Page 1 of Endangered Species
“Cy! Cy, wake up. She’s coming. We have to hide,” Nicky begged, his voice quaking, the end of his statement edging on hysteria.
Cy’s eyes popped open, instantly alert. He didn’t question Nicky. There was no time for questions when Phoebe was in one of her moods. This had become their new normal over the last year whenever Cy’s dad, Ray, left them, and Ray had just left them for good, whether Cy knew it or not. Nicky didn’t want to tell. He didn’t want to tell Cy what he saw Phoebe do.
Cy’s brown eyes went wide when he saw the blood splattered all across Nicky’s Star Wars pajamas. It seemed to spur him into action. He snatched Nicky up and bolted for the closet, shutting it behind him. He pushed open the crawl space above, tossing Nicky inside, before pulling himself up with an upper body strength six-year-old Nicky wasn’t sure he’d ever have. But Cyrus was older and a football player. He was huge, barely fitting through the small opening.
Nicky shivered at the blast of cold air that was no match for his flannel pajamas. Cy carefully closed the door to the smelly attic space and pulled Nicky into the tiny crevice in the far corner, wedging them back as far as he could manage, cradling Nicky in his arms.
“Nicky, sweetie,” Phoebe called, her voice sweeter than Ms. Emma’s Coca-Cola cake. “You don’t have to hide. Mama’s not going to hurt you. I know it looks bad, but you just have to trust me. You know how he was. I did us all a favor.”
Nicky’s eyes widened at the closeness of her voice, a scream climbing his throat, but Cy slapped a hand over his mouth hard enough to leave bruises, whispering, “Shh,” against his ear. “She’s downstairs. I promise. Sound plays tricks up here. Remember? Remember?”
Nicky hadn’t remembered, but he did now. He couldn’t think with his heartbeat throbbing in his ears. He swallowed hard past the lump in his throat, trying to force breaths in and out through his nose. Behind him, he could feel the rapid rise and fall of Cy’s chest, and it made Nicky’s gut sick. If Cy was scared, then Nicky should be terrified. Cy wasn’t scared of anybody, even Phoebe, usually. He just hated her. Nicky thought he probably hated her, too, even though she was his mama.
Phoebe. That’s what she made them call her. Phoebe didn’t want anybody thinking she was old enough to have two kids, especially Cy, on account of him being seventeen. Not that anybody would think Cy and Phoebe were related. Cy was half-black and favored his mother’s darker complexion, not Ray’s fair freckled skin, so it wasn’t like anybody thought Phoebe birthed Cy. Besides, there wasn’t a soul in their podunk town who didn’t know Phoebe Winters-Webster-Whitaker. She’d grown up in Haven Heights. She’d been married and divorced two times over, keeping each husband’s name and adding it to the last. The neighbors all whispered about her, made fun of her. They all talked about how she collected other women’s husbands. Even Nicky knew what that meant.
“Nicky,” she called in a sing-song voice, then cackled in that crazy way that made him shiver. “I didn’t hit him. You know that, right, baby? I just found him. It was Cyrus that done it. He hit Ray in the head and killed him…over some money. Right, baby? If you just tell Sheriff Dooley that, everything will be fine. He’ll believe you, I promise.”
That was a lie. It was all lies. Cy hadn’t killed Ray. Ray didn’t have no money. Phoebe made sure of that. Besides, Nicky had seen everything. He’d come around the corner just as his mama had swung that poker. Ray wasn’t even looking at her. His head made a sound like when he and Hart Hanley had smashed pumpkins with a hammer behind the house. It made Nicky’s insides squirm.
Cy’s arm tightened around Nicky’s small chest, a sound like a soft whine escaping the older boy’s lips as he learned his daddy was dead. The side of Cy’s face rested against Nicky’s cheek, and he could feel his hot tears and the way he shuddered out his breaths. Cy was crying. It made Nicky feel helpless and scared. It gave him a gnawing ache in his belly, like when Phoebe would use her grocery money to get her hair done and Cy would have to sneak food home from the locker room after practice.
That was how they’d discovered the tiny hidden space in the attic, looking for a place to hide their snacks and contraband so Phoebe couldn’t take it and dole it out to them as rewards for doing her bidding. Phoebe hated the attic because she was sure there were rats up there. Nicky had never seen rats, but he’d seen plenty of other creepy crawlers. Still, he was content to share the space with almost any living creature besides her.
Phoebe was tiny—Nicky’s nana used to say Phoebe’s blonde hair was bigger than she was—but her footsteps on the hardwood floor sounded gunshot loud to him, drowning out everything else except the blood whooshing in his ears. The attic was freezing, but, somehow, Nicky was cold and sweating at the same time.
