David
was low to the ground. He kept a stance that was often seen in war movies, as
soldiers ran quietly behind enemy lines to slit their foes’ throats before they
could shout that there was death lurking in the mist. David’s knife was in his
hand.
It was late, but David had told his parents
that he’d be at Neil’s house. That he was spending the night there. David’s
parents did not question this for an instant.
Just how late it was, David did not know.
David had learned of Neil’s relative health at some time past ten and before
midnight. That had been when David had decided to try to pick up the scent of
the goon that’d chased Neil. There was an odor the man had had; David had smelled
it as the goons ran past. David kept the scent fresh in his mind. It was oily,
a smell David previously associated with gas stations and his grandfather’s
house. There was an unwashed smell. Dirty gym clothes that’d spent a week in
the bag before being cleaned.
A dirty smell of sweat and grime that stuck
around even after being washed three times. David always got frustrated when
clothes did that. He burned a t-shirt once when it refused to smell nice.
Mostly, he’d just wanted to burn something, the t-shirt had been an easy
target. Neil had been there. Neil had thought it was all a joke.
David was pretty sure it’d been a joke too,
but he never questioned himself.
David had found the spot in the woods where
Neil had been held down. A few years in the Boy Scouts would not make most
people an excellent tracker, but David had been held, enrapt, when one father
decided to teach them how to track game.
David was pretty sure he’d found the spot
where the scoundrel had hurt Neil.
Neil hadn’t explained how the man had left.
The dirt was tossed up behind the man’s footprints, each footprint a wide
distance from each other. The goon had been running. The scent wasn’t in the
air, but David knew it would be easier to track someone who was running than
someone who was calm and collected.
The goon had passed through the woods for a
little over a mile before turning onto one of the back roads that circled the
west end of Falling Rocks. It was harder to find his prints in the gravel but
David managed. It was when the tracks arrived back in Downtown that David lost
him. The tracks led onto a street and then no sign remained. David walked to
the bridge and followed the path that the other goon had taken, but couldn’t
find any other signs of where they’d have been.
David was feeling disappointed in himself
for not having been a better tracker, when he saw someone duck into an alley.
He’d seen her eyes, the hint of a toothy smile, and pallid skin. David turned
and followed. She’d seen him, he’d seen her. David supposed that she’d wanted
him to follow.
He saw her walk around the alley and vanish
behind a dumpster. He followed and saw nothing. But when he turned around, he
saw a sewer grate that had been lifted and set aside already. It was an
invitation for sure, David thought, this if nothing else. So, David thought,
she knows why I’m here. “If you’re still there,” David said, “Come out. I want
to talk. I’ll put the knife away.”
No one approached, but David almost thought
he heard her snicker at his last comment. As
if I’m afraid of a knife, it implied. It made David shiver. He’d never
shivered at anything other than cold before. It was an exciting sensation.
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