Torn wd-2 Page 6

  He put his hand on Karston’s shoulder and felt how badly he was shivering. He shook him, patted him, looked him in the eye. “We’re going in now, okay? Just head for the door, slide it open, and run. That’s all you have to do. You can do it.”

  Can’t you?

  All his pity for Karston vanished as he realized that in a situation like this—life or death—Karston could drag them both down.

  Wasn’t that what Cody was trying to say? Could that be Cody up there?

  Swallowing, Devin walked up and felt the cold knob in his hand. He turned it and pulled the door open a crack, letting filtered street light into the sealed garage. He could see clearly enough, but all he had was a view of the small hallway that led to the kitchen, the door to the pantry closet, and the small room with the washer and dryer. The open door also gave him a different sense of the sounds. The banging was still violent, but more muffled, more clearly distant. The empty garage had acted like a big drum, amplifying the noise and making it echo.

  Feeling like he could make it, Devin opened the door further. He stepped in, feeling Karston too close behind. If he stopped short, Karston would stumble right into him. So he didn’t; he kept walking, out into the wide kitchen, past the beige Corian counters that looked yellow-gray in the night. He made for the phone that hung on the wall next to the far cabinet.

  As he moved, he felt Karston still annoyingly close behind, so he waved him ahead, pointing toward the sliding door. Karston ambled on like he had all the time in the world, not moving nearly fast enough for Devin’s taste. Devin got so wrapped up watching him, he nearly forgot to grab the phone when he reached it. As Karston finally made it to the sliding door, about ten yards from where Devin stood in the cavernous house, Devin grabbed the receiver, punched 911, and waited.

  Almost instantly, there was squawking on the phone. An operator had picked up. Should he say something? If he had a whole conversation with them, he was afraid the Slits might hear. Sound traveled quickly through the air vents of the house. He could often hear his parents fighting down here, even when they spoke in what they thought were whispers. He thought about just dropping the receiver and going for the door, but wasn’t sure. Would they come if he didn’t speak? That’s what his father had always said. He was usually right about that sort of thing.

  “Come on!” Karston called, waving toward the open sliding door.

  Great. Devin couldn’t believe it. The idiot was still there, waiting for him at the door. Perfect.

  Devin was about to keep the phone and run for the door when something rumbled, stumbled, and rolled down the main staircase. It sounded as if it had half leaped, then tripped down the carpeted stairs. Now it was scratching on the foyer’s marble floor, clicking as if trying to get traction, like a dog making a turn on a slick, hard surface. What could be making such a weird noise? Had the Slit brought a pit bull with him? And carried it up the side of the garage and into the house? It didn’t matter much. From the foyer, Devin knew, there was a perfect view of the dining room and the sliding door.

  They must have heard Karston. That was it. They’d heard him, and now they were coming for him.

  “Run!” Devin hissed.

  “Come on!” Karston answered, still not running. Was he being stupidly loyal or just paralyzed with fear?

  Out of the corner of his eye, Devin caught a moving shadow in the foyer. There was no way he’d make it to the sliding doors. But Karston could, he was standing right in front of them. And getting rid of Karston would triple his own chances of surviving.

  “Don’t wait! Just go!” was the last thing Devin said to Karston. Then, hoping he hadn’t spoken too loudly, he raced back to the little hall in front of the garage door and hid in the pantry closet, pressing his back into the hard wire shelving to get the vented folding doors closed in front of him.

  He figured Karston would be able to make it out the sliding door in time. He was, after all, only inches away. A turtle could do it. A turtle with bad legs. They might chase him out, but if Karston screamed for help, someone would hear him. And the police, the police would be here any minute.

  But what if they didn’t chase Karston? What if they headed for the garage? That was where they first tried to get in. Fortunately, the door had a dead bolt. When it was locked, you needed a key to get back in from the garage. If the Slits walked past Devin’s hiding spot and entered, he could slam the door and lock them in. The door might give if they pounded it, but it would still slow them down enough for him to get out.

