Blood Like Poison (17 page)

I was surprised that I hadn’t already heard the report.  I’d fallen asleep again last night without the aid of the television.  Maybe I was cured.

“…indication that the violence raging through Southmoore has made its way south to Harker. 

In the early hours, Harker police discovered the body of Southmoore resident Trent Edward Long just inside the city limits on East Highway 5.  Long had been a long-time associate of the recently deceased John Gibbs and had, at one time, been included in a suspect pool for the Southmoore Slayings.  More information…”

I looked up to see the face of the victim about whom they were speaking and my throat seized around the lump of pancakes I was trying to swallow.

Though it was taken several years ago at a party somewhere, I had no trouble recognizing his face.  I’d seen him last night.  Even in the low light of the moon, I had been able to make out the features of the guy who’d basically threatened Bo.  Now, I was looking at his smiling face on the television.  He was dead, and I’d probably been one of the last people to see him alive.  Me and Bo.

My appetite disappeared as I thought back to where I’d heard the Gibbs name.  Not only had the guy, Trent Long, mentioned him last night, but his name had been referenced on the news as last year’s Southmoore Slayer suspect.   He’d also been accused of killing a man named Travis Bowman.  Bowman.

Something unsettling occurred to me and my stomach clenched tightly.  My entire being rebelled against the very idea that Bo might be involved with those men and their nefarious, nocturnal dealings.  But…

Silently, I prayed. 
Please God, please don’t let him be involved,
I chanted over and over and over in my head.

“Aren’t you going to finish your breakfast, Ridley?  Pancakes are your favorite,” Mom said. 

Pancakes had never been my favorite and probably never would be.  They’d been Izzy’s favorite breakfast food.  If Mom had ever bothered to commit my favorites to memory, I had no doubt that the knowledge had been steadily drowned out by gallons of vodka.  Now, all that remained were random memories of Izzy and little else.

“I-I’m just not very hungry,” I said, trying to sound casual when I felt anything but.

“Did the bus stop on the way back from the game to get you something to eat last night?  I noticed you didn’t get home until late,” Dad observed.

“No, but I went out with some friends afterward.”

He nodded.  He had no idea exactly when I’d gotten home; they’d been fast asleep on the couch.  But even if he had, I should’ve known neither he nor Mom would’ve caused a stink over it.  That would be too emotionally real and draining for a family of pretenders. 

“I think I’m going to go take a shower.  Mom, can you just save the rest of my pancakes?”  I asked more to be polite than anything.  I’d choke them down later if need be, but not because I liked them.

“Sure, honey,” she said, smiling sweetly.

A shower had me feeling a little better.  My skin felt more alive than ever, like I was wearing it differently, my shampoo smelled more floral than usual and the water hit the shower walls like a violent waterfall of sound.

Afterward, I lounged in my room most of the day, checking my phone every few minutes to make sure it was turned on and still charged, which it was.  It never rang, though.  I couldn’t remember the last time it had gone so long in absolute silence, especially on a Saturday.  It was just another indication of how much had changed in recent days.

A
Matrix
marathon started at 2:00.  I made it through the first two alright, but about a quarter of the way through the third one, my attention started to drift back to other matters.  I wasn’t sure if it was because it was by far the weakest of the three movies or because I’d just reached my threshold of time having passed without obsessing over Bo.  Either way, by 9:00, I’d already dialed Bo twice, and both times I ended up listening to his voice mail.  At 9:20, after giving my parents the vague excuse of needing to run to a friend’s house for just a minute, I was in my car heading toward his house.

As I pulled into his driveway, I looked up at the dark windows and wondered if I was making a mistake.  What if his mom was sleeping?  What if he was with someone else?  What if he was some kind of homicidal monster and I was walking into a trap?

The end of the driveway showed me that the car wasn’t there.  Either Bo was out in it or his mom was gone.

Turning off the engine, I sat in the car considering whether or not to start it back up and leave rather than going to the door.  Something in me wouldn’t let me leave, though.  It seemed that I had to see Bo, not only for peace of mind, but to silence the constant clamor of him in my head, in my heart, in every single cell of my body.  It was as if something inside me searched relentlessly for him in the air around me, seeking.  Always seeking.

When I finally felt courageous enough to approach the door, I knocked lightly, hesitant to disturb his mother if she was in there, but I got no answer.  The house was silent and still.

I had opened the car door and was about to slide in behind the wheel when a muffled sound reached my ears.  I remembered the basement, the room Bo had taken me to.  I imagined that it was likely some kind of hangout for him, one worth checking out if I had any intention of finding him.

Quietly, I walked around to the steps.  I peered down the dark well.  At the bottom was the old red door.  I could see pale streaks of light shining out from around the curtain that covered the small window towards the top. 

Though I felt compelled to find Bo, for a minute, I reconsidered.  Approaching the door felt wrong somehow, like I was stalking him or spying on him, overstepping bounds that we hadn’t yet had a chance to set. 

A voice in my head reminded me that if Bo had wanted to talk to me, he would’ve either called or answered his phone when I’d called. But he hadn’t. 

