Page 133 of Them Bones

He went flying backwards, his dick hanging out of his pants, the side of his head smashing into the awkward corner of her closet with a sickeningcrunch.

His body crumpled into a pile on the floor, face down, a puddle of blood slowly starting to ooze into the carpet beneath him.

She heard a shrill ringing sound. They told her later the sound was her. That she was screaming.

OFFICER RUTA

Jay hated doing RIDE programs on Christmas.

His partner had snuck off to try to spend some time with his wife and kids, and Jay had been parked on Bristol for hours, moving a few feet forward and then a few feet back every half hour or so to keep a reasonably snow-free parking space for his cruiser.

He saw headlights whip around the corner and a blue and white Chevy came skidding down the street, coasting to a stop when Jay flipped on his lights, almost sliding past him in the snow.

Jay walked over to the driver’s side. It was an old biker-looking dude, already holding his ID and rolling down the window.

“Evenin’,” the man said.

“Merry Christmas,” Jay said drily. “You been drinking tonight?” He stuck his head right in the window.

“I had a couple whiskeys, but it was around four or five hours ago now, an’ I been sleepin’ since,” the man said. His eyes were focused, and he wasn’t slurring. Jay smelled a hint of alcohol, but the guy clearly wasn’t drunk.

He looked at the boy in the passenger seat, twelve or thirteen years old, twitchy and staring at the dash. He looked anxious.He probably wants to get home, put out cookies for Santa or something…

“Alright, then,” Jay said. “You have a good night. And watch yourself, the roads are rough. Just… take your time, okay?”

“Yessir,” the man said, rolling up his window. They continued down the street at a much slower pace.

Jay got back in his car. It was twenty to midnight, and he could go home to his wife at 1:00am.

Eighty minutes to go…

JOHN

Someone was screaming, an ear-piercing, skin-crawling scream. The kind only a woman in serious shit could make.

John slipped and slid in the snow, tearing after Cary. It sounded like it was coming from Laney’s room.

Like he was in slow-motion, he felt himself moving through the garage into the house, the back of Cary’s blonde head disappearing through the French doors into the basement hallway, John following him like he was a fish on a string, bobbing along behind a fishing kayak

There was a shovel on the ground in the hall, and Jerry’s boy, Shane, was standing frozen in the doorway of her bedroom. Cary blew past him and into Laney’s room.

The screaming didn’t stop.

“Shane,” John heard himself saying, “what’s happening…”

Shane was white as a ghost, staring into that room. He didn’t answer him.

John stepped forward and into the tiny bedroom. His body backed up involuntarily until he hit the wall, a bulletin board crashing to the floor behind him.

“Jesus fucking Christ…”

SHANE

“Laney,” someone was saying in a calm voice. “Laney, you need to stop screaming.”

Laney…

Laney…

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