Freak Camp, page 11
It frustrated Jake more than he could say, made him almost want to punch something. Bringing Toby presents made him feel good, useful and important, more than anything else in his life did, and this was the first big thing Toby had asked him. It killed Jake that he couldn’t give it to him.
He bit off his words, realizing what he had been about to say: just wait, Toby, someday I’ll show you myself, I’ll take you there. He couldn’t promise Tobias that. Tobias was a monster in Freak Camp, and monsters didn’t leave. Not until they died.
Jake looked away, rubbing his palms on his knees as he tried to ignore the tight pressure building in his chest. It hurt the same way it did when he thought too much about Mom.
“Jake?” Tobias huddled closer, almost leaning against Jake’s side. “What’s the matter?”
Jake swallowed, throwing his arm around Toby’s shoulders. He couldn’t have said why it eased the pain inside, though he did notice how Tobias relaxed a fraction, leaning back into the touch.
“Nothing, Toby,” he said, though he wanted to say, This friggin’ sucks. I hate this. “I’ll bring you some pictures next time, okay?”
When they got back from their next trip to Mexico, Jake and Dad stopped at a motel outside El Paso and split up piles of newspapers. Dad was hot on the trail of another monster, one that tended toward cattle mutilation but wasn’t above the occasional mysterious murder, and he wanted to check everything.
Jake had ended up with the older state papers. Even though they weren’t likely to have anything about their case, research was important. Dad had told him that, and even his gr—Elijah Dixon had told him that, which was almost like Mom telling him too. So Jake read—okay, he skimmed, looking for any unusual deaths or mysterious disappearances.
He was about to skip all of The Oklahoman because it was a couple of weeks old and he was fairly sure Dad had gone through it already, when a smaller article on the front page caught his eye.
dixons, asc look ahead after patriarch’s death
The nation mourns a hero this week with the death of Elijah Dixon, father of Sally Dixon-Hawthorne and longtime director of the Agency for Supernatural Control (ASC) and the Facility for Research, Elimination, and Containment of Supernaturals (FREACS). He passed away at the age of 64 from heart failure. Those closest to Dixon admitted that he had been having health trouble for some time, but he had been unwilling to let down the country or weaken the ASC by stepping down from his extensive duties.
“While we are all grieved by this loss, we will move forward,” said Jonah Dixon, nephew of the deceased and presumed successor for the directorship of the ASC and FREACS. “The ASC will not stop because Elijah has left us, and we would disgrace his memory by faltering in our mission now. You may expect the ASC to strengthen, grow more vigilant, and take new measures to protect our country from the supernatural menace.”
“Hey, Dad.” Jake slid the paper onto Leon’s pile. “Did you see this?”
Leon glanced at the newspaper. “Yeah, I saw it.”
“Did they . . . invite us to the funeral or anything? I mean, you didn’t like each other, but . . .” He was my grandfather.
Leon shrugged. “Haven’t heard anything. Not like we would go anyway.”
Jake nodded. “Course.”
“Find any incidents in your papers?”
“Yeah, but only a few.” He told Dad about the handful of mutilations he’d found in the national papers, and they agreed those probably weren’t significant.
Leon turned back to his papers, and Jake was left with the Oklahoma paper. After checking to make sure Dad was absorbed in his research, he read the article again. It was short and said almost nothing about the life of the man he really hadn’t known.
Jake put the paper down, unsatisfied. He wasn’t sure how he was supposed to react. On the one hand, Elijah Dixon had been his grandfather. On the other, Jake had only met him once, and even that meeting seemed blurry and uncertain in his head. Dad hated him, and the nation loved him, and Jake wondered if there was something wrong with him that he felt very little at all.
Elijah Dixon was just a stranger he’d had a conversation with once, and that didn’t mean much at all.
Tobias didn’t look for Marco, knowing it was better for both of them if they kept apart, but he took note whenever he saw him. Despite himself—maybe because Marco had made him think of Jake, however briefly—Tobias found himself hoping Marco would learn to adapt and adjust even to whatever happened during the full moon.
