Jack & Jill

woke up feeling scared. Feeling very alone. Feeling
trapped.
Feeling quite sad, actually.
    No happy, happy. No joy, joy.
    He was in a cold, greasy sweat that grossed him out completely. In a dream that he remembered now, he had been murdering people, then burying them under a fieldstone fireplace at his grandparents’ country home in Leesburg. He’d been having that same dream for years, ever since he could remember,
ever since he was a Ida.
    But was it a dream, or had I committed the grisly murders?
he wondered as he opened his eyes. He tried to focus on the surroundings.
Where the hell am I?
    Then he remembered where he was, where he had come to sleep for the night. What a mindblower! What a cool idea he’d had.
    The song,
his song,
blared inside his head:
I’m a loser, baby.
So why don’t you kill me?
    This hiding place was cool as shit. Or maybe he was just being too stupid and careless. Cool as shit? Or dumb and dumber? You be the judge.
    He was in his own house, up on the third floor.
    He wrapped his mind around the idea that he was “safe and sound” for now. Man, he loved the power of that thought.
    He was in total control. He
was
mission control. He could be as big and important as Jack and Jill. Hell, he could be bigger and better than those trippy assholes. He knew that he could. He could stomp Jack and Jill’s asses.
    He felt around on the floor for his trusty backpack.
Where the hell is his stuff?… Okay. There it is. Everything is cool.
He fumbled inside—located his flashlight. He flicked the ON switch.
    “Let there be light,” he whispered.
“Wah-lah!”
    Awhh, too bad sports fans—he was definitely in the attic of his home. This wasn’t a dream. He
was
the Truth School killer, after all. He shined the bright light down on his wrist-watch. It was a twelfth-birthday present. It was the kind of sophisticated watch that pilots wore.
Wow,
he was so damn impressed! Maybe he could study to be a jet pilot after this was all behind him. Learn to fly an F-16.
    It was 4:00 A.M. on the jet pilot’s watch!
Must be 4:00 A.M., then.
    “The hour of the werewolf,” he whispered softly. It was time to come down out of the attic. It was time to continue to make his mark in the world. Something cool and amazing had to happen now.
    Perfect murders.
    Had to, had to, had to.

CHAPTER
75

    HE LET the bulky foldaway stairs drop down very slowly to the second floor of the house. His house. If his foster parents happened to get up for a pee right now—BIG PROBLEMS FOR HIM.
    BIG SURPRISE FOR THEM, THOUGH.
    MAJOR SHITSTORM FOR EVERYBODY CONCERNED.
    He was having a little trouble with his breathing. None of this was easy now. He needed to set the heavy, unwieldy stairs down quietly on the second floor, but there was a little
thud
right at the end.
    “Damn you.
Loser,”
he whispered.
    He still couldn’t exactly catch his breath. His body was covered with a thick coat of sweat, the kind horses break on a morning workout. He had seen that phenomenon on his grandparents’ farm. Never forgot it:
sweat that almost turned into this frothy cream, right before your eyes.
    “Pusillanimous,” he whispered, mocking his own cowardice. “Chickenshit bastard. Punk of the month. Loser, man.” His theme song again.
    He tried to let some of the icy panic and nervousness pass. He took long, slow, deep breaths as he paused at the top of the folding stairs. This was so freaky. It was helter fucking skelter, in real life, in real time.
    He finally began to climb down the wobbly wooden stairway, on
wobbly wooden legs
that felt like stilts. He was being as careful and quiet as he could be.
    He felt a little better as he got to the bottom. Terra firma.
    He walked on his tiptoes down the upstairs hallway to the door of the master bedroom. He opened the door and was immediately struck with a blast of really cold air.
    His foster father kept the window open, even in December, even when it fucking snowed.
He would.
The arctic cold probably kept his silver-blond crew cut short. Saved him on haircuts. What a super jerk-off the guy was.
    “Do you screw her in the cold dark?” he whispered under his breath. That sounded about right, too.
    He walked up real close to their king-size bed.
Real close.
He stood at their altar of love, their sacred throne.
    How many times had he imagined a moment like this?
This
very moment.
    How many other kids had imagined this same scene a thousand thousand times? But then done nothing about