Free The Hand That Feeds: A Horror Novel by Michael W. Garza Page A

then close. He still couldn’t find the hammer. The sound of a truck revving was interrupted by Angela running into the room.
    “What the hell are you doing?” she asked.
    “I lost the damn hammer,” John said.
    Angela pulled at him to get up. “He’s getting away.”
    He got to his feet and headed back down the hall, but once he reached the front door, he still didn’t have a plan. He pulled the door open in time to see a truck backing down the driveway. In a plume of smoke, the tires spun out as it pulled away.
    “Go get him,” Angela said, pushing past him and out the door. “What are you waiting for?”
    John turned to face her, she was still naked.
    “What do you want me to do? He’s gone.”
    Angela eyed him coldly and stomped her heel on the ground. “You’re going to fix this,” she said. “You’re going to fix this or we’re finished.” She didn’t give him time to respond before she turned around, headed back in the house, and slammed the door behind her.
     

 
    9
     
    John sat out on the front porch for several hours. He wanted a drink , but wasn’t willing to go back in the house to get it. He knew what was coming. Angela hadn’t gotten what she wanted and there was going to be hell to pay. He tried to rationalize it as long as he could. She was only doing what was best for their son. It was John’s responsibility to take care of the man once she got him in the house, and he didn’t do that.
    It was hard for John to understand how they’d got to this point. Love was a crazy thing and he kept telling himself this was all an extension of that craziness. He strolled up and down the driveway stuck in his thoughts. Angela looked out the living room window several times, but he hadn’t seen her in over an hour. He was hoping to wait her out before going in. He planned to sneak in, try and hold off the furry until the morning. She was bound to calm down by then.
    The cold was beginning to get to him. His t-shirt and jeans did little to keep him warm. He rubbed his hands over his arms and eyed the living room for movement. He waited as long as he could before deciding it was safe.
    John worked his way around to the rear of the house and tried the back door. The knob turned with ease and he slipped inside quickly. A wall of heat hit him in the face as he entered. He hadn’t realized how cold it was. He saw no sign of Angela, heading for the kitchen with swift, silent steps. Within a few seconds, he had a bottle of Jack Daniels in one hand and his last pack of cigarettes in the other. He stepped past the kitchen table without looking around, opened the back door, and popped outside.
    A few minutes later, the cold was no longer an issue. He took several long swigs from the bottle and lit up a second cigarette before the first one was out. He spent another hour in the back of the house and by the time he came in, his concern for his wife’s mood was all but gone. The back door popped open and he tossed the empty bottle of Jack on the ground before he stepped through.
    “You found your nerve?”
    John’s head shot up and he found Angela standing at the entrance to the hallway. She’d covered up in one of his old work shirts, but it didn’t leave a lot to the imagination. He found he had plenty of liquid courage. “I wasn’t looking for nerve.” He tossed the pack of cigarettes on the table.
    “I thought you quit?”
    “I started back,” he said and headed into the kitchen.
    Angela stayed in the hall as he turned on the kitchen faucet. He took a few minutes to clean his hands and rub some cold water on his face and through his hair. John knew she was watching him, but he didn’t sense the anger he’d assumed he was going to get.
    “I know, I know,” he said as he stepped out of the kitchen and leaned against the entryway. “I messed up.”
    Angela eyed him long enough for it to be uncomfortable then smiled. She crossed the dining room slowly , not turning her head. Her eyes were