Chapter 32

1

Pug walked up the pathway toward the front door. The newspaper was rolled up on the porch, cast aside. He could see, though mostly obscured by the fold and twine, the front page about the new body in the greenbelt. The one Grimwood had told him about. You’re here to put a kink in the chain.

            The prospect was certainly exciting. Enough to provoke him to skip school after grampa’s service. He raised his hand then hesitated. Thinking about the cop. Thinking about the station, and thinking about Adam’s house. The coincidence. Could he call it that? He knocked on the door and waited.

            It swung open and a man in a ratty robe stood in the opening. He was nursing a can of beer. But not well. Most of it was spurting in ribbons down his chin, clinging some to the rind on his face that was just beginning to gray like old parchment. There were ringed stains on the flayed off-white lapels and some gleam on his naked chest where coils of gray hair stuck this way and that. And he saw bugs in the swill, swimming in it, and scattering in diffuse smoky wisps around his chest where they disappeared behind his smeared robe.

            “Whatever you’re sellin’, we don’t need it.”

            Pug swallowed. “Hello sir. Is Mrs Golding home?”

            The man arched his brow. His scraggly, overgrown brow, like the unkempt hedges along the drive, paired with the dying grass, the bald spots by the spruce where the root system was already claiming the path. “You a Christ babbler? Jehova’s Witness? Mormon?”

            Pug said no to each. The man bought the lie about the latter. That was good. It meant Pug was on his game.

            “She’s home. But she ain’t well.” Pug already knew that. He was told she would be at home. “You come back?”

            “I’m sorry sir. This is rather urgent.”

            “And you ain’t selling anything? Not like a, shit, eagle scout or whatever?”

            “No sir.”

            “Fine. Come in. I’ll grab Mrs Golding.” The man smiled and swilled the rest of the beer. Most of it ran onto his chest but he didn’t seem to care. And he didn’t notice the insects burrowing into his flesh either.

2

Grampa’s service was tough. Because it was finality. Not just for Adam, but for all of them. Croak had told him what Danny said. That grampa’s death wouldn’t be truly real until they returned to a familiar place, when they went somewhere that still showed his presence somehow. And it wasn’t just the pictures Adam’s mom had set up on the tables around the main floor. No, it was the way the house smelled, the way a part of him could still hear the TV in the other room, could hear faint, phantom mumbles of the man who used to sit in there with a beer and watch the world unfold through a picture tube; he could hear all of this, could smell the man’s breath, could smell that elderly mothball musk that must have been an inherited trait, and his chest grew warm. Because he understood those memories were all he had left. That things were changing. That death was natural and real and prevalent. That whatever he was seeing rustling through Chels’s fur, those insects, they were spreading, they were infesting, until even now he could see the vague trail of them coursing around Adam’s mom’s chest as she stood in front of the room speaking. Sometimes laughing. Sometimes crying. The dark scabrous revolutions of little bugs marching this way and that, disappearing between the folds of her blouse and re-appearing again, moving in the pattern of some sort of emphasis. He didn’t know and he didn’t stare for long. Because it was unbecoming. It was rude. And it frightened him. You saw bugs in the Postman’s hair, climbing in and out of his hat, somehow hearing them even over the barking dog down the street. Hearing that skitter of so many goddamn little legs. When he closed his eyes and looked again, the bugs were gone. He was thankful.

            What Adam said was surprising. It was like reaching up in the highest shelf for liquor and pulling it out only to watch it shatter on the floor. It was revealing. Exposing. And he understood how hard it was for Adam to say. And just how important. Because grampa was Adam’s dad. He was. That’s what the man had to become when Adam moved here to Reedy Creek; he understood the re-location from Mass was predicated on shaky grounds, that Adam’s dad was a moron for reasons Adam never really spelled out, but if it was the result of his mixing with east coast gangsters, he knew Adam’s chutzpah and confidence were earned. He watched Adam walk down the aisle between the chairs when he was finished. The room was silent, but etched there was a significant blame and langor that Pug could taste on his tongue like something rather bitter. When he turned to watch his friend, his best friend, leave the room and exit up the stairs, he saw Adam’s dad look down at his feet. He saw the man’s shame.

             And he saw the cop from the station. The cop he gave the box to. Because Reedy Creek was about those coincidences. Wasn’t it?

            “Hun, you should go check on him. You too, Cory,” Pug’s mom whispered when she realized the conversations had started again, that the pale muteness transmuting itself among the room was finally vanquished.

