Monster Chapter 15

10:10 a.m. 15:08 to Termination

You may trust him in the dark —Cicero

“Mr. Howard? Mr. Howard, are you home?”

Nick checked the door. Unlocked. Swinging it open, he called out again. “Mr. Howard?”

“Is that you, Nick?” a voice called from down the hall. “I’m in here. Come on back.”

The baby rested quietly in Nick’s arms.

He’d made his way over the dry canal, through a stretch of trees, and then down four blocks. He’d walked less than half a mile, but Kyle Howard’s house was in an entirely different development. A different neighborhood. The police would search here eventually—maybe they’d even follow his trail with the K-9 unit, though that would take a bit longer—but either way, he’d earned himself a few more precious minutes. Perhaps as much as half an hour.

He'd met Mr. Howard after Nick moved into his apartment. Nick was walking to the bus stop when he saw the old man lifting salt pellets from the trunk of his car. Nick offered to help, Mr. Howard told him no, but Nick helped anyway. After the pellets were tucked away, the old man offered him a beer without even asking how old he was.

Mr. Howard was no-nonsense, and they hit it off right away.

Nick walked through the living room to the spare bedroom, where Mr. Howard kept his TV. His friend sat in a faded corduroy maroon recliner against one wall, facing a television against the opposite wall. The TV sat on an end table made of particleboard, swollen and split from water damage. Brown blinds were drawn, making the room dark. An oxygen tank stood next to the recliner on faded carpet. A walker stood within arm’s reach. The room smelled of menthol and must.

Mr. Howard muted the television with a remote control. Symbols flicked over his head.

1:18 a.m. His friend would die tonight along with everybody else.

“Hey, Mr. Howard. Looks like you need a shave. I’m in a bit of a hurry, but I could come by tomorrow.”

“If you want. That’d be nice.”

Mr. Howard stared at the muted television; his eyes blank.

Nick saw an empty glass and a bowl with dried flakes of food next to the recliner. Breakfast.

Mr. Howard’s eyes moved over to him and then grew sharp. “What the hell you got there?”

“This is a baby. She’s my niece.” Mr. Howard didn’t know his family and wouldn’t suspect the lie. “Do you want to hold her?”

“Hell no, I don’t want to hold her.”

“Have you had your medicine this morning?”

Mr. Howard shook his head.

“You have to eat when you take it. I’ll get you something from the kitchen.”

“I’ll get it myself. Besides, you got your hands full with that baby.”

“I’ll get it for you.”

“I said I could do it.”

“I know what you said, but I’m going to get it for you. What do you want?”

“Whatever’s easiest.”

Nick went to the kitchen and opened the fridge. It held the regular fare—applesauce containers. Bread. Peanut butter and lunchmeat. The freezer would have microwave dinners.

The baby slept in his arms. He entered the living room and gently placed her in a corner of the couch. He pulled an afghan off the back of the couch and tucked it up around her and returned to the kitchen. Pausing, he listened for sirens.

Nothing.

He looked at his watch and moved quickly. He pulled a bowl from the cupboard and then two applesauce containers from the fridge. He opened them and dumped the contents in the bowl. He threw away the empty containers, grabbed a spoon, and placed it in the applesauce.

He stared at the applesauce. He stared at the beige Formica counter.

Ten months.

That’s how long the doctors had given Mr. Howard. Ms. Blake, the nurse who was supposed to care for Mr. Howard but didn’t come around as often as she should, told Nick the news a month ago.

Of course, Nick didn’t need Ms. Blake to tell him any damn thing. The last time Nick had seen Mr. Howard, his timer had almost eight months left. May 14^th, at 3:28 in the morning. Nick had marked it on his calendar. He’d planned to spend the last days and hours with his friend.

Mr. Howard had been getting sicker. He used to be able to drive to get his groceries. Now Nick drove for him. He helped with more and more of the basic chores around the house, and the old man paid him too much. Nick guessed that Mr. Howard had three months left here at the house. Maybe he’d make it to Christmas. Then, he’d have to go into a nursing home. He’d never come out, at least not while he was breathing.

But all of that had changed. Now, he would die tonight, along with the rest of the world.

Nick looked at the plastic medicine container on the counter. It had seven connected compartments, each with a letter representing the day of the week. Every Sunday, Nick counted the pills and placed them in the appropriate box. Ms. Blake had explained which medicine he should take on which days.

“This purple pill is the one you have to watch. It’s methotrexate, and it’s a high dose. He needs to take one every other day. He'll get sick if he takes one two days in a row. If he takes several in one day, it’s going to lead to severe organ toxicity and death. Do you understand? Too many of these pills are poison. It’ll kill him.”

The baby gave a gasp from the other room, then fell silent.

Nick had the beginnings of an idea, and the baby on the couch was the key. The key to all of this. But he needed more time. Today, right now, he needed more time. If the police followed his trail, and Mr. Howard told them he’d been here, they would be that much closer to finding him.

If Nick failed, then Mr. Howard would die tomorrow morning along with the rest of the world. If he could figure out what the hell was going on and somehow stop it, then Mr. Howard would die in eight months—likely a slow and painful death. A lonely death.

Mr. Howard would die tomorrow or in ten months. He almost didn’t want to ask the question, but he had to.