Tobias knew there was no actual point in learning to survive—there wasn’t any reward for it—except even with one worst day after another (so many before he could be granted a best day with Jake), he still knew this was infinitely better than Special Research. No price was too high to avoid it, which was what he reminded himself when he was scrubbing out the monsters’ toilets, enduring assemblies, or being punished for just being a monster. He was a monster, so he couldn’t hope to be anywhere other than Freak Camp, but if he remembered everything Becca taught him and stuck to the system, they wouldn’t take him to Special Research.
Even though Marco was a jerk at times, Tobias didn’t want him to go there either. That was why when Tobias had a chance—when he knew no one would overhear them or notice, like when they were sent together to collect the laundry from the Workhouse—he would give him a small piece of advice, like how to always think that this would be the worst day, or how to avoid the guards’ attention in the showers. Marco didn’t respond much, but he usually did what Tobias said.
A few days before the lunar monsters were taken away again for the full moon, Marco and Tobias were together in the library again. Marco was distracted, shuffling his papers around without reading, twitching at any sound from the door where the guards would come through, occasionally burying his face in his hands.
At last, he turned to Tobias. “How’d you last this long?”
Tobias shrugged. Becca taught me.
Marco watched him. “They say it’s because you’re Hawthorne’s pet. They’ve got dibs on you. That right? That why Hawthorne’s kid always comes to see you?”
Tobias bent his head over his books and didn’t answer.
Marco grabbed him by the shoulder. Tobias jerked away, but Marco’s grip tightened, pulled him closer so that Tobias could see his bloodshot eyes and feel how his hand was shaking. “Tobias, how did you get him? You gotta tell me. I’ll do anything, but I won’t—come on, Tobias, I’m begging . . .”
Tobias jumped up from the table, wrenching out of his grip, and Marco didn’t follow. “I don’t know. I don’t know why. It just . . .”
Jake was the inexplicable light in his life, the one good thing that had ever happened to him, the paradox within Freak Camp. Tobias didn’t deserve him, and he didn’t understand why he’d gotten Jake, but it was what kept him going: the hope that Jake would return, and for a few minutes, maybe an hour, Tobias wouldn’t have to be afraid.
“I can’t. I’m sorry.”
Marco turned back to his books, but his hands still shook. “Yeah, whatever. Shouldn’t have expected a lucky bastard like you to give a shit.”
Tobias watched him for a second. It wasn’t that. If Jake were a skill, or a piece of information, he would share it with Marco, even if it wouldn’t work as well for the older boy. But he couldn’t because he didn’t understand it himself, and he didn’t want to think about it too hard.
They worked in silence for the rest of the day, and after Marco left, Tobias checked all his work and fixed the errors. He didn’t want Marco to get into more trouble than he already was in.
When the werewolves returned at the end of the next full moon, Marco was not among them.
Chapter Five
It wasn’t easy to convince Dad that Jake was serious about picking up a photography hobby. Jake ultimately won twenty bucks playing cards with some of the dumb kids at the next junior high—no one his age could beat him in poker—and bought a disposable camera himself. Taking pictures as they traveled through Arizona and New Mexico was a lot more fun than he expected, and Dad finally caved and helped him pay to have the photos developed. They looked pretty good, Jake thought, as he stored the packet of photos at the bottom of his duffel bag until they turned, inevitably, north again for Nevada.
Of all the things he’d smuggled into Freak Camp, the photographs were among the easiest. He tucked the envelope into the back of his jeans, under his jacket, with a bag of candy in each pocket. He smirked at the guard as he strolled through the metal detectors, heading out the exit to the yard while Dad continued on to Special Research.
One of the guards—a newer one, Jake might have seen him once before but didn’t know his name—was pacing aimlessly, swinging his club in an arc. Jake stopped him. “Hey, I’m looking for 89UI6703.”
