by Stephen King
“I don’t know.”
“I care about Marcy, of course I do.” She looked up, and he saw she was crying. “And I care about her girls. I care about Terry, for that matter . . . and the Petersons . . . but I care more about you and Derek. You guys are all I have. Can’t you let this go now? Finish your leave, see the shrink, and turn the page?”
“I don’t know,” he said, when in fact he did know. He just didn’t want to say so to Jeannie while she was in her current strange state. He couldn’t turn the page.
Not yet.
4
That night he sat at the picnic table in the backyard, smoking a Tiparillo and looking up at the sky. There were no stars, but he could still make out the moon behind the clouds that were moving in. The truth was often like that, he thought—a bleary circle of light behind clouds. Sometimes it broke through; sometimes the clouds thickened, and the light disappeared completely.
One thing was sure: when night fell, the skinny, tubercular man from Yune Sablo’s fairy tale became more plausible. Not believable, Ralph could no more believe in such a creature than he could in Santa Claus, but he could picture him: a darker-skinned version of Slender Man, that bugaboo of pubescent American girls. He’d be tall and grave in his black suit, his face like a lamp, and carrying a bag big enough to hold a small child with his or her knees folded against his or her chest. According to Yune, the Mexican boogeyman prolonged his life by drinking the blood of children and rubbing their fat on his body . . . and while that wasn’t exactly what had happened to the Peterson boy, it was in the vicinity. Might it be possible that the killer—maybe Maitland, maybe the unsub of the blurred fingerprints—actually thought he was a vampire, or some other supernatural creature? Hadn’t Jeffrey Dahmer believed he was creating zombies when he killed all those homeless men?
None of that addresses the question of why the burned man isn’t in the news footage.
Jeannie called to him. “Come inside, Ralph. It’s going to rain. You can smoke that smelly thing in the kitchen, if you have to have it.”
That isn’t why you want me to come inside, Ralph thought. You want me to come in because part of you can’t help thinking that Yune’s sack-man is lurking out here, just beyond the reach of the yard light.
Ridiculous, of course, but he could sympathize with her unease. He felt it himself. What had Jeannie said? The more you find, the wronger it gets.
Ralph came inside, doused his Tiparillo under the sink tap, then grabbed his phone off the charging stand. When Howie answered, Ralph said, “Can you and Mr. Pelley come over here tomorrow? I have a bunch of stuff to tell you, and some of it’s pretty unbelievable. Come to lunch. I’ll go out to Rudy’s and buy some sandwiches.”
Howie agreed at once. Ralph broke the connection and saw Jeannie in the doorway, looking at him with her arms folded over her chest. “Can’t let it go?”
“No, honey. I can’t. I’m sorry.”
She sighed. “Will you be careful?”
“I’ll tread with utmost caution.”
“You better, or I’ll tread on you without caution. And no need to get sandwiches from Rudy’s. I’ll make something.”
5
Sunday was rainy, so they convened at the Andersons’ seldom-used dining room table: Ralph, Jeannie, Howie, and Alec. Yune Sablo, at home in Cap City, joined them on Howie Gold’s laptop, via Skype.
Ralph began by recapping the things all of them knew, then turned it over to Yune, who told Howie and Alec about what they had found in the Elfman barn. When he was finished, Howie said, “None of this makes sense. In fact, it’s about four time-zones from making sense.”
“This person was sleeping out there in the loft of a deserted barn?” Alec asked Yune. “Hiding out? That’s what you’re thinking?”
“It’s the working assumption,” Yune said.
“If so, it couldn’t have been Terry,” Howie said. “He was in town all day Saturday. He took the girls to the municipal pool that morning, and he was at Estelle Barga Park all that afternoon, getting the field ready—as the home field coach, doing that was his responsibility. There were plenty of witnesses in both places.”
“And from Saturday til Monday,” Alec put in, “he was jugged in county jail. As you well know, Ralph.”
