closed her eyes, started forward, walking as quietly as she could. “But I am.”

“Then beep the horn.”

Her eyes snapped open and her head twisted back and forth on her neck. Vehicles surrounded her but none were unlocked—at least none that she knew of—and none had their windows down.

Elizabeth said, “But won’t that draw attention to me?”

“What do you care if attention is drawn to you?”

“I just left school without permission. Honking my horn in the parking lot might not be the wisest decision.”

“Are you seriously questioning me?”

She turned to the closest car, a blue Saturn, and tried the door. Locked.

“No,” she said. “But I—”

“Beep the goddamn horn or else I’ll kill your son right now.”

She hurried to the next car, an aging Buick, and tried the door knowing it wouldn’t open. But it did. She leaned in and pressed down on the center of the steering wheel, convinced for an instant that the car’s horn was broken—that it wouldn’t even give off a pathetic little toot—but there it sounded, just as strong as she had hoped, breaking the fragile silence of the day.

“There,” she said. “Happy?”

Cain didn’t answer for the longest time, and she worried that she had somehow lost him, and that in losing him she had lost Matthew. Then he said, “The elementary school, you have fifteen minutes to get there,” and clicked off.

She stood for a moment, still leaning into the Buick, noticing for the first time that Mardi Gras beads hung from the rearview mirror. She didn’t want to move, didn’t want to break whatever little luck she had managed to grasp. Because not only had she beeped the horn when Cain requested it, but she had inadvertently proved that he wasn’t close by watching her. Keeping tabs on her all the same, yes, but he couldn’t see her.

Which, she quickly realized, wasn’t necessarily a good thing.

Because if Cain wasn’t close, that meant Matthew wasn’t close either, which meant the two of them could be anywhere.

Elizabeth sprinted for her car.

CHAPTER 4

CAIN HAD GIVEN her fifteen minutes to make it to the elementary school, but Elizabeth managed to make it in ten.

Only pausing through stop signs, making every traffic light except one, she was doing nearly fifty in a thirty-five zone when she came around the bend of the development that lead to the school and saw the fire trucks, ambulances, police cars.

The sudden salvo of so many flashing lights caused her heart to skip. She pressed down on the brakes so hard the tires screeched as her Corolla came to a halt. A horn blared behind her and a car swerved past her, its driver shouting at her in frustration.

She glanced in the rearview mirror, conscious now that she wasn’t alone in the world, especially on this street. There was a car farther back coming her way and she hit the gas again, pulling over to the curb.

Her hands shaking, her heart pounding, she turned off the car and got out and hurried toward the large group of mostly children fanned out on the soccer field. Teachers were circulating among the students, and there were a handful of police officers and firemen talking to each other and into radios.

Elizabeth came up to the closest teacher—a young man named Mr. Daniels—and said, her voice a little too rushed, “What happened?”

He stood with his arms crossed, holding a clipboard at his side. He glanced at her, glanced away, then glanced back when he recognized her as a school parent. He looked past her, as if what he had to say was completely confidential, then whispered, “Bomb threat.”

The school itself stood maybe two hundred yards away, all that brick and mortar and glass much too close in the event a bomb really did detonate. There was nothing here to protect the children, nothing at all, but she reasoned that there wasn’t a safe place to take them, not here in the middle of this neighborhood, not to shield over five hundred children from an explosion.

“I’m looking for my son,” she said.

The young teacher uncrossed his arms, looked down at his clipboard. “What’s your son’s—”

She was moving before he could finish the question, having spotted Joyce Gibbons, her son’s teacher. Weaving in and out of children, some sobbing, some laughing, she noticed that Joyce was talking with Mrs. Ross, the assistant principal. Mrs. Ross holding the standard school-issue radio in her hand, a big black bulky thing, saying something to Joyce as she pointed across the field toward a row of newly developed houses.

They must have heard her coming, or sensed her, or maybe Mr. Daniels had a radio of his own and warned them of her arrival, because they turned simultaneously, their bodies shifting to greet her.

She said, breathless, “Where’s Matthew?”

The teacher and assistant principal glanced at each other for a moment, long enough for a look of exhaustion to pass between them, Elizabeth no doubt the first in a very long line of parents who would be arriving with demands to see their child.

Then Mrs. Gibbons, a plastic smile on her face, said, “He’s here.”

Relief flooded her at once, her eyes closing, her shoulders lifting as she took in a large gulp of air and released it. She wanted to drop to the ground right now, scream her frustrations and happiness into the grass, but she managed to stay on her feet, a smile creeping on her face, as she said, “Where is he then? I need to see him.”

Mrs. Gibbons lifted her clipboard, began shuffling papers, Elizabeth noticing from where she stood it was a list of the entire elementary school. Beside each name was a perfectly formed checkmark in blue ink, the pen of which rested in the crook of Mrs. Gibbon’s right ear.

As Joyce Gibbons flipped through the attendance her posture changed. A slight scowl formed on her face. She glanced up at Mrs. Ross, glanced back at the clipboard, then said to the assistant principal, “Maybe he’s with Clark?”

The relief that had so quickly flooded her now dissipated, leaving her dry and hollow, and before Mrs. Ross put the radio to her mouth and asked Clark (the school’s principal) if Matthew Walter was included in his group, Elizabeth knew why Cain had given her the extra time to make it here. He’d wanted her to see the fire trucks and ambulances and police cars, have another panic attack as her imagination threw its worst at her. Then, just as he had planned, she had dived into the sea of students, searching for her son, maybe finding a teacher who would tell her that her son was fine, safe, here with the rest of the students, and that the blessed relief she’d felt for only an instant would pour into her until, when she asked for her son, demanded he be brought to her, she would receive the answer he had known she would, the one that Mrs. Ross, having listened to the radio, now looked at her with just a glance that told her the whole truth:

Her son was missing.

About the Author:

Robert Swartwood was born in 1981. His work has appeared in such places as The Los Angeles Review, The Daily Beast, ChiZine, Postscripts, Space and Time, and PANK. He is the editor of Hint Fiction: An Anthology of Stories in 25 Words or Fewer. Visit him at www.robertswartwood.com.

Table of Contents

The Silver Ring

Afterword

Blind Insight

Excerpt from THE CALLING

Excerpt from THE SERIAL KILLER’S WIFE