“I’m gonna find you. You can’t hide forever,” she said, her voice taking on an edge sharp enough to cut.
“Bitch,” Cy muttered, his hand falling from Nicky’s mouth to rub his arm in a reassuring manner, like he’d done two weeks ago after Phoebe had beat him worse than usual because he’d gone to the Sheriff to tell them what she was doing to him. To them. Sheriff Dooley had listened the whole time and even said he could help him…but then Phoebe had walked in and taken him home, her hand dragging along the sleeve of Dooley’s shirt in that way that always made others talk.
“She’s gonna kill us,” Nicky whispered, so sure of his prediction.
Phoebe hadn’t found their hiding spot yet, but she would get there eventually. She was on the top floor of the large farmhouse now, hollering Nicky’s name as she paced the upstairs hallway, throwing open doors and slamming them shut again. This wasn’t anything new, not the pacing or the raving or even the weapon in her hand, the fireplace poker probably still dripping with Ray’s blood. Would she kill Nicky and Cyrus, too? Did she even think of Cyrus? Did she know he was there? Nicky shivered, and Cyrus pulled him tighter against him. Maybe he was cold, too.
Nicky felt bad for Cy…and Ray. Well, maybe not Ray. He’d known what Phoebe was. Maybe not at first, but eventually. He’d seen the bruises on Nicky and Cy. She’d even broken Cy’s arm once. He had to stop playing football for half a season. Ray had called it discipline, had told them both they could do better.
Cy said Phoebe had cast some kind of spell over his dad that made him not think clearly. It was the only explanation. If somebody told him his mama was a witch, Nicky would’ve believed it. Not a good witch, like Glenda, but something cold and evil, who made people do their bidding. When Ray was home, it would be better, though. Maybe it was the presents he brought home from his many business trips, or maybe it was just having his attention. Ray said Phoebe needed people to love her, like flowers needed the sun.
“We can’t stay up here. She’s going to find us,” Cy whispered. “I’m gonna go downstairs and distract her. You need to get to my room and go out my window. You can make it to the tree. Shimmy down there, and get Ms. Sheila to call the police. Can you do that?”
Nicky shook his head vehemently, his little hands clinging to Cy’s arm around him. “No. I don’t want to go without you. She’ll kill you, too.”
There was a look on Cy’s face that scared Nicky. His eyes looked sad, his expression stubborn. “You gotta go, Nicky. I can’t protect both of us. You gotta go get help. I’m bigger than she is. I’ll be fine.”
Cy didn’t sound convinced of that at all, but there was no time to argue. Phoebe was coming up the attic stairs. Slowly. Methodically. Probably gearing herself up for whatever creepy crawlies were in there. Cy pushed Nicky to his feet then stood behind him.
Before Nicky could say a word, Phoebe’s head appeared, her eyes hard and shiny, like pools of ice, as she spotted them. Cy let out a cry that sounded like it came from his toes and barreled into her, the two of them stumbling down the stairs. Phoebe screamed, but it sounded more furious than hurt.
“Go, Nicky!” Cy screamed from the bottom.
Nicky was off like a shot, his legs pumping past the two as they wrestled for the fireplace poker. He struggled to open Cy’s window but finally managed to get enough space to wiggle through. He tried to walk to the tree branch that laid over the tiles but tripped on the vent, landing on his chest before rolling off the roof and landing hard enough to rip the air from his lungs. He stared up at the night sky, trying to drag in a breath, but it was like his lungs had stopped working. His eyes watered, and he wanted to hit his chest, his insides burning like they were on fire.
Just when he thought he would die there, it was like his lungs remembered their job, and he began to gulp in much needed air. When he could, he jumped to his feet, skipping the gravel driveway and diving into the cornfield that separated his house from Ms. Sheila’s. His lungs and muscles burned, but he kept running. The roots and jagged castoffs of the corn stalks tore at his bare feet, but he pushed ahead. No matter how much it hurt or how bad he was bleeding, he just kept going until he all but collapsed on the neighbor’s porch, resting his head against the wooden planks of her house, looking back towards his own home, convinced his mama would be right behind him. He didn’t knock, just began to press the doorbell. Once he started, he couldn’t stop. Even when Ms. Sheila and her husband answered the door. Even when she tried to talk to him. His finger just spasmed against the doorbell.
“Nicholas?” Ms. Sheila gasped. “Good lord, child. What happened to you?”
Nicky shook his head, pointing with his other hand toward the house, but no words would come.
Herald grabbed him by the shoulders, shaking him. “Nicholas, what’s wrong? Is that your blood? Nicholas? Nicky? Answer me, boy. Whose blood is that?”