            So Pug and Croak went upstairs. Danny didn’t join because Danny didn’t come. Death is tough, but he should have at least showed some support. This is on him and only he can let Adam know he’s on his friend’s side. Only he can. Pug was pissed at the Jew. Croak was too. Because they were the Fenway Four. And that was breaking. Pug understood that now. His secrecy wasn’t helping, but at least he came to the service before he had to visit the woman. Mrs Golding.

            Pug knocked on Adam’s bedroom door. “You cool in there?”

            There was no answer.

            “Come on, Adam. It’s us,” Croak said. “What you said down there, shit man, it was bad ass. If you’re embarrassed, if you’re…I dunno, sad or crying, we can do it together. That’s what we are.” Croak looked at Pug when there was no answer and only shrugged. “Adam, please.”

            “I’m fine. I just…I just need some time.”

            His voice was quiet, not quite firm, not quite familiar. Like his mind was elsewhere. Like he’d just heard their pleas. Pug thought it sounded like Adam was indifferent, like he was answering them as if from sleep. And it scared him.

            “You sure?” Pug asked. He touched the door and traced the mouldings down the frame with his finger. “We’re here for you, bud. Always.”

            “I know.” Distant. Again. “But I’m fine. Thanks.”

            And that was it. “He’s working through shit,” Croak whispered. “And we gotta respect that.” Pug wouldn’t know Croak had his own agenda. He wouldn’t. Not yet. Because Croak was thinking of skipping the food and hitting school for his own particular mission. A kink in the chain. The thought had come to his head that moment and he could only nod. Because Pug had his mission too, didn’t he? And he was excited.

3

Cole Moore had pics of the kid sitting on the passenger side seat. They were blurry, but they were good enough. In the end he didn’t need them. In the end, Reedy Creek worked on the coincidences of crossing paths. He would forever ear mark that reality. Because this place opened to pre-determined pages like a novel with a bookmark. The photos were given to him by Allen Webster as he found them on the police station surveillance feed. The boy handing the officer a box. The boy standing at front reception with Lady Dispatch exchanging formalities.

            No, Cole sat in the Secondary’s parking lot, studying those photos, looking at every chubby kid he could see. But then the walkie-talkie he purchased at Radio Shack crackled and he heard Webster’s voice. It was the only voice he figured he would hear. He’d purchased the set for them to use, and only the cop would use their channel.

            “Repeat, over,” he said, staring at the kids in the field during gym, running around, taking advantage of the weather before it turned. Because it always did.

            “Cole, he’s here with me. At Lew’s funeral…or service. Whatever it is. Over.”

            He looked down at the talkie. As if in disbelief. He thought of adjusting the antenna, of checking the transmission. But he’d heard right, hadn’t he? “He’s…there with you? Now? Over.”

            A slight crackle and then the answer. “Yeah. Over.”

            So Cole had made the drive over to Deermont Arc and the house with the red roof. There were cars already lining the street, including Allen’s cruiser, and he just waited. Cole had become a very patient man. When he saw the fat kid leave and hop on his BMX he just followed him. Through the Creek’s arteries, through the new development suburbs and by the beltway where the last body was found. The Rapist. He followed the kid here. To this house.

            And he watched now as the boy stood on the front steps talking to a man in a bathrobe.

            What the hell is he up to? That he couldn’t know. He wondered if the council was using kids as messengers. The idea wasn’t so insane that they might overlook it. When the kid stepped into the house and the door closed, Cole drove forward along the curb and pulled his Nikon off the seat.

4

The shit was tough to hear. He didn’t really know the man. At least not enough to feel truly comfortable here, but he wanted to know him. That’s what it came down to. Lew was the kind of guy he could have a beer with while the game was on. They didn’t need to talk. They could just understand that in their similarities there was a certain comfort. And that was enough. Barb, the girl with the big C, or signs of it according to the records he pilfered from Davenport, spoke beautifully. She cried and she laughed. He thought she was very pretty today. That whatever she’d gone through yesterday to leave her so frazzled had somehow disappeared to the caverns of what could only be organization. Because she’d put this whole thing together. She’d done a great job. He saw pictures of Lew around the house. Saw the man as he’d once looked. Allen thought the guy was dashing, that he had that old movie star quality he liked seeing in black and white flicks, maybe like Carey Grant, or hell, Tyrone Power from The Mark of Zorro. When Lew’s grandson came up to speak, Allen understood what sort of pieces the man was leaving behind. Allen wasn’t married. And judging by the prospects he’d seen in Reedy Creek, he wasn’t sure he’d be standing at the altar any time soon. And that just suited him fine. But seeing this now, seeing how people came together to remember made him realize just how empty he felt. And this kid was really emphasizing that. Because Lew was a dad to him. That’s it. Not just a granddad but a dad. This kid’s been through the shit, hasn’t he? He wanted to turn around and look at the boy’s father, to judge him, but he figured this wasn’t about that. Not at all. This kid was just airing his grievances. That’s how he was choosing to mourn. Good on him.

