Behind The Veil: A Gina Harwood Novel Page 10

  The first few times Jake laughed it off. Then, he got angry. Then, he got tired. Now, he just shut it out entirely whenever Marcus started to speak.

  There was a hard rapping on the front door, and both of them jumped – Marcus convulsed so thoroughly that he flung his wireless Xbox controller across the room. Jake stood up and crept to the window next to the door.

  “Dude, don't. Dude...” Marcus was incoherently afraid.

  Jake peered out the window and started laughing in loud, long guffaws. He turned to see Marcus still frozen, eyes wide, eyeballing Jake mistrustfully. “Marcus, it's the pizza.” He chuckled some more and unlatched the door lock. Sure enough, there was a sweaty, oily teenager on the doorstep, holding the metal-cloth envelope open to slide out their two large pizzas.

  “Oh,” said Marcus. He crawled across the room to fetch his controller.

  Jake finished paying the guy and closed the door with his foot, arms full of pizza boxes and a 2-liter bottle of Coke. He was still chuckling, which felt wonderfully good, but alien. Jake wondered if laughing would ever feel “normal” again.

  He pushed the thought out of his mind. The last thing he wanted to remember was the oncoming specter of his sister's funeral. He just wanted to eat pizza, guzzle sugar-water, and play video games with his friend – in other words, he wanted to live his normal life. But it was too late; the thought once bidden could not be forgotten. Angry with himself, he ripped open the lid of the top pizza.

  Supreme. Disgusting. He passed it off to Marcus, who dove in with gusto.

  He opened the bottom box and froze.

  It was a sausage pizza, just what he ordered, but the bits of meat were gathered up in lines and waves, forming a vaguely and disturbingly familiar shape, like an hourglass on its side with spikes. He looked at it, his hunger gone in an instant.

  “Jake? What's wrong?” Marcus chewed away on his pizza, but eyed his friend. Jake dully noticed a long string of cheese dangling from Marcus' mouth, but found no humor in the image.

  “It's...” he started, but his cell phone began to ring from his pocket. Startled, Jake dropped the box.

  Marcus peered into it and whistled low. “What?” Jake heard him ask.

  Jake stared at the phone. It was his parents' number.

  ⇼ ⇼ ⇼ ⇼ ⇼

  Marcus stared into the pizza box, and whistled low. The pizza had splattered from the fall, and much of the cheese was now sticking to the top of the box. Sausage bits were everywhere. But it still looked delicious, if messy; however, it seemed to Marcus something about it had scared his friend nearly to death. He looked back up; Jake held his cell phone in his hand and was staring at it like he didn't know what it was. “What?” asked Marcus.

  Jake was still staring at his phone. “It's Dad,” he said.

  Marcus' brow furrowed and he stepped around the box to look at the cell phone. It just showed the time, 1:10 AM, by default. “What's your Dad?” he asked slowly.

  “Dad's calling,” Jake looked at him as though he were an idiot. “That's Dad's ringtone.”

  The silence echoed off the walls. “Jake,” Marcus started, alarmed. “The phone isn't ringing.”

  Jake didn't seem to hear him. He snapped the phone open and brought it to his ear in one smooth movement.

  ⇼ ⇼ ⇼ ⇼ ⇼

  “Dad?” Jake answered, breathlessly. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears. No one answered on the line, but Jake heard a low, steady breathing.

  “Dad?” he asked again, louder. No sooner did he speak than an awful, bloodcurdling scream poured out of the handset, behind the breathing, which didn't falter. Jake snatched his head away, but even at a distance, the screaming was earsplitting. It was also, undeniably, his father's voice.

  The screaming continued unabated, but the steady breath caught once, twice, and deepened into an awful, low chuckling sound. The call ended with a click.

  Jake dropped the phone, which landed next to the pizza box, and backed himself against a wall. He felt dizzy and cold, and his legs were threatening to give out on him.

  “Jake,” he heard his friend say, as if from a great distance. “What the hell is going on? What's wrong?”

  Good ol' Marcus, he thought. Dependable Marcus. He slid down the wall before his knees decided not to do their job anymore. Jake shook his head, hard, to try to clear the fog that had suddenly settled over his sight. Marcus was there, too, crouching in front of him, a hand on his shoulder. Jake looked at it wonderingly; he barely felt the pressure of the touch. Something nagged at the back of Jake's head as he fought to keep his vision from tunneling all the way to blackness. Something about his dad. His dad. Peter. His father. “Jake!” he heard again.

