by J. D. Barker
“Sorry. But geez, Thatch, what are you going to do with all that money? You really could buy a car and run away somewhere. Maybe buy a house in Florida or something. On the water with a boat, so you can go to Cuba if that Detective Brier catches up with you. Or maybe London.”
The truth was, I had no idea what I would do with the money. I couldn’t spend it. If I spent the money, even a little bit, I had to explain where it came from. Even giving money to Auntie Jo had been a problem. Luckily, we’d kept busy enough at the diner to keep our heads above water so I didn’t have to do that again. I really wanted to buy a new bike. I had a BMX Skyway with a silver frame and blue accents. It had been a great bike…ten years ago when it was manufactured. Now, though, the frame was covered in rust, the silver had flaked off in most parts, and there were so many holes in the seat I had taken an old Jackson Browne tee-shirt, wrapped it over the original seat, and covered the whole mess in duct tape. I worked four nights per week at Krendal’s, three hours each night, at minimum wage. That brought in a whopping thirty-nine dollars per week under the table. Buying a new bike was not an option. “It’s rainy day money,” I finally answered. “I gotta just keep it safe for now. I’ll figure out something.”
“You’re about to go to the big house for murder. I think it’s time to open the umbrella. I hope you at least stashed it someplace safe. Harwood in 107 got broken into just last week. Someone took their stereo and TV, trashed the place, too. Pulled everything out of every drawer and cabinet, sliced up the mattresses—the whole place got wrecked. They even dumped out his cat’s litter box. Who does that? Maybe you should move the cash to someplace safer, or spread it around a little bit so if someone does break in, they don’t get all of it.”
Dunk was right about that. I had spent more nights than I could count worrying about it. A few months back, I had taken a knife to the pages of my hardcover copy of The Iliad, a monstrously large book I never had any intention of reading again. I hollowed out the center and placed the money inside, then I put the book in a box at the bottom of my closet, a box filled with a dozen other books. Three more boxes of books rested on top of that one. It was hidden pretty good, but no place was good enough. This was better than my sock drawer, though. The money spent a good chunk of last year there, too.
“Somebody’s back,” Dunk said softly. He had pulled his milkshake glass close again and pretended to drink while eyeing the alley sidelong. “Looks like a detective.”
The man did look like a detective. He wore a rumpled dark gray suit with a red tie. Probably around Auntie Jo’s age, late thirties or early forties. His hair was brown, short on the sides and a little longer on top. The wind picked it up and ruffled it, but he didn’t seem to care. “What’s he doing?”
“Just standing there, staring.”
“Is he alone?”
“I think so. He was there yesterday, too. I recognize him. He’s probably the detective they mentioned in the paper.”
“Maybe.” I glanced back down at the newspaper between us and located his name. “Faustino Brier.”
“What kind of name is Faustino?” Dunk asked. “Doesn’t even make for a good nickname. Tino, maybe?”
“Too much like Dino from the Flintstones. Maybe Faust, but I don’t think he’d like that too much.”
“Why?”
“Faust was an old German guy who made a deal with the devil. He gave up his soul in exchange for unlimited knowledge and lots of possessions,” I explained. My English teacher, Mrs. Orgler, gave me the book to read over the summer. It only took me a week, then I read it a second time. I loved anything with magic.
“I am so going to do that when I turn sixteen and need a car,” Dunk said.
“It doesn’t end well for Faust. Turns out you need your soul much more than you need stuff.”
“A cherry red Mustang, ’66 or ’67, with a rag top and eight cylinders under the hood,” Dunk said. “Think I can get a million dollars and a cool house, too? I need a garage for the car and money for gas.”
“For your soul, I think you’d be lucky to get a Ford Pinto with holes in the floor pan and maybe a stack of food stamps to hold you through the winter. Even the devil is a business man. He knows a bargain when he sees it.”
“It doesn’t have to be a nice Mustang. I can fix it up. I’ve got skills.”
