Now stretched across the man’s lap, Davey could smell the second-hand weed and cigarettes. He cringed and pulled up his legs, but Horace wrapped his wiry arms and gripped him tight.
“I’m not like my pops,” said Horace. “I don’t wanna break you.”
Horace coughed again. He paused for a second and then coughed even harder. Davey tried to pull his arm away from Horace’s hot breath, but he wasn’t strong enough to counter the man’s grip. A wet mist rained on Davey’s arm and he looked down to see Horace smiling up at him. This close to the man, Davey saw the thick red blood coating Hoarace’s lips. Horace had coughed even more blood onto Davey’s arm. Somehow in the clutches of this drugged rapist, Davey’s fear began to dissolve as the realization traveled up from his own arm: Horace had been infected and wouldn’t last much longer.
Davey smiled at the thought.
“Glad yer comin’ around.” Horace’s smile broadened. “We’re gonna have some…” he trailed off into another coughing fit—this one consuming enough of his energy that his grip loosened and Davey was able to pull away.
By the end of the hacking, Davey had moved back several feet and regarded Horace with a curious smile. He knew what had happened; he realized that Horace’s current disability was his own doing and Davey stood proud, watching the effect. Horace was a victim of Davey’s blood. At the time, Davey hadn’t even realized why he had shook the tiny drop of blood on Horace’s molesting hand, but he knew now. That blood had done it’s job and now doomed Horace to this terrible fate.
“What…” said Horace. “What?” he continued and then stopped again to shudder and double over with spasms of coughing.
“Goodbye, Horace,” said Davey.
As if on cue, Horace vomited a stomachful of thick blood and stringy clots. He retched for several minutes and a pool of gooey black blood spread around his rocking chair on the thin dirty carpet. Davey backed away until his legs hit the couch. He rubbed the smear of blood on his left arm.
When he had cleared his stomach, Horace raised his head enough to eye Davey. Strings of blood-drool dripped towards the floor. He managed one last confused question—“Whud you dooda me?” Horace slumped forward, his head hitting the table and arresting his fall. Davey circled the room the other direction, never taking his eyes from the dead man. His smile evaporated.
Davey fumbled with the deadbolts, getting the upper one quickly, but struggling with the lower. He looked up frequently to check on the state of Horace, who remained dead.
With the deadbolts finally released, Davey returned his focus to the knob, pulling and twisting and checking back over his shoulder. It took him several seconds to realize why he hadn’t made any progress. He peered at the sweat-polished knob and saw the inset lock. He pinched the dial and turned it until the knob was free. Davey pulled open the door, blinded by the dappled sunlight of the wooded yard and threw himself outside.
Halfway down the wobbly wooden stoop, Davey was jerked back again and landed in a heap. He panicked. Adrenaline surged through him as he imagined Horace laughing from inside the dark trailer. He clawed at the flat stone in front of the porch, trying to escape the restraint, and nearly succeeded in pulling his pants past his hips. Davey stopped struggling and looked back at the taught rope. It was still connected to his belt-loops. The other end was either caught or tied, but either way, he would have to get loose.
Davey imagined going back into the dark trailer to untie the other end of the rope, but cast that idea away immediately. Sitting on the porch and peering through the dark doorway every few seconds, he tried to work the knot free from his pants. His numb fingers couldn’t get a grip and he stopped to try to tear the belt-loops open, but the angle was wrong and he couldn’t get leverage.
Considering his options, he could only think of two: leave his pants behind, or go back inside to either find a knife or free the other end. He had almost settled on leaving the pants when the knot gave way and he managed to thread the rope through the loops. He bolted. Davey sprinted down the long twin ruts that served as the trailer’s driveway. Normally an excellent runner, Davey spent his energy carelessly and was sucking wind before he even reached the road.
He paused by the mailbox and bent at the waist, fresh air tearing through his burning lungs. An approaching engine snapped him upright and he whipped his head left and right, looking for a place to hide. A chest-high boulder sat back from the corner of the driveway. Davey tromped through the ferns and knelt behind the rock, using it to shield his body from the road. He bent his head and waited for the vehicle to pass.
Davey pulled his arms in closer as he heard the car slowing. The dirt and gravel crunched as the tires left the road and turned on to the driveway. Davey crouched lower, making himself as small as possible and trying to disappear into the dirt. His fears were realized when he heard the car skid to a stop directly alongside his position. He steeled himself to run again. Neither his mind nor body were ready for a chase, but Davey decided he would force himself to run as far and as fast as he could.
Without facing his new adversary, Davey sprung up and ran around the rock towards the road, cutting through the underbrush and gully in the shoulder of the road. He only covered a few paces when a strong hand clamped down on his shoulder. Davey’s hand went to his mouth—he realized what his instinct instructed him to do: he would poison this new captor with his blood, just as he had done to Horace.
A voice stopped him from cutting his teeth too deep into the flesh of his hand.
“Son.” The strong hand spun him around.
Davey looked up at the wide-brim hat and uniform of a police officer. His shock and exhaustion overwhelmed him. Davey fell back out of the grip of the cop and onto his butt in the soft forest dirt.
“You’re okay,” the man said, kneeling next to Davey. “It’s going to be okay.”
His finger went up, lifted by his guilt and fear. Davey pointed down the long dirt driveway in the direction of the trailer. “Th-th-there’s a muh-muh-man,” he stammered.
“I know,” said the officer. Davey glanced up to see another office rounding the vehicle with a radio in his hand. “One of the neighbors called in a young hitchhiker. She suspected that Mr. Dunn picked you up. We were just coming by to check everything out—make sure you were okay.”
“But h-h-he’s,” Davey tried to finish his confession.
“Don’t worry,” reassured the cop. “Stan’s going to take care of Mr. Dunn, and you and I will go someplace safe and get in touch with your parents. That sound good?” He put out his hand for the boy. Davey reached up with his slightly bloody hand and then pulled away and extended the clean one. Now that he knew what his blood could do, he didn’t want to risk hurting his rescuer. The officer helped Davey to his feet and walked him slowly back to the cruiser.
Another police car pulled up to the mouth of the driveway as the helpful officer closed the door. Davey kept his eyes dry, but his breath hitched on every inhale. The cop adjusted his mirror and glanced at Davey every few seconds on the ride back to the station.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Mike
BILL DROVE AND MIKE RESTED with his head against the window in the passenger’s seat. They had already stopped at two different hardware stores to purchase rope, straps, duct tape, and other supplies to help them secure the Rogue. Bill aimed his GPS at where they approximated the Rogue had hidden and they drove in silence.