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She was always on his back about his eating. Well, he thought, what the hell was there to do around here except eat? And drink a little on the sly. He hoisted the bottle once again. She was always complaining that he wasn’t the man he used to be, that he wasn’t the guy she’d married. He grimaced at the thought. Well, she wasn’t exactly the girl he’d married, either. He remembered what she looked like back in high school. God, he thought, she was enough to make your heart stop. Long blond hair, incredible legs, and the way she had filled out her cheerleader’s sweater, man, the guys used to fumble the ball every time she jumped into the air, shaking her pom-poms.
Now, she was always padding around the house in those ridiculous pink furry slippers, with her hair up in those pink plastic curlers and that flannel print housecoat covering what was still actually a pretty nice body come to think of it—only every time he tried to do anything she would groan and roll over on her side, saying, “God, not tonight, Harold, I’m really tired and I’ve got a headache.”
Okay, so maybe he had put on some weight and maybe his hair had started falling out. Maybe he wasn’t the same handsome, young quarterback she’d married, but hell, a guy couldn’t help getting older, could he? She was always complaining that there was no more romance in their marriage. Romance! Try getting romantic with somebody whose head looks like a heating coil and whose face has about a pound of cold cream on it every night. Try getting romantic with someone who was always getting on your case about one thing or another, scolding you as if she was your mother, for cryin’ out loud.
“Who can live like this?” she always said, spreading out her arms and looking up, as if expecting an answer from God.
“You tell me,” he always replied. “This ain’t no kind of life at all, if you ask me! Hell, the way things are goin’, I might as well drop dead!”
“I sometimes wish you would!” she’d shout back.
“And I wish I would, too!” he’d yell back, and then he’d stomp out of the room and go out to the shed, where he’d have a whiskey bottle stashed away.
He drained the whiskey bottle and wiped the liquor off his chin. I’m in the toilet, all right, he thought. For a moment, he felt like throwing the empty bottle against the wall, but then Edna wouldn’t clean it up and he’d only wind up stepping on the broken glass the next time he came into the bathroom barefoot. He resisted the impulse and put the empty bottle down on the floor, reminding himself to get rid of it so that Edna wouldn’t find it and give him a hard time.
He put the bottle behind the toilet, and as he straightened up, he noticed the dusty curtain opposite him move slightly.
The bathroom had two large cupboards in it, from which Harold had removed the shelves to make storage closets. One of the closets had a makeshift wooden door; the other was covered by a cloth curtain. The door had been missing for years and Harold kept meaning to replace it, but he never got around to it. Now he stared at the moving curtain, and it occurred to him that whoever had put the rattlesnake in with the rabbits might easily still be around. The closets were both deep enough for a prowler to hide in.
Harold swallowed nervously and pulled up his pants. He slowly moved over to the curtain and reached out to draw it aside. He hesistated. What if there was someone hiding in there? What would he do?
Hell, it’s probably just my imagination, he told himself. That damn rattlesnake has got me spooked. He’d have to call someone tomorrow to get that damn snake out of the shed, because he sure as hell wasn’t going back inside there . . . On the other hand, maybe he’d send Edna in there.
Just to convince himself that he was getting worked up over nothing, Harold summoned up his nerve and jerked the curtain aside. There was nothing behind it except a pile of dusty cardboard cartons. He breathed a sigh of relief.
Then he glanced at the other closet.
He drew himself up and walked over to it, grasped the doorknob, turned it, flung open the door—and a large meat cleaver thudded into his chest with all the force of a lineman sacking a quarterback.
He staggered back, blood spurting from around the cleaver embedded deep in his chest, staring with horror and disbelief at the huge figure standing in the closet, and before the pain could even register, he died. He never felt the impact when his body fell upon the bathroom floor.
Edna heard the crash and scowled. “Harold?”
There was no answer. She reached out and turned off the TV.
“Harold?” she called again.
Why couldn’t he ever answer when she called? It drove her crazy when he did that. With a sigh of exasperation, she got up and went over to the bathroom.
“Harold, you still in there?” she called through the door. “What was that crash? You break something again?”
No answer.
She tried the door. It was unlocked. She went inside and looked around. Now where the hell was he? She sniffed several times. Whiskey. If figured. She knew he hid his whiskey bottles all over the house, but she didn’t even bother looking for them anymore. She was thankful that he wasn’t one of those angry, nasty drunks. Whenever Harold had too much to drink, he would simply pass out, and at least then she’d get a little peace and quiet. Maybe one of these days he’d just pass out and never get back up, she thought. It would serve the big jerk right.
She heard a rustling sound behind the closet door. He was probably in there with his whiskey bottle. She jerked the door open and was confronted by a large rat sitting atop one of the storage cartons. She gasped and drew back from it with a grimace of disgust—and suddenly a large hand was clamped over her mouth and the missing steel knitting needle was driven through her neck, rippling through her voice box and emerging through her throat.
She struggled uselessly, realizing with horrifiying clarity that she was being murdered. She gagged, choking on her own blood as it bubbled up into her throat, seeping between the fingers of the huge hand covering her mouth. Waves of white-hot pain washed over her, and then all sensation disappeared as numbness quickly spread throughout her body and she sank down into oblivion.
Chapter One
The group of small children playing baseball in the street scattered to make way for the silver, custom-striped van with the canoe and camping gear strapped to its roof. The teenagers inside grinned at the children who waited until the very last moment, asserting themselves with challenge in their eyes, before grudgingly getting out of the street. They could remember being much the same themselves not very long ago, regarding the street in front of their homes as turf rather than as a thoroughfare for cars.
“It’s the white house on the left,” said Chris, a shapely nineteen-year-old with reddish-brown hair, large eyes, and an energetic, slightly nervous manner. She pointed as they passed the house and pulled over to the curb on the opposite side of the street.
Andy and Debbie were both the same age as Chris. Andy was slim, with dark hair, brown eyes, an athletic build, and clean-cut, handsome looks. Debbie was slightly shorter than her boyfriend, with full, naturally wavy chestnut hair that fell down to her shoulders and a wide, sultry mouth. She had the kind of figure that would even attract attention in a sweat suit. They both stepped down out of the van and came around the back to join Chris as they crossed the street.
“Hey, Shelly,” Chris called over her shoulder. “Come on out and meet your date!”