The guard gave him a skeptical look, but lifted his radio. “Karl, send Baby Freak out. Hawthorne’s kid is here to see him.” An affirmative crackled through the air, and the guard jerked his head toward the building behind Jake. “He’ll be out in a minute.”
Jake nodded curtly before turning away.
Sure enough, Tobias trotted out the side door a minute later. Jake, who had hung back to watch all the doors, jumped forward to meet him. “Hey, Toby, just wait until you see what I—dude, what’s up? Are my shoes more interesting than my face?”
They always went through this—Toby refusing to look him in the eye for the first few minutes of a visit—but normally Jake got a peek of his face and smile at the start. This time, though, Tobias had his chin tucked close to his chest until Jake’s words snapped his head up.
Jake sucked in a breath, grabbing Toby’s chin and barely noticing when Toby flinched. “What the hell happened?” He leaned in close to examine Toby’s black eye and split, swollen lip.
Tobias swiped his tongue over his cut, fidgeting without pulling away. “Monster fight. It’s not so bad.”
“Shit.” Jake touched his thumb to Toby’s lip, drawing away when Toby winced. “You need some ice.”
Toby tilted his head, confused. “What for?”
“Just . . .” Jake sighed. “Never mind, probably too late now.”
Toby blinked at him with his one good eye. “Doesn’t hurt anymore.”
“Well, that’s good.” Jake smiled crookedly, then reached around Tobias’s shoulders as they walked around the building to one of their secluded spots. “Did they get their ass kicked? The monster who did that to you?”
He felt Toby’s shoulders shrug. “He got hurt too. We all got in trouble.”
Jake blew out his breath. “Yeah, well, that’s bullshit, going after a kid your size. There are plenty of bigger monsters here to pick on.”
Toby’s mouth tugged in a smile. “Monsters don’t care, Jake.”
“Yeah, of course they don’t.” Jake squatted down against the wall, only then remembering the bulge tucked into his back pocket. “Oh, yeah—got something for you.” He twisted to reach back behind him.
Toby brightened, sitting up. “Chips?”
“Nah, M&Ms this time.” He stopped to dig into his pocket and toss a bag to Toby, who quickly tore into it and tossed a big handful into his mouth. Jake grinned. “You like those, huh?” Toby nodded, chewing happily, and Jake pulled around the photo packet. “This is the other thing I brought you, what I promised last time—pictures I took over the last month, when we were down south.”
Toby’s left eye went very round. “You took these?”
“Yep,” Jake said. “Wasn’t that hard.” He spread them out and launched into explaining what was taken where. Here was one of the stuffed jackalopes he saw in the gas station where he bought the camera. One later, outside that same stop, of Dad scowling at him while leaning against the Eldorado. The next six were of different angles of the Eldorado—Jake hadn’t been able to decide what was the best to really show off its glory to Toby.
Next was one of Independence Rock—from pretty far away, Dad hadn’t wanted to stop. And then a view of the Rocky Mountains, the Eldorado again in the foreground. Jake hadn’t realized how many pictures he’d taken until they were all laid out in front of them and Toby was staring down at them, fingers cautiously reaching for their edges.
“What the fuck you doing, freak?”
Tobias jumped, and Jake reached automatically for his knife—a bit awkward, because he and Tobias had pressed together to look at the pictures, and Jake’s knife was wedged between his hip and Toby’s—but none of the guards were looking at them. The same guard that Jake had talked to earlier was heading toward a shapeshifter, who looked terrified.
“I’m talking to you, freak, you think you can just ignore me?” The guard snagged a hook in the shapeshifter’s collar, jerking him off his feet, and then he saw Tobias and Jake. He smiled nastily. “Look at that,” he said to the shifter, but kept his eyes on Jake. “You’re bothering Hawthorne’s kid. I think we ought to have a chat. Sorry about that, boy.” He pushed the shifter around, and they moved out of sight, the shifter stumbling along.
“My name’s Jake!” Jake called after him, angry and unsettled. The guard made no reply, but Toby’s hand clenched on his jacket.
