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“Henri knows what he has done. He has passed the story on. His time is ending. Eef you go now, eef you can get through until morning, then you will be fine. You simply need to be isolated. Take these things and spend the night out here, as far from the house as you can get. As far from the village. You get lost.”
“Oh,” I said, laughing now. “I see. I get lost in the woods for the night. Sounds great, Gerard. Sounds like a plan. And why did you have to tell this to me out here?”
“Your sister would not believe me,” he said simply. “But I felt you would. I hope you do.”
The sky had gotten darker and the air soupier. The storm Henri had promised earlier was sitting on top of us, waiting to erupt. I stared at the water and the candy. Food that had been in a bag with a severed hand.
“You’re right about one thing,” I said. “We need to get out of here.”
I turned and started walking back. I heard Gerard calling to me, pleading. But I kept going. He did not follow me.
As I pushed back through the branches, following the sound of Marylou’s voice to the house, I assessed my situation. That it was a real hand, I was sure. That was the big thing here. Someone was dead. And Henri’s bare bathroom, stripped of anything that might…soak up blood. Towels and paper. If I was going to cut up a body, I’d do it in a tub. Then I’d wash the tub and bleach it. Then I’d get rid of everything else. Yes, that made sense. So Gerard had had a trauma and thought this was all based on some story. Grief and guilt had confused him. But there was still a danger here, and that danger was Henri. Henri knew where we lived. He knew our phones didn’t work. He knew we were alone. Which meant that I had to convince Marylou that we needed to get out right now.
Everything looked blurry and odd. I started to run, paying no attention to the tiny frogs that might be under my feet, feeling like I was bouncing high with each step. The slowly darkening sky looked like one of the landscapes that Van Gogh used to paint here: swirly clouds against a bright palette of sunset colors. The view of the house throbbed in time with my pulse. Marylou was waiting for me at the open door, looking furious, still holding her trusty DSM-IV.
“There you are!” she said. “I left for two minutes and you were gone! What the hell is going on?”
I pushed her inside and bolted the door behind me.
“What’s wrong?” she asked as I slumped on one of the kitchen benches. “Charlie, you look sick. You’re so pale.”
She was not going to believe the hand. Not, not, not going to believe it. It would take something else, something more plausible. It would take a lie. A megaton of a lie.
I had one in a second.
“Gerard,” I said. “That guy. He’s nuts. He stole my phone, and he ran out. I chased him, and he tried to attack me. I just barely got away. He’s still out there. We have to get out of here.”
“What?” she said, coming to sit by me and putting an arm around my shoulders. “Charlie…did he hurt you?”
“I’m fine. I hit him. With this.” I held up the flashlight. “I don’t know what he was going to do with it, but I got it off of him and I hit him with it. I whacked him in the head, hard, and he kind of ran off. Now we have to get out, get to the village, and get help. This is not a lie. Look at me.”
I could see Marylou testing out the plausibility of my story in her head. I have to say, I gave a magnificent performance. What I was saying wasn’t exactly true, but the sentiment behind it certainly was. My fear was real. And I had his flashlight. And she had probably seen him running. There was a lot to back up my story.
Marylou got up and paced the kitchen while she weighed the facts. I saw acceptance flash over her face.
“How old do you think he was?” she asked. “Eighteen? Nineteen? It’s common for people that age to experience a minor psychotic break.”
“That’s reassuring,” I said, swallowing hard.
“If he’s out there, we need to stay in here. We need to lock everything.”
“No,” I countered quickly. “He said he’d come back. He said he’d get in. This is our only shot. If we go right now, we could get to town before he catches up with us.”
Marylou stepped back from the bench and put her hands on her hips, looking worriedly around the room.
“Okay,” she said. “Okay. Here.”
She went to the hooks at the back of the kitchen and pulled down two of the heavy green rain slickers that were hanging there.
“Put that on,” she said, dropping one of the slickers on the table. “It’s going to rain.”
She rattled around in one of the kitchen drawers and produced a heavy carving knife, which she passed to me.
“Put this in something,” she said.
“What’s this for?”
“Protection. I’m going to close the rest of the shutters upstairs. You do the ones down here.”
