Rogue Read online

  I pull my coat in tight around me and bolt for the street.

  I do not look back.

  * * *

  The house is quiet. I’m not used to being home in the afternoon during the week, and that feels a bit strange, but regardless of the time of day or night, I’ve never been uncomfortable here. Now I can’t be so sure. I lock the doors and go up to our bedroom to change my clothes, but the minute I see the bathroom doorway I freeze. Heart racing, I force myself into the bathroom and look to the mirror. Nothing. Relieved, I run the water, splash a little on my face, then towel it off. I watch my reflection a moment. I want to believe it’s me staring back—me and only me—and yet…

  After slipping into some sweatpants and a sweatshirt, I collapse on the bed and lay there a moment, stare at the ceiling and try to calm myself. But I cannot ignore the feeling that I’m being watched. My head lolls to the side and I focus on the phone on the nightstand. I set it down on the floor, out of sight.

  The world is coming apart all around me, slowly tearing at the seams. A strange young man in my backyard, bloody visions, words written on the bathroom mirror, lost memories and nightmares about Alfred Copeland, being put on leave from my job, the woman at the Common, the homeless man. It just goes on and on, water spiraling down a drain, pulling me deeper and deeper. I can’t let it continue much longer. I know this. In my heart, I know it. Clearly the psych evaluation Roz is insisting on is for the best. But I’m frightened of what it might reveal. Or maybe I’m frightened because I already know what it will reveal.

  My God, how did this happen? What’s happening to me?

  Maybe it’s just exhaustion. The mind plays tricks when it’s tired and run down beyond a certain point. But not everything can be explained away so easily. These are either actual events or wildly lucid hallucinations, and unfortunately, both options are terrifying.

  With a feeling of something lodged in the base of my throat, I lay still and tell myself it’s only stress and anxiety. The tightness in my chest I experienced earlier that morning in the shower returns. Breathe…breathe…

  My eyes roll shut. But I’m not asleep.

  And I am not alone.

  I bolt upright, gasping for breath, my eyes wide with terror. Did I fall asleep? The light is gone, replaced with shadows.

  “Easy,” Remy says. “Easy.”

  I turn toward the sound of her voice, see her lying there next to me on her stomach, watching me lovingly and rubbing my chest. My vision is slightly blurred, and I feel groggy and disoriented. “What’s going on, I—did I fall asleep?”

  She nods and smiles, strokes the hair on my chest with her fingers. “You were sleeping so soundly earlier I didn’t want to disturb you.”

  “How long have I been asleep?”

  “Not sure, you were asleep when I got home.”

  I reach back for my pillow, push it up closer to the headboard and prop myself up a little. “What time is it?”

  “Almost ten, I was coming to bed myself.”

  “I’ve been asleep all day? How… How could that be?”

  “You haven’t been sleeping well lately,” she says. “You must’ve really needed the rest.”

  I rub my eyes. My throat is dry and scratchy. “I’m still so…tired.”

  “Were you having a nightmare?”

  My hand finds her face, and I gently rub her cheek to be certain she’s really there and not some cruel dream. She’s so beautiful. “I don’t remember.”

  “Are you hungry? There’s some leftover chicken stir-fry in the fridge.”

  “No, I—thanks—I’m sorry I missed dinner.”

  “Why were you home early?” She snuggles closer. “Did you come home sick?”

  “Yeah, but—well, no—not exactly, I…” I wiggle free of her and sit up, swinging my legs around to the floor so I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, my back to her.

  Remy reaches out and rubs my back. “What is it, sweetie?”

  I push myself up to my feet and walk over to the window on shaky legs. Night has long since fallen, and except for a bright half-moon hanging in the sky, everything beyond my window is shrouded in darkness. “They put me on leave today,” I tell her. “Paid leave, but still…”

  “Why?”

  I want to tell her everything, but can’t. Remy needs me. She needs me to be strong and together and there for her, just like she’s always there for me. I don’t even know how or where to begin. They placed me on leave today because they’re afraid I’m losing my mind. You know, like going bat-shit crazy. And oh, by the way, they kind of have a point because I’m pretty sure I am going bat-shit crazy; slipping into some sort of early dementia or senility—maybe it’s even Alzheimer’s—who knows? The point is my grip on reality is loosening and I’m afraid that if I admit it, even to you, somehow that will make it real, and therefore irreversible. And how was your day, sweetheart?

  “A registrant made a complaint against me,” I explain. “He’s lying, but by law the department has to follow up when something like this happens. They have to look into it, even if it’s just going through the motions, which is all this is, and they have to put me on leave while the matter is investigated. It’s a procedural thing.”

  Remy props herself up on her elbows, and the sparse moonlight through the window separates her into two halves, one light, one dark. “What was the complaint about?”

  The Devil…do you believe in the Devil, Remy?

  “A bunch of nonsense about me behaving unprofessionally.”

  “How long do you think it’ll be before you can go back to work?”

  “A week, maybe two, can’t see it going any longer than that.”

  “Well, you’re being paid the whole time,” she says, rolling over onto her back and her side of the bed. “Take advantage of the time off. Get some rest and take it easy for a few days.”

