It was closer now, and he could hear it breathing, sniffing him out. A high whining sound began to fill the air, slight at first but gradually getting louder, and in the moment before the bed flew up and away from him, Eric’s hope flared and died with the keen of sirens and his own scream in his ears.
CHAPTER 1
His eyes came open with the grating wail of the alarm clock on the bedside table.
Liam blinked at the ceiling and wondered for the hundredth time why he even set the damn thing each night. Routine, that’s why. The doctor said routine was good for sleep. Routine. With a grunt he rolled over and slapped at the button, eventually silencing the screeching clock. He listened. The popping sound of the late-summer sun warming the floorboards of the old farmhouse kitchen, the jangle of the wind chimes on the front porch, a breeze pressing its breath against the old windows in the bedroom, a car passing on the highway and then gone. He sighed and lay back, thinking about the gun in his closet, tucked out of sight on the high shelf, always there in the morning, in his mind, asking its question.
As he showered, he rubbed his jaw, feeling the growth there. He should shave, otherwise the whiskers would become like steel wool and his fair complexion would suffer a “red tide,” as his dad used to call it. He hissed a laugh and shut off the water.
The shave felt good, but not as good as when his father used to do it with the straight razor. The feeling after his father’s shaves was unequaled, something he couldn’t put his finger on. He thought of the barbershop: the tangy smell of leather that covered the heavy rotating chair; the musk of the shaving cream on his face; the feel of the blade, so sharp against his skin, yet held with a sure hand that relaxed him when his father shaved him. He paused, shaking the disposable razor out under the hot water, and watched the black stubble flow away down the drain. Without looking in the mirror above the sink, he grabbed the pearl-handled round mirror from the drawer to his left. As he did each time he picked it up, he remembered his dad holding it out in front of him when he was ten, after his hair had been particularly long. He could still see his father’s smiling face above the mirror, a face that his own would resemble more and more as the years went by, minus the ever-present cigarette in the corner of his dad’s mouth. He recalled the thought that went through his young mind, so happy in the moment that the black realization hit him like a thunderclap and nearly sent him out of the barber chair: someday, he would look into that mirror and his dad would be gone, and there was nothing he could do about it. The memory never failed to assault him when he picked the mirror up.
He gazed at his reflection, noticing the patch of whiskers he always missed on the right side of his chin, as well as the lines around his eyes that seemed to deepen with each restless day and every night of shallow sleep. The thought of more sleep sent a tremble of yearning through his body. Instead, he toweled off his face, laid the mirror back in its resting place within the drawer, and went to make coffee.
The day was as bright as he expected, and he ate a protein bar with his coffee on the front porch, soaking in the morning sun as well as the thick caffeine in the large cup. His mind went over the plans for the day without conscious thought. He was low on bread and deli meat and he needed toilet paper. Town it was then. And maybe he’d stop today on his way home. It wasn’t far off the highway. He could pull onto the exit and follow the road down to the stoplight, turn right, and go through the outskirts of the little suburb. His body would take him down the correct streets, turning and braking like an automaton, and he would park his car outside the apartment building like he had so many times before. He would walk up to the entrance and see the paint peeling off the siding, not enough to look trashy but still noticeable. He’d touch the rough brick beside the intercom, feel the grit bite into the skin of his knuckles as he tried to get his finger to push the button beside the name he knew so well. He wouldn’t leave until he did. Not like the last time, when he’d stood there for over ten minutes, until his knuckles bled from where he rubbed them raw against the brick.
The phone rang inside the house, pulling him back to himself so fast, he jerked coffee over the rim of the cup and onto his pants.
“Shit,” he said, and rubbed the scalding spot on his thigh. The phone belted out another demand to be answered, and he moved through the kitchen to where it hung beside the fridge.
“Hello?”
“Is this Detective Liam Dempsey?”
“No—I mean, yes, this is. Who is this?”
“Mr. Dempsey, this is Senior Special Agent Todd Phelps with the Bureau of Criminal Apprehension.”