With Stiles, he didn’t care if the man’s final moments were filled with Hurting.
Once he took what he wanted from Jimmy’s dad, Ronnie used his fingers like an ice-cream scoop and worked all the glop and blood and tissue and bone fragments out of the eye socket, and then placed the gleaming black Eight-ball over the chasm—which still wasn’t large enough.
Looking around, Ronnie spotted a brick lying amidst the junk back here, and he grabbed it, and—being careful not to shatter the Eight-ball—used it to tap, pound, and press the ball into place.
“Now that looks like an eight-ball hemorrhage,” he whispered to himself, and then laughed.
He found a hose and used it to wash the blood from his hands, then pulled off Stiles’ coat and—seeing that it hadn’t gotten too much blood on it, and it was black, anyway—decided to wear that. For good measure he went through the dead man’s pockets and took all of his cash—nearly five hundred dollars.
“You had plenty of money to buy him a gift,” he said to the corpse, and then kicked it.
As he was walking out of the alley, he stopped for a moment when he heard the laugher of several children.
—Is the party going good?
Oh, it’s wonderful, Ronnie, replied Suzanne. Jimmy is having the time of his life.
—That’s good. That’s real good.
Where are we going now?
—I don’t know yet. I have to go back to the motel and get my stuff.
Don’t dawdle, Ronnie. In a minute or two, Oz or one of his friends is going to come out into the alley looking for…you-know-who.
—I know. I’ll be quick.
Are you done hiding now? Are you done running away from the Hurting?
—Yeah, I guess so.
And he heard all the children shout: YAY! Uncle Ronnie’s back!
“I guess so,” he mumbled to no one in particular as he walked out of the alley and started toward the motel.
At least he had another way to make money now. Thanks to Jimmy’s dad.
* * *
Over the next six years, “Uncle Ronnie” claimed seventeen more victims, all of them between the ages of two and thirteen. He tried to search for a way not to take the Hurting away from the children, not to kill them, but the truth was that, even if he had killed those who had been inflicting such pain on them (as much as he’d enjoyed killing Jimmy’s dad, the opportunity to repeat that with someone else had not presented itself), the children themselves were ruined beyond hope, repair, or prayer: emotionally, psychologically, spiritually. They would never know a day without pain, without sadness, without dread or anger or heartbreak.
He had no choice.
But in those moments of communion when he took away the Hurting, Ronnie made it a point to memorize the names and faces of those who had brought this onto the children; he made a connection with them that could never be broken, a thin, silver thread of consciousness that would enable him to always, always find them when he wanted to.
And someday he would; he’d find each and every one of them, and he’d make them pay, just like he’d done with Jimmy’s dad.
Suzanne and the others looked on, and whispered to him, but he found the more children he took unto him, the more their voices drowned out each other. What he could hear, though, what kept him going, was the cumulative tone of love and gratitude. Without that, he would not have lasted as long as he did.
* * *
Four days after his twenty-third birthday, Ronnie came awake in a motel room in Lexington, Kentucky. He was drenched in sweat, his heart was triphammering against his chest, he could hardly pull enough oxygen into his lungs to breathe, and he was more terrified than he had ever been in his life, because he awoke knowing that, several years ago, he’d made a terrible mistake.
And the thin silver thread that still connected him to a woman whose name he could not remember, the thread that had become slack and nearly forgotten over the past seven years, instantaneously pulled taut and inflexible, becoming an ever more-constricting noose around Ronnie’s neck.
He managed to pull himself into a sitting position just a few seconds before some of the pressure around his throat and in the center of his chest eased off, unclenching his stomach and its surrounding muscles. Jerking to the side, he managed to grab hold of the metal waste-paper basket and pull it over to him just in time. He vomited very little (he’d not been eating much the past few days) but it felt as if he were emptying his stomach of everything he’d eaten since the age of three.
