by R. L. Stine
Ira flat, his face pale white, head straight up, arms and legs so stiff at his sides. Not moving.
Not moving.
Ira. Not moving.
40
A few minutes earlier. Daniel pushed down on Ira’s head. The boy kept thrashing and squirming under the churning water, but weakly now.
“Be careful,” Samuel said, tugging his brother’s arm. “Don’t get carried away. You just want to scare him, Daniel. You don’t want to drown him, do you? Do you?”
Daniel’s eyes were wild and distant at the same time. Samuel always wondered what he was seeing at times like these. Samuel knew what he saw. An endless dark chasm stretching beyond them forever.
“Daniel, please—”
Daniel blinked, as if coming to consciousness. He lowered his hands around the struggling boy’s waist and, with a grunt, hoisted him out of the water.
Ira emerged coughing and choking, eyes wide, water rolling off him, legs still churning. Daniel held him high, allowed him to spew up a stream of water, cough and groan and sputter.
Behind them, Ethan shrieked at the top of his voice: “Are you okay? Is he okay? Is he okay? Ira?”
Samuel thought he could see the heartbeats in the boy’s bony white chest. Now Ira made hoarse vomiting sounds, dredging up only pool water.
Daniel held him up, his biceps round and hard, too developed for a twelve-year-old. But Samuel knew where his twin’s strength came from.
Ira’s hair was matted over his face like a clump of dark seaweed. His head was down, arms limp at his sides, legs finally still.
“Is he okay? Is he breathing? Is he going to be okay?”
Samuel gave Ethan a reassuring thumbs-up.
Ira grew quieter. His chest still heaved but the choking and vomiting had ceased. He raised his head slowly, groaning. He brushed the wet clump of hair off his eyes with one hand.
Daniel laughed. “You did it, laddy!” he cried exultantly.
Ira squinted at Daniel, struggling to focus. “Did it?” His voice a choked whisper.
“A minute-twenty!” Daniel declared. “You broke your old record. I knew you could do it!”
Ira just stared at him, his face vacant, obviously trying to decide Daniel’s intent. Did Daniel just try to drown him? Was he playing a vicious game? Or was he really trying to help Ira break his underwater record?
Daniel kept the grin on his face. “Way to go, lad. Next time, a minute and a half.” He lowered Ira gently into the water. Then he turned to Samuel. “Wasn’t that amazing?”
“Amazing,” Samuel echoed.
“But you forced him,” Ethan protested. “Didn’t you see he wanted to come up?”
“I knew he could break his record,” Daniel insisted.
“C-cold,” Ira stammered. “I’m . . . getting out.” He started to paddle weakly toward the side, gliding as if in slow motion.
“Get him some more towels,” Daniel ordered Ethan. “Maybe a sweatshirt or something.”
Ethan splashed out of the pool. His bare feet thudded on the deck, leaving dark footprints as he disappeared into the house. As soon as he was gone, Daniel nodded to Samuel.
Samuel knew the routine.
Each taking an arm, they led Ira out of the pool. “Th-thanks,” Ira stuttered. The poor kid was shaking.
“Here. Lie down in the sun,” Daniel instructed in his most gentle voice. Like a harmless little boy, Samuel thought.
They helped Ira onto his back on the sun-hot deck boards. He stretched out flat, water running off him, still breathing hard, shuddering.
“Ssssh. Relax,” Daniel whispered. He turned expectantly to Samuel.
Time for me to go to work.
It was so funny, actually. Daniel was the angry one. The bold one. Face it—the evil twin. Daniel was the one who wanted to act. Daniel wanted to rule the pool or rule the school or rule the fools.
Samuel knew he was different. He was shy. He was peace-loving and calm. No, not kind or sweet or feeling. But calm, at least. Not eager.
So funny, since Sammy was Death Man.
Sammy was the killer-man. Sammy had the beam, the ray, the whatever-you-want-to-call-it. Sammy had the heat. The burn. The furnace. Go ahead—say it: the fire of Hell.
Yes, together on the island where the dead met the living, they stepped out of a blood rain. Yes, the blood was on their shoulders and in their hearts. The blood splashed at their feet and puddled all around them, ran down their faces and stained their skin as well as their clothes.
