Strangewood (38 page)

When she'd calmed down slightly, and the police had taken
their leave, Emily called Joe, just to touch base. She told him what had
happened, and he offered to go by her place and get some things so that she
could spend the night at his apartment. And that was that.

Lorena had corralled Dorian from marketing and Garth from
the mail room, bother particularly large and imposing men, and the three of
them had walked Emily to her car. There was no sign of her pursuer, but Emily
was not comforted by his absence. He had been persistent enough so far. She
knew that he would show himself again. And again.

Later, during her conversation with Sarbacker at the
hospital, Emily couldn't even remember the drive from her office. It was as
though she were on autopilot, her entire body just following along with the
most basic of impulses. She went in to see Nathan first and kissed his forehead
before going to check on Thomas. Nothing had changed.

When Sarbacker arrived, they sat down for coffee in the
cafeteria. They must have been between shifts, she thought, because there were
a great many people eating and drinking around them, and they had a hell of a
time finding a table.

After she'd gone over the events of the day, the detective
looked at her with warmth and sympathy. Then his expression became pained, and
he ran his fingers through his hair with a sigh of obvious exasperation.

"I've seen this a million times," he said,
"though mostly with angry exes and such. If that were the case, it would
actually be easier to protect you."

"What are you saying, Walt?" she asked,
remembering that he'd asked her to use his first name. She liked the
familiarity. It made her feel more valuable to him and, consequently, somehow
safer, which was ridiculous, she knew. But that didn't change the feeling.

"I'm sorry, Emily," Sarbacker said, leaning back
in his chair and regarding her gravely. "But you have to know that nobody
can guarantee your safety."

"Of course I do," Emily snapped. She rolled her
eyes. "But, Jesus, what the hell am I supposed to do? This guy hasn't
really done anything to me. Not yet. But he's there, all the time. He was in my
house. He might be fixing a fucking sandwich in my kitchen right now. What the
hell am I supposed to do?"

There were tears struggling to be born at the corners of her
eyes, but Emily fought them desperately, nibbling on the inside of her mouth.

"You should leave," Sarbacker said seriously,
leaning forward now and forcing her to meet his gaze. "Get away for a
while. He'll lose interest in time."

Emily shook her head with a slight smile, then tossed her
blonde hair back and regarded him with pained amusement. She could tell by his
expression and the tone in his voice that he didn't for a moment believe she
would leave town, not with Nathan and Thomas still comatose.

"I can't leave," she said, unnecessarily. "You
know that."

Sarbacker sighed. "There isn't a hell of lot we can do
for you, then," he informed her bluntly. "I'll try to up the
frequency of the prowl car passes by your place. I'll give you my personal
beeper number. It's always on. If you like, I can set you up with a
self-defense instructor we recommend from time to time. He's local and he's
good."

She stared into his kind, sad eyes. His hair seemed a bit
more gray today, but she suspected it was just a trick of the horrible
cafeteria lighting.

"That's all you can do?" she asked weakly.

The way he'd insisted upon meeting with her, Emily had
somehow thought there was more to it, that the police would pay more attention
to her plight now that someone else had seen the man who was stalking her. Lorena
had provided a horrified description of the man, whose beard, she said, covered
so much of his face that he "looked like a werewolf."

"That's it?" Emily prodded, when Sarbacker didn't
respond immediately.

"It's a sad truth," Sarbacker confessed, with
obvious regret, "but since we have no idea if this freak's got bad
intentions or is just obsessed, no one is going to approve protective custody
or observation."

"So he has to kill me for anyone to think they ought to
protect me?" she'd asked.

Sarbacker didn't respond to that.

With the detective's departure, Emily had spent the rest of
the afternoon in with Nathan, just sitting, sometimes reading to him from a
book she'd brought from home that he liked to have read to him at Christmas
time:
The Polar Express
, it was called. It wasn't anywhere near
Christmas, but he didn't know that. Or at least, she didn't think he did. The
only thing that mattered were the words, the soothing, sweet words, and the
promise of hope.

