It wasn't his usual direction. He was headed toward Toby's home.

Toby dropped to his knees next to his son, who was coughing up blood and clutching helplessly at his shredded chest. Toby pulled out his cell phone to call for help.

No reception out in the forest. There almost never was.

"Why did you hurt him?" Toby asked, sobbing. He knew the answer, but felt the need to say something something instead of just silently watching Garrett die. instead of just silently watching Garrett die.

Gotta kill the monster before you bring a kid into the world.

Toby couldn't run for help. It wasn't worth pretending, not even to say that he'd done everything he possibly could. He couldn't even say anything reassuring, tell his son that everything would be fine, that he'd called 911 and a helicopter had been dispatched.

When your body was torn up like that, you weren't going to survive.

"What should I tell Marianne?" Toby asked.

Garrett opened his mouth and blood ran down the sides of his face. He stared at the sky and died.

Toby stood up, picked up the gun, staggered away from his son's body, and walked away from the shack, going after Owen.

The gashes on his chest from Owen's talons hurt like crazy, which Toby took as a good sign. When the pain started to seep from his body it was time to get worried.

This would be his last time walking through these woods. He wished his final journey could've been a peaceful stroll, like hundreds of others had been, and not what he was doing now, stumbling through the night, barely able to keep his flashlight steady, shirt covered with blood.

But this was typical of life, wasn't it? You tended to quit doing things after the bad times, and not the good times.

Dear God, what kind of cynical bullshit was that? Regardless of how this turned out, Toby was going to make one more trek out to Owen's home, even if he did it in a goddamn wheelchair, just to prove himself wrong.

The pain was starting to fade a bit.

He emerged from the woods, half expecting to see Owen in his backyard, cowering next to the back of the house, scared and wanting his friend to tell him that everything was going to be all right.

The backyard was empty.

What would Owen do? Was he just running around the forest? Was he lying somewhere, bleeding to death? He wouldn't have left the woods, would he? He would have stayed where he felt the safest.

Toby went inside. He couldn't hide this. Not the death of his own son.

He turned on the television as he peeled off his shirt to examine his wounds, praying not to see a newscaster telling the local viewing audience about reports of a wild animal on the loose, much like one that had gone on a rampage thirty-five years ago.

"...at least two confirmed dead, in a story that's almost too bizarre to believe..."

CHAPTER T THIRTY-FOUR.

Somebody had captured video images of Owen with their digital camera. The footage of the mauling was online before the police even arrived at the scene.

It was a middle-aged couple, just walking down the sidewalk. Probably in their own neighborhood, though it was too early to say, since the bodies hadn't yet been identified. It was almost comical the way the man spun around, sort of like a dancer doing a pirouette when Owen's claw got him in the face.

Toby drove toward where the murders had occurred-not too far from where he lived, maybe four miles. Quite a bit farther than he would've expected Owen to be, at least after being shot twice. Rage and fear must have kept him moving quickly.

He had no idea how to go about accomplishing his task, but Toby knew that he had to kill Owen. He couldn't let him hurt-massacre-anybody else. Decades of friendship or not, he had to destroy the monster.

How was he supposed to find him, though? Keep his car window rolled down and listen for screams?

"Nothing has been confirmed by authorities yet," said the voice on the radio, "but there may be a third victim tonight, apparently a sixteen-year-old girl..."

Christ...

Blue and red flashing lights up ahead. Toby had considered calling the police and telling them what he knew, but what useful information could he convey? That the creature's name was Owen? That it had killed his son?

Why hadn't he shot him all those years ago? Blown him away with the shotgun when he had the chance?

Stop it. This wasn't the time to wallow in regret. This wasn't the time to wallow in regret.

"...strongly recommend that you remain indoors until this situation has been resolved..."

"Excellent advice," Toby told the radio.

He turned right, away from the parked police cars, then slowed down as he drove down the suburb street. "Owen!" he shouted out the window. "Come out, Owen! It's Toby!" If the police stopped him and asked, he'd say he was calling for his grandson.

"Owen!"

He drove slowly around the entire four-block neighborhood, constantly shouting Owen's name, but there was no sign of his friend. It looked like the police were starting to cordon off the area, and a young police officer waved him through as he drove past.

What now?

Where would Owen go?

What a stupid question. There was no logical place a wild animal would go during a killing spree. He just had to follow the trail of bodies until he got lucky, or until the police took Owen down first.

"Owen!"

He turned into the next subdivision. It was a much wealthier neighborhood than the first, one that Toby occasionally liked to drive through at Christmastime because of their rather spectacular display of lights.

He continued to shout Owen's name.

"What's wrong?" asked a man walking along the sidewalk. "You lose a dog?"