“There are all kinds of witnesses to Terry’s whereabouts almost every step of the way,” Ralph agreed. “That’s always been the root of the problem, but let it go for a minute. I want to show you something. Yune’s already seen it; he reviewed the footage this morning. But I asked him something before he watched, and now I want to ask you. Did either of you notice a badly disfigured man at the courthouse? He was wearing something on his head, but I’m not going to say what it was just now. Either of you?”
Howie said he hadn’t. All his attention had been fixed on his client and his client’s wife. Alec Pelley, however, was a different matter.
“Yeah, I saw him. Looked like he got burned in a fire. And what he was wearing on his head . . .” He stopped, eyes widening.
“Go on,” Yune said from his living room in Cap City. “Let it out, amigo. You’ll feel better.”
Alec was rubbing his temples, as if he had a headache. “At the time I thought it was a bandanna or a kerchief. You know, because his hair got burned off in the fire and maybe couldn’t grow back because of the scarring and he wanted to keep the sun off his skull. Only it could have been a shirt. The one missing from the barn, is that what you’re thinking? The one Terry was wearing in the security footage from the train station?”
“You win the Kewpie doll,” Yune said.
Howie was frowning at Ralph. “You’re still trying to hang this on Terry?”
Jeannie spoke up for the first time. “He’s just trying to get to the truth . . . which I’m not sure is the world’s best idea, actually.”
“Watch this, Alec,” Ralph said. “And point out the burned man.”
Ralph ran the Channel 81 footage, then the FOX footage, and then, at Alec’s request (he was now leaning so close to Jeannie’s laptop that his nose was nearly touching the screen), the Channel 81 footage again. At last he sat back. “He’s not there. Which is impossible.”
Yune said, “He was standing next to the guy waving his cowboy hat, right?”
“I think so,” Alec said. “Next to him and higher up from the blond reporter who got bonked on the noggin with a sign. I see both the reporter and the sign-waver . . . but I don’t see him. How can that be?”
None of them answered.
Howie said, “Let’s go back to the fingerprints for a minute. How many different sets in the van, Yune?”
“Forensics thinks as many as half a dozen.”
Howie groaned.
“Take it easy. We’ve eliminated at least four of those: the farmer in New York who owned the van, the farmer’s oldest son who sometimes drove it, the kid who stole it, and Terry Maitland. That leaves one clear set we haven’t identified—could have been one of the farmer’s friends or one of his younger kids, playing around inside—and those blurry ones.”
“The same blurry ones you found on the belt buckle.”
“Probably, but we can’t be sure. There are a few visible lines and whorls in those, but nothing like the clear points of identity you’d need to get them admitted into evidence when a case goes to court.”
“Uh-huh, okay, understood. So let me ask all three of you gentlemen something. Isn’t it possible that a man who had been badly burned—hands as well as face—could leave prints like that? Ones blurred to unrecognizability?”
“Yes.” Yune and Alec said it in unison, their voices only overlapping because of the computer’s brief transmission lag.
“The problem with that,” Ralph said, “is the burned man at the courthouse had tattoos on his hands. If his fingertips burned off, wouldn’t the tats have burned off, too?”
Howie shook his head. “Not necessarily. If I’m on fire, maybe I use my hands to try and put myself out, but I don’t do it wi
th the backs, do I?” He began slapping at his considerable chest to demonstrate. “I do it with my palms.”
There was a moment of silence. Then, in a low, almost inaudible voice, Alec Pelley said, “That burned guy was there. I’d swear to it on a stack of Bibles.”
Ralph said, “Presumably the State Police Forensics Unit will analyze the stuff from the barn that turned the hay black, but is there anything we can do in the meantime? I’m open to suggestions.”
“Backtrack to Dayton,” Alec said. “We know Maitland was there, and we know the van was there, too. At least some of the answers may also be there. I can’t fly up myself, too many irons currently in the fire, but I know somebody good. Let me make a call and see if he’s available.”
That was where they left it.