When Jake turned to him, Toby had shrunk down to where he’d been at the start of the visit, head hanging and shoulders tense. He had dropped the last photo to fold one hand—the one that didn’t have a death grip on Jake’s jacket—tightly over his front ankle.
Jake studied him, and both the adrenaline from the guard’s shout and the happy rush he had felt just a second ago ebbed away, impossible to catch and pull back. It would take a while—maybe longer than he had before Dad was done—to coax Toby to lower his guard again.
He scowled in the guard’s direction, reaching across to touch Toby’s opposite shoulder. Toby glanced up, surprise across his face. Jake didn’t drop his hand, still frowning after the guard. “They’re assholes, aren’t they?”
Tobias made a soft sound, almost like a sneeze. Startled, Jake lowered his head to get a glimpse of Toby’s face, but if it had been a laugh, there was no trace of it now.
Jake opened the door expecting pizza and got Child Protective Services.
He saw the cop first and grinned at him automatically. Some kids smiled at their grandmothers for a little extra cash, others knew when to drop a compliment, but Jake knew that around cops it was best to look cheerful, easy. Nothing to hide here, officer.
“Can I help you?” he asked, trying to remember if the guns were visible from the door or if he had moved them into the bedroom to clean them.
The cop smiled back. “Hello. I’m Officer Elden, this is Miss Donatelli. Is your father home?”
Dad was working a nasty case one town over. He’d been gone three days. Two more before Jake had permission to worry. “Sorry, no, he just stepped out.”
“Your mother?”
He’d stopped telling the truth after he realized that it got a stronger reaction than any lie he could invent. “Divorced,” he said.
“What’s your name, son?”
“Jake.” He racked his brain for the last name Dad had on the credit card. It had started with an H, of course. Holly? Harold?
“Your father is Larry Hayes? This man?” The cop flashed a picture too fast for Jake to see, but it was probably Dad.
“Yeah.”
The cop stepped closer. “Can we come in, son?”
“What division does she work for?” Jake asked, nodding at the thin, dark-haired woman, Miss Donatelli, behind Officer Elden.
“Protective Services,” she said.
Jake knew what that meant. He looked old for thirteen, but that still barely put him at driving age. “No,” he said, and slammed the door hard enough to push the cop’s foot back over the threshold. He locked, bolted, and put the stupid little chain on the door.
“Jake! Jake, open the door! We just want to talk.”
Jake ran to the single battered telephone in the room and stumbled over the number for Dad’s new mobile phone. It rang, a counterpoint to his racing heart and the pounding on the door. “Pick up, pick up, pick up,” he muttered under his breath.
The second he heard the click of the phone answering, he started talking. “Dad, it’s CPS, they’re—”
“Jake, you know fucking better than this,” Dad’s voice snapped over him. Jake could hear screaming in the background, the sound of a shotgun being reloaded.
“I know, but they’re at the door, and I—”
Something crashed in the background, something snarled. “They’re just fucking human, Jake. Run, I don’t know, I don’t have time for this right now. Deal with it!”
Then the phone went dead.
“Okay,” Jake said. “I’ll deal with it.”
He pushed the rickety table against the front door, threw into his duffel his sawed-off shotgun and Dad’s box of fake IDs and credit cards, and climbed out through the bathroom window before the super could arrive to unlock the door.
When Roger Harper picked up the phone and heard Leon’s voice, he checked his pulse to make sure he was still alive. He was fairly sure that the last time they had talked, the conversation had ended with Leon promising to see him next when he spat on his grave, and with Roger kicking his ass out of the house with a shotgun pointed at Leon’s head.
“Roger,” Leon said, hoarse enough that Roger had to strain to hear. “I can’t find him.”
Roger froze. There were only two hims in Leon Hawthorne’s life. One was the nebulous enemy that Leon blamed for Sally’s death, the epitome of all monsters—a damn crack dream, Roger had told him more than once, not that he expected Hawthorne to listen—and the other was Jake.
“Something got Jake? Fuck, what grabbed him and how? Your boy is damned careful.”
