McKenna narrowed his eyes. “Nice try.” He tapped his earbud. “I was listening. Oh, and, ‘He’s done something crazy?’ Thanks for that.”
“What was I supposed to say?”
“How about, ‘Is my ex-husband all right?’ Normal families ask that.”
“There’s your answer.”
“Emily, now’s not the time,” McKenna said, thinking, as if the shotgun shouldn’t have told you all you needed to know. “Where’s Rory?”
Her mask slipped, and she revealed how worried Traeger’s visit had made her. She had loved him once, McKenna knew that, and maybe she still cared about him, but nothing mattered to her—to either of them—more than Rory. That maternal terror filled her eyes now and she turned to look back toward the kitchen.
“He’s not in his room. He was in the basement earlier,” she said. “I bought him two different Halloween costumes, but he went out without either of them. I think he’s trick-or-treating, but I have no idea what he’s wearing. Maybe last year’s outfit.”
McKenna moved past her, headed for the kitchen. “He’s spending a lot of time in the basement lately?”
“He always does,” Emily said, following him.
“I mean the last couple of days. More than usual?”
“I guess. Maybe.”
The basement door stood open. McKenna double-timed it down the steps and scanned the room, Rory’s worktable, his posters, the computer screens still open, ready for him to re-engage with the video games he’d been playing. Then he spotted a parcel on the floor next to the table and he rushed over to it. He could almost smell the dust from the tiny Mexican village on the box, and when he picked it up, the return label confirmed its origin.
He shook the box, but the weight alone told him it was empty.
“Shit!” he said as he tossed it aside.
Emily had paused on the steps. Now she descended two more stairs. “What? So he ordered some video games.”
“No, no, no, no,” McKenna said as he rifled through Rory’s things, checking under discarded sweatshirts and behind a stack of books and inside a chest that had once held toys. When he spoke again, it was a low rasp, mostly to himself. “The whole fucking reason I sent it to a PO box was so I wouldn’t put you in danger! Goddamnit!”
He spun around and stared at Emily. “We need to find him. Now!”
McKenna bolted, passing her on the stairs.
Emily pressed herself against the railing, staring at him as he rushed upward. “Quinn, you’re scaring me.”
He strode across the kitchen, almost dragging Emily in his wake. “You let him order any video games he wants?” he tossed over his shoulder.
Despite the situation—or perhaps because of it—she bristled. “Excuse me?”
“I specifically said no first-person shooters. No combat games.”
He heard her swear under her breath.
“Did you ever think maybe he plays them to connect with his father?” she retorted, almost hissing the words through her teeth. Then Emily seemed to catch herself, realizing how often they’d been in this argument before. “Oh my God. We’re doing this.”
McKenna had the impression she was going to say something more, but then they marched into the living room and Emily froze. He couldn’t blame her, really, as in the moments they’d been downstairs, the house had quickly and silently filled with lunatics. They’d apparently left Dr. Brackett—Casey—in the RV, but the rest of them were there: Nebraska, Coyle, Lynch, Nettles, Baxley. Every one of the crazy fuckers who’d become his de facto new unit, at least until this horror came to an end. McKenna surveyed his team, saw Lynch shuffling his cards and Coyle rubbing the stubble atop his shaved head, eyes wide. Baxley and Nettles were rummaging around the living room, picking up framed photos to look at them and wiping a bit of dust off the fireplace mantel.
The room was full of Emily’s paintings, the beautiful and heartbreaking works of her imagination, and the paintings were drawing the attention of the men too. Nebraska was leaning forward to peer at one with the intensity of an art critic assessing technique.
“What are you doing? Give me those!” she snapped, striding forward and snatching a couple of her paintbrushes out of Nettles’ hand. She wheeled on McKenna. “Who are these people?”
The corner of McKenna’s mouth lifted in the closest he could come to a smile. “They’re my unit. They’re soldiers.”
She gaped at him, incredulous. “They look like ushers at a porno theatre.”
Nebraska had now straightened from the painting he’d been examining and was looking at her. He raised an eyebrow.
Aware she might have overstepped the mark, Emily said, “No offence.”
Eyebrow still raised, Nebraska addressed McKenna. “The wife?”
“For better or worse,” McKenna muttered, wondering if Emily might grab a kitchen knife and murder them all. Seeing them through her eyes made them seem that much crazier. He sighed and tiredly waved a hand around the room. “Emily? Loonies. Loonies? Emily.”
As the Loonies murmured shy greetings, McKenna hurried around the room, snatching up pictures of Rory—school photos, holiday pictures—plucking them off the walls and side tables.
“Wait, back up,” Emily said, shaking her head as it all sank in. “Your unit? What happened to Haines? Dupree?”
McKenna took a deep breath. “They’re dead. And the thing that killed them is looking for Rory. So. You can think I’m crazy all you want…” He closed his eyes briefly. He wished to God he wasn’t here, wished he wasn’t having to say these words. “But now? Our son is in a kill box.”
Emily looked shell-shocked. The color drained from her face. “Looking for Rory…” she repeated, her voice low and croaky. Then suddenly the volume ramped up, became abruptly shrill, panicked. “What thing?”
“It’s…” McKenna saw the terror and accusation in his ex-wife’s eyes, and was suddenly at a loss for words. Turning desperately to the Loonies, he said, “Guys, what is it?”
Coyle was the first to respond. Fumblingly he said, “Um… it’s not, like, a person. It’s… a creature.”
Eager to help, Nebraska said, “You know Whoopi Goldberg?”
Emily looked at him in bewilderment. “Yes.”
“It’s like an alien Whoopi Goldberg,” he said helpfully.
Emily just stared at him. And when she finally murmured, “Oh my God,” it was unclear whether she was horrified by the image Nebraska had conjured in her mind, or horrified simply by the fact that she was having to trust her son’s welfare to a bunch of crazy—and possibly dangerous—people.
McKenna decided it was probably best not to muddy the waters still further by allowing time for the other Loonies to chip in. Instead, he started to hand out the pictures of Rory, his voice brisk, authoritative. “I want a grid search. Three teams…”
His voice tailed off. In his peripheral vision, he saw that Emily was shrugging into her coat, having snatched up, of all things, a fireplace poker. He marched across and grabbed it from her hand.
Furious, she squared up to him. “Our son’s in danger!”
“That’s right. And last time I looked?” He hefted his gun. “This is match grade.” Now he lifted the poker. “This? Not so much. But points for originality.”
Casey’s head jerked up as the door of the RV opened, her hand going instinctively for the handgun on the table beside her. But it was only McKenna and the Loonies. McKenna was all business.
“Nebraska,” he was saying, “find some wheels. Nothing flashy.” Nodding across the room, he added, “Casey, you’re with me.”
He paused for a beat, fixing each of the guys with a look of purpose and determination.