            When the service was over, he saw the fat kid from the police station, the one who’d given him the box. The kid looked at him with almost sour recollection, but then offered just the slightest smile. Likely to appear polite.

            “You spend that five bucks wisely?”

            “Yes sir. Most of it’s in the piggy bank now after buying the ball cards and M&Ms.”

            “You knew Lew.”

            “Yup. Best friend’s grampa.”

            “Stay outta trouble.”

            That was that. He stepped around the corner toward the kitchen, where most people were heading to grab the snacks laid out, and radioed Cole. He wouldn’t figure it was luck or coincidence. No, because his mind was truly on one thing now that he’d been invited into the house. Now that he’d paid his respects.

            He saw the door closed by the kitchen along the hallway wall. He saw Barb talking to a few people, taking them by the arms and thanking them for coming, for missing the morning of work or whatever. Allen opened the door and stepped inside, closing it behind him without fully latching it; he left a slit so he could hear anybody approaching. The room was stark and barren, and it was almost a reminder about how simple one’s wants truly were. That by the end you really just wanted privacy and that was enough. He saw the bed pushed against the back wall, saw the closed closet doors, saw the night table with the lamp and the book.

            Where would he have kept the gun? A cop would have put it on the bedside table and that was that. Always within arm’s reach. But the guy wasn’t a cop anymore. Allen got down on his hands and knees and looked under the bed. He didn’t see anything. He flipped up the bottom side of the mattress to check the box spring. Do you really think it will matter if you return it to lock-up? Do you? Whatever’s happening in this place, it goes beyond blackmail, it goes beyond righting wrongs. No, there are layers here. People are watching everything and people are dying.

            He heard the creak of the door opening behind him and cursed himself for getting lost in his thoughts.

            “I’m sorry. I mistook this for the bathroom. And then curiosity kept me here.” He smiled as Barb stepped in with him. She casually glanced around as well. He knew she would have to come back in here, that she would have to clean up and pack things away. She would likely find the gun. She would have her questions.

            “He died a simple man,” she whispered. “He didn’t need much…not here, in the end. I like to think he always got what he wanted. His grandkids.”

            “That would have mattered most. He’s very lucky. To have you. To have them.”

            She smiled. “I’m sure you have your judgments.”

            “Sorry?”

            “My son. I apologize about his behavior. About what he said. This, all of this, it’s hit him the hardest. It’s my fault. I told him talking about Lew, that it might help him. But coming to this place, to Reedy Creek, it was based on…awkward circumstances. I don’t quite feel like talking about them, but Adam, he deserves to be angry.”

            “I’m not judging. We all have our shit, ma’am.”

            “Barb.”

            Allen smiled. “We do. Whatever your husband did, I figure he’s making up for it now on the council. Right?”

            “One can assume,” she said. She looked around once more then folded her arms. “Thanks so much for coming. It’s nice to know he made friends here. He’d given up so much to come, he needed something for himself.”

            Allen only nodded and left the room with her. He stayed at the service a little longer. Watching people eat, watching people talk. And when he felt that duty was obliged, he left out the front door without saying goodbye. Because he had somewhere to be. Somebody to follow. And Cole had already let him know the Porsche was parked on the man’s driveway.

5

“Hi Mrs Golding.”

            “Call me Wendy. Here, have a sit. My husband wasn’t too specific. Do you know my boy or something? Looks about your age.”

            “No ma’am. I mean Wendy.” Pug smiled. He was led into the front room where he could look out the window at the yard, at the spruces and street, at the warm breeze and the streaked sunlight through the wreaths of leaves. The room itself was tidy and ornate, with silver and gold picture frames, photos of weddings, of travelling, of a boy and girl as they’d lived before they came to Reedy Creek. Before the trouble started. He could hear the guy in the robe in the kitchen, could hear another can of beer opening, and then he heard the TV turn up. Could hear Bob Barker’s voice and the man yelling out numbers to the screen.

