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Bow-man's Wo-ods, ta-king the long way back ho-me so no-body wo-uld see them.
Timmy and Do-ug hal-ted and tur-ned. Barry was fran-tic, his exp-res-si-on one
of sick fe-ar.
"What's wrong?" Timmy as-ked.
"My watch& "
"You bre-ak it?"
"No. I think I lost it."
Timmy felt a sur-ge of pa-nic. "Back at Saw-yer's pla-ce? Oh man, if they
find it& "
"I know." Barry fi-nis-hed his tho-ught. "Then we're scre-wed. My na-me's
eng-ra-ved on the bot-tom. Mom got it for me for my birth-day last ye-ar. God
damn it, I don' t be-li-eve this."
"We've got to go back and get it," Timmy sa-id. "We can't just le-ave it
lying the-re."
"Are you crazy?" Do-ug swat-ted a mos-qu-ito. "We can't go back the-re.
Mr. Saw-yer pro-bably al-re-ady cal-led the cops."
"Well, I can't go ho-me wit-ho-ut it," Barry sa-id. He so-un-ded
ter-ri-fi-ed. "My old man will ha-ve a cow if he finds out I lost that watch."
"You to-ok it off whi-le we we-re wor-king," Do-ug told him.
"Are you su-re?" Barry as-ked, so-un-ding ho-pe-ful.
Doug shrug-ged. "Pretty su-re. Kind of. Well, may-be& "
Timmy tho-ught for a mo-ment. "You know, now that he men-ti-oned it, I
don't re-mem-ber se-e-ing it on yo-ur wrist af-ter that. Did you ta-ke it off
in the gra-ve-yard?"
"I don't know. I can't re-mem-ber. So-me-ti-mes I do, be-ca-use my arms
get swe-aty and the band slips off. So, may-be."
"Well, if you did ta-ke it off, whe-re wo-uld you ha-ve left it?"
Barry so-un-ded very clo-se to te-ars. "On one of the tombs-to-nes, or
may-be in-si-de the shed."
Timmy tur-ned to Do-ug. "How's yo-ur ank-le?"
"It fe-els bet-ter. Burns a lit-tle, but I'm okay."
"Good." Timmy was surp-ri-sed. The fact that Do-ug hadn' t ta-ken the
op-por-tu-nity to comp-la-in abo-ut his inj-ury and ma-ke it out to be wor-se
than it re-al-ly was me-ant that he un-ders-to-od the gra-vity of the
si-tu-ati-on. "Okay, Barry, don 't worry. We'll help you lo-ok for it. It's
got to be aro-und the-re so-mew-he-re."
"I ho-pe so. Ot-her-wi-se& "
He tra-iled off, but they he-ard the fe-ar in his vo-ice.
Timmy tho-ught aga-in of Barry's out-burst du-ring the-ir at-tack on
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Catc-her. Des-pi-te the fact that Barry had a scar on his calf from when the
dog had latc-hed on-to him al-most two ye-ars ago, what had hap-pe-ned to-day
hadn't be-en Barry's fa-ult. It had be-en his fat-her' s. Barry 's body had
plenty of scars and bru-ises, and only one of them was from the dog.
So-me-ti-mes in the af-ter-no-on, Timmy' s mot-her watc-hed talk shows (mo-re
of-ten now that they ' d just ins-tal-led the new cab-le te-le-vi-si-on with
ni-ne-te-en chan-nels); on the talk shows, they tal-ked abo-ut abu-sed kids
and how they las-hed out at ot-hers as a re-sult. It was the-ir way of
de-aling with it, of fe-eling po-wer-ful ins-te-ad of help-less. So-me-ti-mes,
they tur-ned in-to scho-ol bul-li-es. Ot-her ti-mes, se-ri-al kil-lers. Barry
wasn 't eit-her of tho-se, but his ac-ti-ons that af-ter-no-on had
de-fi-ni-tely be-en a war-ning sign. They' d ne-ver dis-cus-sed it, but Timmy
and Do-ug both knew what Clark Smelt-zer did be-hind clo-sed do-ors. And what
they didn 't know, they co-uld gu-ess.
And Do-ug's mom-so-met-hing was up with her, too. Timmy wasn' t su-re
what, but he had his sus-pi-ci-ons, and they tur-ned his sto-mach.
Cer-ta-inly, it was mo-re than just ig-no-ring her son. In-de-ed, he was
pretty su-re that when she was drunk, Ca-rol Ke-iser pa-id too much
at-ten-ti-on to her son, the kind only hin-ted at in the stack of Pent-ho-use
Fo-rum's that lay hid-den in-si-de the Du-go-ut. The-re was a word for it, and
that word was in-cest. He'd se-en that on the talk shows as well.
