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Authors: Travis Thrasher
Tags: FIC042060
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before he had time to think. He went around to the window and caught a glimpse of the stranger’s back.
Too big to be him.
But this still could have something to do with Cillian. Maybe it was a friend that he sent to do the dirty work for him. To
vandalize the house or trash the lawn or scare the snot out of Dennis.
Dennis thought about calling the police. But he put the phone down, knowing he couldn’t involve them after what he’d done.
Another thought raced through his head. He should grab something to protect himself with. Dennis watched the man through various
windows. At one point he lost the trespasser and rushed upstairs for a better view.
Maybe he’s inside. Maybe he found a way to get inside.
The doors were unlocked. Dennis never locked them. Why should he?
He went to his study and got a baseball bat—a memento from his college days. It felt sturdy, and he knew it would do quite
a bit of damage against an intruder’s head.
Halfway down the staircase, he froze.
It was the doorbell.
The door was right in front of him, in front of the stairs.
His heart pounded, his hands throbbing as he gripped the smooth wood of the bat. For a second he thought about not answering,
but it rang again.
Hello? Any plagiarizers home?
They had to know he was home.
They? As in the group of them? Are there more outside?
He went to the door and opened it to see immense shoulders, a thick neck, a square jaw.
And death.
“Mr. Shore?”
Dennis nodded, the bat still in his hand.
“Just wanted to let you know I checked and things should all be good.”
“Checked what?”
“Your cable. I’m from Comcast. You called on Friday.”
“Oh, right,” Dennis said.
The bat suddenly felt heavy. The big guy glanced at it, then back at Dennis, then smiled.
“Well, if there’s anything else you need, just give us a call.”
“Sure,” Dennis said, closing the door, looking at the bat, and shaking his head.
5.
That night Cillian e-mailed him again.
It was another simple question.
Scared yet?
For a long time, Dennis just looked at the two words, wondering what Cillian was referring to. He finally broke down and e-mailed
him back.
Scared of what?
The reply came swiftly.
Scared of me. Scared of what you’ve done. Scared of what you haven’t done. Scared of tonight. Scared of tomorrow. Are you
scared, Dennis?
Dennis typed a response: NO. It was a lie of course.
You will be. I haven’t even started to mess with you and your life, but I will. And I will very soon, Dennis.
Sweet dreams.
2005
A young woman in black pants and a stylish cream jacket walked by, pushing her matching cream stroller. The baby inside was
silent. The woman was tall, good-looking. Her striking green eyes glanced at him with a smile that quickly disappeared. She
looked away, quickening her pace down the sidewalk.
Cillian had been sitting on this stone bench for an hour now. He had already finished reading two newspapers all the way through.
He was getting tired of looking at his watch.
In another fifteen minutes he would leave.
Behind him sat the courthouse with its cannons on the lawn. He sat on the edge of Third Street, watching a sea of wealthy
strangers walk past carrying bags from the dozens of local niche stores. A week ago, on this very same street, he had gotten
lucky. He had driven past and seen the author getting into his car. He had tried turning his own car around but hadn’t been
able to do it quick enough to follow him.
He asked a few people; they said Dennis Shore came by the post office once a day.
It was easy finding out where Dennis lived. Geneva, Illinois. But his home address was unlisted, as was his telephone number.
So Cillian had decided to come down and wait. It was close to the time he had seen him in passing last week.
Seven more minutes. Seven more minutes and he’d leave.
The summer day was hot, his forehead probably already sunburned.
An older woman in a wide flowery hat walked
Too big to be him.
But this still could have something to do with Cillian. Maybe it was a friend that he sent to do the dirty work for him. To
vandalize the house or trash the lawn or scare the snot out of Dennis.
Dennis thought about calling the police. But he put the phone down, knowing he couldn’t involve them after what he’d done.
Another thought raced through his head. He should grab something to protect himself with. Dennis watched the man through various
windows. At one point he lost the trespasser and rushed upstairs for a better view.
Maybe he’s inside. Maybe he found a way to get inside.
The doors were unlocked. Dennis never locked them. Why should he?
He went to his study and got a baseball bat—a memento from his college days. It felt sturdy, and he knew it would do quite
a bit of damage against an intruder’s head.
Halfway down the staircase, he froze.
It was the doorbell.
The door was right in front of him, in front of the stairs.
His heart pounded, his hands throbbing as he gripped the smooth wood of the bat. For a second he thought about not answering,
but it rang again.
Hello? Any plagiarizers home?
They had to know he was home.
They? As in the group of them? Are there more outside?
He went to the door and opened it to see immense shoulders, a thick neck, a square jaw.
And death.
“Mr. Shore?”
Dennis nodded, the bat still in his hand.
“Just wanted to let you know I checked and things should all be good.”
“Checked what?”
“Your cable. I’m from Comcast. You called on Friday.”
“Oh, right,” Dennis said.
The bat suddenly felt heavy. The big guy glanced at it, then back at Dennis, then smiled.
“Well, if there’s anything else you need, just give us a call.”
“Sure,” Dennis said, closing the door, looking at the bat, and shaking his head.
5.
That night Cillian e-mailed him again.
It was another simple question.
Scared yet?
For a long time, Dennis just looked at the two words, wondering what Cillian was referring to. He finally broke down and e-mailed
him back.
Scared of what?
The reply came swiftly.
Scared of me. Scared of what you’ve done. Scared of what you haven’t done. Scared of tonight. Scared of tomorrow. Are you
scared, Dennis?
Dennis typed a response: NO. It was a lie of course.
You will be. I haven’t even started to mess with you and your life, but I will. And I will very soon, Dennis.
Sweet dreams.
2005
A young woman in black pants and a stylish cream jacket walked by, pushing her matching cream stroller. The baby inside was
silent. The woman was tall, good-looking. Her striking green eyes glanced at him with a smile that quickly disappeared. She
looked away, quickening her pace down the sidewalk.
Cillian had been sitting on this stone bench for an hour now. He had already finished reading two newspapers all the way through.
He was getting tired of looking at his watch.
In another fifteen minutes he would leave.
Behind him sat the courthouse with its cannons on the lawn. He sat on the edge of Third Street, watching a sea of wealthy
strangers walk past carrying bags from the dozens of local niche stores. A week ago, on this very same street, he had gotten
lucky. He had driven past and seen the author getting into his car. He had tried turning his own car around but hadn’t been
able to do it quick enough to follow him.
He asked a few people; they said Dennis Shore came by the post office once a day.
It was easy finding out where Dennis lived. Geneva, Illinois. But his home address was unlisted, as was his telephone number.
So Cillian had decided to come down and wait. It was close to the time he had seen him in passing last week.
Seven more minutes. Seven more minutes and he’d leave.
The summer day was hot, his forehead probably already sunburned.
An older woman in a wide flowery hat walked
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