He was in his own house, up on the third floor.
He wrapped his mind around the idea that he was “safe and sound” for now. Man, he loved the power of that thought.
He was in total control. He was mission control. He could be as big and important as Jack and Jill. Hell, he could be bigger and better than those trippy assholes. He knew that he could. He could stomp Jack and Jill’s asses.
He felt around on the floor for his trusty backpack. Where the hell is his stuff?… Okay. There it is. Everything is cool. He fumbled inside—located his flashlight. He flicked the ON switch.
“Let there be light,” he whispered. Wah-lah!”
Awhh, too bad, sports fans—he was definitely in the attic of his home. This wasn’t a dream. He was the Truth School killer, after all. He shined the bright light down on his wristwatch. It was a twelfth-birthday present. It was the kind of sophisticated watch that pilots wore. Wow, he was so damn impressed! Maybe he could study to be a jet pilot after this was all behind him. Learn to fly an F-16.
It was 4:00 A.M. on the jet pilot’s watch! Must be 4:00 A.M., then.
“The hour of the werewolf,” he whispered softly. It was time to come down out of the attic. It was time to continue to make his mark in the world. Something cool and amazing had to happen now.
Perfect murders.
Had to, had to, had to.
CHAPTER
75
HE LET the bulky foldaway stairs drop down very slowly to the second floor of the house. His house. If his foster parents happened to get up for a pee right now—BIG PROBLEMS FOR HIM.
BIG SURPRISE FOR THEM, THOUGH.
MAJOR SHITSTORM FOR EVERYBODY CONCERNED.
He was having a little trouble with his breathing. None of this was easy now. He needed to set the heavy, unwieldy stairs down quietly on the second floor, but there was a little thud right at the end.
“Damn you. Loser,” he whispered.
He still couldn’t exactly catch his breath. His body was covered with a thick coat of sweat, the kind horses break on a morning workout. He had seen that phenomenon on his grandparents’ farm. Never forgot it: sweat that almost turned into this frothy cream, right before your eyes.
“Pusillanimous,” he whispered, mocking his own cowardice. “Chickenshit bastard. Punk of the month. Loser, man.” His theme song again.
He tried to let some of the icy panic and nervousness pass. He took long, slow, deep breaths as he paused at the top of the folding stairs. This was so freaky. It was helter fucking skelter, in r
eal life, in real time.
He finally began to climb down the wobbly wooden stairway, on wobbly wooden legs that felt like stilts. He was being as careful and quiet as he could be.
He felt a little better as he got to the bottom. Terra firma.
He walked on his tiptoes down the upstairs hallway to the door of the master bedroom. He opened the door and was immediately struck with a blast of really cold air.
His foster father kept the window open, even in December, even when it fucking snowed. He would. The arctic cold probably kept his silver-blond crew cut short. Saved him on haircuts. What a super jerk-off the guy was.
“Do you screw her in the cold dark?” he whispered under his breath. That sounded about right, too.
He walked up real close to their king-size bed. Real close. He stood at their altar of love, their sacred throne.
How many times had he imagined a moment like this? This very moment.
How many other kids had imagined this same scene a thousand thousand times? But then done nothing about it. Losers! The world was full of them.
He was on the verge of one of his worst rages, a real bad one. The hair on the back of his neck was standing at attention. TEN-SHUN. It felt like it, anyway.