Afterward, he dry heaved for a few minutes more, then slowly pushed his legs off the bed until he felt the cold floor rise up to meet first the sole of his left foot, and then that of his right. He paid careful attention to each and every movement. No gesture, no step, no touch could be wasted. The silver noose around his neck vibrated but did not choke him this time; instead, it guided him, and would continue to guide him.
Because he’d made an awful, terrible, horrible mistake…but there was still time.
He rose from the bed while simultaneously reaching for his watch and wallet on the nightstand. He’d been sleeping in his clothes for the last few days, so there was no need to pack—he had only to grab his knapsack from its place beside the door as he left the room.
He used the bathroom, drank a glass of cold water, and put on his shoes.
Suzanne? he asked in silence.
I’m here, Ronnie.
—I didn’t imagine it, did I?
No, Ronnie. I heard it, too. We all did.
—I made a mistake, Suzanne. I made a bad mistake.
I know, but it’s not too late.
—I sure hope you’re right.
He stumbled only once as he headed for the door, regaining his footing as he grabbed up his knapsack and closed the motel room door behind him. Checking his watch, he saw that it was only a little after five a.m. If he hurried, he might be able to bum a ride from one of the truckers who frequented the diner/gas station/bus depot across the road. If not, he could at least buy a bus ticket back to Ohio…and hope that a bus going that way came through soon.
He went out through a side exit of the motel because it was on a side closer to the diner, sprinted across the motel parking lot, and then broke into a run when he saw that the road was clear. There were at least seven large semis parked in the lot, and two buses on layover. One of them had to be heading into Ohio.
Ronnie said a prayer to Jesus in Heaven, asking Jesus to help him find a ride really, really fast.
“I don’t wanna be too late,” he prayed to Jesus. “Please, Jesus, help me get back home.”
He heard you, whispered Suzanne.
—You sure?
Uh-huh.
—Promise?
Promise.
Ronnie took a deep breath as he zigzagged through the parked vehicles and then made a beeline for the diner’s entrance.
—Suzanne?
What is it, Ronnie?
—Does Jesus hate me? I mean, I done so many bad things.
Jesus hates no one, Ronnie.
—It’s just…I dunno…maybe he only told you he heard me. I had a lot of people do that, y’know? Tell me something just to make me go away or shut up and leave ‘em alone.
Jesus isn’t like that, Ronnie.
—What about His dad? Does God hate me?
I have been told to inform you that we do not answer silly questions.
—Who told you to say that?
Someone who doesn’t hate you.
—I just worry, y’know?
There’s one other thing I’ve been asked to tell you. At the counter in the diner, there’s a man sitting way down at the far end, near the pay-phones. He’s got a lot of gray hair in his beard and he’s wearing an old jean jacket and an OSU Buckeyes cap.
—What about him?
I don’t know. I was just supposed to point him out to you.
The man’s name was Floyd Hopkins, and he was driving his rig as far as Pataskala. “But I�
��ll bet you anything we’ll find you a ride into Cedar Hill before the waitress comes for your lunch order,” he said after he and Ronnie finished their breakfast and were heading for his truck.
A little over three hours later, at the grocery store where Floyd was making his delivery, another trucker who was just finishing his delivery told Floyd that he had another delivery to make in Hebron, which meant he’d have to drive near Cedar Hill, and Ronnie was welcome to ride along.
Ronnie had walked out of the motel in Kentucky at five-fourteen a.m.
He set foot in Heath, Ohio—less than five miles outside Cedar Hill—at nine-thirty-five.
He allowed himself to feel relief only for a minute, and then he had not one, but two problems to deal with: 1) making sure that he didn’t run into any members of his family once he got into town, and, most importantly, 2) finding the lady whose name he couldn’t remember and correcting his mistake.
Correcting the part that could still be corrected, that is.
He took a deep breath, made himself aware of the silver thread, and began following it.
Ronald James Williamson and Lucy Thompson were about to meet for the second time.
Interlude: The Hangman
11:00 p.m.