            The woman looked at him skeptically. She was pretty, even in spite of the illness that had washed out her pores and given her eyes the sort of collapsed air of trapdoors. She wore a loose sweater that said Wharton and jeans she must have climbed into when her husband went to find her to tell her some little shit was at the door. But he ain’t sellin’ nothing. “This about some community outreach program at the school? I know that idea’s been bandied based on some of the minutes from council meetings. Make sure this new thriving industry meets the local kids.” She smiled when Pug shook his head. Because she knew that was incorrect. She did.

            “You’re in trouble, Wendy.”

            “Pardon.”

            Pug cleared his throat. “You aren’t safe in Reedy Creek.”

            “What are you talking about?” Her eyes were earnest now. At first she’d laid her hands on her knees and then casually slumped back into the couch. Now she leaned forward so far Pug thought she might scooch right off the cushion and fall on her ass.

            “Your husband doesn’t wake up till later. Ever since the accident in Wyoming. He didn’t get hooked on the medication, but the booze. He liked the booze. You’re doing it all alone, Wendy. And…and you thought maybe you could do it yourself. Raise Craig and Willow. Raise them and work while he,” Pug whispered, gauging the seriousness in her eyes as they turned to fear, to uncertainty, “wasted away in the drink. But work and being a mom, they’re hard. Without help, they’re impossible. So you found somebody who might help. Because you’re a career woman. At the plant. Long hours there and long hours here. When you were at Wharton you found something to help you with the all-nighters. And when you were scared you’d messed up your sinuses, you told yourself you would stop. But you remembered how much you could get done. How much energy you somehow found. So you had Lazarus leave the meth in the rolled up newspaper on workdays because you knew you’d be up before your husband. You knew he would never find it. And you left the cash in the same place. Because Lazarus would pick it up before your husband would ever think to check the box scores. It was your secret.”

            “Wh—who are you?” Wendy stuttered. She was sweating now. And trembling. Pug had rehearsed something like a script. Something Grimwood had written for him. Pug had put in the flourishes where he saw fit, because he was the writer.

            “You’re a storyteller, Pug. So why not live in one.”

            He didn’t understand what Grimwood meant until now. Until he was actually face to face with Wendy Golding, the woman who snorted methamphetamines to get a little bounce after the world had sucker punched her.

            “That doesn’t matter.”

            “But how in the hell could you even…how do you know that?”

            She was past the point of denying, of telling the kid to get out of her house. Because that wouldn’t amount to any answers. And she needed something now. Anything.

            Pug listened to the drunk in the other room as he talked back to Bob Barker. He thought the man was what Croak’s dad would be like. Useless. He quite liked Wendy. He liked her eyes and he liked the way she pursed her lips when she was confused. And afraid. Because she was clearly scared.

            “I know because you’re a good person. Good intentions. But there are other people who know as well, Wendy. And they don’t agree with me.”

            “You’re a goddamn kid.”

            “But I know things. If you stay here, you won’t be safe.”

            “From who?”

            “The bad people. The people behind the murders in the paper. The bad people who know your secrets. They call you the Addict, Wendy.”

            She clutched the armrest on the couch and then folded her arms. Neither position was exactly comfortable. “This is a joke.” There wasn’t much conviction in her tone.

            “They’re watching now,” Pug said. “They never stop. And they will move on when they’re done with you. You have to leave, Wendy.”

            “You’re lying,” she reiterated, using different words this time, but still not believing what was coming out of her mouth.

            “Look above your bookshelf. At the ceiling in the shadows.”

            Wendy swallowed. For a second she wasn’t going to look. For a moment she was just going to stare at this kid until he grew just as uncomfortable as she was. But she looked because curiosity was more powerful. Because what she did with Lazarus, her arrangement, was her secret and it was something she cherished because it was something she kept for herself; it was that last connection to a life she’d never get back. She looked at the bookshelf, an antique she’d found years ago and paid a hefty penny for because it invited distinguishing assumptions about the room and about its owner. Her books were lined along each mahogany shelf, books about philosophy and economics, about politics and history, about Catholic Crusaders and Turkish and Arab conquerors, Empires built and Empires fallen; above the cornice moulding where she sometimes stashed wads of bills she didn’t want Jack to find, there was the simple bead of reflected light she’d never once seen. Never. Because it was partly her shame up there. Her reliance. And you didn’t focus on that.