Leon made a sound through the phone that sounded like he was choking on blood, half rasp, half wet. Roger paused. “Leon, it got you too?”
He bit off his words, realizing what he had been about to say: just wait, Toby, someday I’ll show you myself, I’ll take you there. He couldn’t promise Tobias that. Tobias was a monster in Freak Camp, and monsters didn’t leave. Not until they died.
Jake looked away, rubbing his palms on his knees as he tried to ignore the tight pressure building in his chest. It hurt the same way it did when he thought too much about Mom.
“Jake?” Tobias huddled closer, almost leaning against Jake’s side. “What’s the matter?”
Jake swallowed, throwing his arm around Toby’s shoulders. He couldn’t have said why it eased the pain inside, though he did notice how Tobias relaxed a fraction, leaning back into the touch.
“Nothing, Toby,” he said, though he wanted to say, This friggin’ sucks. I hate this. “I’ll bring you some pictures next time, okay?”
When they got back from their next trip to Mexico, Jake and Dad stopped at a motel outside El Paso and split up piles of newspapers. Dad was hot on the trail of another monster, one that tended toward cattle mutilation but wasn’t above the occasional mysterious murder, and he wanted to check everything.
Jake had ended up with the older state papers. Even though they weren’t likely to have anything about their case, research was important. Dad had told him that, and even his gr—Elijah Dixon had told him that, which was almost like Mom telling him too. So Jake read—okay, he skimmed, looking for any unusual deaths or mysterious disappearances.
He was about to skip all of The Oklahoman because it was a couple of weeks old and he was fairly sure Dad had gone through it already, when a smaller article on the front page caught his eye.
dixons, asc look ahead after patriarch’s death
The nation mourns a hero this week with the death of Elijah Dixon, father of Sally Dixon-Hawthorne and longtime director of the Agency for Supernatural Control (ASC) and the Facility for Research, Elimination, and Containment of Supernaturals (FREACS). He passed away at the age of 64 from heart failure. Those closest to Dixon admitted that he had been having health trouble for some time, but he had been unwilling to let down the country or weaken the ASC by stepping down from his extensive duties.
“While we are all grieved by this loss, we will move forward,” said Jonah Dixon, nephew of the deceased and presumed successor for the directorship of the ASC and FREACS. “The ASC will not stop because Elijah has left us, and we would disgrace his memory by faltering in our mission now. You may expect the ASC to strengthen, grow more vigilant, and take new measures to protect our country from the supernatural menace.”
“Hey, Dad.” Jake slid the paper onto Leon’s pile. “Did you see this?”
Leon glanced at the newspaper. “Yeah, I saw it.”
“Did they . . . invite us to the funeral or anything? I mean, you didn’t like each other, but . . .” He was my grandfather.
Leon shrugged. “Haven’t heard anything. Not like we would go anyway.”
Jake nodded. “Course.”
“Find any incidents in your papers?”
“Yeah, but only a few.” He told Dad about the handful of mutilations he’d found in the national papers, and they agreed those probably weren’t significant.
Leon turned back to his papers, and Jake was left with the Oklahoma paper. After checking to make sure Dad was absorbed in his research, he read the article again. It was short and said almost nothing about the life of the man he really hadn’t known.
Jake put the paper down, unsatisfied. He wasn’t sure how he was supposed to react. On the one hand, Elijah Dixon had been his grandfather. On the other, Jake had only met him once, and even that meeting seemed blurry and uncertain in his head. Dad hated him, and the nation loved him, and Jake wondered if there was something wrong with him that he felt very little at all.
Elijah Dixon was just a stranger he’d had a conversation with once, and that didn’t mean much at all.
Tobias didn’t look for Marco, knowing it was better for both of them if they kept apart, but he took note whenever he saw him. Despite himself—maybe because Marco had made him think of Jake, however briefly—Tobias found himself hoping Marco would learn to adapt and adjust even to whatever happened during the full moon.
