The Nightworld - Jack Blaine [16]
That’s when I realize I have no idea where I’m going.
Chapter 9
For the longest time, I just sit in the car in the middle of the street, engine idling, no idea what to do. I think I must be in shock or something. Everything feels far away. My house looks totally normal. There’s isn’t anything about it that would indicate a man was just shot to death in it. Our street looks the same as it always does at night, lit by the safe glow of suburban street lights. But nothing is normal, or safe.
I take out my phone and start to text Charlie, but I can’t get a signal. Then I remember his text about how they were leaving. I look at it again. Leaving soon, it says. Maybe he’s still home, and I can go with him and his parents to wherever they’re headed. I try to text again, but there’s still no signal, so I put the Subaru in gear and drive the seven blocks to Charlie’s house. It’s seven blocks I’ve walked, biked, and driven so many times in my life I don’t even look at the houses I pass anymore. But tonight I do. Tonight I wonder how long these houses will be like this—when I look at them I flash on shaggy lawns gone to seed, chipped paint, smashed windows.
The house looks dark, but they could just be in bed. It is the middle of the night, after all. At least that’s what I tell myself. I park in their driveway and try to be silent when I shut the car door. The neighboring houses look just like they should at this time of night—interior lights off, porch lights on. I slip up the steps to the front door of Charlie’s and ring the bell. I can hear it inside, but nobody comes.
The garage door is shut, so I can’t tell if the car is there. I sneak around back and open the gate to the backyard. It’s so dark back here that I almost fall over a huge bag of dog food someone’s left on the ground, torn open. I hear a low growl, and in the dimness I can see a pair of eyes glittering up at me.
Tank’s here.
Tank, a hundred-pound mutt who looks like a cross between a German shepherd and a bloodhound, is seven now. He’s been Charlie’s steadfast companion since he was nine years old—the year Charlie’s mom divorced his real dad. The fact that Tank’s locked in the backyard with a food supply tells me that something is really wrong. Tank’s not a backyard sort of dog. He’s a spoiled house dog, who sleeps in Charlie’s room on a huge dog bed that is as thick as my mattress at home. Mrs. Bradley says he needs the support because he’s “big boned.” Mr. Holzer, Charlie’s stepdad, isn’t as crazy about Tank, but I can’t believe they left him like this. I bet Charlie is pissed.
“Tank.” I don’t like the sound of the growl, but I’ve known Tank since I was nine, too, so I’m hoping he’ll be happy once he knows it’s me. “It’s me, buddy, Nick. C’mere.” I grab a handful of dog food from the bag and crouch down, holding it out to him. He noses the air and I say a few more encouraging words. Finally he walks up to sniff my hand, and I see that his back legs are trembling.
“Oh, Tank. Poor guy.” I smooth his fur and scratch him on the chest, his favorite place in the world to get scratched. This seems to make him feel a little better. “What happened, buddy? Why’d they just leave you here?” He looks up at me with those sad brown eyes, and I swear he’s trying to tell me. “Well, let’s see if we can get in the house, Tank.”
I check the sliding door in back, but it’s locked. So I swing up onto the half shed that sits under Charlie’s second-floor bedroom and try his window. Unlocked, of course. We sneak in and out of Charlie’s house all the time, ever since his mom married Mr. Holzer. He’s pretty much a control freak, so we’ve had to get by on sneakiness in order to do anything.
I switch on