Seduction and Pursuit Read online

  I turn on my computer, sip coffee nervously, and start to research my son’s latest ailment.

  Pinworms are small white roundworms that live in your upper digestive tract. At night, the female pinworms crawl out of your ass and expel their eggs while you sleep. The eggs make you itch, and when you scratch yourself you get the eggs under your nails, and then in your mouth, and thus back in your guts—the circle of life. According to Google, it’s one of the most common parasites. Over forty percent of the human population has or has had a pinworm infection. Most probably don’t even know it.

  A trace of sandalwood cologne penetrates my concentration, and I turn to see the office intern, Christian, leaning casually against the gray wall of my cubicle. He wears a light blue Oxford shirt, perfectly fitted and tucked, no blousing. His dark hair’s long, but neat. When I look up, he moves in closer, eyeing my computer screen. “No solitaire this morning?” he observes.

  I’ve been so pre-occupied, I almost forgot about Christian. Today is his last day in the office. “Do you know what a pinworm is?” I ask him.

  He lifts an eyebrow. I motion him closer and he stands behind my faux-leather chair to watch my computer screen while I play an online video taken by a microscopic medical camera. The video shows hundreds of worms crawling on the glossy red walls of someone’s intestines. Christian sums it up perfectly: “Nasty.”

  “But harmless. Almost always harmless.” I smile cheerlessly. “You could have them and not even know it.”

  He looks a little concerned for me. “Is that so?”

  “Sorry,” I say, realizing what I’m talking about—and who I’m talking to. “It’s just my son has these things. Here I am this morning, trying to work the damn coffee machine, and Troy comes in and says his turd has a tail...”

  Christian smirks. “How is he?”

  I shrug. “He still wanted to go to school.” I sigh and shake my head. “I should’ve been washing his bed sheets more often…”

  “He probably caught it from school,” Christian assures me. “Those shit-holes are incubators for disease.”

  I mistrust Christian’s smile; that damn cocky smile. “I’ll start washing his sheets every week,” I say again.

  Hoping vaguely that he’ll leave, I swivel back to face my computer. The worms greet me on the monitor and I feel a pang of nausea as I close the web browser. The desktop background on my PC is a tranquil image of the sunset over the Mediterranean. My husband used to take photos for calendars before he died. I always thought this photo was his most beautiful.

  Behind me Christian says, “They were talking about us in the break room.”

  * * *

  As I fix my make-up in the mirror, I notice my cell phone at the bottom of my purse and remember I turned it off before the meeting this morning. It’s been off all day. I turn it on now, then stuff it absently back into the purse as the start-up ringtone plays.

  A moment later, a chime announces a new voicemail.

  Immediately I start to sweat. My first thought is of Christian, of course. Would the boy never give up?

  When I retrieve the phone, I’m surprised to see the missed call was not from Christian after all, but from some number I only vaguely recognize. Even as I put the phone to my ear, I remember—with no lessening of anxiety—that the number is Troy’s elementary school.

  The voice message plays:

  “Hello, Ms. Banks!” It’s a young woman, her secretarial cheer almost bordering on satire. For a moment I wonder if I’ve won some kind of award. “This is the Principal’s office at Pembroke Elementary. Sorry for contacting you, but it’s school policy. This call is just to inform you that your son Troy Banks was reported as absent from school today. If he has a doctor’s note, please have him bring that in tomorrow. If you have any questions, just give us a call. Thanks and have a great day!”

  I’m not sure I heard the message right the first time so I have to play it back, really listening to the words. I stare at my own confused expression in the bathroom mirror as the message repeats.

  Troy Banks was reported as absent from school today.

  I smirk, shaking my head. The office must have made a mistake. Troy got on the bus this morning, and I know he wouldn’t hook school.

  Still, I go ahead and dial my home phone number, just to see what Troy has to say about it. By now he’ll have been home a couple hours, probably watching cartoons and finishing whatever homework he didn’t do on the bus.

  The phone rings. And rings. And rings. Meanwhile, my smirk begins to fade. By the time my home answering machine picks up, my lips have parted in stunned disbelief.

  “Hi, you’ve reached Meredith and Troy Banks. Leave a message!”

  I hesitate after the beep. “Uh, Troy, honey. It’s Mom. Pick up.” I pause. “Did you try to call me earlier? You know I like to hear from you as soon as you get home. Sorry my phone was off. Are you there?” Still silence. “Young man, if you’re watching cartoons and ignoring me, you’ll be in trouble. I got a call from the principal’s office today, and I need to talk to you, now. Troy? Troy?”

  The answering machine beeps again. My thirty second message is up. Where the hell is Troy?

  Troy Banks was reported as absent from school today.

  Then I’m stumbling across the parking lot, doing everything at once: fumbling with my keys, climbing in my old Corolla, cursing as I hit the wrong buttons on my phone in my efforts to redial the number to Troy’s elementary school. While it rings I start the engine and pull away, awkwardly using one hand to steer.