  But that didn’t happen. They didn’t head for the garage. Instead, no sooner was Devin wincing from the spikes of the wires pressing into his back than he heard his band-mate call out, nice and loud, “Devin!”

  Ack! Ack! Ack! Ack!

  Shut up, Karston! Just shut up and run! For once in your life do the right thing!

  “Devin! Help me!”

  Devin furrowed his brow. He heard pain in the voice. A kind of craziness. Did the Slits have him? No.

  Shut up! Just run! Save yourself and save me!

  “Devin! He…”

  There was a rush and a gasp. Something hit Karston. It sounded like it took him down. Devin was about to leap out, to try to help, but sirens filled the air. The police. The noise would drive the Slits off faster than he could. So he waited, counting the seconds, redeciding, until there came a weird guttural sound, like maybe that pit bull had been wounded. It was followed by a shredding, of cloth, or something thicker.

  Karston started screaming. It wasn’t even words, just raw air forced through tight vocal chords. Hearing the sheer agony in that voice, Devin spilled from the pantry closet and jumped into the shadowy kitchen.

  The first thing he made out was a long smear of red along the white floor. It ran all thirty feet from the sliding doors into the kitchen. At the end of the kitchen, Karston was crumpled on the floor, looking more like a pile of laundry than a person, while something short and squat hovered in the darkness above him.

  Devin’s heart pounded. The sirens grew louder. Red and white lights flashed in from the window.

  What the hell was that? A person?

  A squarish head twitched on burly shoulders. Devin thought for a second he’d made eye contact, but decided that those couldn’t be eyes.

  It was too dark. Things were happening too quickly to be sure of anything. What came next had to be a trick of the light, an illusion caused by all the shadows and Devin’s fear—it just had to—because as the figure stood and leaped over the Corian counter, Devin could swear its arms, which seemed hairy or wrapped in fur, were nearly twice as long as its short, stocky legs.

  It bounded over the counter as if it were a fish and the air were water. Its freakish shape sent expensive pots and pans flying. It hit the dining room floor amidst a clatter of metal and Teflon, then dove out the open sliding door that Karston had been too stupid or frightened to use himself.

  Was it a dwarf? Some kind of bear? Devin was sweating, aside from being confused and frightened. He wondered if whatever it was hadn’t been trying to trash the upstairs at all, but was just leaping around, an animal stuck in a too-small cage. Or a monster.

  He snapped the elementary school fantasy from his head. It was some short, asshole body builder with a knife, that was all. He’d heard the sirens coming and jumped the counter for a faster escape.

  Devin raced up to Karston and knelt beside him. He was cut up, badly. But what kind of knife could do something like this? His forearms jutted up at the elbows, but neither they nor his hands moved. His lower torso didn’t move, either. The only part of him that did move was his head. It rocked back and forth, as if trying to pry itself away from the pain of his paralyzed body.

  Shaking, Devin forced himself to move in closer. The head steadied. Karston looked at him. “Sorry about stealing your money, Devin,” he said weakly. His voice sounded wet and phlegmy, almost like he was gargling.

  Devin scanned the body, torn between trying to do something about the bl
eeding and wondering if whatever he did might only make it worse. “Forget it. It’s okay.”

  “You forgive me?”

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  Not knowing what else he could do, Devin hesitated, but finally took Karston’s hand and squeezed it. It felt cold. It didn’t squeeze back.

  “So, I’m still in the band?” Karston said.

  The question caught Devin by surprise. Was it really that important to him? Or was he going into some kind of shock?

  “Sure. You’re still in the band,” Devin said.

  “I’m getting better, right? On the bass? It wasn’t a waste, right?”

  “Yeah, Karston. You’re getting better. Really, man. Getting better every time,” Devin said.

  “Yeah?” Karston’s voice was tired, distant. His eyes wavered, then steadied, focusing on something Devin couldn’t see.

  Blood pooled on the kitchen tile, running along the grout just like the drippings of the filet mignon.