Several times, she thought about going back down to see
Thomas again, but she didn't. He was responsible for his own condition, and her
boy needed her more. Nathan hadn't ever done anything to hurt anyone. Emily sat
with him vigilantly, as though in some way she could do for her son what the
police could not possibly do for her.

At six thirty-seven, her cell phone rang. She withdrew it
from her purse and flipped it open.

"Hello?"

"Hey. You're still at the hospital?"

"Hi, Joe. Yes, I was about to call you, actually."

"I've got your things. I'm not going anywhere else. I
thought we'd have Chinese delivered, and then we'll hole up here until the end
of the world."

There was humor in his voice, but it was forced. He wanted
to lighten her mood, relieve some of the tension in the conversation, in her
situation, but he failed miserably. Still, she gave him points for trying. He
truly was a good man.

"Tell you what," she said. "Call the order
into Beijing Gardens, and I'll pick it up on the way."

There was a pause on the line. At length, Joe asked,
"Are you sure? It's going to be dark pretty soon and it's just as easy to
have it delivered."

"No, I'll do it," she confirmed.

Emily felt as though she had been submerged in her fear the
entire day, as though she were holding her breath under water, hiding from the
light above. It would do her good, she thought, to see that light, at least for
a moment, to join the real world for a handful of stolen minutes, time not
spent in her car or the hospital or barricaded inside her boyfriend's bedroom. It
was a tiny thing — picking up take-out Chinese food — but it would
put her in contact with people.

"All right," Joe agreed. "I'll call it in. Sesame
Chicken?"

"Kung Pao," Emily said. "I'm in the mood for
something with a little spice. Maybe it'll wake me up a little. What if I stop
and get us some beer, too?"

"Beer will put you to sleep," Joe said, genuinely
pleased with her change in tone. "But if you want some, by all means. You're
sure you don't want me to go out?"

"As long as I don't have to go to my house," she
told him. "I think I'll be all right, at least for tonight."

They broke off the connection after that, and Emily still
wore a small smile on her face. It wasn't over. She felt that quite keenly. Inside,
she could not escape the fear that had grown exponentially in the past two
days. But even if it took Herculean efforts, she was determined to be a real
person again, just for a night.

It was nearly seven-thirty by the time she pulled into the
parking lot at Beijing Gardens. Emily hadn't been in a rush, mainly because the
restaurant was notorious for taking forever to prepare its take-out orders. Thus,
when she went inside to discover that the food still wasn't ready, she wasn't
really surprised, just a bit annoyed.

She sat, with her stomach grumbling, on a red faux-leather
bench and tried desperately not to listen to the cracked and straining voices
singing bad karaoke in the next room. The owners were fortunate that their
restaurant had the best Chinese food in Westchester County.

By the time her food was ready, a particularly enthusiastic
young woman had savaged what seemed to be Barbra Streisand's entire catalog of
music. Outside, night was quickly falling.

Carrying the large, brown paper bag with both hands, she
felt the heat emanating from the bottom. From the crack at the top between the
two staples the hostess had put through the bag came the most delicious of
smells. Just from the aroma, she thought Joe might have asked them to make her
Kung Pao chicken extra spicy, and she smiled. And salivated.

Down the four cement steps and into the parking lot, she
walked with the bag clutched in both hands, held against her chest as though
she were trying to keep it from harm. The sky had darkened considerably, and
with the trees lining it, the parking lot was darker still. Yet it wasn't full
night; not quite yet.

From off to her left there came a pop and crackle, and Emily
jumped, startled by the noise. Her heart fluttered about in her chest a moment
as she glanced over to realize that the noise had come from the electrical
transformer up on the telephone pole, as the streetlight at the edge of the lot
flickered on.

She laughed gently to herself.

