... 78 Hours and Counting ...

It was Wednesday and Justin’s school always let out at 1:30 PM on Wednesdays. When Justin left for home, he was glad that the gray van was nowhere in sight. He was in such a good mood that he walked on the edge of the curbs almost the entire way home—the whole three blocks—his Nikes slipping off into the gutter only twice. It was a personal record for him, and he felt that today would be a lucky day. He practiced his whistling, which he really couldn’t do yet, but he tried. As he walked he shaped and reshaped his mouth to make hissing and peeping sounds vaguely like cartoon theme songs.

When he reached home, he realized right away that no one was home. This was not the usual for a Thursday, as Daddy was generally home by this time, but it wasn’t unknown, either. What he was supposed to do was go to Billy’s grandma’s house and watch TV with Billy until his dad got home. But he didn’t want to do this, because Billy didn’t watch the same cartoons as he did in the afternoon and because Billy’s house and Billy’s grandma smelled kinda funny. So instead, he used his secret way in.

Going through the side gate and around to the back, he found the window into the guest bedroom that never shut right and pulled off the screen. Within a minute he was inside and climbing down off the bed. He began to whistle again, proud of himself, when he heard something.

There was a rattle and a thump. Something was in his parents’ bedroom; something was in the drawers. Justin thought of the bird that had flown into the living room last summer and had to be caught in his dad’s jacket and tossed outside. Or maybe it was the neighbor’s cat, who always seemed to be sneaking in and running around on the counters in the kitchen.

Then he heard the creak of floorboards. It was a person, a robber, almost certainly. Justin thought about climbing out the window again, but he was worried that the robber might hear him this time. There was no easy way out the front door, so Justin crept down the hallway to the study. He lifted the phone handset. In the dimly lit room, the glow of the keypad seemed bright and the drone of the dial tone seemed like the roar of an engine. With shaking fingers, he dialed 9-1-1, just as the kids always did on those real-life rescue shows.

He didn’t do anything else, however. He just put the phone down. He didn’t want to talk to anyone and he knew that just calling was enough to get the police to come there. He just suddenly knew he had to get out of there. If he talked, maybe the robber would hear him. Dialing 9-1-1 had brought it all home to Justin somehow. It changed things, it had made it all real. He shook with fright.

Even as he turned he realized that the sounds coming from his parents’ room had ceased. An odd quiet hung in the house. Only the humming of appliances and the tiny ticking of clocks could be heard.

There was a man standing in the doorway. For a few moments neither of them spoke. Justin froze, some primitive part of him telling him to hide, to pretend he was part of the air, part of the dim shadows of the study. Perhaps the predator would lose interest and go away.

“You did it, didn’t you? You little frigger,” whispered the robber.

Justin ran for it, right at the man’s legs. With a surprised grunt and a chuckle, the man stepped to one side, letting him pass. “Where are you going?” he asked in an amused tone.

Justin slipped passed him, smelling his dirty jeans as he brushed up against them. He headed not for the front door, nor the back door. He went into the guest bedroom and climbed up onto the bed. The window was still there, open, inviting.

There was a sound behind him as he reached the sill. Before he could get out, a long hairy arm circled his neck. Justin saw and felt the rows of scratchy scabs on the inside of the man’s arm as it curled around his throat. He saw the hand at the end of the arm, too. It had a doctor’s glove on it, one of those yellowy plastic ones that you could see through. Justin could see the man’s thumb inside the glove. A big silver ring encircled the thumb.

Justin knew the van man had him. He opened his mouth, sucking in air to scream. The other hand clamped itself over his mouth. It was also wearing a doctor’s glove. Justin tasted the dry rubber.

“Can’t have you falling and hurting yourself again, klutz,” whispered the van man. “You really should’ve gone to your friend’s house like you were supposed to.”

Justin tried to bite, but the Van Man just chuckled and slipped his fingers away. He ruffled Justin’s hair momentarily. “Look at all that blond fluff!” he said, his breath stinking of stale cigarettes. “You’re sure a cute kid, you know that? A damn, fine, good-looking kid.”