            “What—” She wouldn’t finish the sentence. Because she couldn’t.

            “It’s their eye. They have eyes everywhere, Wendy. They see what they want and they watch what they need. And they watch you. They watch you bring in drugs and snort them off this table here,” Pug tapped the glass top table with his fingers, “before your husband is up or your kids have started their breakfast.”

            “There’s a camera in my home? In my fucking home?” She clenched her fists and felt the warmth flush her cheeks. “That’s illegal…that’s…”

            “They don’t care.”

“I’m calling the police…” She moved as if to get up but she was frozen. Her legs each felt like they weighed a thousand pounds.

            “The Sheriff is one of them,” Pug simply said, reciting now his own version of the story. Because writing was about watching something unfold organically beyond the folds of determination; stories were natural insofar as they were told without being formulaic, because people were not as simple as cause and effect would assume. No. He knew that. And the council was his villain. Grimwood told him he was saving a life. “You are not safe in Reedy Creek, Wendy. Not where they can see you.”

            Wendy swallowed. Pug could hear the hollow thud in her throat. He could hear her husband in the back now whooping and hawing, could imagine those little bugs climbing into his open maw and drowning in his spit. “You want me to pick up my kids and just…what…leave? For good?”

            “I want you to be safe.”

            “You’re mad, kid. You’re fucking crazy. I don’t know…I don’t know who put you up to this…if somebody at the office is having a laugh. But I want you out of my house. I…” She stood up and walked toward the front, opening the door and waiting for Pug to follow her. “This isn’t funny. It’s mean. You tell them that. You tell them this is fucking cruel.”

            She slammed the door on Pug. He knew she would be resting against it, thinking now, thinking so long and hard she might pass out. He knew because Grimwood told him bad news, scary news, was never easy to hear. He went down the stairs and climbed on his bike.

            “She won’t listen to you. Or believe you. Right away. But once you’re gone she’ll be able to reason things out herself. And she’ll realize nobody could know the things you told her. Nobody. If that’s a life we take away from the council, then it will be easier to break them. And that’s what you’re here for, isn’t it Pug?”

6

The kid was sitting in the front room with a lady, her dark hair thrown back and her body amorphous beneath a baggy sweater. The drapes were pulled aside and for that Cole was happy. He had a clear view. He held his Nikon up to his face and zoomed in; he could see the woman, could see her as she sat on the couch and spoke to the boy who was sitting on the chair by the window, could see her lips as they puckered and stretched around certain words. The boy didn’t come bearing gifts. Not like he had for Allen. He watched them speak for a long time. Watched her brow furrow and her eyes darken, saw her rock on her seat with the sort of restlessness of impatience or anger. Was it anger? He thought she might have been raising her voice, and when she turned to look over her shoulder at something, he noticed her eyes weren’t just dark when she swivelled back but unsettled. As if she just learned something that changed everything. That unmoored her.

            Is the kid blackmailing her like he blackmailed Webster?

            She stood up abruptly and went to the front door; he watched her pantomime and articulate her words very clearly as the boy stood up as well. Tentatively. And when he came toward the front door she’d already opened and stepped out onto the porch, he watched the door slam. He thought he could even hear the clap from down the street. He set his camera on his lap and watched as the boy ambled down the steps to his bike on the lawn. He grabbed the walkie from the passenger seat as he watched the kid roll his BMX to the sidewalk, looking back at the front door a few times.

