One-Eyed Jack Read Free Page A

protested.
    He glared at her over his
shoulder. “That’s too damn bad. Jack! ”
    He stormed up the stairs and tore
through the rooms, flinging doors open, turning on lights, and
shouting; he paid no attention to Katie as she cowered against the
wall, her blanket pulled up to her chin.
    Finally, he marched down the stairs.
“The little son of a bitch isn’t up there,” he said. “You looked in
the kitchen? And the basement?”
    The woman nodded, and I think she
might have been about to say something, but then the latch on the
front door clicked, and both of them turned to stare.
    The door swung open, and there was
Jack, standing in the doorway.
    He looked awful – pale and unsteady.
He had the expression of someone trying not to vomit. Something
dark was smeared on the front of his shirt. His right hand was on
the door, his left was stuffed in his pocket, and something about
his pose was horribly uncomfortable.
    “ Jack!” his mother
cried.
    “ There you are, you little bastard!”
his father bellowed.
    He looked at them, but didn’t say
anything.
    “ Get your ass in here!”
his father demanded, and Jack stepped into the house.
    “ Where
have you been ?” his mother asked.
    “ I took a walk,” he said,
his voice husky.
    “ At this hour?”
    “ I... lost track of time,”
he said.
    “ What’s on your shirt?”
his father asked, and his voice was lower than it had been for
several minutes.
    The stain on Jack’s shirt, which had
looked dark brown out on the stoop, was dark red in the foyer
light. His mother’s hand flew to her mouth as she
gasped.
    “ It looks like blood,” his
father said.
    Jack looked down, and brushed at the
stain with his right hand. His left stayed in his pocket, and I
knew that wasn’t natural.
    So did his father. “Let me see your
hands,” he said. “Both of them.”
    Jack did not argue, did not protest;
he held out his right hand, and then pulled his left from his
pocket, wincing as he did. He held it out.
    His father looked at Jack’s hands and
slumped against the foyer wall; his mother looked at them and
started screaming.
    I looked at the boy’s hands, and I
woke up.
    But before I woke, I saw that the
little finger on his left hand was gone, the side of his ring
finger was scraped raw, and a bit of blood-soaked rag had been
plastered over the wound as a bandage.
     
     

Chapter Two
     
    I didn’t have much of an appetite that
morning. Oh, I’ve seen much worse than a missing finger, but it
still wasn’t exactly my favorite way to start the day. Breakfast
was a bowl of Cheerios, and I didn’t bother with milk, or with a
spoon; I ate them with one hand while my other worked the mouse on
my old Dell, searching for any news stories about a kid losing a
finger.
    I didn’t find any, at least nothing
recent, or about a boy the right age.
    Whatever had happened to his finger,
it was a safe bet that was just the beginning of something, and
that I was going to get dragged into it.
    And since I was dreaming
about it, and it was happening to people I didn’t know in a place I
didn’t recognize, it was another safe bet that the supernatural was
involved. If a spook chopped off his finger, that was bad. That
was really bad.
Ordinarily the things I see at night can’t actually hurt anyone;
they aren’t substantial enough. When they can hurt people, it’s bad, because
how do you stop a phantom? Worrying about that killed the idea of a
big breakfast.
    Another reason for the weak appetite,
if I even needed another reason with the image of that kid’s hand
still in my head, was that I knew I needed to call Mel soon. It was
about time to talk to her anyway, just to stay in touch, and the
dreams made it more urgent – she always wanted to know about it
when I had the dreams.
    But it was too early; she wouldn’t be
up for hours. I’d have to wait until evening. Which meant a whole
day with that hanging over me.
    I didn’t really think she would know
anything, but no matter how