I sat up a little in my seat, trying to get a better view across the street. “Where’d he go? I don’t see him.” A large white delivery truck with Budweiser stenciled on the side in large, flowing letters had pulled up and double-parked on Brownsville in front of Carmine’s. I couldn’t see past it.
“I got the same view you do—Joe Beer Guy is in the way. Maybe we should go out there.”
“No way.”
Five minutes later, the beer truck pulled away. There was no sign of the detective. “Maybe he went in the alley. His car is still out there.”
“Do all cops drive Crown Vics?” I asked.
“If the devil won’t give me a Mustang, I’d settle for a Crown Vic. I’m not picky. As long as it has one of the cool floodlights built into the driver’s side.”
We were both staring out the window. Neither of us saw the detective push through the door and step into the diner.
Dunk spotted him first, then kicked me under the table.
Detective Faustino Brier stood just inside the door at the front of the diner, his gaze slowly traveling from right to left, studying the interior and the faces.
“Shit,” Dunk whispered. “Get under the table or something.”
“I’m not getting under the table. That will draw him over here for sure. He doesn’t know who I am. Just be cool, relax.”
“Right,” Dunk said, leaning back in the booth with both hands on the table, his fingers twisted together.
“Not that relaxed.”
“Right again.” He sat up straight and fumbled with his empty milkshake glass, his eyes fixed on the formica table top as if he were counting each speck of color for a homework assignment.
“Sit anywhere!” Krendal called out from the kitchen. “Someone will be with you in a second. Lurline—customer!”
The detective ran his hand through his hair in an attempt to tame it, but it bounced right back up. He took a seat at the counter, unfastening the buttons on his suit jacket. He pulled a notebook from his jacket pocket and began flipping through the pages.
I tugged out my wallet, retrieved a five-dollar bill, and placed it under my glass. “Let’s go.”
“I’ve been thinking about that,” Dunk said softly without moving his lips. “I’ll create a distraction, maybe knock one of these glasses off the table or a fork or something. Then while everyone is looking at me, you make a beeline for the door. If he chases after you, I’ll trip him and try and buy you more time. He’s big, but I can slow him down.”
“Or, we can just get up and walk out like two normal people.”
“We can’t take risks with your freedom.”
“Why are you talking like that?”
“Like what?”
“Without moving your lips.”
“I don’t want anyone to know what we’re saying.”
“Nobody cares what we’re saying. On three, we just leave.”
I counted, then stood and started for the exit. Dunk hesitated, then fell in behind me. I thought we’d make it. I could feel the outside air as my hand wrapped around the metal handle on the door and began to push through.
“Hey, kid—”
Both Dunk and I froze. People on the sidewalk circled around the half-open door and continued on their way. We could run. Maybe Dunk was right. Our heads swiveled in unison, looking back at the detective.
He had turned on his stool and was facing us. His eyes landed on Dunk. “You were out there yesterday, right? Across the street at the alley?”
“Yes, sir,” Dunk said. His voice lost whatever bass it had picked up in the past year. He sounded ages younger.
“Exciting, right? Like o
n TV?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What’s your name?”
Without hesitation, “Duncan Napoleon Bellino. I live at 1822 Brownsville Road in apartment 207. I’m eleven years old, sir.”
The detective raised an eyebrow, reached for his pad, and made a note. He leaned forward, his gaze fixed on Dunk. “What about the day before yesterday? Or the day before that? Did you see anything strange over there? Anybody out of the ordinary hanging out?”
“No, sir.”
“When was the last time you were in that alley? Do you ever play back there?”
“No, sir.”
“No, you don’t play back there? Or no, you’ve never been in that alley?”
“Either, neither, I mean…I’ve never been in that alley. I don’t play back there.”
Lurline Waldrip pushed through the door at the kitchen and dropped a white towel on the counter. “Sorry about that, I was in the back. Need a menu?”
When the detective turned to face her, Dunk and I bolted through the door, retrieved our bikes from the lamp post in front of Krendal’s, and raced up the hill. Neither of us looked back. I don’t think I ever pedaled faster in my life.
