Page 23 of Catching Camila

Harson

Wednesday 7:32 p.m.

When the microwave dinged, Harson shot a glance at it from across the room. With his recliner thrown back to full tilt, even the thought of a warm microwave dinner didn't stir him from his chair. The dinner needed to cool for a few minutes anyway. He laid his head against cushion and closed his eyes.

It had been the right decision, swapping his sixty-inch LCD TV for the recliner in the divorce. Susan had wanted both. He pictured her down-turned mouth and the ugly green sweater she'd worn the last time he'd seen her at the lawyer's office. Just thinking about Susan raised his blood pressure, something the doctor told him to avoid. Well, how could he keep his blood pressure down when his wife left him and took their dog?

He missed that damn dog.

The microwave beeped again, reminding him his Hungry Man dinner was ready. He pushed down the recliner's lever and the footrest dropped with a metal groan. His hips ached as he stood. His doctor had told him to get more exercise since his job was so sedentary, but who had the energy? Chasing down teenage delinquents all day made you plum tuckered. Sure, he did it from his Ford Focus, but dealing with their lip, their waving middle fingers, sucked all the energy right out of him. Two years until retirement. Two more years of cruising the parking lot and handing out parking tickets to high school brats while they silently wished him plagues of ball cancer. Retirement couldn't come fast enough.

He slid the black plastic tray out of the microwave, the pads of his fingers burning. The Salisbury steak did not look one bit like the picture on the carton, all goopy and brown. He shrugged and peeled back the plastic covering. Steam curled up from the meat and potatoes. He turned back to his recliner. That's when he noticed the sliding glass door was open.

He stopped, staring at the open door. How in the name of baby Jesus did the back door get open? Had he opened it when he got home, a subconscious habit left over from the days when the dog yelped and danced until you let her out? He paused, his hand on the wooden door handle. He peered into his backyard, the one that had made Susan clutch his arm and gasp when they'd first seen it. The half-acre lawn (a pain in the ass to mow) led down to the state park. Giant pines, sycamores, and maples swayed gently in the evening breeze. Twilight fell in the west and the sky was a rosy pink. Susan loved this time of day, loved to sit on the back porch with a lo-cal beer and watch the stars come out. If she were here—

A noise from inside jolted him. He swiveled, his heart pounding. He scanned the house from where he stood, looking for signs of an intruder. The kids at school weren't big fans, but they wouldn't have the brass cojones to break into his house, would they? He thought of the Louisville slugger under his bed. He might be sixty-one, but he could swing for the fences if he had to, goddamn it.

He hustled to the back bedroom, his heart still thudding. Every dark crevasse could hide an attacker. He passed the bathroom and nearly screamed when he saw movement until he realized it was just his reflection slipping past the door.

It's nothing,he told himself. But then, why did his hands tremble so much on the bedroom doorknob?

He pushed open the door. It creaked on its hinges, making the hairs on his arms stand up. From the doorway, he peered in. No sign of forced entry. He hustled to the bed and bent down, his old knees creaking. With one arm he swept under the bed, feeling dust bunnies, shoeboxes and finally, the bat. He circled his hand around the smooth wooden handle.

Then it grabbed him.

Harson screamed. Something gripped his arm like a vice and yanked. He lurched forward, his shoulder striking the bed frame, rocking it. He scrambled, digging his free hand into the frame, holding on for dear life. What in all holy hell—?

His attacker tugged him hard, his head slamming into the frame. Harson screamed, stars dancing across his vision. His arm would tear off. What had him? Jesus help me, he prayed.

“I have money! In the safe, I have money! I'll give you whatever you want.”

No answer. Slowly, whatever it was began to reel him in.

“Let go and I'll give you anything!” he screamed, kicking his legs. What was that smell? Like decaying meat. He pulled up with his free arm, but it had him.

Harson screamed as it yanked him under the bed.

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