1
Grant McCullers looked across the bar at Sheriff Ted Jackson, who was shaking his head as he and the Reverend exchanged unreadable glances.
“Am I missing something here?” asked the man they were still referring to as “Henry.”
“No,” said the Reverend. “It’s just…well you must admit, you’re offering certain details that some might construe as…that is, I mean to say—”
“You’re telling us stuff there’s no way you could know,” said Jackson.
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” said Grant.
Jackson looked at him. “First of all, I need a refill on the popcorn and my soda, and, second—you wouldn’t be so sure of what?”
Grant smiled as he refilled Jackson’s Pepsi. “I’m just saying, we shouldn’t be trying to poke holes in the story until we’ve heard the entire thing.” He gestured to the long shelf of knickknacks that ran the length of the bar. “Pick any item from up there—say, that busted guitar neck—and try to tell the story behind it and see how you’d feel if someone stopped you halfway through to start nitpicking about what you could have known or what you couldn’t have. Anybody’d sound crazy if you stopped them halfway through.”
Henry looked up at the shelf. “So you’re saying that everything on that shelf has got a story behind it? A story like mine?”
“There is no story like yours,” replied the Reverend. “Each one is unique. Some more so than others.”
“Like that busted guitar neck? Or that model ship and lighthouse?” asked Henry.
“You’d have to hear the stories first and then judge for yourself.”
“Oh.”
Grant set two fresh bowls of popcorn between everyone, made sure all had fresh drinks, poured himself another cup of coffee, and took his seat once again. “Have we gotten to the part yet where the doctors usually pull out their prescription pads and start scribbling away?”
Henry tried smiling and almost made it this time. “Depends on which doctor.”
“Ah.”
“So you guys…you don’t think I’m nuts?”
Jackson shook his head. “I haven’t had my yo-yo alarm go off yet. You two?”
“I’m going to pretend that question was never even asked,” said the Reverend.
Jackson put a hand on Henry’s shoulder. “Look, it’s not that I don’t believe you, okay? I’m just—I mean, c’mon, look at me! I wear a badge, y’know? It’s a force of habit to look for holes in someone’s story. If I do it again, ignore me. Or you could do what my wife did and leave. But I hope you finish the story first.”
“Okay,” said Henry.
“So,” said Grant, “if no one needs to take a bathroom break, I think we can let Mr. Henry here continue.” He looked at Henry and nodded. “I believe that Ronnie was about to meet Lucy again, right?”
Henry looked down at his hands, flexed his fingers, and released a slow breath. “Well, yes and no.”
“Oh?” asked the Reverend. “A slight detour in the narrative?”
“You might say.”
“What kind of a detour?” asked Jackson.
“I need to jump ahead a little bit, if that’s okay.”
Grant offered a glass of ice water. “It’s your story, Henry. We’re just listening.”
Jackson rubbed his eyes. “And I evidently haven’t been listening as well as I thought. You said that Ronnie and Lucy, they met a total of three times?”
“Yes.”
“But only one of them recognized the other?”
“Right.”
The Reverend sighed. “Yes, Theodore—look at that expression. He hates it when I call him by his Christian name. All right, all right—Ted. Before you ask another question of the ‘duh’ variety, I think we’re all in agreement that it was—or rather, will be—Ronnie who did—does—the recognizing.” He looked at Henry. “Am I correct?”
“You are.”
“See? Some of us know how to give our undivided attention to a tale and he who tells it.”
“Bite my bag,” said Jackson.
“I knew you’d return to that old standby eventually.”
Henry grinned; it wasn’t quite a smile, but the guy was getting closer with each try. “I really appreciate this, you guys. I really do. Having someone listen and not…well, you know.” He took three deep drinks of the cold water, set down the glass, and said, “Lucy Thompson…”
2
The sun shone mercilessly upon the mountain of gold, its brilliance hypnotizing him as he moved farther upward in slow, agonizing degrees. The mountain was everything to him now—mother, sister, wife, lover, torturer, redeemer, the schoolyard bully who used to pick on him in grade school, the muscle-bound beachcomber who took sadistic glee when kicking sand into the ninety-pound-weakling’s face—and he continued on both for and in spite of all the mountain was to him now.