  Something sloshed beneath Karston’s wet shirt. It may have just been more blood, or maybe he’d shifted in a funny way, but it looked as if pieces of Karston were tumbling out from beneath the cloth. Even if the ambulance came right now, right this second, Devin doubted it would make any difference.

  “Yeah, Karston,” Devin said. “You’re the best. The best.”

  7

  The funeral parlor was cheap and dark. A huge stain on the thin, crappy carpet gave off a moldy smell, and everywhere you walked, the floorboards creaked. Some of the bulbs in the lamps had blown, and the surface of the old paneling peeled in spots, revealing bits of straw-colored Masonite beneath.

  But Karston—Karston looked even worse. His face was gray, and whoever had worked on the corpse had put eyeliner on him, badly, so he looked like some old-style glam rocker. The blue polyester suit he was stuffed into must have been worn last at his middle-school graduation, when he was two or three inches shorter.

  It didn’t matter to Karston, though. Karston was dead. If there was any kind of afterlife or whatever, Devin hoped it was at least a place where Karston wouldn’t be afraid anymore. Or embarrassed. Or ashamed. Or picked on.

  As he stood and stared at the body, Devin became aware that his own suit felt really hot, and the too-tight shirt neck was suffocating. If he puffed out his neck, he might be able to get the button to pop.

  “Come on, you keep standing there like something’s going to happen. Sit with me,” Cheryl said, tugging at his arm. She looked funny in a black dress. It flattered her figure, but that seemed wrong under the circumstances. Her eyes were puffy from crying.

  Devin nodded numbly. He let her lead him to the third row of folding seats, in front of his parents, where they sat down together.

  As he settled, or tried to, Devin felt his father’s hand on his shoulder, squeezing, patting. “Stay in your seat,” his mother said, eyeing whoever came in. “Just stay down, Devin, please.”

  She’d been such a wreck after getting called back in the middle of her short vacation to learn that her home had been invaded, not only by some killer, but by scores of police. They’d grilled Devin for hours. He told them about the Slits, but nothing about how strange the attacker had looked in the shadow, except to say he was short, stout, and strong.

  They said the damage in the house looked like standard vandalism, but it didn’t look that way to Devin. A heavy end table had been splintered into firewood while a shelf of his mom’s Hummel figures was left untouched. There was a shoulder-high crack in the plasterboard right next to a full-size mirror that hadn’t been smashed. There were tears high up in the wall and even on the ceiling. But he supposed the police knew what they were doing.

  After all, what was standard vandalism?

  Still feeling hot and antsy, Devin looked around. Toward the back were a bunch of kids from Argus High School. Devin figured they didn’t even know Karston, but were just here to gawk. Half were in street clothes, which Devin thought disrespectful, but at least they all wore the green armbands that had been given out in school in memoriam. He hadn’t been back to Argus yet himself, but he knew that was all anyone was talking about. The story of the murder was the biggest thing to hit town in years.

  “Look at the flowers my mother sent,” he whispered to Cheryl. “They’re huge and gaudy. Bigger than the ones from his mother. It’s embarrassing.”

  Cheryl shrugged a little. “They’re beautiful. But yeah, tacky. Aren’t all the flowers tacky? Try to calm down.”

  “It’s just…it’s just…I guess seeing him again made me realize he’s dead,” Devin said. “I’d sort of forgotten that part.”

  “Yeah,” Cheryl said. She took his hand and patted it, trying to make him feel better. But he didn’t. Even her hand felt uncomfortable. “It’s not your fault, you know.”

  Isn’t it? Are you sure? If I had jumped out when he called me the first time, instead of waiting, Karston might still be alive.

  He looked around again. Seeing Torn’s keyboard player a few rows back, Devin managed a weak wave of his fingers.

  “There’s One Word Ben,” Devin whispered to Cheryl. “But where the hell is Cody? He should be here.”

  “His little brother has a fever. They had to find a sitter,” Cheryl said.

  Devin was about to ask how she happened to know that when, with a loud creak of floorboard, Cody stepped in, looking totally surreal. He had on a dark suit and black T-shirt, but no tie. His savage white hair was actually de-spiked and combed into a part, like he was some lame gangster wannabe.

