The Last Stand of Daronwy (29 page)

Chapter Thirty-Five

He stole into the garage and went through the toolbox, taking out a crescent wrench, a hammer, and a flat head screwdriver. Watching for his parents or anyone else who might see, he crept to his window and used the screwdriver to pop the window's screen from the bottom of the casement. Then he hid the rest of the tools below his window, behind the azalea bushes.

That night, his anger warred with his exhaustion. When his parents turned off their television at 10:00, he waited. His mom opened the door to peer in and Jeremy didn't breathe until she closed it behind her. Minutes ticked slowly past. His eyelids grew heavy. It required more and more effort to push them up. He awoke with a start half-past midnight. How had he fallen asleep?

He made himself get out of bed. He walked in a tight circle around his room, trying to wake up, shaking his arms and legs. He had to stay awake. Twin Hills might not have another day. He went into his closet and pulled out dark jeans and a black shirt. He wished he had a ninja mask, but the best he could find was an old green ski mask that he'd bought at a garage sale a long time ago. He pulled it on. It was hot. He rolled up the mask part and left it on as a hat. He could pull it down when he got outside. The clock now read 12:42.

He sat on the floor, watching the minutes slowly change on the digital readout. By 12:45, he couldn't wait a moment longer. There were no lights on the street or in any of the houses he could see. Standing on his bed, he opened the window as quietly as he could, then pushed the screen. It didn't move.

He took a shallow breath. Hands shaking, he pushed on the screen again. His stomach turned over and over like a cement mixer, and he felt bile rising in his throat. His hands could not stop shaking. He pushed hard against the screen. It clattered across the brick and fell into the bushes. Jeremy ducked, shoulders up near his ears, and sat on the windowsill, feeling the cool night air whisk into the room, carrying the salty scent of the marshes. He listened for the sounds of his mother getting up. They would catch him now. Should he get back in bed? Should he stay on the windowsill? Nothing happened. He waited longer, counting out each grueling minute. At 12:57, all was quiet. He decided to go. He started out the window and realized he had no shoes. His shoes were in the garage. He climbed back in the window. Closing himself inside his tiny closet, he switched on the light. He only had his church shoes and an old pair of cowboy boots that he hadn't worn since he was six or seven.

He squeezed his feet into the boots. It felt like a boa constrictor crushing his toes. He waddled across the room and back to the window, climbing onto the bed. He checked the clock: 12:58, still quiet. His stomach shook, wrestling with the idea of sneaking out of the house at night. He'd be in so much trouble. But if he didn't do it, those bulldozers would chew their way across Twin Hills and destroy the wall tomorrow. “I have to do what is right, and it's not right that they are killing our woods,” he said to himself, wishing for courage he didn't feel. Taking a deep breath, he pushed his way out of the window, dropping into the azalea bushes.

“Ow.” His toes crushed into one another in the tiny boots. Knees shaking, feet aching, he listened. No one moved. He dug through the mulch at the bottom of the flowerbed and retrieved the tools. He crossed the gash of the amber street light in a hobbled jog. His breath came in short gasps and every step sent a red line of pain up through the arch of his foot and into his calf. He pulled the ski mask down. Jeremy crossed into the wasteland of Twin Hills and plunged into the shadows. It was dark. He'd forgotten a flashlight.

He couldn't even see the bulldozers. There were no stars in the overcast sky, no moon to cast a haunting, silvery glow behind the clouds. The hair pricked up on the back of his neck. This was definitely not what Father Pat meant when he said that Jeremy should always do what was right. But Father Pat didn't know about the wall or the Tree.
I can't let the wall get bulldozed. And I can't let the Tree get bulldozed. They can't take Twin Hills.