"No. And you need to get inside."

"Why? What's going on?"

"Just get inside. It's not safe." Toby turned the corner. Was this a complete waste of time? Maybe he would would be better off just turning himself in to the police and telling them everything? be better off just turning himself in to the police and telling them everything?

"Owen!"

And then Owen was there.

He stood between two homes, his whole body slick with blood. Toby slammed on the brakes, put the car into park, and got out, taking the gun with him as he left the running vehicle in the street.

"God, Owen, what have you done?" asked Toby, stepping onto the lawn. "Why do things always get so screwed up with us?"

Owen signed: Scared. Scared.

"Me, too."

Toby wanted to apologize, to beg for forgiveness from his friend before he did what needed to be done, but instead he silently raised the gun and pointed it at Owen.

Owen turned and ran.

Toby fired.

Missed. He was pretty sure he'd done it on purpose, and cursed himself as he hurried between the houses after Owen. He felt like he might die of a heart attack if he didn't bleed to death first, but forced himself to move as quickly as his pain-wracked body could handle.

Another row of homes shared the backyard space with the homes Toby was between now. As he reached the backyard, he saw a woman standing in an open doorway on her back porch, most likely peering outside to see where the gunshot had come from.

Didn't she know that there was a wild animal on the loose? Didn't she know that when you heard bullets fired you stayed the hell inside your home?

Toby's heart took another big step toward a coronary as Owen got her, pouncing like a lion. The two of them disappeared inside the house.

Toby screamed. He could feel his body trying to shut down around him. Couldn't Owen see that there was no happy ending to this madness?

He walked over to the house and staggered through the doorway. The woman lay flat on her back, covered with blood, insides exposed as her body twitched. Owen hadn't even tried to eat this one. He was just killing.

Yet another death on Toby's conscience. How many was that, now? It was hard to even keep count.

A trail of blood led through the living room into the kitchen, but the scream of terror would have alerted Toby to where Owen was even without the visual cue. He stepped over the woman's body and ran forward.

He got into the kitchen just as Owen bit the throat out of a teenage boy. The boy was in front of Owen, blocking his shot. Toby knew it was absurd-the boy was dying if not already dead-but he couldn't risk hitting him.

"Owen, please please!" Toby shouted.

The boy's body dropped to the tile floor.

Owen pounced at Toby.

He hadn't expected this, and he wasn't able to fire off a shot before Owen knocked him to the floor, jaws open wide. The gun popped out of his hand and slid along the wet tile, out of reach.

Owen gnashed his teeth. A large blob of bloody foam fell onto Toby's face. The monster raised his claw, then hesitated.

Toby tried to say the kind of thing you were supposed to say in this situation, something like "Owen, it's me, Toby, your best friend!" but he was paralyzed with fear.

Would he be Owen's final victim, or just one more corpse in the series of deaths in what the press might dub the Night of the Beast?

Owen looked down at him, lowered his claw, then leaped up and ran from the kitchen, back into the living room.

Toby remained motionless for a few seconds, trying to catch his breath. Then he retrieved the gun and started to race out of the kitchen, but his foot shot out from underneath him as he slipped on some blood. He landed on his side, hard, knocking the wind out of him.

He lay there in a daze.

He wondered if Sarah would curse him to his face, or to his tombstone?

Would he have to speak to Marianne?

Hannah?

Maybe he was better off dead.

No. That was cowardly. Pathetic. The thoughts of a loser. He couldn't leave this unfinished.

He got up, shook off the dizzy spell, and ran out of the house. There was no sign of Owen outside.

He walked around the entire shared yard, calling out for Owen and listening for sounds of distress.

Nothing.

Finally he got back in his car and resumed the search in his vehicle. Owen could be hiding, licking his wounds, or he could still be on the move, seeking more prey. Toby had to assume the latter.

The next news report, two minutes later, was about the deaths Toby had just witnessed. There were also reports of a gun-wielding man in his seventies running around the area, so citizens should be concerned about an armed maniac as well as a wild animal.

Seventies. Jesus.

For fifteen minutes, there were no new deaths-at least no reported ones. Toby passed countless police cars as he drove, but none of them stopped him. Obviously, no witnesses had described the maniac's car.

Then a report of a possible sighting in a park. Toby had been there a few times with Garrett and Hannah, a nice place with a few shops and restaurants around it. He could just imagine Owen running loose amid dozens of shoppers and diners.

Where was he? Where would he go?

Then, suddenly, Toby thought he knew the answer.

The ice-cream shop wasn't particularly good, although Garrett had always wanted to stop there after a hard day playing on the slides and swing sets. But it was shaped like a giant ice-cream cone, complete with a swirl on the top.