Tobias knew there was no actual point in learning to survive—there wasn’t any reward for it—except even with one worst day after another (so many before he could be granted a best day with Jake), he still knew this was infinitely better than Special Research. No price was too high to avoid it, which was what he reminded himself when he was scrubbing out the monsters’ toilets, enduring assemblies, or being punished for just being a monster. He was a monster, so he couldn’t hope to be anywhere other than Freak Camp, but if he remembered everything Becca taught him and stuck to the system, they wouldn’t take him to Special Research.
Even though Marco was a jerk at times, Tobias didn’t want him to go there either. That was why when Tobias had a chance—when he knew no one would overhear them or notice, like when they were sent together to collect the laundry from the Workhouse—he would give him a small piece of advice, like how to always think that this would be the worst day, or how to avoid the guards’ attention in the showers. Marco didn’t respond much, but he usually did what Tobias said.
A few days before the lunar monsters were taken away again for the full moon, Marco and Tobias were together in the library again. Marco was distracted, shuffling his papers around without reading, twitching at any sound from the door where the guards would come through, occasionally burying his face in his hands.
At last, he turned to Tobias. “How’d you last this long?”
Tobias shrugged. Becca taught me.
Marco watched him. “They say it’s because you’re Hawthorne’s pet. They’ve got dibs on you. That right? That why Hawthorne’s kid always comes to see you?”
Tobias bent his head over his books and didn’t answer.
Marco grabbed him by the shoulder. Tobias jerked away, but Marco’s grip tightened, pulled him closer so that Tobias could see his bloodshot eyes and feel how his hand was shaking. “Tobias, how did you get him? You gotta tell me. I’ll do anything, but I won’t—come on, Tobias, I’m begging . . .”
Tobias jumped up from the table, wrenching out of his grip, and Marco didn’t follow. “I don’t know. I don’t know why. It just . . .”
Jake was the inexplicable light in his life, the one good thing that had ever happened to him, the paradox within Freak Camp. Tobias didn’t deserve him, and he didn’t understand why he’d gotten Jake, but it was what kept him going: the hope that Jake would return, and for a few minutes, maybe an hour, Tobias wouldn’t have to be afraid.
“I can’t. I’m sorry.”
Marco turned back to his books, but his hands still shook. “Yeah, whatever. Shouldn’t have expected a lucky bastard like you to give a shit.”
Tobias watched him for a second. It wasn’t that. If Jake were a skill, or a piece of information, he would share it with Marco, even if it wouldn’t work as well for the older boy. But he couldn’t because he didn’t understand it himself, and he didn’t want to think about it too hard.
They worked in silence for the rest of the day, and after Marco left, Tobias checked all his work and fixed the errors. He didn’t want Marco to get into more trouble than he already was in.
When the werewolves returned at the end of the next full moon, Marco was not among them.
Chapter Five
It wasn’t easy to convince Dad that Jake was serious about picking up a photography hobby. Jake ultimately won twenty bucks playing cards with some of the dumb kids at the next junior high—no one his age could beat him in poker—and bought a disposable camera himself. Taking pictures as they traveled through Arizona and New Mexico was a lot more fun than he expected, and Dad finally caved and helped him pay to have the photos developed. They looked pretty good, Jake thought, as he stored the packet of photos at the bottom of his duffel bag until they turned, inevitably, north again for Nevada.
Of all the things he’d smuggled into Freak Camp, the photographs were among the easiest. He tucked the envelope into the back of his jeans, under his jacket, with a bag of candy in each pocket. He smirked at the guard as he strolled through the metal detectors, heading out the exit to the yard while Dad continued on to Special Research.
One of the guards—a newer one, Jake might have seen him once before but didn’t know his name—was pacing aimlessly, swinging his club in an arc. Jake stopped him. “Hey, I’m looking for 89UI6703.”
The guard gave him a skeptical look, but lifted his radio. “Karl, send Baby Freak out. Hawthorne’s kid is here to see him.” An affirmative crackled through the air, and the guard jerked his head toward the building behind Jake. “He’ll be out in a minute.”