A hulking shadow of steel rose before him in the gloom. Quietly, as though afraid to wake it, Jeremy skirted the bulldozer, putting it between him and the street. He hoisted himself up onto the tread. His boots slipped on the dew-slick metal. For a moment he was falling backwards, then his free hand grabbed an unseen handle and he steadied. Everything in front of him was a shadow. He couldn't tell engine from wires. He walked his hands over the controls, toward the front of the bulldozer, stepping carefully with the slick boots. He could feel a long compartment that might house something important. His fingers found a screw and guided the screwdriver toward it. The tool slipped off the screw and jammed into the side of a metal plate with a clang. Jeremy ducked.

He waited. Nothing happened. Blood throbbed in his ears. He couldn't breathe through the ski mask. He pushed it up. He guided the screwdriver back to the screw, more careful this time, feeling the screw with his thumb as he did so. It was a Phillips screw and he had a standard screwdriver. He sighed. He felt through the guts of the beast, finding wires. Clutching them with both hands, he tugged at them. They bit into his hands and he pulled them again. They popped loose. Most of the internals were metal. He couldn't find any bolts to use the wrench on, and all the screws seemed to be Phillips. In desperation, he put the screwdriver against a flimsy-feeling piece of metal and picked up the hammer. People would hear, but he had to do something.
Clang
! He stood tiptoe, peering over the top of the bulldozer. No lights were on, no cars were on the road. Nothing happened. He hit it again, harder:
CLANG
! The screwdriver punctured through something. He pulled the screwdriver out, glancing again at the quiet street. With one eye on the street, Jeremy drove the screwdriver through a number of places in the engine, using it as a lever to pop unseen components free.

He ran his hand forward along the side of the dozer and found the rubber hoses that left the engine compartment and went into the blade. He managed to cut both lines on that side after some tough sawing with his knife. Hydraulic fluid oozed over his hands. It felt like oil, but thicker.

A motor revved, coming fast. He jumped down from the tread, groaning as his toes slammed into the ends of the boots when he hit the dirt. He hobbled to the second bulldozer and glanced back to the street. A police car flashed past the empty lot. Jeremy bolted for the last vestige of Helter Skelter, just a few yards away on this side of the bulldozer. Tires squealed around the corner. He dove into the shadows of the trees.

The car parked at the edge of the wasteland, both doors opened. Two men stood near the car holding high beam flashlights, painting the bulldozer with white light. Jeremy crept backwards into the woods as quietly as he could manage. His heart throbbed in his ears.
Please, please don't let them find me.
The police stalked toward the bulldozer, yelling something. Jeremy bolted deeper into the thicket, making as little noise as he could, but it was impossible to see in the dark. He flinched at every stick he cracked. He tripped, landing face down. The white light crept along behind him, making harsh shadows of the trees.

“Who's out there?” shouted one of the men.

Jeremy held his breath. His scars erupted into a searing, electric frenzy. He bit his lip and tears welled into his eyes. Dank sweat soaked his clothes and goose bumps prickled his skin. The old magic surrounded him, as though the follower were nearby. A tangible shadow shifted next to Jeremy. Torn between fear of the shadow and the policeman's creeping flashlight beam, Jeremy froze.

“Who's in there? Come out with your hands up!”

A touch, light as a feather, steeped in an otherworldly kindness, brushed Jeremy's cheek with a cool softness like the wind. The policemen crunched closer. Jeremy heard a resonating voice that spoke in little more than a whisper.
Be still,
it said. Long, icy fingers squeezed Jeremy's shoulder. The thing unfurled from its crouch and it started walking back the way Jeremy had come. White light refracted through the shadows, illuminating the thing's tall form. It looked toward him, and Jeremy saw a flash of a devious smile, a curling tendril of moss-green hair, and a face that was not quite human. The green-haired man raised his arm, covered himself in shadow, and sprinted through the woods, running away from Jeremy. The creature broke every stick he passed. He had never made so much noise before.

“He's over there! Eleven o'clock! Freeze!” The light followed it. “Freeze!” The police ran after the thing.

“I can't get a shot!”