We raced up the hill and over, then turned left on Maytide Street, rode two more blocks and made a quick right on Klaus, another left on Newburn, my bike chain squeaking with each hurried rotation. Over the next twenty minutes, we circled the entire neighborhood twice, certain the detective’s Crown Vic would either come up from behind or appear somewhere up ahead. The car didn’t, though. At the top of Gorman’s Hill, I locked my brakes and skidded to a stop. Dunk slid in the gravel beside me and dropped his feet to the ground, huffing so loud I could barely hear my own labored breaths. Sweat dripped down my temple, and the back of my shirt was soaked. “We should get off the road,” I finally managed.
“Where?”
I knew exactly where, though. I’d been avoiding the place since Saturday. “Come on.”
It took us a little under ten more minutes to reach the cemetery. With the gate open, we continued riding inside, I didn’t brake again until I reached the mausoleums, there I slowed and pulled between two of the larger ones: Polanski and Nowy. I climbed off my bike and leaned it against the wall and tried to catch my breath as Dunk maneuvered his bike next to mine.
“That guy is like a bloodhound,” Dunk finally said between gasps. “He was all over me back there, did you see that?”
“I don’t think he knows anything.”
“Maybe I’m the one who needs to run. I might need to borrow some of your money.”
“You didn’t do anything.”
“Lots of innocent men in prison, Thatch. I wouldn’t be the first. Haven’t you ever watched that old show on TBS, The Fugitive? It’s about a doctor, Dr. Richard Kimble, he gets convicted of killing his wife even though he didn’t do it. He goes to jail, escapes, and tries to find the real killer.” Dunk paused, glancing back over his shoulder. “I can’t go to jail, Thatch. I most definitely can’t escape from jail, and I don’t have time to search for the real killer even if I did. I’ve got shit to do in my life, and that ain’t it.”
I rolled my eyes. “The detective saw you in the crowd yesterday and asked a few questions. He’s just fishing, that’s all.”
For the next ten minutes, we caught our breath, taking turns peering around the corner for a Crown Vic that never came.
“Is that it?” Dunk eventually asked, breaking the silence.
I followed his gaze to the black metal bench about ten yards away, empty, perched atop the hill. “Yeah.”
“There’s nobody there.”
“It’s not August 8. She only comes on August 8.”
Dunk smacked my shoulder. “I get that, dummy. I mean there’s nobody sitting there, we should take a look. You said she wrote something.”
Help me
I wasn’t sure I wanted to see those words again. Seeing them would make them real. Seeing her words would mean Stella pleaded for my help two days ago, and I had done nothing other than try to forget.
“Columbo’s not coming,” Dunk said, taking one last look for the detective’s car. “Come on.” He started for the bench.
We could see most of the cemetery from up here, and if the detective did come, we’d have time to run. Like I told Dunk, though, I didn’t think he would. He could have stopped us back at the diner if he really wanted to.
I chased after Dunk.
The seat of the bench was still damp with morning dew. The cemetery was deserted, not another person in sight, unbelievably quiet, the shuffle of our feet deafening.
Dunk was hunched over the bench, studying the metal frame.
“Is this where it was?”
“Yeah, that was it.”
“Somebody scratched it out.”
Not only did someone scratch out the words, but they scratched away the black paint, leaving an oval of exposed silver metal where the words had once been. No trace of the words was left behind. “It’s got to be those people who were with her.”
Dunk frowned. “You said they were like security guards, though, watching over her. Like she was in charge, not them.”
“Maybe I was wrong.”
I knelt down in the grass next to Dunk and studied the mark closer. “They didn’t just scrape it away. They removed the paint, too. See how the metal’s showing? How smooth? If someone scratched at it, you’d see tool marks, bits of paint left behind.” I leaned in closer. “You can still smell paint remover.”
“Somebody walks by, they’re going to think we’re praying to this bench.”