  “Dad's dying,” he heard his own voice say, sounding hollow. Alien. “Something's got him.” It still sounded like his voice, but the words didn't seem to make any sense to him. Dad? What had his Dad?

  Marcus shook him. Jake felt his head hit the wall, and it lolled about on his neck before snapping up to center. Marcus was saying something, maybe even yelling something, but all Jake heard was a faint buzzing sound. He wondered if this was what shell-shock was like. Instead of a bomb, it had been a cell phone.

  A call... from someone... Jake shook his head again, feeling as though someone had blurred his edges.

  He blinked hard and spat something to his side, disregarding the fact that he was sitting on Marcus' carpet. Marcus didn't even seem to notice. Reality flooded back in, and his vision returned, painfully clear. Too clear. “Dad,” he gasped, pushing himself to stand. “Not again, ah, god, I gotta go,” he blurted out, stumbling toward his keys on the table.

  Marcus was back in focus now too, and he leapt in front of him. “What is going on, Jake? How do you know? Where are you going?” He looked half-crazed. Jake wondered for a moment how he himself must look.

  “That was Dad, the screaming. I don't know who the breathing is, I don't know if you heard that. Something's got Dad. I gotta go,” he repeated, and the repetition clarified his goal in his mind. Something had his father. He had to go.

  “NO ONE WAS ON THE PHONE!” screamed Marcus.

  Jake stopped and turned to face his friend. Marcus looked wild, but scared to death. “What?” he asked, as calmly as he could.

  “Your phone never rang! It just showed the time! No one was on the phone, Jake! The line wasn't even live!” Marcus wasn't screaming anymore, but his voice was still loud and urgent.

  Jake turned his head slightly away. “Yes, there was. Didn't you hear the screaming?” his voice was flat. He could have been discussing the weather with a stranger.

  Marcus' jaw worked soundlessly and he blinked hard. Jake rather thought he looked like a fish out of water. “There was no screaming, Jake! I would have heard screaming! You were holding a dead phone!” His hands were in his hair, pulling, and his eyes were still wide and wild.

  Jake backed up to the door. “Man, I'm sorry, but I gotta go...” he said, hating to leave his friend in such a state, but feeling that he'd wasted way too much time already. He turned and ran outside.

  He heard the door slam behind him, and Marcus was next to him, also running. “Jesus, man, I don't know what's going on, but I'm not letting you out of my sight,” he huffed.

  Something about this bothered Jake, but he didn't argue as he and Marcus both bundled into the car and drove off.

  ⇼ ⇼ ⇼ ⇼ ⇼

  Waves crashed against the impossibly tan skin of the nameless woman next to him. Morgan didn't even feel the water this time, as deeply as he was entranced by the sun glinting off her wet body, like tiny, ringing diamonds. He frowned. The water had been ice cold a moment ago. Now it felt warmer, and less wet. The girl laughed, her chest heaving in a very exciting sort of way, but her laugh was callous and harsh, and ringing. Her mouth dropped open and he watched her tongue vibrate with each ring. Morgan shivered and backed away from the girl, who was transforming into something shiny and plastic, not tanned and soft, and that ringing kept...


  He sat up and fumed, the last vestiges of his dream shattered by the corded phone on his nightstand. Staring at it for a loathsome moment, he entertained an amusing vision of throwing it against the wall as hard as he could, watching it shatter into a thousand glinting pieces, and maybe the tiny pieces of plastic would transform back into sand, sea, and breasts.

  The alarm clock glared red at him. 'It is just after 2am,' it seemed to say, 'and you need to answer the phone.'

  Morgan reached out and grabbed the handset, bringing it to his ear. It felt instantly sweaty. “What?” He didn't bother asking who. He knew who.

  “I'm.. I'm sorry to bother you, detective,” started a stammering voice on the other end. Some kid at the station. Graveyard shift.

  “I'm awake. What is it?” he knew he sounded gruff and unpleasant. It was 2am. He felt it was his right.

  “There's been a call out to 224 Hastings Street. I was told to call you?” the kid lifted the sentence up at the end, and Morgan could see him wincing.

