Paul’s eyes widened. Laughter bubbled out of him again, and this time, he couldn’t control it. It echoed across the cavern.
“Scraps,” he wailed. “Oh, it all comes down to scrap! Scrap . . . scrap . . . scrap . . .”
“It’s time for you to be quiet now.”
Curd yanked hard on Paul’s hair, exposing his throat. Then he brought the knife up and made a slashing motion. Paul shut his eyes, anticipating a flash of pain, but there was none. His neck felt a little hot, but it was warm inside the cave. He heard water running and tried to turn his head to see where the sound was coming from, but Curd held him firmly in place. Paul noticed that Curd had blood on him. Fresh blood, splattered across his ugly, misshapen Cyclops face, and all over his arm. Paul tried to ask him where the blood had come from. Tried to beg him one more time, to tell him why the scrap comment had been so funny, tell him about Lisa and the kids. But when Paul tried to speak, he found that he couldn’t. He heard a faint wheezing sound and wondered where it was coming from. The running water grew louder, and the heat on his neck faded. He shivered, suddenly growing cold and sleepy and nauseated. Curd’s grip on him slackened, and Paul’s gaze drifted downward into the barrel that he was suspended over. He blinked. The barrel was filling with . . .
. . . blood?
Whose blood? Where was it coming from?
And why was it so cold in here all of the sudden?
Then Curd raised the knife again, grabbed a fistful of his hair and began sawing his head off with savage, sweeping thrusts of the knife. He whistled while he worked. Realizing what was happening, Paul willed himself to pass out, but he was dead before he could. The last thing his eyes registered was his own decapitated body, when Curd lifted his head up to show it to him. Blood pumped from his neck like water from a garden hose.
If Paul had been able to, he would have screamed.
FOURTEEN
“So what’s the plan?”
Leo stopped in his tracks, and the rest of his friends did the same. Chris, Jamal, Markus, and Dookie had accompanied them. Some of their other friends who had wandered away earlier had returned, and Perry had told them to stay behind to direct the police on the off chance that they actually responded to the 911 call.
“What?”
“What’s the plan?” Perry asked again. “You were the one who was all fired up to do this. So, what’s your plan once we get inside there?”
“I don’t know.” Shrugging, Leo frowned. His expression was doubtful. “I guess I figured we’d just go in there all hardcore and shit, and find those kids. Fuck up whoever was holding them captive—if there is someone else.”
Perry shook his head. “You boys have watched too many movies. This ain’t Black Caesar.”
They all stared at him, and he could tell by their expressions that they were clueless about his reference.
“You mean you kids have never watched Black Caesar? Hell up in Harlem? Superfly?”
“Hell, no,” Markus replied. “I don’t watch TV.”
“Your daddies didn’t watch them with you when you were little?”
“I ain’t got no dad,” Leo said. “Never knew him.”
Chris nodded. “My old man’s doing twenty up in Cresson.”
“Only thing my dad ever watches,” Jamal said, “is wrestling.”
“I watch anime,” Dookie told Perry. “You ever watch that, Mr. Watkins?”
“No,” Perry admitted. “I don’t even know who she is.”
“Who?”
“This Anna May woman that you just said you watch.”
Now it was Dookie who was confused. “What?”
“Never mind.” Perry sighed and caught Leo’s eye, making sure he had the young man’s attention. “Look, just forget about the movies. My point is, we can’t just go barging in there. We don’t know what’s going on inside. If there really is someone in there up to no good, then we could get those kids killed if we rush in. Hell, we could get ourselves killed. We’ve got to be smart about this. Careful.”
“Okay,” Leo said, “so what do you think we should do?”
Perry paused, cupped one hand over his cigarette, and lit it. Then he stuffed the lighter back in his pocket and grinned.
“I don’t know yet. That’s why I wondered if you had a plan. Let’s just check it out first. No sense worrying about things until we know what we’re actually up against.”
They reached the end of the block and crossed over into the debris-covered wastelands that separated the old house from the other homes on the street. Perry and Leo walked side by side, taking the lead. The others slunk along behind them, casting nervous glances in every direction. Each chunk of concrete or twisted girder took on sinister forms in the dark, transforming into lurking dangers, waiting to jump out at them, gun or knife in hand. The overgrown weeds in the vacant lot became a prime hiding place, and they approached with trepidation. The tall, rusted chain-link fence jingled and swayed in the wind, sounding like the rattling chains of a ghost. The house groaned, as if disturbed by their arrival. Or perhaps anticipating it.
They paused at the bottom of the porch steps. Perry took a deep drag on his cigarette. The tip glowed orange, providing their only source of illumination. Shivering, he turned to Leo and told him to turn on one of the flashlights. The young man did as he was told, but Perry noticed that his hands were trembling. He was scared. Perry scanned the other boys’ faces. They were all scared.
Well, he thought, at least I’m not the only one.
“Keep that pointed at the ground,” he whispered to Leo. “If there are bad people inside, we don’t want them seeing the flashlight through the windows.”
Leo nodded, but didn’t reply.
Swallowing hard, Perry dropped his cigarette butt to the ground and stepped on it, grinding it into the dirt with his heel. Then he walked up the porch steps and approached the front door. The old boards creaked and popped, bending under his weight. He stopped a few paces from the door and turned around. The boys remained where they were, watching him.
“Ain’t y’all coming?”
“You go ahead,” Jamal whispered. “We got your back.”
“From down there?”
They shuffled their feet and stared at the ground, except Leo, who took one faltering step. He perched on the bottom stair, hitching his pants up with one hand and leaning against the railing, which wobbled at his touch.
Shaking his head, Perry turned around and tiptoed the rest of the way across the porch, cringing each time a board creaked. He stopped in front of the door and took a deep breath. There was an empty hole on the right where a doorbell had once been and worn, faded screw holes indicating that there had been a knocker on the door at one time—probably stolen. There was a tiny peephole in the center of the door, but when he leaned forward and tried to get a glimpse through it, all he saw was darkness. Perry was suddenly overcome with the uncanny impression that there was someone on the other side of the door, staring back at him. His arms prickled with gooseflesh, and the hair on the back of his neck stood up.
“Well,” Dookie whispered, “what you waiting for, Mr. Watkins?”
Gritting his teeth, Perry raised one fist and knocked on the door. The wood thrummed beneath his knuckles, but nothing happened. The door remained closed, and there was no noise from inside. Perry knocked again, louder this time, but got the same result. He rapped a third time, more insistent, then stepped back and waited. After a moment, he glanced back over his shoulder.