“Nope,” he said, spooning more ice cream into his mouth.
“And are you still having the same one? About the big man that’s chasing you?”
“Nope,” he said again. This time he squinted a little as the word left his mouth, as if forming it hurt him a little.
“Great,” she said, patting him on the shoulder as she stood. “Thank you.”
At the phone, dialing Dr. Stuart’s cell phone, Melanie felt her annoyance rising to replace her earlier fear.
“Melanie?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said.
“I thought so. I don’t have your number recorded, but I thought I remembered it from…”
She cut him off—“Who’s this Dr. Markey?”
“I’m sorry?” he asked. She heard the phone shift and the ambient noise from his end of the call died away.
“Dr. Markey? Who is he?” she repeated.
“Damn, did he reach out to you?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, trying to channel her annoyance into the handset. “He called saying crazy stuff.”
“I’m so sorry about that,” said Ken. “He’s a doctor that I had consult on your case. He’s been having a hard time recently with his personal life and I’m afraid he’s developed some really strange ideas.”
“Well he’s got strange ideas about my son,” she said. “And did you put him in touch with Tooley?”
“Pardon? Dr. Tooley? The psychiatrist?” asked Ken, dismayed.
“That’s the one. How come this crazy guy is talking to my son’s psychiatrist?” she demanded.
“He’s not, as far as I know. He couldn’t possibly know who Davey is seeing. All those records are confidential, I never showed anything like that to anyone who consulted on your son’s case,” said Ken.
“Then would you mind telling me how Markey happens to know my son’s dreams?” asked Melanie.
Ken was silent for several seconds, trying to process this new information. “He can’t,” he said finally. “Maybe it was some weird guess? I certainly didn’t say anything, and I can’t imagine Dr. Tooley would ever betray that trust. It’s got to be coincidence.”
Melanie considered this while squeezing her temples. “Are you sure?” she asked.
“Yes, completely,” he said. “Okay?”
“Okay,” she said.
“Good,” he said. “Look, I’m actually glad you called,” he lied. “I need to draw one more sample from Davey.”
She sighed into the phone. “Why?” she asked.
“It’s nothing, I promise. We’re still on the home stretch with this stuff, I just wanted that one last test, and I need a fresh sample for this one.”
“Okay. When?”
“As soon as you can?” he asked.
“You’re open early, right? How about before work tomorrow?”
“We’ll be there. Name the time,” he said.
KEN STUART LISTENED TO MELANIE hang up and then closed his phone while he walked back to his living room. He sat down in the chair next to the couch, the same one he had used when talking to Mike the day before.
“Who was it?” his girlfriend, Sharon, asked.
Ken looked up with squinted eyes and a furrowed brow. “I need to do some tests tomorrow. Can I come by around nine?”
Sharon laughed. “You’re kidding, right? Have you started seeing four-legged patients now?”
“No, no,” he said, not returning her smile. “I’ve got to look at some blood and it’s not something I can send it out for. I don’t have any scopes or centrifuges or anything like that at my office. I truck all that stuff out.”
“For a human patient?” asked Sharon. “What are you looking for exactly?”
“I can’t say,” said Ken, shaking his head. “I really don’t know. Hopefully nothing, but I’ll know if I can look under a scope.”
“Yeah, okay,” said Sharon. “Just give me a little notice so I can clear my techs out of there. I wouldn’t want anyone thinking you’re using veterinary equipment for people stuff. That’s frowned upon, you know?”
“Sure,” he said. “That makes sense. I’ll call you before I swing by.”
The Hunting Tree
BOOK THREE
- Stage of the Hunt -
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Mike
AROUND TWO IN THE MORNING, Mike realized he couldn’t stay up all night. Coffee cups littered the passenger well of his car, but the caffeine boost didn’t last. Staking out Melanie’s house would be easier, but he didn’t want to draw attention to himself after the phone call earlier that evening. Coupled with his trouble with the police over the murders, Mike knew that one more encounter with law enforcement might earn him some serious scrutiny.
He settled for moving his car between various parking lots and cruising slowly by Melanie’s house every hour. As he rolled down the street each time he wondered what he would see in the cool June night that might alert him to the monster’s presence. Between trips he had plotted several courses from Sebago Lake to Lisbon Falls, trying to gauge which night the monster would arrive. He had too many variables and not enough information to make a reasonable guess.
At three in the morning, he made one more pass by the house. His car had just cleared Melanie’s driveway when he saw a light come on upstairs. Two of the four windows lit up, one brighter than the other. He saw some ambient light through the small glass inset in the front door and guessed that the light upstairs originated from a hallway. The street rose slightly uphill, so Mike simply let his car roll to a stop while he watched the windows for any movement. A shadow dimmed the brightest of the center windows and then passed. After a minute, the light shut off and Mike nudged his car down the street.
Stabbing at the controls, he put down the rest of his windows as he picked up speed. Mike shook his head from side to side to wake himself up. The clock told him that sunrise was on its way, so he continued past the last gas station and pointed his car towards the highway so he could head home.
When the rumble strip, cut into the shoulder of 95, snapped him awake for the second time, Mike pulled to the shoulder and got out. After relieving himself in the bushes, he grabbed a water bottle and dumped half of it over his head. He got home just before dawn.
It felt like seconds later when Mike woke to the ringing phone. The clock read eight. When he answered the phone, Mike barely recognized his own voice.
“Hello?”
“Can I speak to Mike Markey, please?” asked the caller.
“This is…” Mike began, coughing. “This is him. He. This is Mike.”
“Hey Mike,” said the caller, “this is Bill.”
“Bill?” asked Mike, pushing himself upright on top of his covers. He looked down to see that he was still fully clothed.
“Bill Carson? My insurance company is suing you,” said Bill.
“Oh,” said Mike. “Bill. I’m not supposed to talk to you. Call my lawyer.”
Mike pulled the phone away from his ear, and tried to turn it off, but only succeeded in pressing the button marked “1.” He was about to try again, but he could hear Bill imploring him from the distance.
“Wait, Mike? Mike? I want to talk to you.”
He put the phone next to his ear and answered—“What?”
“I want to offer you a deal,” said Bill.
“What kind of deal?” Mike asked.
“I’ll drop my claim, and my company will stop bugging you. I never thought they would go after you anyway. I figured you must have some kind of insurance.”
“Yeah,” said Mike. He once again considered hanging up.
“Yeah,” Bill agreed. “Anyway, I think we can work something out.”