“It’s a cemetery. Everyone acts weird, and everyone leaves everyone else alone while they’re acting weird. You talk to a rock here and you’re emotional, you do the same thing at the park and you’ll get arrested. There’s an unwritten code or something,” I said.
“I wonder why they didn’t repaint it,” Dunk said. “They went through all this trouble to hide her message. You’d think they’d go all the way and erase it completely, like it never happened.”
“Maybe they wanted me to see what they did, make sure I understood they knew what I knew. If they got rid of it completely, I might have thought I imagined it. Everything happened so fast.” I stood and looked at the trees behind the bench, the outcropping of forest at the cemetery’s edge. “That guy came up from behind me and drugged me. I only got a glimpse of what she wrote.”
“Forgive me for playing devil’s advocate here, but how do you know she even wrote it? Maybe someone else did. It might not have anything to do with her,” Dunk said.
“Then why make it disappear?”
“Maybe someone working for the cemetery cleaned it up, like whitewashing over graffiti on a wall.”
“A caretaker or maintenance person would have painted it over. I don’t think they’d take the time to scrape it away. They sure wouldn’t leave it like this.”
“Maybe he’s not done. Maybe he needed black paint.”
I knew, though. I was certain. “Stella wrote help me, and those people with her erased it.” I circled around the bench, my eyes on the trees. “He came from back there, must have…come on.”
The hill behind the bench sloped down into a thick tree line at the edge of the cemetery, giving way to wilderness a few steps in. When I reached the trees, I turned and looked back up at the bench. “He grabbed me right after they left, so he must have been watching us. I can see the bench from here, but the hill makes it impossible to see all the way back where the SUVs were parked.”
“Maybe he heard them?” Dunk offered. “It’s so quiet out here.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“What did he say to you again?”
“He said, ‘The pressure you feel at the small of your back is a rather sharp knife. I strongly suggest you don’t struggle.’ Then he pressed something over my mouth. It smelled sweet, then I was out.”
“Probably chloroform, like we used on the mice in Mr. Lidden’s science class.�
��
“Exactly like that.”
“Did you see a knife?”
I shook my head.
“So you don’t know for sure he really had a knife?”
“I guess not.”
We searched the trees, the ground, the bushes, we looked everywhere for any sign of the man all the way to where the woods ended at Nobles Lane and found nothing. We figured he probably had a car waiting on that end and carried me through there, but if he did, he didn’t leave any trace. Two hours later, covered in dirt, we were back at the bench.
“We need to talk about the flowers,” Dunk said, scratching at a mosquito bite on his left arm.
“What about the flowers?”
“You said Stella picked them up and they died in her hand as you watched, in a few seconds. I think you need to come to terms with the fact you probably picked some wilted, half-dead weeds and thought you saw something you really didn’t. The alternative is some X-Men shit, and while I love that particular comic, it’s a comic. That stuff isn’t real.” Dunk said.
I looked down at my hands and twisted my fingers together. “She got up and left them on the bench. The old woman—”
“Ms. Oliver?”
“Ms. Oliver told her to go back and get them. Stella didn’t want to. Ms. Oliver forced her to get them. Stella picked the flowers up, and I watched them shrivel and die by the time she walked from here to the SUV.”
“Where were they parked?”
I pointed down the road. “Over there.”
“That’s only about thirty feet.”
“Yep.”
“So she somehow killed the flowers in thirty seconds?”
“Less than that.”
“Then she climbed into the SUV and drove off into the sunset?”
I closed my eyes and rubbed my temples. “I shouldn’t have told you.”
Neither of us said anything for a minute. When Dunk finally replied, he chose his words carefully. “I believe that you believe you saw her kill the flowers. How about we leave it at that for now?”
“She wasn’t wearing gloves,” I said softly.
“What do you mean?”
“Every other time I met her here, she had gloves on. Whether it was hot or cold. Not this time, though. I think Ms. Oliver wanted me to see that. I think Ms. Oliver kept her from wearing gloves so I’d see that.”