  The phone rings long enough for me to wonder, at five-thirty, whether anyone is even still in the principal’s office. Finally, an older woman—not the one who left the message—picks up with a weary, “Hello?”

  “Yes, hello.” My voice shakes a little, but somehow I maintain my well-practiced phone demeanor. “My name is Meredith Banks. I received a voicemail earlier today, telling me my son was absent from school?”

  “Mm-hm.” The woman on the phone practically interrupts, with a bored impatience that immediately infuriates me. “What’s the child’s name?”

  “Troy Banks,” I continue. “But the thing is, I’m sure he was in school today. So it must be a mistake.”

  I can hear something rustle on the other end of the line. Then the woman says, “Mm-hm. Troy Banks. He’s here on the absentee list.”

  “But how can that be?” I demand. “I put him on the bus myself this morning.”

  “He may have got on the bus, but he wasn’t in any classes. You are aware of our absence policy, Ms. Banks?”

  “What are you talking about?” I nearly shriek. “How was he not in class?”

  The woman sighs, then I hear more paper shuffling. “Looks like this is the first time this has happened?” Her voice is softer, suddenly, more empathetic. “Don’t worry. Even good kids play hooky sometimes. Be glad he’s getting it out of his system while he’s young.”

  I stop at a red light, my fingers fidgeting on the tattered cloth steering wheel. My mind isn’t thinking clearly and it takes a moment to understand what the woman’s saying. “You think he ditched school on purpose?”

  “Ms. Banks, have you got home from work yet?” Before I can answer, the woman says, “I bet when you get home, he’s waiting for you like everything’s normal. Lot of kids were absent today. Maybe he met a friend. Just make sure he knows he can’t get away with it. Have a talk about the rules. Five unexcused absences and he could be suspended.”

  “That’s not like Troy,” I say in a choked voice. God, this is the longest red light ever.

  “Is there anything else I can help you with?” she says.

  I splutter for a moment, then the light changes green and I simply hang up on her, tossing the phone in the passenger seat. The little Corolla whirs off as I floor the gas pedal. In another minute I’m peeling onto the highway, weaving in and out of traffic. My house seems a million miles away. Everything seems broken up, dreamy, like a stop-motion film.r />
  Sure. Troy just skipped out on school deliberately. Lied to my face about wanting to go in, about playing some game he invented at recess. Got on the bus, then ditched his classes to do God knows what.

  It sounds absolutely nothing like Troy, yet all the same I’m eager to believe it. I want to believe this is all just misbehavior, however out of character. That seems better than any alternative.

  He’ll be at home when I get there. He’ll be safe and at home. That’s what I tell myself.

  But I keep driving faster.

  As I reach my development, I screech past a speed limit sign that reads 10 miles per hour at triple that speed. I nearly crash-land in the reserved space outside my townhouse and race to the front door. The keys tremble in my hand as I turn them in the lock and step inside.

  “Troy?” I call, dropping my purse. “Are you here?”

  No one answers. I see no backpack, no shoes or socks strewn about the entryway. My heart pounds in the silence like a tribal drum.

  “Troy, baby?”

  I look through every room, the kitchen, the living room, up the stairs. There’s no sign of him. His bedroom is silent, the bedding still unmade from this morning. His dinosaur dolls sit neatly along the wall, seeming to watch me with vacant eyes.

  “Troy!” I shout, pushing back the sweaty hair from my forehead. I pace about the room, feeling light-headed. “Where are you? Troy?”

  I collapse to my knees, tears running down my cheeks. I hug his T-Rex doll to my chest and lean my head against his bed, starting to sob openly.

  “Troy!”

  My voice echoes through the house, and afterward a silence seems to fall over the entire neighborhood. The birds and insects outside have all hushed.

  And in the silence, my doorbell rings.

  At first I’m too overcome to even register the sound. The bell rings again, then again and again—politely at first, then insistently. Like a child.

  Hope springs in my breast and I stumble downstairs, nearly tripping on my own feet in my haste. Whoever’s outside is laying on the doorbell, now, so the sound is one continuous drone.

  It must be Troy, it has to be…

  “Coming!”

  The ringing stops abruptly at my voice. I’m reaching for the door knob, but at the last moment something gives me pause. I remember how Christian surprised me the night before and a sudden fear makes me look through the peephole first.

  There seems to be no one outside the door—or if there is, he’s too short to be seen.

  It’s him!

  Breathlessly I throw the locks, pull open the door, his name already on my lips.

  Then I stop short. A man is squatting on my front stoop. As the door opens, he stands, dark against the setting sun, and turns toward me.

  The stranger’s face is so black with soot and filth it seems to bear no features, save for two blue eyes, fixed and piercing. His greasy hair hangs in long strands, so thin his scalp shines through in patches. A thick and dirty beard encircles his face, sharp and coarse as steel wire. He wears a dark green army surplus trench coat over layers of frayed and soiled clothing.