            “Allen, I followed the mark to 168 Deer Park. Big house with the spruces and shitty yard. He’s taking off now. Was speaking to the lady inside. I’m in pursuit, over.” He didn’t wait for a response because he knew the cop had his own mark. And no matter why he came to Reedy Creek in the first place, the following events were becoming fun. Like an adventure or detective story from his childhood. He waited until the boy was riding farther ahead and then he gently hit the gas. Shouldn’t he be at school? I mean, sure, he had the funeral to go to, but he would have had to hit up the Secondary after. They were the thoughts that carried him as he followed the boy on the long arc around the side streets until he finally settled on looping into Deermont Road off the larger crescent, where there were pathways leading into the darkness of the greenbelt and where, he was certain, stories would flourish from here on out about the haunting in the grove, that the body found there one early fall day was still creeping the marsh and eating children who ventured too close. The kid rode up to the far court where Bob Arnold and the Pure Ethanol gang had set up shop to give his patriotic speech the day of the barbecue. Cole pulled over by the curb and grabbed the camera, looking through the lens at the kid as he set his bike down at the foot of a shed sandwiched between two homes, fitted with a Tudor aesthetic that would likely placate the HOA. He left his bike in what looked like a dirt patch, but Cole realized the grass was charred here and there was something of a crater by the closed door. Too big to be a molehill or gopher hole. He watched the kid open the shed door and swing it wide enough so that he could retrieve his bike and bring it in with him; the place was probably ten or fifteen feet wide, if that, and it wasn’t deep enough to truly accommodate a chunky kid and his hardware. But in the boy stepped, disappearing to the gloom until the door snapped shut.

            Cole set down his camera and waited, tinkering with the walkie-talkie, listening to the birdsong outside that would soon fade.

            Where the hell is he? He looked down at the tape deck. The boy had gone inside almost ten minutes ago. Maybe longer. It’s not like you’re going to blow any cover if you drive up. Shit, as far as the kid knows, you work for Reedy Creek’s Parks Division or something, and you’re checking the utilities hold in Deermont. He’s not going to question you. If anything, he’s the one who’s breaking and entering. He’s the one who will need answers. Cole pulled up to the court and stopped at the curb in front of the shed. He killed the engine and waited a minute longer, figuring the sound of the approaching car would scare the kid out of there like a cockroach when the light’s turned on.

            Nothing.

            Just go check. Kid might even have some nudie mags or something and he’s found a nice private space where mommy and daddy won’t bother him. He considered that might be true. When he was a kid, he’d found his dad’s stash of what he liked to call illicit literature, and he’d wished he was bright enough to abscond with a few copies to a place like this instead of getting caught in the basement with his pants around his ankles and the glossy opened to a centerfold sitting on the concrete.

            He walked up to the shed door, glancing briefly at the scorched grass, at the crater, and when he blindly knocked on the door and reached for the handle, hoping to pull it open, his fingers brushed on a padlock. And it was closed.

            “What the hell?” he whispered. He looked down at the lock. It required a key. That wasn’t the crazy part, and he knew it. The crazy part wasn’t that the kid might have had a key to a community shed, no, the crazy part was the kid had somehow locked the damn thing while he was inside. That’s not possible. No, it wasn’t, but here he was, and here was the lock. He knocked on the door again, listening to the hollow rattle of his knuckles, the clap of the painted wood. “Hello?” he said into the door. He tried the handle again, tried pulling it out or pushing it in, waiting to feel any sort of give, thinking the door itself might have been wedged open already, that somebody had stuck a rock in the jamb. But there was nothing. “Hey,” he said, louder this time. It was just his luck if the kid was in any sort of trouble. If something might have fallen on him. And certain images starting going through Cole’s mind: he saw the boy pulling his bike into the interior, and something on the top shelf, maybe a hoe or battery, a sack of dry cement, anything heavy that was just sitting on the ledge as he squeezed in, teetering just long enough until the kid was positioned beneath and then falling with the aim of determination, leaving him a body on the dusty floor bleeding out over grass clippings.

            Cole pulled on the lock; it had rusted some, and he figured if enough pressure was forced upon it, the thing might just snap. He looked around, at the obsidian scorch to his left, at the crater that had left the dirt glistening like sheet glass; there were rocks in the grass here, some big enough to protrude from his fist if he grabbed them. He picked up a chunk of stone, forced his fingers around it, and one last time he spoke to the boy. “Are you okay? You in there? Hello?”

            Nothing.

            He brought the stone down on the lock, felt the reverberation up his arm, felt his teeth clench, felt the shock absorption in his bones. He did it again. And again. Until he heard the metallic snap of the lock and crack of the rock’s tip breaking; the padlock hung for a moment from the handle, precariously dangling, and then it fell with a light thud in the grass at Cole’s feet. He only inhaled and closed his eyes as he pulled the door out toward him. There was an earthen smell inside. Dank. And gas. Yes. He looked into the gloom expecting what the imagination could cook up. Imagining the boy lying with his arms draped over the toppled bicycle, eyes open and gawking as blood spurted still from a gaping wound in his scalp. And then he thought about the body he found tied to the tree. Before coming to this place. To Reedy Creek. Tied in some places by his entrails. The first time he ever saw a message written on the victim.

