Brenda Novak - When Summer Comes

The hair rose on Callie’s arms. Her dog meant business. She’d never seen him like this. What had him so upset? And what should she do about it? She’d watched too many true-crime shows not to realize what could happen. But, given her health, getting murdered would be too ironic. Surely, this couldn’t be leading there.

She’d just decided to call the police when a heavy knock sounded and a male voice carried into the house.

“Hello? Anyone home? Sorry to wake you, but...could a man come out here, please? I need some help.”

A man? Whoever was at her door wasn’t from Whiskey Creek. Her family had lived in the area for generations. Everyone knew that this was the Vanetta farm, that the aging Theona and Herbert had died within months of each other and she was living here alone.

“Hello?” the man called again. “Please, someone answer me!”

Should she respond? Letting him hear her voice would tell him she was a woman, which didn’t seem smart. But she had her dog to defend her. And she had a pellet gun she used to scare off skunks and raccoons and any other animals that might have rabies or get aggressive.

Problem was she couldn’t remember where she’d put it. The screened-in porch that overlooked the outbuildings in back? The mudroom off the kitchen? She might even have left it in the barn. Until now, she hadn’t felt any need for self-defense. All the wildlife she’d encountered seemed more afraid of her.

Still, she should’ve kept that gun close. What good was it otherwise? She wasn’t going to scare anyone away with her camera.

“Open up!” Bang, bang, bang.

Drawing a shaky breath, she called 9-1-1 on her cell phone, which had been charging on the nightstand, and, speaking as low as she could and still be heard, told the operator that she had a stranger at her door. The operator advised her to sit tight, a squad car was on its way, but she slid out of bed and groped through the darkness for some clothes. Summer had come early this year. With the weather so mild, she hadn’t worn anything to bed except a pair of panties. In case her visitor tried to break in before the police arrived, she wanted to get dressed.

“Can someone help me?” the man hollered.

Wearing a T-shirt and blue jeans, and armed with the knowledge that someone from Whiskey Creek’s four-man police force would soon arrive, she crept toward the door. What was wrong?

Despite the ruckus her dog was making, her visitor didn’t seem to be giving up. His determination lent him a degree of credibility, even though she knew her reasoning was flawed. His persistence didn’t necessarily mean he was telling the truth. If he had a gun and was capable of using it, he wouldn’t have to worry about getting bitten.

So...was he really hurt? If the answer was yes, how’d he get that way? And how did he come across her property, tucked away as it was in the Sierra Nevada foothills? She couldn’t imagine some random individual driving these back roads at one in the morning, especially midweek. She encountered plenty of strangers during tourist season, which was upon them, but always in town. Not out here.

“Shit,” he grumbled when he got no response. Then something hit the door harder than a knock, as if he’d crumpled against the wooden panel and was sliding to the porch floor.

A flicker of concern warred with Callie’s fear. Maybe he really was hurt. Maybe he’d run his car into a ditch or a tree and injured himself so badly he was about to die....

She snapped on the porch light. Although it went against her better judgment to let him know she was home, he’d managed to convince her that he might really

need help. Some of the TV programs depicting real home-invasion robberies also showed innocent victims who were unable to get help because of other people’s fear.

“What’s wrong with you?” she asked.

A swiping sound suggested he was using the door to steady himself as he clambered to his feet. She peered through the peephole, hoping to catch a glimpse of him, but even with the porch light on she couldn’t see much—just a man’s head covered in a hooded sweatshirt.

“Thank God,” he said.

She might’ve thought it was one of the Amos brothers.

Although they’d calmed down in recent years, a couple of the younger ones still caused problems, from drunken-and-disorderly conduct to selling crystal meth to fighting. But they lived down by the river on the other side of town, they’d never bothered her before and she would’ve recognized the voice.

“Who are you and what do you want?” she called out over Rifle’s barking. The dog was even more excited now that he had the support of his master in taking on this interloper.

“Name is Levi, Levi McCloud. I need a first-aid kit, some water and rags.”

She ignored the second part. “I don’t know a Levi.”

“I’m just...passing through, ma’am.”

He was leaning too close to the door for her to distinguish his features. Was he doing that on purpose?

The idea that he could be made her more nervous than before. “But you decided to stop here?”

“No choice. My motorcycle...broke down a mile or two back.”

“That’s how you got hurt?”

“No. It was a...a couple of dogs. They ran out and attacked me...for no reason...while I was pushing my bike. Got me good, too.”

The way he forced his words through his teeth suggested that he was in pain, but maybe he was faking it. Maybe he was planning to rob her, rape her, possibly kill her.

“Where did this happen?” she asked.

He attempted to laugh but the sound died almost immediately. “Hell if I know. I’ve never been around here before.”

“Then what made you come now?”

“Heard it was pretty country.”

That was it? He was out on a joyride? Alone? His response didn’t seem particularly plausible, but the scenario he gave wasn’t inconceivable. Out here in the country, dogs weren’t always penned up or put on leashes. He could’ve been attacked, as he said.

She was tempted to open the door, if only to verify his story, see his injuries. But she couldn’t take the risk. “How’d you get away?”

“Listen...” He dropped his head against the door, covering the peephole entirely. Now it was impossible for her to see anything. “I don’t mean to frighten you. Is there...is there a man in the house? Someone else who...who might not...be afraid of me?”

She didn’t want to let on that she was alone. But if a male didn’t take command of the situation soon, he’d know, anyway. Perhaps he’d said that to confirm what he already suspected. “Tell me how you got away from the dogs.”

“I...convinced them I wasn’t...anything they wanted to mess with.”

Meaning he’d hurt the dogs as much as they’d hurt him?

She wondered whose pets they were, and if the incident had really happened. “How badly are you hurt?”

“Hard to tell in the dark, but...it’s bad enough to make me bother you, which isn’t something I wanted to do.”

She wiped sweaty palms on her jeans. “Okay, just...stay where you are. I’ve called for help. The police will be here soon.”

“The police?” Instead of reacting with relief, as she’d expected, he cursed and shoved away from the door. “Are you serious? They won’t do anything for me.”

“They’ll get you the medical attention you need,” she said, but he wasn’t listening. He was leaving. She could hear the porch creak under his weight.

“Where are you going?” she yelled.

He didn’t answer.

After hurrying to the window, she dropped to her knees in an effort to catch a glimpse of him before he could move out of sight.

For just a moment, she could make out the broad shoulders of a tall, spare man wearing jeans with that hoodie.