Jake nodded curtly before turning away.
Sure enough, Tobias trotted out the side door a minute later. Jake, who had hung back to watch all the doors, jumped forward to meet him. “Hey, Toby, just wait until you see what I—dude, what’s up? Are my shoes more interesting than my face?”
They always went through this—Toby refusing to look him in the eye for the first few minutes of a visit—but normally Jake got a peek of his face and smile at the start. This time, though, Tobias had his chin tucked close to his chest until Jake’s words snapped his head up.
Jake sucked in a breath, grabbing Toby’s chin and barely noticing when Toby flinched. “What the hell happened?” He leaned in close to examine Toby’s black eye and split, swollen lip.
Tobias swiped his tongue over his cut, fidgeting without pulling away. “Monster fight. It’s not so bad.”
“Shit.” Jake touched his thumb to Toby’s lip, drawing away when Toby winced. “You need some ice.”
Toby tilted his head, confused. “What for?”
“Just . . .” Jake sighed. “Never mind, probably too late now.”
Toby blinked at him with his one good eye. “Doesn’t hurt anymore.”
“Well, that’s good.” Jake smiled crookedly, then reached around Tobias’s shoulders as they walked around the building to one of their secluded spots. “Did they get their ass kicked? The monster who did that to you?”
He felt Toby’s shoulders shrug. “He got hurt too. We all got in trouble.”
Jake blew out his breath. “Yeah, well, that’s bullshit, going after a kid your size. There are plenty of bigger monsters here to pick on.”
Toby’s mouth tugged in a smile. “Monsters don’t care, Jake.”
“Yeah, of course they don’t.” Jake squatted down against the wall, only then remembering the bulge tucked into his back pocket. “Oh, yeah—got something for you.” He twisted to reach back behind him.
Toby brightened, sitting up. “Chips?”
“Nah, M&Ms this time.” He stopped to dig into his pocket and toss a bag to Toby, who quickly tore into it and tossed a big handful into his mouth. Jake grinned. “You like those, huh?” Toby nodded, chewing happily, and Jake pulled around the photo packet. “This is the other thing I brought you, what I promised last time—pictures I took over the last month, when we were down south.”
Toby’s left eye went very round. “You took these?”
“Yep,” Jake said. “Wasn’t that hard.” He spread them out and launched into explaining what was taken where. Here was one of the stuffed jackalopes he saw in the gas station where he bought the camera. One later, outside that same stop, of Dad scowling at him while leaning against the Eldorado. The next six were of different angles of the Eldorado—Jake hadn’t been able to decide what was the best to really show off its glory to Toby.
Next was one of Independence Rock—from pretty far away, Dad hadn’t wanted to stop. And then a view of the Rocky Mountains, the Eldorado again in the foreground. Jake hadn’t realized how many pictures he’d taken until they were all laid out in front of them and Toby was staring down at them, fingers cautiously reaching for their edges.
“What the fuck you doing, freak?”
Tobias jumped, and Jake reached automatically for his knife—a bit awkward, because he and Tobias had pressed together to look at the pictures, and Jake’s knife was wedged between his hip and Toby’s—but none of the guards were looking at them. The same guard that Jake had talked to earlier was heading toward a shapeshifter, who looked terrified.
“I’m talking to you, freak, you think you can just ignore me?” The guard snagged a hook in the shapeshifter’s collar, jerking him off his feet, and then he saw Tobias and Jake. He smiled nastily. “Look at that,” he said to the shifter, but kept his eyes on Jake. “You’re bothering Hawthorne’s kid. I think we ought to have a chat. Sorry about that, boy.” He pushed the shifter around, and they moved out of sight, the shifter stumbling along.
“My name’s Jake!” Jake called after him, angry and unsettled. The guard made no reply, but Toby’s hand clenched on his jacket.
When Jake turned to him, Toby had shrunk down to where he’d been at the start of the visit, head hanging and shoulders tense. He had dropped the last photo to fold one hand—the one that didn’t have a death grip on Jake’s jacket—tightly over his front ankle.