  Morgan sat up straighter. “When? Has anyone informed Harwood?”

  “Just a few minutes ago, and no, I called you first. I was going to call her next, unless you want to?” That upward tilt again, the kid was hopeful. Morgan smiled grimly, wiping sleep out of his left eye.

  “No, no, I'll let you do the honors. What was the code?”

  “187,” the kid almost whispered, awed.

  'Shit,' thought Morgan. 'Shit, shit, shit.' But all he said was “Call Harwood.”

  ⇼ ⇼ ⇼ ⇼ ⇼

  Marcus shivered in the cold night air. Jake's heater didn't work, never worked, and Marcus kept wiping down the inside of the windshield to get rid of the fog and allow his friend to drive.

  Jake didn't shiver, didn't say anything to Marcus, and just looked straight ahead to the road. The entire drive was silent, except for the occasional clacking sound of Marcus' teeth chattering.

  They pulled up to the O'Malley house. It was dark and silent. Jake turned to Marcus, acknowledging his presence for the first time since they left his apartment; Marcus looked back at him, waiting. He was out of his element. Nothing was guiding his actions anymore except loyalty and instinct, and those forces warred within him. Loyalty said to protect his friend. Instinct said to run the hell away and not look back.

  “What do we do?” he whispered.

  Jake just looked at him. “I'll be right back.” His voice was flat.

  Marcus heard a whine escape his own lips, like a dog, but felt too afraid to be ashamed. His hand snapped out and grabbed Jake's shirt. “Man, no way. No way, I'll...” he licked his lips, which were so dry he thought they might crack and bleed with his words. “I'll come with you.” The words carried no weight to them. He dropped his eyes.

  “It's okay, Marcus. I'll be just a minute. I have to see.” Jake tugged himself away from his friend and closed the car door quietly.

  “See what?” Marcus asked the lonely car. Immediately, he wished he hadn't spoken; the sound of his frightened voice echoing off the cold car windows sent a shiver down his spine that was unrelated to the frigid temperature. Shame took the opportunity to flood in, elbowing fear to give it some room. Marcus sat there, forcing himself not to whimper, unable even to watch his friend's form retreat into the dark house.

  Minutes passed. Marcus didn't know how many. The car was turned off, and Jake had taken the keys with him, this time. He never owned a watch, and had forgotten to grab his cell phone. Jake had taken his own cell with him, too.

  The dark pressed in around him, and he clutched himself with both arms, drawing his knees up as much as he could. He kept his jaw slightly ajar to avoid the clattering sound, which sounded like bones rustling. It was a thoroughly unpleasant sound, for a thoroughly unpleasant night.

  The night's stillness was broken by a piercing scream. Marcus fell out of the car, not even remembering fumbling with the lock. Another scream, and he saw a neighbor's lights click on. It didn't sound human, that voice; it sounded like an animal in pain. Wild-eyed, Marcus stumbled up the front path, and ran into Jake, who was running out of the door.

  “C'mon, Marcus, GO!” ordered Jake, forcibly turning his friend and pushing him back down the sidewalk and into the car.

  The car roared to life and sprung down the street. Marcus noticed several things at once: he saw an older woman in a bathrobe peering after them with a cordless phone in her hand, one of the big white types with the huge soft antenna; he looked down and saw that Joey Ramone's face on his t-shirt was covered in some sort of black liquid that shined red under the streetlights they kept passing under; he heard Jake wheezing for breath in the driver's seat and ripping the steering wheel from left to right, jerkily; and he realized slowly that the car was barreling down neighborhood streets at more-than-criminal speeds. “Whoa,” he breathed, and then louder. “WHOA, Jake, pull over!”

  Jake shook his head as if to clear his vision. This didn't reassure Marcus, considering they were passing houses and parked cars so fast the surroundings looked blurry. Marcus reached out and tugged on Jake's hair. “JAKE,” he yelled in his ear. “PULL. OVER.”

  Houses became more clear and passed more slowly as Jake depressed the brakes and maneuvered the car to the side of whatever street they were now on. He was breathing as though he'd been running the entire distance the car had traveled. His knuckles were white from his death-grip on the steering wheel. Marcus reached over and twisted off the ignition. The car rumbled into stillness.