6
Ten-year-old Grace Maitland had slept poorly ever since her father’s murder, and what sleep she had managed was haunted by nightmares. That Sunday afternoon all her weariness came down on her like a soft weight. While her mother and sister were making a cake in the kitchen, Grace crept upstairs and lay on her bed. Although the day was rainy, there was plenty of light, which was good. The dark scared her now. Downstairs she could hear Mom and Sarah talking. That was also good. Grace closed her eyes, and although it only felt like a moment or two before she opened them again, it must have been hours, because the rain was coming down harder now and the light had gone gray. Her room was full of shadows.
A man was sitting on her bed and looking at her. He was wearing jeans and a green tee-shirt. There were tattoos on his hands and crawling up his arms. There were snakes, and a cross, and a dagger, and a skull. His face no longer looked like it had been made out of Play-Doh by an untalented child, but she recognized him, just the same. It was the man who had been outside Sarah’s window. At least now he didn’t have straws for eyes. Now he had her father’s eyes. Grace would have known those eyes anywhere. She wondered if this was happening, or if it was a dream. If so, it was better than the nightmares. A little, anyway.
“Daddy?”
“Sure,” said the man. His green tee-shirt changed to her father’s Golden Dragons game shirt, and so she knew it was a dream, after all. Next, that shirt turned into a white smocky thing, then back into the green tee-shirt. “I love you, Gracie.”
“That doesn’t sound like him,” Grace said. “You’re making him up.”
The man leaned close to her. Grace shrank back, eyes fixed on her father’s eyes. They were better than the I-love-you voice, but this was still not him.
“I want you to go,” she said.
“I’m sure you do, and people in hell want icewater. Are you sad, Grace? Do you miss your daddy?”
“Yes!” Grace began to cry. “I want you to go! Those aren’t my daddy’s real eyes, you’re just pretending!”
“Don’t expect any sympathy from me,” the man said. “I think it’s good that you’re sad. I hope you’ll be sad for a long time, and cry. Wah-wah-wah, just like a baby.”
“Please go!”
“Baby want her bottle? Baby pee in her didies, get all wet? Baby go wah-wah-wah?”
“Stop it!”
He sat back. “I will if you do one thing for me. Will you do something for me, Grace?”
“What is it?”
He told her, and then Sarah was shaking her and telling her to come down and have some cake, so it had just been a dream after all, a bad dream, and she didn’t have to do anything, but if she did, that dream might never come back.
She made herself eat some cake, although she really didn’t want any, and when Mom and Sarah were sitting on the couch and watching some dippy movie, Grace said she didn’t like love-movies and was going upstairs to play Angry Birds. Only she didn’t. She went into her parents’ bedroom (just her mom’s now, and how sad that was) and took her mother’s cell phone off the dresser. The policeman wasn’t in the cell’s contact list, but Mr. Gold was. She called him, holding the phone in both hands so it wouldn’t shake. She prayed he would answer, and he did.
“Marcy? What’s up?”
“No, it’s Grace. I’m using my mom’s phone.”
“Why, hello, Grace. It’s nice to hear from you. Why are you calling?”
“Because I didn’t know how to call the detective. The one who arrested my father.”
“Why do you—”
“I have a message for him. A man gave it to me. I know it was probably just a dream, but I’m playing it safe. I’ll tell you and you can tell the detective.”
“What man, Grace? Who gave you the message?”
“The first time I saw him, he had straws for eyes. He says he won’t come back anymore if I give Detective Anderson the message. He tried to make me believe he had my daddy’s eyes, but he didn’t, not really. His face is better now, but he’s still scary. I don’t want him to come back, even if it’s only a dream, so will you tell Detective Anderson?”
Mom was in the doorway now, silently watching, and Grace thought she would probably get in trouble, but she didn’t care.
“What should I tell him, Grace?”
“To stop. If he doesn’t want something bad to happen, tell him he has to stop.”
7
Grace and Sarah sat in the living room, on the couch. Marcy was between them, with an arm around each. Howie Gold sat in the easy chair that had been Terry’s until the world turned upside down. A hassock went with it. Ralph Anderson drew it in front of the couch and sat on it, his legs so long that his knees almost framed his face. He supposed he looked comical, and if that set Grace Maitland a bit at ease, that was all to the good.