  I stare down into the darkness surrounding the house. Nothing hidden, nothing moving or watching…it’s just the night…and us.

  “Come back to bed, sweetie,” Remy says.

  I close my eyes and a strange image darts through my mind: the sudden flapping of a bird’s wings flying very close to my face. So close I can feel feathers brush my skin before it vanishes into the dark.

  “Do you believe in the Devil?” I ask, opening my eyes and looking over at her.

  “I believe in evil.”

  “Literal evil?”

  “Is there some other kind?” she asks. “There’s plenty of evil in the world, it’s all around us. Look at the offenders you deal with. Aren’t they evil?”

  Countless faces and cases flood my memory and drift past my mind’s eye, each one more disturbing than the last. “Most are sick or deeply troubled. Some would say they all are, and that evil’s nothing more than an antiquated concept invented by ancient peoples unable to understand the psychology behind the darker side of human behavior.”

  “And do you agree with them?”

  Do you believe in the Lord, Mr. Horne?

  “No. I think some of them are evil.”

  “Literally evil?” Remy presses.

  I nod.

  “Well then there you have it.”

  In the oddly quiet moment that follows, I almost feel like myself again.

  Remy pats my side of the bed and smiles dreamily. I slip into her waiting arms, warmth radiating from her body like a pulse as she pulls me closer, tighter in against her, and peppers my face with soft little kisses.

  “I love you, Rem,” I whisper, holding her tight.

  “I love you too,” she whispers back.

  And for just a little while, all the devils—imagined or actual—bow their heads, fold closed their leathery wings, and fall away to sleep.

  CHAPTER THREE

  I lie awake in darkness, listening to Remy’s slow and steady breath. Asleep next to me, she moans softly, adjusts her position, then goes quiet. Mind racing and unable to sleep, I look over at the alarm clock. 3:33.

  A strange
sound distracts me. My eyes search the darkness and shadows until I lock in on the location it’s emanating from: the closet on the wall to the left of our bed. But then it stops, so I listen a moment to make sure I’m right, and a few seconds later the sound returns. A soft but very definite sound of something scratching at the door, were it not the middle of the night and the house so deathly silent, I probably wouldn’t have even noticed it. I sit up slowly, quietly, and stare at the closet door.

  The scratching is coming from inside the closet.

  We have no animals, and no one else is in the house…that I know of…so my guess is a rodent, perhaps mice. But it sounds bigger than a mouse…much bigger…

  As the scratching ceases, I squint through the darkness and try to bring the closet into clearer focus. The small patch of moonlight breaking through the windows is the only illumination in the room, however, which makes visibility all but impossible. I can see a partial outline of the closet, and a small section of the door, but little else.

  Quietly, I lean toward the floor and reach beneath the bed. After feeling around for a few seconds, I find the flashlight I keep there and pull it free. With a quick glance at Remy, I turn back to the closet, level the flashlight and switch it on.

  Light punches a hole in the darkness, shines directly on the closet door.

  The scratching resumes.

  And then movement in the corner of my eye draws my attention to the right. I leave the flashlight trained on the closet door but peer toward the bathroom, where I’m certain the movement came from. It’s too dark for me to make anything out, so I swing the flashlight round to illuminate the doorway, and just as the beam falls across the shadows, an enormous black mass separates from the darkness and darts out from the corner of the bathroom, scurrying toward me like an enormous spider. A man—or something like a man—rushes across the floor, its limbs clicking and crackling as it crab-walks on all-fours, bald, pale and pasty head spun impossibly backward; bulging demonic eyes glaring at me.

  Screams of horror circle like a pack of ravenous wolves, the screeching growing louder and louder as in a mad scramble, kicking and flailing at the sheets and blankets until I’m free of them, I scramble back and against the headboard. Heart crashing my chest, I extend an arm across Remy to protect her and frantically scan the floor.

  Where is it? Where the hell is it?

  But there’s nothing there. Even the night has gone. Daylight fills the otherwise empty room. The spot Remy had occupied in bed is vacant, my arm hovering over an empty space. The alarm clock on the nightstand reads: 8:37. She’s already at work.

  Dreaming—Christ—I was only dreaming…

  Yet the screams remain…distant but—no—not screams, that damn car alarm wailing in the distance.

  Standing, I run my hands across my face and down along the back of my neck. Both are bathed in sweat. My body trembles.

  God help me.

  * * *

  Downstairs, I find the coffee on and a note on the refrigerator from Remy telling me she loves me, and that Cliff called the night before and wants me to call him back. Cliff, my closest friend, is someone I normally see or at least talk to a few times a week. But I can’t remember the last time I saw or spoke to him on the phone. He’s left me voice mail messages for days, and I’ve returned none of them because I don’t want him to know what’s happening to me. I stare at the note a moment, and wonder if that’s been a mistake. Maybe I should sit down and talk with him. Eventually I’ll have to tell someone what’s going on. Won’t I? And when I do, it’ll be the first time I’ve spoken to anyone about it. I’d rather it be Cliff than some shrink I don’t know.