Like a nightmare. I know we are nightmares.
And the strange part: Daniel brought the anger. But Sammy brought the death.
Now Daniel eyed him eagerly. Samuel leaned over Ira, brought his face close to the shivering boy’s, and began to fire up his eyes.
Samuel’s eyes clicked as if someone had bumped a switch. And they began to light instantly. The white around the pupils darkened to pink, and then the pupils disappeared into the growing red glow.
Like the coiled burners on an electric stove, Samuel’s eyes reddened and the heat began to radiate. His eyes were bright fire now, hot neon, red and hypnotic.
So hypnotic, Ira made no attempt to move or look away.
“Easy,” Daniel warned, bumping Samuel’s arm. “Don’t burn him. Back off a bit. You’ll blind him. We don’t want to hurt him. We only want to open his mind. Easy. Easy. We don’t want Mum to see that he is changed.”
“Okay, boyo. I’m being careful,” Samuel whispered. “Hurry. Ethan will be back.” He could see the red-glare reflection of his eyes in Ira’s eyes. “I’m just holding him. Not burning him. Go ahead. Tell his brain who is boss.”
Samuel was always surprised that he couldn’t feel the heat. Burning embers. No. Burning lasers. His eyes radiated blistering heat. But he couldn’t feel a thing.
Daniel leaned over the prone figure. Ira was hypnotized in the red glow.
“Okay, bruvver, I helped you today,” Daniel said, eyes on the glass doors of the house, watching warily for Ethan’s return. “Now we will stick together, boyo. Stick together like bruvvers. Yes?”
Silence for a second. Samuel kept the light on Ira’s face. “Yes,” Ira answered. Robotlike. But he gave the correct answer.
“Bruvvers forever,” Daniel murmured. “Even closer than bruvvers. And we’ll all be together day and night, all together we’ll rule the school.”
“Yes,” Ira said, this time without hesitating. He almost sounded enthusiastic.
Good boy.
Daniel gave Samuel the nod. The job had been done. Ira’s mind had been fixed. Samuel shut his eyes. He could feel a little prickling heat on the backs of his eyelids. He kept his eyes shut until they cooled.
When he opened them, he saw the new pa burst through the gate and stride onto the deck, his chest heaving up and down. “What’s wrong? Hey—what’s wrong?” In a panic.
Daniel helped Ira to a sitting position. “Wave at your pa,” he whispered.
Ira waved.
“Is Ira okay?” The new pa hurried up to them. Samuel saw the sweat stain on the front of his sleeveless tee.
“I’m fine, Dad. We were just taking a break,” Ira said.
“We had an awesome swim, don’t you know,” Daniel said. “Then we did some tricks in the water. And had some contests.”
“Ira can hold his breath a long time,” Samuel told him.
Ira nodded. “I beat my old record, Dad.”
The new pa studied Ira’s face, as if he still thought something had gone wrong. “When I saw you lying on the deck like that . . .”
“Just relaxing,” Ira said. “What’s the big deal, Dad?”
“Where’s Ethan?”
Ethan reappeared as if on cue, carrying a stack of towels. “What’s up? Is Ira okay?”
“Of course I’m okay,” Ira insisted.
Ethan squinted at Ira, confused.
“Ethan, want to come to the ocean with us?” the new pa asked, wiping sweat off his forehead with th
e front of his shirt. “We have room.”
“No. Thanks. My mom said I had to stay home. She went to Cromer’s to get dinner. She’ll be back any minute.”
“Okay. Next time. Let’s hurry, guys. I left Roz and Axl in the car.”
Daniel helped Ira to his feet. He kept his arm around Ira’s shoulders as they made their way to the car. “I see you two are bonding,” the new pa said.
No one replied to that.
At the gate, Samuel turned back to Ethan. “Can I borrow this towel?” He held up the ragged white towel.
“No problem,” Ethan called. “Bring it back next time, okay?”
Samuel followed the others to the black SUV at the bottom of the drive. The boys greeted Roz and Axl. “Put beach towels down on the seats,” she told them. “Don’t get the car all wet.”
“Roz, it’s a beach car,” Pa told her. “It’s supposed to get wet.”
“Wet,” Axl repeated, and laughed.
