Free Dark Advent by Brian Hodge Page B

and black and white, all dirty. No collar, of course. It might’ve been part terrier, but it was definitely a melting pot of many breeds.
    And it looked about as forlorn as Jason felt at the moment.
    “Come here,” Jason said softly. He snapped his fingers, noticing for the first time the nasty scrape along the back of his hand. “Come here, girl.”
    The dog wandered over the rest of the way, tentatively approaching him at first, then snuggling in close. He stroked it absently, wanting to cry at the violation of body and mind he’d undergone, and then he scooped the dog up in his arms and hugged it. Its rough pink tongue lapped out on his forearm, licked his wrist, licked the scrape on the back of his hand. He held it and pressed his face close to its body as if it were a comforting angel come down in the humblest of forms.
    And minutes later, when he set it back in the alley, it gave him one last look as if to say Feel better now? Good, and trotted off.
    Later, after he’d reclaimed the van and driven back home and had parked in the little loading area behind Kelly’s, Jason looked at himself in the rearview mirror. His face was slick with sweat and oil, trickles of blood dried a rich brown down his cheek. Spiky clumps of hair hung matted together like red-brown ropes.
    He let himself in through the rear door of Kelly’s store, found Kelly in the small cubicle that served as his office. Jason tossed the van keys onto the desktop, and Kelly jerked up, staring at him, mouth agape. “Next time,” Jason said with a bitter little grin, “pick up your own damn suits.”

9
    They were having a good time two doors down. Sounded like one hell of a party going on down there.
    Travis Lane grumbled and rolled over to check the clock on his nightstand. Ten thirty-three. Not too late yet, but he knew they’d keep it going for hours to come. That was their style. They’d keep blasting their stereo and breaking their bottles and laughing and the cars would continue to come and go well into the night. They’d keep shooting off their minor arsenal of Fourth of July fireworks, left over from yesterday’s holiday. Looked like a long night ahead.
    Travis knew he could blot out most of the noise simply by shutting up the house and turning on the air, but damn it, it was his house, and if he wanted it open that was his right. The night was warm and thick, and his skin was moist with a faint sheen as he lay atop the covers. He slept his best on such a night.
    He sighed with a weary disgust, then swung up to sit on the edge of the bed and slip on a pair of shorts that lay balled up on the nightstand. He made his way into the kitchen, belted down a slug of Wild Turkey. As he sat at the table in near-darkness, pondering the situation, his teeth began to grind. He’d just thought of a way to class up the neighborhood by leaps and bounds.
    Travis hoped they were enjoying their party down there. Because it was sure as shit going to be their last.
    He threw on some clothes and left the house for a few minutes. And found what he needed at a liquor store.
    * *
    The party finally seemed to wind down after two-thirty. Travis had been keeping an eye on their house from his back yard, returning inside his home only for an occasional mug of coffee. He watched as the lights downstairs winked out, and those upstairs, probably the bedrooms, came on briefly. Then all was dark, quiet.
    Travis folded up his lawn chair, left the obscuring shadows of the maple tree he’d stationed himself under. He returned the chair to his garage, then grabbed a five-foot length of two-by-four. Opened his car door to retrieve what he’d bought at the liquor store hours earlier.
    And then he waited. Give them time to fall asleep good and sound. Nestled snug in their beds, visions of MTV dancing in their heads. Sweet dreams, kids. Uncle Travis is going to pay a visit tonight. And he just might be your worst nightmare come true.
    Three o’clock. He left the sweaty