I know you’re up there…somewhere...
He could feel the blisters on his feet and heels swell, then burst in searing liquid pain.
The sun beat down upon his back, scorching the flesh underneath his shirt.
He would not stop.
He didn’t care if he had to climb until he died, at least he would die doing something, making the effort, striving to free himself of all the doubt and nightmares that had haunted him all of his life.
I’ll find you. God help me, I’ll find you.
I know you’re there.
I know you’re real.
You have to be.
Taking hold of a firm root in the mountainside, he pulled in a deep breath, counted three, then released it as he pulled himself up another nine inches.
Part Two:
The Mount of The Moon
“Violence shall synchronize your movements like a
tune,
And Terror like a frost shall halt the flood of thinking.”
W.H. Auden
Letter to Lord Byron
“The only reason I stopped shooting was because I ran out of bullets.”
--Bernhard Goetz, in his statement to Concord,
New Hampshire police on December 31, 1984.
Chapter One
Lucy Thompson, feeling the buzz kicking in from the two drinks she’d had before coming here tonight, sat very still among the other members of the grief support group and watched the man who stood at the podium. A detective, he was, First-Class, with the Cedar Hill Police Department. He spoke very well, very clearly, as he explained to them various precautions they could take to make sure their children (the ones you have left remained unspoken but was nevertheless understood by all in the room) would remain safe and informed while at the same time still able to enjoy all the wonders of childhood without believing they had to look over their shoulder e
very ten seconds.
“Nothing is worse,” he said, “than to let fear infect your children. Now, I’m not saying that you should not make them aware of the dangers out there—far from it—but it’s important that you know when to pull back, when to draw the line. There is such a thing as too much information, especially when you first begin talking to your children about something like this. Let them see your concern, of course, but never let them know your fear.”
Never let them know your fear, Lucy repeated to herself in silence.
Then: But what if that fear could have been the thing that saved them?
“Excuse me?” said the detective, whose name Lucy suddenly couldn’t remember. “Is there a question back there?”
Jesus! Had she actually said that out loud?
She felt her hands ball into fists that she pressed against her legs; she figured that once she heard bones crack she’d stop.
Several people were turning to look at her.
“Sorry,” she managed to get out. “Just thinking out loud to myself.” Please, God, let him buy that and move on.
“But that’s an interesting point, Misses...?”
“Thompson,” she said, the word, slightly slurred, crawling from her throat as if it were afraid of the light. “No Misses, Miss, or Ms. Just Lucy. Lucy Thompson.”
The detective stared at her for a moment, then looked over at the counselor who ran these meetings; she gave a slight nod of her head, and the detective—Bill Emerson, that was his name—said, “Your question—if I heard it correctly—is whether or not instilling fear into a child might help save them?”
She could barely swallow now. “Yes.”
Detective Emerson appeared to think very hard for a few moments before answering. “Look, every last one of you is here because you’ve lost a child. Whether it was from violence or because they suddenly went missing doesn’t matter at this moment; what does matter is that the emptiness and grief has become more than you can handle on your own. But many of you still have other children that you can protect—and I don’t mean to imply or for you to infer that you didn’t protect your lost children. Yes, making them afraid would probably help protect them to some degree…but at the same time, it can also foster paranoia in them. So, again, I have to come back to my original point: infecting them with that degree of fear may make them wary of strangers, it might emphasize the importance of never being alone after dark, and it would probably guarantee that they’ll walk home from school with friends, but where’s the room left for childhood? If they’re so frightened of what might happen to them in the outside world that all they do is stay home and tell themselves at least they’re safe, at least what happened to their brother or sister won’t happen to them, aren’t they then being robbed of a child’s life just like their absent siblings were?”
Mr Hands Page 10