  He cracked his neck, then walked up to Karston’s mom, leaned forward, and whispered to her.

  At least he’s being respectful.

  She didn’t seem to be paying much attention to whatever Cody was saying. She looked drugged or drunk, but maybe it was grief. Cody straightened and motioned for Devin to join him at the casket.

  He felt a pull from Cheryl’s hands and heard an exasperated whisper from his mother, but ignored both and went back up to the casket for what was probably the tenth time. After Cody crossed himself, they stood side by side, facing the body.

  “Check out my hair,” Cody whispered. “You believe what my stepmother made me do to it?”

  Devin looked over his shoulder and saw Cody’s parents walk in with a few of his brothers and sisters. His father was tall and broad. He’d been some kind of athlete years back and even now had no paunch. His stepmother had insanely curly hair and a few of the kids had a familiar wild glint in their eyes. Despite the glint, Devin had always been disappointed by how normal they all seemed compared to Cody.

  “Your hair looks like crap,” Devin said stiffly. “Is that what you want to talk about?”

  Cody looked at him a second, then shook his head, deciding to let it go. “Nah. Got good news for you. You know our two friends, Nick and Jake from the Slits?”

  “Yeah?”

  “My dad just got the call. They arrested them with like two sacks of crystal meth. Even if they can’t pin the murder on them, they’re gone, man, gone for a long, long time. Rumor is they’re ratting out their brothers for reduced sentences, so even the rest of the Slits won’t care what happens to them.”

  Cody slapped Devin in the shoulder and grinned. “We’re clear, man, free and clear!”

  Devin should have felt relieved, but he didn’t. Instead he said, “Shh! It’s Karston’s funeral! Keep it down.”

  Cody made another face, then forced a more somber expression to his features. They both stood there awhile, looking at the dead boy. After it started to feel too long, Cody said, “Well, you know, this does kind of solve our other problem. Now you don’t have to fire him.”

  Devin flushed with anger. Words forced their way out as he desperately tried to keep his voice low in the funeral parlor. “How can you be such an ass?”

  The last word was loud enough to earn a “Shh!” from someone in the front row.

  Cody pulled him away from the casket. Devin shook his arm free and kept walking, o
ut into the quiet lobby where the moldy smell was only slightly dampened, then through the glass doors and out onto the sidewalk, where the sky was dark, the wind cool, and cars rolled by, going about their business as if no one had died at all.

  Cody popped out of the door behind him. He came up, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and shook one out toward Devin. There was a time when Devin had pretended he smoked, to impress people like Cody, but that time had passed. He shook his head no.

  Cody popped one in his mouth, lit, and took a drag. “Look, Devin, I’m not saying it’s a good thing. I didn’t not like Karston or anything. I wouldn’t wish that on people I hated. Man, his face looks like putty. But we’re here now, and sooner or later, here is where we’re going to have to move on from.”

  “Yeah, well, you ever stop to think that if maybe you hadn’t borrowed money you couldn’t pay back that we might not be here? That Karston might be alive? Or if I hadn’t helped you that you’d be dead now instead of him?” Devin said.

  Cody took a step back. “Whoa. Now that’s cold.”

  A few Argus kids stepped out from the funeral parlor. One was listening to something. Seeing Cody and Devin, he stopped and gave them the thumbs-up.

  “Torn rocks!” he said. He pulled out an earbud and held it toward them. Even with the tiny volume, Devin recognized a few beats from “Face,” the MP3 they’d finally made with his bass line. Devin told Cody it was Karston on bass, and Cody didn’t bother to question it, maybe because the rumor that the “dead kid” was playing on it gave the cut some steam.

  “All right!” Cody said, grinning back and playing some air guitar.

  A girl in the group wearing a red hooded sweatshirt said, “When are we going to hear the haunted song?”

  “The what?” Devin said, scrunching his face.

  The girl shrugged. “That song you were playing the night he died.”