  My hands are still shaking as I pour myself a cup of coffee.

  The car alarm continues going off like it has every morning lately. But I rarely sleep this late. I’m up much earlier, so it usually goes off and wakes me hours before this. Is it coincidence that it’s going off later today, on the very morning when I just so happened to sleep much longer than usual?

  Coffee in hand, I wander over to the sliders and look out at the yard.

  The young man is back, slumped in an Adirondack chair next to the fire pit.

  Muttering, “Sonofabitch,” I slam my mug on the kitchen counter, grab my cell phone, hurry to the sliders and yank them open. Not bothering with a coat, I step outside and cross the yard. The morning is chilly but sunny, the sky a bright, deep blue. The man is wearing the same outfit he had on before, a battered leather jacket, a sweatshirt, shabby jeans and worn boots. His dark hair is nearly to his shoulders, badly mussed and hasn’t been washed in days, much less combed.

  He raises his head, sees me coming, but doesn’t seem to care.

  “Who are you?” I demand while still several feet away.

  “If you’re not careful,” he mumbles, “you’ll kill him.”

  “What? Kill who?”

  He digs a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from his jacket pocket with one hand, and brushes renegade strands of hair from his eyes with the other. “Everything’s upside down.” His face is riddled with torment and overwhelming frustration. “It’s all in flames and wrong, it’s—nothing’s the way it’s supposed to be.”

  “Who are you?”

  He lights a cigarette, draws deep, then exhales through his nose, head bowed. “Everything you believe to be true…isn’t.”

  “Why are you in my yard?” I step closer.

  “Want me to come in the house instead?”

  “I want you to answer the question.”

  “I told you before.”

  “Tell me again.”

  “I’m lost. I’m…waiting.”

  I shake my head. “No, you’ve come here purposely. Why? What do you want?”

  He smokes his cigarette, says nothing.

  “How do you know me?” I ask.

  “I’m not sure I do. Or did…until recently.”

  I show him my cell. “Answer my questions or I’m calling the cops, understand?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” he says. “It won’t make any difference.”

  “Maybe I’ll just physically throw you the hell off my property.”

  He offers a quick sideways glance in my direction. “Doubtful.”

  “You’re in my yard,” I remind him. “Uninvited. Again. What do you want?”

  “I’m trying to help you.”

  “Then stop being cryptic and tell me who you are and what this is all about.”

  He nods, takes another drag on his cigarette. “Don’t use the house phone.”

  “You said that last time.”

  “They’re watching you through the phone.”

  “You said that too. What does that mean? Do you mean listening?”

  “They’re listening too.”

  “What about my cell?” I ask, holding it up again. “Is it safe or is it being monitored too?”

  “Cell phones make it even easier for them to watch you.”

  “How does one watch someone through a telephone?”

  “It’s what they do.”

  “And who, exactly, are they?”

  The young man stares into space as a single tear slowly rolls down the length of his cheek. In a loud whisper, he says, “You don’t want to know.”

  Frustrated and upset as I am, I pity him. He appears to be exhausted and thoroughly destroyed emotionally, and for reasons I cannot yet understand, part of me believes he not only means me no harm, but that he may, in fact, truly be trying to help me. “Look, I—I don’t know what’s happening to me, okay?” My voice breaks, and I quickly clear my throat in an attempt to keep my emotions in check. “I think I’m losing my mind. I…I’m not sure what’s real and what isn’t anymore. I’m not even…” I draw a deep breath, let it out slowly. “I’m not even sure you’re real or this conversation is actually happening.”

  He looks at me, such sorrow in his eyes. “Are you frightened?”

  I nod.

  A second tear spills free. “Me too.”


  Suddenly my cell rings, startling me. The young man nods, smirks and looks away, as if he’d known all along it was coming. I read the ID scrawled across the screen.

  SHELLY HORNE.

  “Christ,” I mutter. My ex-wife Shelly is the last thing I need right now.

  I let it go to voice mail.

  Divorced for seven years, Shelly has never reverted to her maiden name, and unlike me, hasn’t remarried. Though it’s months since I’ve heard from her, she periodically contacts me (even though I’ve repeatedly asked her not to), and has done so since we first split up. Every time she calls she’s in trouble or drunk or both, and while I feel badly for her, and a part of me will always love her, it is precisely this kind of behavior that led to our divorce.

  I haven’t even returned the phone to my pocket when it rings again. She’s calling back, and I know from past experience that if I don’t eventually answer, she’ll continue calling and leaving messages until I do. Again, I let it go to voice mail.

  “When she calls back,” the young man says softly, “answer it.”

  Before I can respond, Shelly calls a third time. This time, I answer. “Shell, listen, I can’t talk right now I—”

  “Cam is—is that you?” her voice crackles.

  “You called me, Shell, who else would it be? I can’t talk now, I’m hanging up.”

  “Please.” She breathes heavily into the phone like she’s crying, or trying very hard not to. “Please, Cam…don’t, okay? Just…don’t.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I need you to…I need you—just listen, I—Cam, I…”