            TREE FUCKER.

            But there was nothing. Just shelves framed along the side and back walls. Jerry cans and coils of hose, of rope. Bags of fertilizer bunched in the corner and rat poison tucked up on the back shelf. And on the floor a large diesel generator that likely provided back-up power to the utilities and grid along this street and perhaps beyond.

            The kid wasn’t in here. And he knew he never saw the boy leave. He knew it.

7

He was just another lazy cop on patrol. He figured the big city mavens held pretty specific assumptions about small town deputies, and for now he was all for taking advantage of what he figured the good doc considered his ineptitude. Because he was following Norris in his Porsche. He wasn’t flipping on his lights, but at the same time he wasn’t trying to be inconspicuous either. He was pretty certain the doctor didn’t know Allen was the mysterious stranger who’d left the package on his car’s hood; and he was damn near certain the doctor wouldn’t have cared one way or the other if he did notice the cruiser in his rear view. Because Cole had told him that with Andy on the city’s council, Norris was immune from any sort of police detail without the sheriff’s acknowledgment. And there was no way a rogue deputy would be taking up arms on some personal vendetta. If he could call it that.

            He followed Norris into Deer Park. There wasn’t any traffic in the suburbs now, so he knew it was more than obvious that he looked like a tail. Is this exciting? Is that what it is? Is the moment Lew even came to you looking for a gun the moment you found something beyond the humdrum modalities of cuffing drunks and sitting to free coffee at the Diner? Because now you have a purpose in a cause. If you can even look at it that way. Somebody may be blackmailing you with evidence of taking that gun from lock-up, but hell, you had the opportunity to play a very specific role in going to Davenport and flashing your badge at the nurse, flirting with her some, and she took the bait because the badge, the gun, they’re both enough to convince civilians that cooperating is better than not. It was that simple. He watched Norris pull over and he did the same. Far enough back now that it might have looked like he was making a customary stop at a donor’s house. He watched the doctor, his face likely obscured by the reflection of the elm flaying its branches over the street.

            Cole’s convinced this piece of shit killed Clayton Miller, the guy found on his La-Z-Boy with a needle in his arm and shit in his drawers. He’s convinced he’s behind more deaths too. Murders. What do you think?

            He didn’t know. He really didn’t. Because he couldn’t account for the psychology implicit to that sort of decision-making. Allen knew and understood there was evil in the world. But he also only ever knew and saw the goodness in spite of Cole’s attempts to notice the other side. He watched Norris get out of the car; the man was wearing a black sweatshirt with a hoodie draped over his head. He wasn’t wearing this when he climbed into his car on his driveway, nodding to his neighbor who was bagging fallen leaves.

            And gloves. Are those gloves? He thought so. Allen was tempted to flip on the lights, just to put a little tempo in the doc’s steps, but Cole had told him his purpose was to follow and learn. The investigation was about finding proof of ill intent. He watched the doctor stride up the sidewalk and toward the rear alley. He pulled forward more, closer to the Porsche. The house ahead was large, just on the corner, its cream elevation boxy and with a porch out front where the walkway flanked a copse of spruces and the lawn itself had seen better days.

            What?

            Allen picked up his talkie and stared for a moment at the house. “Cole, what was the address you followed the kid to? Over.”

            He sat there, listening to the engine idle. Wondering how far coincidence could go before it finally became destiny. Before it proved how goddamn strange the world could be when it wanted to. 168 Deer Park. Big house. Yes, he remembered Cole saying that. Remembered it distinctly and with the alacrity of a mind trying to make sense of things. Norris had just gone through the back gate into the yard. Cole didn’t answer. He was dealing with his own things. His own mysteries.

            “Cole, I’m at 168 Deer Park. I followed my mark here. Over.”

            Nothing. Just bursts of static. Something wasn’t sitting right with Allen. Not at all. He decided to get out of the cruiser. If there’s a chance the doctor is what Cole’s been saying he is, then it’s your duty to act beyond mere investigation. He felt his hand stray to the butt of his gun.

            He jogged toward the front walkway, listening to his keys, his cuffs jangle. He took the porch steps two at a time and rang the doorbell with one hand, knocking with the other. He felt a frantic impulse that something wasn’t right. That he’d stepped into something far larger than he was or his duty could ever hope to be.

            “I don’t have to open the door. Not if you don’t have a warrant. I know my rights.”