Ira climbed into the passenger seat next to Pa. Samuel followed Daniel to the back. They climbed up next to the beach basket and supplies.
The car bumped off the driveway, onto the street. At the side of the road, Samuel saw big blackbirds feasting on the carcass of a stiff, dead squirrel.
After they had driven for a few minutes, Samuel poked his twin. Daniel turned from the window. Samuel grinned at him. “You win a prize,” he whispered.
Daniel’s eyebrows slid up. “What did you get?”
Samuel slowly unrolled the towel. Then, grinning, he revealed the prize inside. The iPhone Ethan had used to time the underwater contest.
Daniel started to giggle and soon Samuel was giggling too.
“What’s so funny?” Roz asked.
“We’re just happy lads,” Daniel answered.
41
At police headquarters on Division Street in Sag Harbor, Andy Pavano didn’t have his own office. There was a cubicle by the men’s room that had been promised him. But it was filled nearly to the ceiling with junk, mainly old computer equipment and fax machines, and no one in the department seemed eager or even willing to clear it out for him.
Maybe they were waiting for him to do it himself, Andy thought. In the meantime, he was squatting in the office of Angie Donato, the one woman in the department, who was out on maternity leave. The only redecorating he had done to make it his own was to turn all her family photos to the wall because her four kids were really ugly. Beasts. No exaggeration.
Waiting for a meeting in which he knew he and Pinto were going to be bounced off the Hulenberger murder case, he sat on the edge of his (her) desk with the phone pressed to his ear, enjoying Sari’s voice even though she wasn’t saying anything promising to him.
The air-conditioning was on the fritz, so a large floor fan hummed and squeaked in the corner, making it hard to hear her. “What did you say? You what?”
“Rod and I are serious about each other, Andy. I mean, I don’t know how serious. But—”
“Sari, please tell me his name isn’t Rod. You’re not going with a guy in a tennis hat named Rod.”
“You’re making jokes. He’s a nice guy. He’s nice to me. He—”
“You know you still feel something for me. At the theater the other night . . .”
“I told you that was nothing. Sure, there are leftover feelings. From before. Sure, we both have them. But come on. That’s what they are. Leftovers.”
Marie, the office secretary, began having a heated conversation with a lanky young cop in the hall outside his door. Andy turned his back and tried to drown out their voices.
He missed some of what Sari was saying. He just caught the name Susannah.
“Sari, what? What about Susannah?”
“How long were you married, Andy? Did you cheat on her, too?”
Ouch. That brought a physical pain, a sharp stab to the pit of his stomach.
“That’s cold, Sari. That’s not fair. You don’t know anything about me and Susannah. And I didn’t cheat on you. I—”
“You were a shit, Andy. You were a total shit.”
“How about lunch?”
He heard her breath catch.
“Just a quick lunch at the Paradise. We won’t be serious. No serious stuff. Just talk. Like old friends.”
“You sound too desperate.”
“Does that mean yes?”
She laughed. “Can Rod come, too?”
“Aaaaagggh.” He let out a frustrated growl.
Pinto poked his big balding head into the doorway. “Are you having phone sex again?”
Andy tried to wave him away.
“Big Pavano is calling. Time to have our heads chopped,” Pinto said, motioning for him to come to the chief’s office.
Since Andy arrived on the force, the chief was always referred to as Big Pavano, which was a joke, since Andy was a head taller and had him by at least thirty pounds. But rank was everything, even on a police force of seven.
Andy waved Pinto away again and pressed his face against the phone. “Have to go. We’ll set a date for lunch, okay?”
But Sari had already hung up.
———
Michael Pavano—as stated to anyone who commented, no relation to Andy Pavano—did not have the cliché looks of a local Long Island police chief. Yes, he had been a marine. Had a pretty good career, working his way up the ranks to master sergeant because he was smart and obedient and liked to follow the rules, felt more comfortable following the rules, liked a structured life and the sense of order the corps offered.
But when it was suggested he be moved to internal affairs, he balked and then resigned his commission. He had no interest in plotting investigations of men who had worked hard enough to become U.S. Marines.
The switch to a uniform in the Boston Police Department seemed natural, but he struggled to find the kind of structure he had as a marine. Of course, it didn’t exist. So when a friend suggested the job opening in the Sag Harbor Department, it seemed like an escape and an opportunity at the same time.