“Looks like the suspect is moving toward Willow Road! Get the car! Get backup!”

A voice boomed in Jeremy's mind.
GO. NOW.
Breathing deep, Jeremy stalked to the edge of the wood. He could see the frantic beams of the flashlights as the police pursued the green-haired man. Jeremy bolted across the wasteland, forgetting about the pain in his toes and the arctic knife searing down his back. He was almost to the empty field across from his house.
STOP.
Jeremy dove behind a tree. Two other police cars roared past, lights off, driving fast. One of them went toward the highway, but the other parked near the first car. Two more men got out, swinging their lights.

BREATHE. DO NOT MOVE.
Jeremy took in a cautious breath. It felt like the scars on his back were turning him inside-out. The white light swept over him, but the policemen didn't see him as they ran toward the bulldozer.

RUN!
Jeremy sprinted across the empty lot and the street. He dove into the azalea bushes. A gunshot shattered the dark silence of the night. He froze. He could see the empty police cars but nothing else. Two more shots cracked the night. Jeremy collapsed against the brick, sliding to the ground beneath his window, unable to stop shaking. Tears flooded down his cheeks, and he bit his fingers to keep from making any noise.

Another police car zoomed along the street. Jeremy forced himself through his window, landing in a heap on his bed. There was a noise in the hallway. Jeremy yanked off the boots and threw them under the bed with the tools and the mask. He heard his mom open Rosalyn's door. Jeremy dove beneath the covers as his door creaked open. He stared at the window, wishing he had shut it. Thankfully, she didn't see it. As the door closed, he pulled the window down. The green-haired man had been the Old Man in Twin Hills.
And now he's dead. All because of me.
The thought kept circling until Jeremy cried himself to sleep.

The gashes on his back burned. Jeremy opened his eyes in the darkness, but he couldn't move his body. Fear bolted through him. Had he been shot? He couldn't raise his head or move his hands. He could only stare forward, wide-eyed. As his vision cleared, he saw that he was standing in the grove of the massive oak tree—but instead of being surrounded by a dead forest, the other trees had sprouted green and golden leaves that reflected a brilliant sunlight. The green-haired man smiled at Jeremy and the creature's whisper sounded like rain on leaves.
Always.
He extended one long-fingered hand toward Jeremy, revealing a bright green acorn in his palm. Jeremy glanced from the acorn in the hand with too-long fingers, to the creature's bottomless black eyes. Jeremy took a breath, reaching for the seed. The scars on his back burned. The green-haired man began a slow motion with his lips as though he was about to smile…

“Jeremy, wake up! Goodness, what am I going to do with you, son? How in the blue blazes did you get mud on your blankets?” Jeremy started awake, glancing around his room. The burning pain along the gashes in his back subsided. The sun had risen. His mom was standing over him, gesturing at the bed.

“Um… I'm sorry.” His face blushed crimson, but fortunately Rosalyn cried out, “Mom!” and she turned away.

“Well, get up and get dressed; you're going to be late for school. Put those blankets in the wash. Rosalyn, it's entirely too early for screaming. What is it?”

Jeremy lay in bed, blinking at the ceiling, trying to clear the fog in his head. Memories of last night's gunshots flashed past like a jagged tear of lightning across a black sky. Jeremy groaned. Did the green-haired man escape? Had the acorn and the grove been only a dream? Or had he crossed over again? He rolled out of bed, and realized he still wore his mud-splattered clothes.

He dashed across the room and slammed the door. He pulled the clothes off, changing into school clothes. He had to do something with those muddy clothes. He pulled the blanket off his bed to wrap the telltale clothes in it. His pillow came with the blanket, and something clonked against the floor. Jeremy stepped toward the bed and crouched down. The acorn rested just beneath the edge of the bed. It was huge, as big as his fist. The scars on his back rippled with electricity, forcing him to gasp. An electric chill flashed up his arm as he picked up the massive acorn.