“That must have been a scary dream, Grace. Are you sure it was a dream?”
“Of course it was,” Marcy said. Her face was tight and pale. “There was no man in this house. There was no way he could have gotten upstairs without us seeing him.”
“Or heard him, at least,” Sarah put in, but she sounded timid. Afraid. “Our stairs creak like mad.”
“You’re here for one reason, to ease my daughter’s mind,” Marcy said. “Would you please do that?”
Ralph said, “Whatever it was, you know there’s no man here now, don’t you, Grace?”
“Yes.” She seemed sure of this. “He’s gone. He said he would go if I gave you the message. I don’t think he will come back anymore, whether he was a dream or not.”
Sarah sighed dramatically and said, “Isn’t that a relief.”
“Hush, munchkin,” Marcy said.
Ralph pulled out his notebook. “Tell me what he looked like. This man in your dream. Because I’m a detective, and now I’m sure that’s what it was.”
Although Marcy Maitland didn’t like him and probably never would, her eyes thanked him for this much, at least.
“Better,” Grace said. “He looked better. His Play-Doh face was gone.”
“That’s what he looked like before,” Sarah told Ralph. “She said.”
Marcy said, “Sarah, go into the kitchen with Mr. Gold and get everybody a piece of cake, would you do that?”
Sarah looked at Ralph. “Cake even for him? Do we like him now?”
“Cake for everyone,” Marcy said, neatly dodging the question. “It’s called hospitality. Go on, now.”
Sarah got off the couch and crossed the room to Howie. “I’m getting kicked out.”
“Couldn’t happen to a nicer person,” Howie said. “I will join you in purdah.”
“In what?”
“Never mind, kiddo.” They went out to the kitchen together.
“Make this brief, please,” Marcy said to Ralph. “You’re only here because Howie said it was important. That it might have something to do with . . . you know.”
Ralph nodded without taking his eyes from Grace. “This man who had the Play-Doh face the first time he showed up . . .”
“And straws for eyes,” Grace said. “They stuck out, like in a cartoon, and the black circles people have in their eyes were holes.”
“Uh-huh.�
�� In his notebook, Ralph wrote, Straws for eyes? “When you say his face looked like Play-Doh, could it have been because he was burned?”
She thought about it. “No. More like he wasn’t done. Not . . . you know . . .”
“Not finished?” Marcy asked.
Grace nodded, and put her thumb in her mouth. Ralph thought, This ten-year-old thumb sucker with the wounded face . . . she’s mine. True, and the seeming clarity of the evidence upon which he had acted would never change that.
“What did he look like today, Grace? The man in your dream.”
“He had short black hair that was sticking up, like a porcupine, and a little beard around his mouth. He had my daddy’s eyes, but they weren’t really his eyes. He had tattoos on his hands and all up his arms. Some were snakes. At first his shirt was green, then it turned to my daddy’s baseball shirt with the golden dragon on it, then it turned into white, like what Mrs. Gerson wears when she does my mom’s hair.”
Ralph glanced at Marcy, who said, “I think she means a smock top.”
“Yes,” Grace said. “That. But then it turned back into the green shirt, so I know it was a dream. Only . . .” Her mouth trembled, and her eyes filled with tears that spilled down her flushed cheeks. “Only he said mean things. He said he was glad I was sad. He called me a baby.”
She turned her face against her mother’s breasts and wept. Marcy looked at Ralph over the top of her head, for a moment not angry at him but only frightened for her daughter. She knows it was more than a dream, Ralph thought. She sees it means something to me.
When the girl’s crying eased, Ralph said, “This is all good, Grace. Thank you for telling me about your dream. All that’s over now, okay?”
“Yes,” she said in a tear-hoarsened voice. “He’s gone. I did what he said, and he’s gone.”
“We’ll have our cake in here,” Marcy said. “Go help your sister with the plates.”
Grace ran to do it. When they were alone, Marcy said, “It’s been hard on both of them, especially Grace. I’d say that’s all this is, except Howie doesn’t think so, and I don’t think you do, either. Do you?”