To Andy’s mind, Big Pavano didn’t look like a marine or a cop. For one thing, he was short and slender. (He said he’d made the marine height requirement by standing on tiptoe, a rare joke for someone normally humorless.) He didn’t have the beer pouch of an ex-soldier who had relaxed his standards. He had a full crop of straight black hair, streaked with gray at the sides, and a friendly face, warm blue-gray eyes that somehow always managed to look sympathetic.
There was a sadness about Big Pavano, Andy thought. Maybe because he’d always been married to his post, never had a wife or family.
He had three folding chairs waiting facing the desk in his small, nearly bare office, and motioned for Andy and Pinto to sit down. As they did, a toweringly tall, light-skinned black man in a blue cop uniform ducked his head under the doorframe and stepped into the room.
“This is Captain Franks,” Pavano said, “from the State Criminal Investigation Bureau. I called him in because . . . well . . . you know why.”
“Morning, Sergeants.” Franks nodded solemnly to them. He had short black hair receding on his broad forehead. His dark eyes studied them with interest, moving from Pinto and Andy. His broad nose had obviously been broken a few times. He had a long scar, old, across his chin.
Tough dude.
He was broad-chested, built like a heavyweight fighter, his uniform jacket stretched tight over his uniform shirt. His state cop badge caught the light from the ceiling fluorescents. Andy saw that he had a standard Glock .22—the policeman’s favorite—in the black holster at his waist.
Chief Pavano dropped into the folding chair next to Andy, perching as erect as a marine. Franks stepped behind the desk and leaned his massive fists on top of the scattered papers on the desktop.
“So what do we have here?” he asked. He had a James Earl Jones voice, booming despite his attempt to speak softly. He wasn’t asking a question, Andy knew. No one tried to answer.
“We have a man murdered in bizarre fa
shion inside a car in another man’s driveway.” Franks answered his own question. “The method of murder indicates that the killer had some strength and also used some sort of heat-producing weapon. Am I correct so far?”
Big Pavano coughed. “That’s what we have, all right, Captain.”
Andy scraped at some loose skin on the back of his thumb. He knew that he and Pinto were being removed from the case and Franks was taking charge. Why did Franks have to put on a show first?
“Now, we have blood all over the man’s car,” Franks continued, almost as if talking to himself. “The victim’s windpipe is fucking tossed on the backseat, ripped from his throat. And his throat has been burned open. We have a gaping hole there, right, and the skin is scorched black. Like someone tried to fucking barbecue him.”
Chief Pavano nodded grimly. Andy and Pinto stared straight ahead. Andy’s stomach rumbled. He pictured the wet, blood-tipped pink noodle stretched on the backseat of the car. It made him sick every time he thought of it.
“With all that blood and ripped skin, we should have some evidence,” Franks boomed. “The weapon. Fingerprints on the blowtorch? The killer had to reach in through the open window, yes? So how about a fingerprint or two on the side of the fucking car?”
“We took that car apart in the lab in Riverhead,” Chief Pavano told him. “I mean, bolt by bolt, Captain. We dusted it and X-rayed it and lasered it and micro—whatever those guys can fucking do these days. We did everything but taste it. And we came up with nothing. Prints from a tennis ball. Kiddie prints.”
Franks rubbed the scar on his chin, gazing at Chief Pavano thoughtfully. “Well, what don’t we have here? We don’t have a psycho serial killer, right? We don’t have a Hannibal Lecter. At least the killer didn’t eat the fucking windpipe. And God knows, we haven’t had similar murders we can tie to this one.”
“We don’t have a lot of murders in Sag Harbor, Franks,” Pinto murmured. “It’s a quiet little village, you know.”
Franks nodded. He pulled out a small key chain and twirled it in one hand. “So . . . we rule out serial killer. We have to look closer to home, don’t we? I think I’ve gone over this story enough. Try this on for size. The psychologist, Sutter, writes a book that people don’t like. He has a book tour. He gets booed and yelled at in one city, then another. Everywhere he fucking goes. City after city, people are angry at him. He comes home. Maybe he’s upset. Maybe he’s overwrought from all the abuse. Maybe the sonofabitch is about to lose it.