  He lurches toward me and I scream, leaping back into the house, back behind the front door. He looks around the darkening neighborhood in a nervous way, and I can smell the stink of rotten eggs and human feces, pulsing from him in waves.

  “What do you want?” I demand, hiding behind the door like a shield. My voice is small and frail as a mouse.

  The homeless man peers in past me with wandering, searching eyes, his expression almost confused. His mostly toothless mouth works with wet smacking sounds.

  Suddenly his bright eyes fix on me with alarming concentration. What comes next is a moment I remember for the rest of my life.

  In a flat and toneless voice, he starts to sing:

  “Meredith Banks

  This song’s for you

  You broke my heart

  So I broke yours, too

  How does it feel

  When the lonely one’s you?

  Don’t worry, darling

  ‘Cuz this much is true:

  Roses are red

  Violets are blue

  One day very soon

  I’m coming for you.”

  * * *

  Still I say nothing, only clench the faux-leather steering wheel in a death grip and drive. Instinctively I know I have to get control of this situation somehow. They always say not to go with the kidnapper. You never go along with the kidnapper, no matter what.

  I can feel the pistol in my waistband, pressing uncomfortably against my hip.

  He leans forward so he’s right behind me. I can almost smell the mint on his breath. “Can I just say I find this side of you a turn-on?” he says, in his gentle baritone.

  After what they did to me in Room 213, this is more than I can take. My eyes immediately tear up as I drive. “Shh,” he consoles me, stroking my hair. “Here, pull into that McDonalds. I want to show you something.”

  In the same gentle, coercive voice, he urges me to the dim edges of the parking lot, beside the dumpster. Trash spills over onto the pavement, teeming with flies. Christian asks for the keys from the ignition and I hand them over without resistance. My heart is pounding as I wait for the right moment. I still don’t know if he’s armed.

  He gets out of the back, comes around and opens the passenger door. He has to ease his legs in around my backpack on the passenger side floor, and this slows him down—my only chance.

  Even as he climbs in next to me, I wrench the handgun from behind me and point it straight in his face.

  Across the barrel of the gun he looks at me almost shyly, wearing a small smile. His long hair parts neatly down the center. His hand is hidden in one of the pockets of his black leather jacket.

  “Don’t move, motherfucker,” I growl. My back is pressed to the door and the gun is only inches from his face.

  He sighs slowly. “Good seeing you again, too. You look like hell. What did they do to you?”

  He starts to reach toward me, as if to touch my face. I press the tip of the gun to his forehead to shove him back. “Put your hands up, slowly,” I say. He doesn’t move. “Get your hand out of your pocket! Now!”

  His smile is almost sad. “You think I want to hurt you? I don’t want any of this. All I want is to love you.”

  “I’ll shoot you, Christian,” I whisper.

  “I believe you would,” he whispers back. “But you know what’s funny? I feel closer to you now than ever before. After watching you, seeing how you coped. You’re such a good mother. And you’re just like me! Driven by a primal urge, some evolutionary compulsion. Even willing to kill to get what you want.”

  This is like a knife to my belly. Willing to kill? What does he mean by that? I start to sweat in worry for my son. “It was an accident,” I say, shakily. “I didn’t mean to kill them.”

  “Shh, it’s okay. I like that you did it. It shows what a good mother you are. You’ll stop at nothing to find Troy. Isn’t that right?”

  “Yes. That’s right.” The gun trembles in my hand.

  “Then do it,” he says.

  I stare at him, not comprehending. His smile never wavers. He turns slightly, raises his free hand very slowly, and points a finger at his own forehead. I let him do this, too surprised to react.

  “Do it,” he says again, in his eerily calm voice. “Shoot me.” His smile widens almost imperceptibly. “And never see your son again.”

  * * *

  SO DAMN BEAUTIFUL: THE LONELY ONE

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  About A.E. Hodge

  At the nightclub of awesome reads, wizard of weird A. E. Hodge is spinning a pulse-pounding mix of horror, dark fantasy, and thrillers! A fugitive from small-town America, Hodge found refuge in a steady diet of fiction, from RPGs and anime to Stephen King novels and Tarantino flicks. Now he weaves his love for all things twisted, disturbing, and darkly beautiful into his own stories. Often featuring intricate plots, brutal violence, morally gray characters, surreal circumstances, grim settings, and thought-provoking themes, Hodge's work explores fear—and triumph over fear—in all its forms, from the mundane to the magical to the downright morose.

  A.E. Hodge is the author of "Spoiled Lunch and Other Creepy Tales" and the "So Damn Beautiful" horror-thriller series. He lives outside Baltimore, MD with his girlfriend and their dog, a Papillon named Sierra (the brains behind the operation).

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