Free Snow Day: a Novella by Dan Maurer Page A

George.
    I crossed the street, following Tommy’s lead. As I reached the other side, there was a faint flash of headlights. Up the street, a car had turned onto the road. Was it a police cruiser looking for the kid who caused the accident on Woodlawn? As the car grew closer I heard the familiar sound of an engine in need of a new muffler.
    Get off the road!
    The house across the street was dark so I hurried up its driveway and hid behind a large, snowcapped bush. The sound of the car grew closer, but slowly, rolling in my direction, the unseen driver scanning the shadows. As it passed, I peered out from my hiding place and glimpsed a black Plymouth Valiant, the one that took Tommy away. It had to be ol’ George.
    “B-billy...?” came a whisper behind me. “Billy...?”
    It was Tommy’s voice, but I couldn’t see him in the dark. Behind me, at the back of the property, were only deep shadows; then came the sound of rustling bushes, and Tommy’s voice again, but a little more distant and heading away.
    “Billy...?”
    Crouched low, I made for Tommy’s direction. I slipped through the shadows to the back of the property. No Tommy, just an eight-foot tall hedge. He must have found a way through.
    I reached inside the hedge and felt around. With one gloved hand and one bare and bloody hand, I felt for an opening between the plants that had grown together to form the hedge. It was painful. The cut from the Grandville’s bumper stung with a biting pain when it brushed against the branches. Finally, my fingers felt an opening just big enough. I turned sideways and looked away to protect my face from scraping branches while I pushed my arm through, and then my shoulder, and then a foot. At last, with a push, I launched the rest of my body through the hedge and fell to the ground on the other side.
    Looking around, I found myself in an alley cluttered with trash cans and old crates. I was behind the building that housed many of the shops that faced Columbia between Broad and Summit Avenues. The back door of each shop – there was a drapery shop, a delicatessen, a pharmacy and assorted others – let out onto the alley. Each door had a small lamp above it; while most were broken or burned out, there were enough giving light so that I could see.
    I was still alone and there was still no sign of Tommy. I pushed my aching, bleeding left hand into the wet snow. It was bitter cold, but felt good. The worst of the bleeding had eased, but the persistent trickle was enough to leave the white ice crystals beneath me streaked with a bit of red. I realized I’d been leaving those small streaks everywhere – on the Pontiac Le Mans that broke my fall, on the doorknob of the house with the body in it, on the cellar door that gave Tommy and me our escape from ol’ George, on the swing set and the snow beneath it. Was that why the German Shepherd was so persistent? Did she smell my blood? I wondered if George could smell blood. Was he even human? Was he hunting me? If so, it wouldn’t be difficult. Hell, I was Hansel and Gretel, leaving a trail of bloody bread crumbs.
    I finally stood up and headed east along the alley until it opened into a small parking lot beside Columbia Cleaners. I crossed the lot out to the street and looked up and down Columbia Avenue; still no sign of Tommy.
    That was it; I was done looking for him. I couldn’t risk backtracking and getting caught. I decided that if I couldn’t find Tommy, than neither could ol’ George. A disturbing thought crossed my mind: Tommy might squeal. If he tells anyone about the house, if it gets back to my mother, I’d be in deep trouble. I began walking home and made a mental note to pull Tommy aside the next day and let him know what kind of ass-whooping I’d give him if he told on me.
    It was well past six o’clock when I walked along Columbia Avenue. The shops were all closed – the butcher shop, a stationery and card shop, Jack’s News, Candy and Comics. The lights were