The Last Handful of Clover - Book 2: Gifts Both Light and Dark

2.66 Surfacing

June 15, 12:10 pm

"Please hurry, honey," Michelle was saying into his ear. "I'm scared and I..."

The phone call suddenly dropped, and the music Michelle's call had interrupted resumed automatically, playing through Pil's wireless earbuds. David Byrne was singing "Naked," one of his favorite songs.

Pil stood in front of the fish tank, his phone in one hand and the fish food in the other, staring at the screen and waiting for Michelle to call back. When she didn't, he didn't think too much about it. Yeah, she had sounded worried, but they had all been worried since last night. He knew he could finish up here in a few minutes, and then it was only a five-minute walk back to Keith's house. Whatever she was worried about could wait that long.

Finally, he slipped the phone back into his pocket and finished sprinkling the fish food on the top of the water. "Michelle's been trying to get us to adopt a dog, Wanda," he said to the big Tetra that was staring at him. "But we're both too irresponsible for a dog. I can barely remember to feed you."

Besides, if we're going to get another pet, I want a cat, he thought, smiling that he didn't want to say such a thing out loud to Wanda.

David Byrne finished up his song, and the next one up on the random play list was a B-52's tune, "Roam." He couldn't help but dance to that tune whenever it came on, so as he was finishing up the dishes that they had left in the sink, he shook his curly hair back and forth to the tune.

What could possibly go wrong in the world, when you have the B-52's? he thought.

And yet, Howard Gunderson had seemed very adamant that something indeed was about to go wrong. Something major—and the terror he had seen on the young man's face had seemed very real. It was easy to dismiss Howard's rantings as the product of a disturbed mind, but Pil couldn't help but think there was something to it. It was an aching doubt that no B-52's tune could dispel.

His earbuds still wedged firmly in his ears, Pil locked up the house and started down the street.

The sun was incredibly bright, and the air seemed humid but crystal clear. He looked up in the sky, and saw that there were only a few clouds visible through the trees that lined 3rd Avenue.

What a day, he thought. And yet...

There was a strange smell in the air. He thought at first that maybe it was the smell of someone barbecuing in a backyard, but the smell wasn't quite right. It was more acrid than charcoal, more like burning rubber than anything that would be used to start a barbecue. He wrinkled his broad nose at the smell and looked around. But there was no visible smoke in the air, and nothing on the street looked to be out of the ordinary.

That was when he saw the neighborhood boy.

He was a kid Pil didn't know by name, but had seen playing in the streets and in front of a house about a block down from theirs from time to time this summer. He lifted his hand to wave at the kid, who always seemed friendly. But the kid didn't wave back.

It was only then that Pil saw the broken slat of a white picket fence in the kid's hand. He turned to stare at Pil as he walked closer, and Pil noticed he was standing over what looked like a pile of clothes at his feet.

Slowly, Pil reached up and took out his left earbud. The music paused...

The first thing he heard were sirens, but they were a long way off. Then he heard a whimpering sound, and he wondered if a dog was hurt somewhere. He kept walking forward, and the boy was staring at him now.

And then the pile of clothes moved.

The suddenness with which the picture snapped into focus in his mind was enough to freeze him in his tracks. All at once the pile on the ground was no longer just clothes, but a little girl. She was perhaps four, and the whimpering sound he heard wasn't from an injured dog, but from her. There was blood all over her face, and a gash that went down her neck. She didn't see Pil at all, but put up one trembling hand toward the boy who stood over her, as if she was pleading, or somehow signaling surrender.