  “Dude,” ventured Marcus. “What the hell happened?” He pulled his shirt out from his slight frame to indicate the blood. Suddenly, it overwhelmed him and he ripped it off of himself and threw it out the window, quickly rolling it back up and shivering, now half-naked in the freezing night. He took his first good look at his friend; Jake looked pale and was also shivering, but Marcus wasn't sure it was just the cold. His clothes looked stained, and Marcus again could guess what from; even his hair was glistening slightly. “What happened?” he asked again, sitting back against the door. “Whose blood...?” Marcus didn't want to finish the question.

  Jake's head turned slowly to face him, but the rest of his body looked frozen. Marcus shivered again; the effect was eerie. “I... I saw my dad.”

  Marcus nodded. “I heard a scream, it was awful. Was that you?”

  Jake shook his head and closed his eyes. “No.”

  Marcus' vision swam and he felt a rising stab of horror. “Was it Peter?” he whispered, not wanting to ask the question, and wanting to hear the answer even less.

  Jake shook his head again. “No.”

  “Then, what...”

  Jake's eyes jolted open and he turned the car back on, popped it into drive, and started driving again, although slower this time, to Marcus' relief. “Dad was right, we gotta run,” he said.

  “Jake, who was screaming?” Marcus felt himself pull the seat belt across his frame and watched his hands find the latch and click it, feeling more than a little disconnected. The scratchy fabric belt across his naked chest felt a little reassuring, a little safe. He clung to the feeling.

  Jake stared ahead as he navigated the car onto I-44, heading east, getting up to speed and clicking on the windshield wipers to handle the tiny flecks of snow that were beginning to fall, before delivering his answer.

  “The thing that was eating my Dad.”

  10

  Gina Harwood was not a morning person.

  Especially when morning came at 2am.

  Groggy, she stared at the phone still in her left hand as she squinted against the bright white fluorescents in the bathroom. It was preventing her from grabbing the toothpaste to apply to the toothbrush in her right hand. She didn't remember maintaining her grip on the device as she'd sleepily thrown on clothes, even socks and shoes, and stumbled into the bathroom. Surely that had to have been difficult, she thought to herself, still gazing at the handset.

  She blinked hard at herself in the mirror, hair unkempt and eyes baggy, and forced
her eyes fully open; the lights momentarily blinded her. The handset made a faint clatter as she clumsily set it down on the counter and continued her toothpaste-to-toothbrush activity unhindered. She forced herself to move a little faster, combing through her wild hair (she finally just had to gel it back into a still-messy ponytail) and applying a bit of black eyeliner around her puffy eyes. Gina stepped back and surveyed the damage in her reflection; she was certainly no supermodel, but it would do. She at least looked a little more human than she felt.

  Throwing on her ratty gray coat and a colorful homemade scarf she'd received for some holiday, Gina braced herself as she opened the door; wind and bits of new-fallen snow rushed into the open door and whirled around her figure. She had begun to feel sorry for the rookie kid who called her – waking Gina Harwood out of a deep sleep was a hazardous occupation, even if it was just over the phone – but the frigid air and swirling precipitation changed her mind. He may be working the graveyard shift, but at least he's inside the warm station. And he woke her up. He was just lucky he wasn't in the same room when he did it.

  Bundling into the tiny car, Gina forced the vehicle to start, apparently against its will, considering the time the engine thought about the request before finally catching and turning over. She withdrew her gloves and hurriedly put them on, pushing the heater all the way to the hot side, and sat, shivering and waiting.

  Someone had apparently killed Peter O'Malley. That was unfortunate.

  Maybe it wasn't Peter. Rookie kid didn't specify, and she hadn't really been awake enough to appreciate the possibility of a distinction between a murder call to that house and the identity of the murder victim. She considered calling the station and getting more information, but decided against it. She'd be there in a few minutes anyway, '...if the damn car ever heats up,' she amended. She grabbed the steering wheel, but the hard plastic radiated cold painfully into her gloved hands and she snatched them away. The air coming out of the vent was slightly warm, getting better, she decided as she held one hand up to it. Deciding to give it a few more minutes, she fished out her cell phone from her jean pocket. Two in the morning was too early for uniforms; she had a spare at the office if she didn't get to go back home before the official day started. Right now, she preferred comfort.