Then, as if helping me to make up my mind, Bo’s tangy, soapy citrus scent wafted up the steps, creeping out from beneath the door to lure me in.  I felt the invisible strings of it tugging at me, tugging at my guts. 

Another muffled thump had me descending the steps.  I raised my hand to knock on the door when movement caught my eye. 

The curtain that covered the little window had been pushed to the side a tiny bit, leaving a small triangular opening through which I could see.

Inside, Bo was on his knees in the center of the concrete floor, kneeling on a black towel.  He was shirtless and covered in blood spatter.  Under the slimy red sheen, I could see a sickly greenish black color seeping across his chest, radiating from the left side outward.  It was darkest over his heart and it pulsed as if gangrenous death was being pumped throughout his body with every slow squeeze of the muscle.  That, however, was not the most alarming part.  The thing that caught and held my attention was his face. 

The blackness hadn’t reached that high yet and his face wasn’t covered in blood like the rest of him.  I could see his skin perfectly.  It was almost entirely translucent.  I could make out the intricate webbing of his blood vessels as clearly as if they were drawn on the surface with an ink pen.  But apart from the roadmap of his veins, there were other lines, deep cracks in the skin itself, like the damaged plaster of an ancient sculpture. 

In the center of his face, I saw that his normally hypnotic eyes had been affected as well.  Gone was that rich almost-black color, washed away by a milky pale green that nearly matched the whites of his eyes.  Something in them looked completely wild, feral even, and they started a shudder in me that rippled throughout my entire body.  Though I was afraid, I continued to watch Bo, unable to tear my eyes away from the window. 

Bo moved, arching his back and letting his head fall back on his shoulders.  He let out an agonizing howl that had the tendons in his neck straining beneath his bizarre skin.  With a moan that bordered on a cry, he raised his right hand to his mouth.  Bearing four elongated teeth, two on the top and two on the bottom, Bo sank his teeth into what looked like a bag of blood he’d been holding. 

I watched in nauseous horror as he made sucking, chewing motions and devoured the contents of the bag, blood dripping off his chin and falling onto the towel.  He closed his eyes.  Pleasure was written all over his face, belied only by the trace frown that pinched his brows together, as if he was resented the euphoria, wanted to resist it.

My breath was coming in shallow pants and I felt a fearful sweat break out on my forehead.  My heartbeat throbbed in my ears and pounded behind my eyes.  I wanted to look away, but it was like watching a train wreck—I couldn’t
not
watch.  I was frozen, rooted to the spot where I peeped through the curtains.

Just when I thought for sure I was going to throw up, Bo quieted and his eyes snapped open.  He turned his head a few degrees and looked right at me.  I’m certain the surprise in his eyes mirrored the shock in my own, right before sheer panic set in.

Frozen no more, I turned and bolted up the steps.  Behind me, I heard the sounds of the basement door opening and Bo bounding up the stairs behind me, but I didn’t look back.  I ran for all I was worth. 

It seemed like it took me ten minutes to get to my car, though it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds.  My mad dash wasn’t fast enough, though.  When I opened the car door, Bo was standing in front of the hood, chest heaving, staring at me.

“Ridley, let me explain.” 

His voice was gravelly, like his throat was dry.  I thought of the previous night and I shivered.

“Stay away from me,” I shouted, slamming the door shut and starting the car.

When I flipped on my headlights, it only further illuminated the slick fluid covering Bo’s body.  With trembling hands, I jammed the shifter into reverse and sped backward down his driveway and out into the street.

On the way home, my mind raced incoherently.  By the time I arrived at my house, instead of being less freaked out, I’d worked myself up into a bigger tizzy.  I was convinced that Bo was some kind of evil, blood-sucking mass murderer that was on a killing spree and would now be coming after me.

The strange thing is that, all the while I was concocting terrible back stories for Bo, my heart yearned for him, my body ached for him.  I didn’t understand how my emotions and my body could be so disastrously disconnected from my head, from logic and rational thought.

Shouting a quick “I’m back” to Mom and Dad, I bypassed the living room and went straight to the bathroom.  The mirror showed me that I’d cried on the way home.  I hadn’t been aware of any tears falling, but my swollen eyes and red face promised me they had. 

I splashed cold water over my eyes and cheeks, wishing it was cold enough to numb the growing devastation I felt.

When I walked into my bedroom and shut the door behind me, the first thing I noticed was that it smelled of Bo.  I was instantaneously filled with trepidation.  I reached back for the knob, starting to twist it and run.  My body was wired and readied for escape when a voice broke the stillness.  Despite my inner turmoil, it flowed over my frazzled nerves like raw silk.

“Ridley, please let me explain.”

Even in the darkness, I could plainly see him standing outside my open bedroom window, looking nothing like the person, the
thing,
I’d seen only minutes prior.  Though he made no move toward me, I was still afraid of him.  The screen was in place, but I knew it would provide very little protection if he decided to come in after me.

“If you don’t leave this very second, I swear I’ll go screaming out that door and call the police,” I said warningly.  The slight waver of my voice gave me away, however, a blatant indication that my bravado was superficial at best.

“Just give me—”

“I mean it, Bo,” I declared, my voice rising as I pushed the words through my tight lips.

“Don’t you—”