Wolfsong (Green Creek 1)

I felt like I walked for days in the trees.

It was only minutes.

I said, “I’m alone. And away.”

“Are you?” he asked. “I’ll be honest. I expected a bit more… resistance from you.”

“I could be lying.”

“You could be,” Richard said. “But you’re not. Your heart is remarkably steady. In fact, the control you seem to be exhibiting is extraordinary. How is it that you can do what you do?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“No,” he said harshly. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to play me like that, Oxnard. Not today. Not ever. You think you know what I’m capable of, but you have no idea. I told you, Ox. I am the monster.”

“I don’t give a damn who you are. You will never—”

“Do you know Mr. Fordham?”

That stopped me, because I didn’t understand. Mr. Fordham was an old guy that came into the garage every now and then. I remembered when Gordo had given him a reduced price on the catalytic converter because Mr. Fordham hadn’t been able to afford it. That was just the type of person Gordo had

been—still was, even—and the look on Mr. Fordham’s face had been something extraordinary, so sweet and kind and just grateful at what Gordo had done for him. When he’d heard Gordo was back in town, he’d come in and shook his hand and just talked to him.

“Ox,” Richard said softly. “I asked you a question.”

“Yes,” I said, feeling detached. “I know him.”

“Did you know that he had a doctor’s appointment today? One he needed to leave Green Creek for. He’s an older man, you know. The heart tends not to tick like it used to. He’s also rather fearless, if you ask me. Especially in light of all my teeth.”

No. No, no, no.

“What did you do?”

He laughed. “Ox. I haven’t done anything yet. But I will now. Here. Say good-bye.”

The phone was shuffled for a moment as I gripped my own tighter. The sun was too bright. Everything felt too real.

Then, “Ox,” a wavering voice said.

“Mr. Fordham,” I breathed.

“You listen to me, boy,” he said, like he had a spine of steel. “I don’t know who he is or what he wants, but you don’t give it to him. You hear me? You don’t give it to him. His eyes, Ox. His eyes are colors I can’t even imagine. He can’t get in, they can’t get in, so the only way is for you to come out. So don’t you do it. Don’t you do it—”

There was a wet slap against the phone.

I knew that sound.

The sound of the skin on a neck separating.

The sound of blood spilling.

Mr. Fordham, eighty years old if he was a day, choked as he died. I could hear the rattle in his throat.

“Ox?” Richard said. “Are you still there?”

“I’ll kill you,” I said. “I will find you. And I will kill you.”

“Well, you’ll certainly try,” Richard said, sounding amused. “I must admit, Ox, I’ve never really met one such as yourself. I may have underestimated you the day when I killed your mother. That’s not something I’ll do again. And, ah, there it is. Oh, Ox. Your heart. It’s beating so fast.”