            He heard her voice on the other side. It was thin and scared. Tremulous, despite how strong her conviction was.

            “Ma’am, are you okay?”

            She was silent for a moment. He thought of going to the front window, of peering inside, trying to attempt a conciliation, but he didn’t think it would matter. Something had jarred her.

            “I don’t have to let you in.”

            “Ma’am, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

            “I…” She stopped herself. He thought she might have been crying. He thought he could feel her body slumped against the door, sitting against it maybe. He thought he could feel the warmth of her trembling skin through the fiberglass door.

            “Ma’am, I have the suspicion there’s a prowler. I followed him here and watched him enter your backyard. I would like your permission to scope the premises. Would that be okay?”

            “I haven’t done anything wrong…you…you put a fucking camera in my home. What I do in here, what I do in private, that’s my business. That’s mine. Not yours. This is my property.”

            “Ma’am, I don’t know what you’re talking about, but please, I have the suspicion you may be in danger.” He touched the door, felt how cool it was on his fingertips, and he thought about Norris in that hoodie, thought about him smashing a window, thought about Cole’s own suspicions, and that air of hurry prompted him to knock again. This time louder.

            “Please…just leave me…us alone. I haven’t hurt anyone.”

            “You’re in danger,” he said, believing it now. Knowing it was true.

            “The boy already told me. He showed me what you fucking perverts do. Leave. Me. Alone!”

            And then Allen heard a man scream. It was loud and it carried; he heard it through the door and over the house. Reverberating with the tinny quality of one calling out in the forest and listening to his voice break through the trees. He likely would have broken down the door, shouldering it until the jamb snapped, but the lady on the other side opened it for him; her face was stark white, her eyes like distant wells, so sunken and red he thought he was staring at skeletal sockets. She didn’t say a word to him. She was apologetic, unsure, but mostly scared. The scream had come from inside the house.

            “Are you alone?”

            “My…my husband.”

            Allen raced past her. He went toward the back of the house. He saw the patio door inched open; he saw a chair on its side, pulled over as the man currently skittering on the floor fell backwards. And there was blood; it had created a slick on the tile, already starting to pool around the chair’s legs, running in thick viscous channels down the grout lines like gruesome irrigation chutes. Allen’s stomach turned. The blood was dark and flowing, coming in long bursts from just behind the man’s robe, already stained and drenched down its lapels to the hems like fashion stripes. The man was gurgling, kicking out his legs, his heels drawing squiggles through his blood. Allen had his hand on his gun. He thought it was his instincts kicking in, that he figured he’d find Norris in the house, Norris with a scalpel like some deranged surgeon, but the doctor was already gone. He looked out the window and saw the man in the hoodie, just at the gate; he turned to look at the cop, his eyes cast in the shadows but damning all the same. And then he was gone. He’d just created some sort of diversion so you couldn’t go after him. That’s what this is. You got in his way. You fucked up whatever it is he had planned and this is his punishment. This is for you. He thought he might be sick. He kneeled by the man on the floor, ignoring the blood now, trying hard to ignore the man’s eyes, the fear in them, but understanding he would have to appear strong to assuage any of this guy’s doubts. To give him hope. There was a large cut in the man’s chest. Whatever Norris had brought in with him, whether it was a butcher’s knife or a scalpel, had flayed a neat gash from just above his right nipple to his collarbone; he took the thick padding of the man’s robe and pressed down on the wound. Could feel the hot pressure against his palm. The woman stood over them both. She hadn’t screamed. She was in the sort of distressed phase that meant she hadn’t yet made sense of everything.

            Allen looked up at her. The pinpoints that were her eyes were lost in the blood. The man who was her husband was breathing in harsh gasps. There were tears in his eyes. “Ma’am, you are going to have to call for an ambulance. Your…husband’s lost a lot of blood.”

            He thought the guy would need a transfusion. That if Allen hadn’t been here, more would have happened in this house. That both of these people, husband and wife, would be leaving two orphans if the pictures around the house spelled anything out, and there would likely be a message written on one or both bodies, using the inkwell spreading around the tile floor in a serrated flourish.

            The woman was frozen for a moment, still staring down, but when her bearings started coming to her, when the shock gave way to the slightest element of reason, she rushed off to the phone on the wall and called 911.

            Allen only stared at the man as he pressed down on his chest.

            What in the fuck have you gotten me into, Cole?