But it wasn't funny. Her anxiety, her fear, those were real,
and well-founded. Time to get to Joe's and lock things up tight, she thought. Shifting
the bag to her right arm, she reached the left down to dig into her purse,
which was slung over her left shoulder. She fished around a bit and finally
came up with her keys. With the press of a button, the car's alarm system
chirped to let her know it was disarmed.

She opened the back door and set the bag on the floor.

When she shut the door and turned to open the driver's door,
he was standing right behind her.

"Emily, listen," he said, his voice a combination
of grunt and whine.

Then he started to laugh, a nervous sound that came from
somewhere deep inside him.

Emily slammed both hands against his chest, shoving him
backward, and tried to run. But he was stronger and faster than she'd thought. He
laughed even louder, even more wildly, as he grabbed her with both hands, spun
her to face him, and slammed her so hard against the car that pain shot through
her back and her neck snapped back uncontrollably.

"God, please, don't . . ."

"Look at me!" he growled.

She did.

"You've got to listen," he said, almost snarling
at her. "You've got to believe, or they'll both die. We'll all die."

His entire face was covered with a light fur. His nose was
pushed out from his face slightly. His teeth were fangs, glistening in the
light from the streetlamp. His ears, though, were the worst. They were high up
on his head and pointed, like those of a wolf or something. He was hideous.

"Don't you recognize me?" he asked.

Then that laughing again.

Emily started to scream.

"Step away from the woman!" a voice shouted.

Walt Sarbacker's voice.

Her mind reeling, pain shooting up her arms from where he
held her so tightly, she glanced over to see that Sarbacker was approaching
slowly, his gun leveled at her attacker. Relief flooded over her. He must have
been tailing her himself, despite what he'd said. On his own.

But he had a gun, and this . . . thing didn't have any
weapons at all.

"You have to believe," he growled again, and he
slammed her against the car, staring into her eyes.

"Look at my face," he demanded. "You know me.
You've read all the stories, I know you have."

"Step away from the woman! Now!" Sarbacker ordered
again.

Emily's eyes widened as she stared at her attacker.

The detective had moved around so that he was standing less
than ten feet away, just off to her right.

Once again, she was slammed against the car. She thought she
heard one of her ribs crack, and a jolt of agony shot through her.

Emily shouted, reacted. She brought her knee up between his
legs with all the force she could muster. It was all she could think of to do,
and her attacker made no move to defend himself. He yelped like a wounded
animal, stared at her with frightened eyes that made her, just for a moment,
want to reach out to him.

"Down on the ground, now!" Sarbacker shouted.

He rushed the attacker, who turned on the detective,
laughing with that high, keening, lunatic hysteria, and then leaped toward him
as if to attack. Or defend himself.

Sarbacker fired once.

The thing with a man's body and the face of an animal fell
to the parking lot in a tumble of limbs. The blood began to pool rather quickly
under him.

Keeping his eyes and his gun on the attacker, Sarbacker slid
over to stand beside Emily.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"I think . . . I think so," she replied.

"Did he say anything? Do you have any idea why he was
after you?"

Emily stared at the limp figure. "You didn't get a good
look at him, did you?" she asked.

"Why, someone you know?"

"Maybe. In a way. Turn him over, please."

"What?" Sarbacker asked. "Why?"

"Please," Emily said.

With great caution, his weapon at the ready, Sarbacker used
his right foot to flip the body over. He swore under his breath as he saw the
fur, the fangs, the ears.

It was still alive. Still breathing. Though, judging by the
amount of blood pouring from it, that situation was soon to be remedied.

"Jesus Christ, what the hell is he?" Sarbacker
whispered, mostly to himself.

The wounded and dying thing began to giggle weakly.

Emily knelt down beside him, though Sarbacker shouted at her
to keep away, motioning with his weapon.

"It's true, isn't it?" she asked, reaching out to
touch his face. "You're . . . I'm sorry, it's been a long time. I can't
remember your name. You haven't been in any of the books in a while. What was
it they called you . . ." Emily thought for a moment.