Would it make a difference if Mr. Howard died this afternoon? A peaceful death today, right now?

And what if Mr. Howard dying right now made the difference between Nick’s success or failure? What if Mr. Howard’s death gave Nick enough time to literally save the rest of the world?

Opening the cupboard, he pulled out a medicine bottle. He emptied the contents onto the counter and separated five purple pills from the rest. He broke them open and emptied the white powder into the applesauce, then looked around the kitchen until he found some cinnamon and sugar. He sprinkled it into the sauce.

Hands shaking, he picked up the bowl and then paused. He didn’t have time to pause, but he had to.

He was about to kill another human being. His friend.

From somewhere, a clock ticked. Somebody mowed a lawn down the street. No other sounds. Outside, the sun shown on a glorious fall day. A peaceful day.

A good day to die.

The prickling at the back of his neck. Somebody watching. A bitter taste in his mouth.

What the hell am I doing?

His stomach twisted, and he felt a spark of anger.

Dumping the applesauce down the drain, he prepared another dish.

He carried the bowl into the room along with Mr. Howard’s medicine. He set up the tray and gave the old man the bowl and his regular pills.

“I’ve got a couple of favors to ask, Mr. Howard.”

“What’s stopping ya from asking?”

“Can I borrow your car? Mine’s got a flat, and I’ve found some work out in . . . Mendon. I’ll fill up the tank after I’m done.”

“Of course you can borrow my car,” Mr. Howard said. “It’s been sitting too long anyway. You know where I keep the keys.”

“The other thing . . . ” Nick paused, then continued. “I’ve been having some problems with somebody trying to break into my house. I found some marks on my back lock. The deadbolt. I’m thinking of getting a gun, but you know how it is. I probably have a couple of weeks to save up enough money.”

The truth was he couldn’t get a gun. Not with his police record.

Mr. Howard’s eyes left the television. “You wanna borrow my Beretta?”

“Just for a few weeks. Until I can get my own.”

“What kind of piece you looking at?”

Nick said nothing, and then, “I haven’t decided yet. Still doing some research.”

Mr. Howard looked back at the screen. “It’s just sitting back there. I’m not going to get to shoot it again. Hell, you can keep it if you want.”

“I can’t just take it. But thanks for letting me borrow it.”

Two things done. Only one left. The baby cried from the couch. He left to get her. She still fussed in his arms, but at least she stopped crying.

Sirens. Coming from the direction of his neighborhood.

Time slipped steadily away.

His brow felt wet. He felt both warm and chilled at the same time. Bouncing the infant, he walked back to the bedroom. “I have one last favor, Mr. Howard. It’s important and kind of a big one. This baby . . . she’s my niece. My sister is a good person, but her husband . . . well, her husband’s not.”

Mr. Howard looked over at Nick, the sharpness back in his eyes.

“I’m worried about my niece’s safety. That’s why . . . that’s why I have her. Why . . . I took her. She was in danger, and so I took her. Do you understand?”

Mr. Howard took his time before answering. “I think I do.”

“We’re going to get things worked out, but I wanted to tell you. If any police come here looking for me, will you do me a favor and tell them you haven’t seen me? They’ll say I kidnapped her, and I guess technically that’s true, but I intend to give her back. I have to make sure she’s safe. It’s the most important thing.”

Mr. Howard stared at him. Eyes digging deep.

“Is that why you want my gun? Are you going to go find this guy and—”

“No.”

Mr. Howard continued to stare.

“I’m going to a friend’s house,” Nick said. “I’m taking the baby with me and calling social services. But I’m not giving the baby back until I know she’s safe.”

“They’ll arrest you as soon as they can.”

“I know they will. But the baby will be safe. That’s all that matters.”

Mr. Howard stared at his applesauce for a while and then looked back at the television.

“All right then. I won’t tell anybody you were here.”

“Thank you. I have to go now, Mr. Howard. Thanks. For everything.”

“You be safe.”

“I will.”

He left the room with a sick feeling in his stomach. Sometimes, it felt like he’d told a million lies. It came easy, like flipping a coin and catching it. But every so often, he felt the weight of those lies dragging him down to darkness.

Carrying the baby, he went to Mr. Howard’s bedroom and pulled a small case from the top shelf of the closet. He opened it and grabbed the gun and a clip, sliding the clip into the gun. He stuck the pistol into the back of his pants. He’d have to examine the weapon later. His experience with firearms consisted of a BB gun as a boy and shooting a .22 at scout camp.

Nick got the keys to Mr. Howard’s car from a drawer in the kitchen and retrieved his grocery sack of items from his house. He paused. A cell phone sat atop the counter. An old Nokia. He trusted Mr. Howard not to tell anybody. He trusted Mr. Howard wouldn’t call the police. But the extra phone might come in handy. He took out the battery with one hand and dropped both into his white grocery sack. He found Mr. Howard’s dark green Ford Maverick through the side door. It went through gas like it had a hole in the tank.

Nick got in and placed the baby on the passenger seat.

“We’ll get you a car seat soon,” he said. “I promise.”

The baby started fussing almost immediately. Nick opened the garage door and backed out. Closing the garage, he paused for a moment, listening to the sirens.

He had a different car—one more step between him and the police.

Pointing the car away from the sirens, he drove.