Monsters? They we-ren't mons-ters. And Catc-her wasn' t a mons-ter,
eit-her. For all they knew, Mr. Saw-yer be-at the dog. Tra-ined him to be
me-an, to at-tack. It wasn 't li-ke the dog's be-ha-vi-or was anyt-hing new.
He' d be-en cha-sing them, cha-sing an-yo-ne who pas-sed by the la-ne, for
ye-ars, and Mr. Saw-yer had be-en told abo-ut it re-pe-atedly. He 'd do-ne
not-hing, re-fu-sing to tie the dog up or ins-tall a pen or fen-ce. Was that
Catc-her's fa-ult? No, Catc-her wasn't a mons-ter. Ne-it-her we-re they.
Adults we-re the re-al mons-ters. May-be not his own pa-rents, and may-be
not Re-ve-rend Mo-ore or so-me of the ot-hers, but still, the-re we-re a lot
of them aro-und. He saw them every ti-me he watc-hed the news (unli-ke most
twel-ve-ye-ar-olds, Timmy's mot-her had ins-til-led in him an ap-pre-ci-ati-on
and in-te-rest in cur-rent events, and en-co-ura-ged him to watch the eve-ning
news and re-ad her we-ekly co-pi-es of Ti-me ma-ga-zi-ne, which he did.) He
saw them, too, in his co-mic bo-oks and Hardy Boys myste-ri-es.
Saw them when he lo-oked in-to his two best fri-end's ha-un-ted eyes.
"We bet-ter get go-ing," Do-ug sa-id. "It's get-ting la-te."
They con-ti-nu-ed along the nar-row, win-ding tra-il, duc-king un-der tree
limbs and pus-hing past thorns and vi-nes un-til they re-ac-hed the ed-ge of
Bow-man' s Wo-ods. Then they cros-sed An-son Ro-ad and ma-de the-ir way
thro-ugh the lo-wer por-ti-on of the ce-me-tery. Barry 's fat-her was
now-he-re in sight, but the-re we-re signs he' d be-en the-re. The
gra-ves-to-nes had be-en re-tur-ned to the-ir up-right po-si-ti-ons and fresh
earth had fil-led in the ho-les. A ca-re-less ci-ga-ret-te butt, one of Clark
Smelt-zer ' s brand, lay ne-arby.
"Looks li-ke my old man's do-ne for the day," Barry ob-ser-ved. "Ho-pe
he's not in the shed."
Silently, Timmy and Do-ug both wis-hed for the sa-me thing.
The boys cros-sed the ce-me-tery and ca-uti-o-usly ap-pro-ac-hed the
di-la-pi-da-ted yel-low uti-lity shed. It was de-ser-ted; the-re was no sign
of Clark Smelt-zer. The do-ors we-re shut, and Barry ' s fat-her had the key
to the pad-lock, so they went aro-und to the back. The-re, half hid-den by a
pi-le of red clay lef-to-ver from the new gra-ves (the sa-me dirt Clark
Smelt-zer had used ear-li-er to sho-re up the sin-king tombs-to-nes) was a
bo-ar-ded up win-dow.
Unbeknownst to Barry's fat-her, two of the bo-ards we-re lo-ose, and had
be-en furt-her lo-ose-ned by the three boys with the help of a claw ham-mer
and crow-bar.
In the wo-ods be-yond the shed, a twig snap-ped. The-ir he-ads swi-ve-led
to-ward the so-und.
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"Just a squ-ir-rel," Timmy gu-es-sed.
Turning back to the win-dow, Barry pul-led the bo-ards away. The rusty
na-ils scre-ec-hed as they par-ted the wo-od. He pul-led him-self thro-ugh and
craw-led in-si-de. Timmy fol-lo-wed right be-hind him. Then they pul-led
Do-ug, who co-uldn ' t squ-e-eze in-to the nar-row spa-ce by him-self,
thro-ugh the win-dow as well. With a gre-at ef-fort, he clam-be-red in-si-de,
gas-ping for bre-ath and comp-la-ining abo-ut his inj-ured fo-ot. His fri-ends
dis-re-gar-ded it. Had his fo-ot not be-en inj-ured, Do-ug wo-uld ha-ve
comp-la-ined abo-ut his no-ne-xis-tent asth-ma, or his back, or anyt-hing
el-se that co-uld be ag-gra-va-ted by the physi-cal act of clim-bing.
There we-re no lights in-si-de the shed, and the only il-lu-mi-na-ti-on
ca-me from the paltry light fil-te-ring thro-ugh the mis-sing bo-ards, cracks
in the wall, and a se-cond dirty win-dow. The tin ro-of sag-ged in pla-ces,
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