Jake studied him, and both the adrenaline from the guard’s shout and the happy rush he had felt just a second ago ebbed away, impossible to catch and pull back. It would take a while—maybe longer than he had before Dad was done—to coax Toby to lower his guard again.
He scowled in the guard’s direction, reaching across to touch Toby’s opposite shoulder. Toby glanced up, surprise across his face. Jake didn’t drop his hand, still frowning after the guard. “They’re assholes, aren’t they?”
Tobias made a soft sound, almost like a sneeze. Startled, Jake lowered his head to get a glimpse of Toby’s face, but if it had been a laugh, there was no trace of it now.
Jake opened the door expecting pizza and got Child Protective Services.
He saw the cop first and grinned at him automatically. Some kids smiled at their grandmothers for a little extra cash, others knew when to drop a compliment, but Jake knew that around cops it was best to look cheerful, easy. Nothing to hide here, officer.
“Can I help you?” he asked, trying to remember if the guns were visible from the door or if he had moved them into the bedroom to clean them.
The cop smiled back. “Hello. I’m Officer Elden, this is Miss Donatelli. Is your father home?”
Dad was working a nasty case one town over. He’d been gone three days. Two more before Jake had permission to worry. “Sorry, no, he just stepped out.”
“Your mother?”
He’d stopped telling the truth after he realized that it got a stronger reaction than any lie he could invent. “Divorced,” he said.
“What’s your name, son?”
“Jake.” He racked his brain for the last name Dad had on the credit card. It had started with an H, of course. Holly? Harold?
“Your father is Larry Hayes? This man?” The cop flashed a picture too fast for Jake to see, but it was probably Dad.
“Yeah.”
The cop stepped closer. “Can we come in, son?”
“What division does she work for?” Jake asked, nodding at the thin, dark-haired woman, Miss Donatelli, behind Officer Elden.
“Protective Services,” she said.
Jake knew what that meant. He looked old for thirteen, but that still barely put him at driving age. “No,” he said, and slammed the door hard enough to push the cop’s foot back over the threshold. He locked, bolted, and put the stupid little chain on the door.
“Jake! Jake, open the door! We just want to talk.”
Jake ran to the single battered telephone in the room and stumbled over the number for Dad’s new mobile phone. It rang, a counterpoint to his racing heart and the pounding on the door. “Pick up, pick up, pick up,” he muttered under his breath.
The second he heard the click of the phone answering, he started talking. “Dad, it’s CPS, they’re—”
“Jake, you know fucking better than this,” Dad’s voice snapped over him. Jake could hear screaming in the background, the sound of a shotgun being reloaded.
“I know, but they’re at the door, and I—”
Something crashed in the background, something snarled. “They’re just fucking human, Jake. Run, I don’t know, I don’t have time for this right now. Deal with it!”
Then the phone went dead.
“Okay,” Jake said. “I’ll deal with it.”
He pushed the rickety table against the front door, threw into his duffel his sawed-off shotgun and Dad’s box of fake IDs and credit cards, and climbed out through the bathroom window before the super could arrive to unlock the door.
When Roger Harper picked up the phone and heard Leon’s voice, he checked his pulse to make sure he was still alive. He was fairly sure that the last time they had talked, the conversation had ended with Leon promising to see him next when he spat on his grave, and with Roger kicking his ass out of the house with a shotgun pointed at Leon’s head.
“Roger,” Leon said, hoarse enough that Roger had to strain to hear. “I can’t find him.”
Roger froze. There were only two hims in Leon Hawthorne’s life. One was the nebulous enemy that Leon blamed for Sally’s death, the epitome of all monsters—a damn crack dream, Roger had told him more than once, not that he expected Hawthorne to listen—and the other was Jake.
“Something got Jake? Fuck, what grabbed him and how? Your boy is damned careful.”
Leon made a sound through the phone that sounded like he was choking on blood, half rasp, half wet. Roger paused. “Leon, it got you too?”
