27 August 2012
(terror)
So I get another call from County Police. Seems that their worst fears are confirmed. THEIR worst fears? It's my life on the line here.
Last week, they called to tell me that one Henry Burns has escaped from high security prison. They can't give me more details, but are concerned that the prisoner may head in this direction. I should be extra vigilant and keep doors and windows locked. Is there anywhere I can stay for a while?
They clearly don't know my life. Hot-shot city job taken from me by the recession. Wife took the rest. Escaping to the mountains, far from the city and my wife's new fruitcake beefcake, I have this cabin, my dog and some clothes. And maybe the tiniest shred of self-respect.
No - there's nowhere I can stay for a while. And if I close the windows I'll roast. The forest is so still and hot this Summer.
Then yesterday, another call. Burns was convicted of serial murder. Two of the bodies were found in this very cabin. He's been sighted heading in this general direction - a coupla days south of here. He has nowhere else to stay either it appears.
I'm not hysterical. I'm not giving up my home. I am going to track down the agent who sold me this place and maybe introduce them to Burns, if he shows up.
I only have the dog and my home left to lose.
Today, as the dog goes missing, I'm told I must leave the cabin at once. Burns was being chased a few hours down the road when he vanished. Pack a bag. Officer Velasquez, from nearby Aaronstown District will collect me and take me to safety.
The woods are silent. You do not notice the breathing of trees until those breaths are held. Suspense is tangible. I drink scotch from the bottle and shake my head. This is some cruel joke. The dog and my home are now forfeit as well? Are my clothes next? I thank God they are cheap threads or even those might...
A knock on the door. I catch a flash of badge and see that Velasquez has arrived. He looks bored and a bit scruffy for a lifesaving strongarm of the law.
Out in the woods there is a roar of rage and a gunshot. Very close.
"Get inside," Velasquez says, gesturing with his head. "We're sitting targets in the car."
I suggest barricading ourselves in. He nods and helps with hammer and nails I have in my toolbox. Before twenty minutes has passed, the house is closed up except for a small upstairs window.
We hear snapping of twigs in the twilight woodland outside.
"I'll go see," Velasquez says.
"You'll need to do the window and I think I'm out of nails," I say, pulse racing.
"No, there's some in the understated cupboard."
There are footsteps on the porch. A hammer on the door.
"Come out, if you're in there, " a tense voice bellows near the door. "Police!"
I almost laugh with relief.
"No, it's fine Officer. I live here. Velasquez is already here."
"What? Is that some kind of... I just found Velasquez with his throat cut by the road up there. Who did you say was with you?"
There's a moment where terror is distilled so purely that it leaks from my forehead in instant sweat.
How did Velasquez know where the nails would be?
My question was interrupted by a thud and a choked gurgle outside the door.
Then footsteps on the stair.
Hitting Home: A Bedtime Story • Opuss № I