The Savage Kind

by John Copenhaver

  “Yes?” Elaine Closs said, opening the door as I climbed the steps. She must’ve spotted me on the sidewalk.

  “Hello,” I said, steadying my voice.

  “You shouldn’t be here.” She was alert and dry-eyed. Her crisp mint green blouse was wrinkle-free, and the sharp pleats of her dark blue dress had been painstakingly ironed.

  “Do you have a minute?” I asked, smiling. “Then I’ll leave you alone. I promise.”

  As she considered my request, she tried to maintain a neutral expression, but the veins in her temples popped, and her facial muscles twitched like they were being plucked by an angry guitarist. At last, she sighed and said, “Well, I suppose you can come in for a few.” She turned from the door, and over her shoulder, she said, “Would you like some refreshments? I’m famished.” She always seemed ready for a snack. Perhaps her drug habit makes her perpetually hungry.

  “No, I’m okay,” I said, running my finger over the handle of the knife. “Be brave,” I told myself. “Be brave.”

  “If you’re here, you might as well,” she said. “Have a seat in the parlor.” She vanished down the hall.

  I closed the front door behind me, leaving it unlocked. If I needed to, I wanted to be able to make a fast escape. In the parlor, I waited at the U-shaped window seat. The hazy pink glow that had filled the room before was gone. The red leaves that had filtered the light had fallen. However, the spray of cobweb-laced roses still moldered in the fireplace, the storm still threatened the rolling plains in the painting above the sofa, and the grandfather clock still menaced the room, its gears grinding seconds into dust. It was like the inside of a nightmarish snow globe. This place—it must have been horrible for Cleve. Maybe if I’d known him better, I could’ve helped him; I could’ve found a way past his anger.

  China clattered in the kitchen, and I touched the handle of the knife again. It was becoming a talisman of my determination, of my nerve. I wondered if it was Elaine, not Halo, who had served Miss Martins the drugged cocoa. Could she have done something like that? But why? Or could Moira have done it? But again, why? Neither woman had a motivation for killing Cleve or Miss Martins, and of course, they didn’t strangle and violate Jackie. Although his motive for murdering Miss Martins was convincing—he’d already attacked her once—Halo wouldn’t have killed his own son, would he? He might’ve used Jackie’s murder as an excuse to pin Cleve’s death on Bogdan, but he had no reason to kill her, unless of course, as Judy thought, he was a crazed sexual pervert. Were there other suspects? Bart and Edith? After all, they were involved with the Closses somehow, but that was beyond me. Like the grim Victorian knickknacks scattered around the room, the clues to the murders—the water-related methods of dispatching victims; the cryptic inscription; the presence of Veronal in Cleve and, I supposed, Miss Martins; the damaged crescent moon pin; the damning yearbook; the shamrock tie around her neck—pointed toward something. But what?

  Tearing me away from my thoughts, Elaine was suddenly hovering over me. She placed a tray on the table between us, on which she had arranged a small plate of petite muffins and gumdrop-topped Empire biscuits, a silver teapot, and two cups and saucers. After fussily adjusting herself on the cushion across from me, she poured tea for us, dropping a cookie on each of the saucers. “Do you take sugar or cream?” she said.

  I held up my hand. “Neither. Thank you.”

  “Tea is better with plenty of cream, but suit yourself.” She scooted a cup toward me, its side decorated with an intricately enameled blue jay. “Now,” she said, depositing cream and a sugar cube in her own cup, “what did you want to ask me?”

  I didn’t know where to start. After an uncomfortable pause, I said, “You’ve heard about Christine Martins?”

  “Yes,” she said, her bottom lip trembling. “Awful. Just awful. The police are saying it’s the same man who killed my…” She glanced down at her lap, plucked a stray hair or something from it, and brushed it clean. When she looked up, she said, “Why haven’t you taken off your coat?”

  “Oh,” I said, “I wasn’t planning on staying long.” I wanted to keep my protection near me. “Did you know Miss Martins well?” I said.

  After taking a sip of tea, she said, “As Cleveland’s teacher. We’ve covered this territory before.” A muscle trembled at the edge of her mouth. “She was some help to him, I believe. Lord knows, he wasn’t good at his compositions. But you know that, too.”

  “You’re good friends with the Peabodys, right?” I decided to steer clear of Cleve.

  Elaine seemed confused. “No, we don’t know them. Not really. We only recently met because of the similarities between Cleve’s and Jackie’s deaths. We have too much in common now.”

  “But Cleve’s grandmother knows them well. At least, I thought…”

  “They know each other socially, but not well, not close friends.” Her eyes sharpened. “How did you get that impression?”

  I didn’t believe her. She wasn’t a good liar.

  “Why aren’t you drinking your tea?” she said. “It’ll get cold.”

  I studied the steaming amber liquid. It had come from the same pot as Elaine’s, but still. The cup could’ve been laced with poison before she added the tea. I had to make a move, or she would become suspicious. I lifted the dainty china to my lips, sticking out my pinky to maximize control, and pretended to sip, a tactic I could only use once or twice.

  “You and Judy Peabody are fast friends,” Elaine said. “Yes?”

  “That’s right,” I said, settling my cup back in its saucer.

  “The way you are together,” she said. “So alive and full of energy. You can tell. Just a pair. Like sisters.”

  “We are, I guess.”

  Elaine smiled, her eyes glinted. “That’s wonderful. Sisters—of blood or in spirit—can be a beautiful thing. A perfect thing.” Without warning, a pall dropped over her features. She leaned toward me and, in an empty, toneless voice, said, “Be a good sister. Don’t keep secrets from her. They spread like a disease. They eat you up from the inside.”

  Her eyes darted up, her jaw fell open, and blood drained from her cheeks. A shadow shifted on the carpet, and I whipped around and gasped. Halo was charging toward us, his muscular arm driving down. He yelled something unintelligible and slammed his fist into the table, sending the teapot, cups, sugar, cream, platter, and edibles to the floor with a crash. I cried out, and Elaine yelped like a wild animal, shot to her feet, and gripped her chest as if to keep her heart from popping out. I sprung up, tripped over the bottom edge of the window seat’s molding, and hit the carpet hard, smashing a saucer and several cookies. Ignoring the pain, I rolled over, sat up, and scooted frantically away, my back colliding with the wall. I snatched the knife from my pocket and held it in front of me with both hands.

  Halo spun again, his handsome, thuggish face scrawled with panic. As I slid up the wall, he stepped toward me, arms open, palms out, chest heaving. His red and white polka-dotted tie swayed like a pendulum. The pinup girl from the tie around Miss Martins’s neck flashed in my mind, and I thought, “Why’d he leave it behind? Why do that?” It didn’t matter. The monster was closing in.

  “What is this?” he gasped, spittle showering me. “What are you doing here?”

  “Having tea,” Elaine whimpered from the corner, her eyes darting back and forth in a frenzy.

  “Shut up!” he said over his shoulder.

  “Stay away!” I screamed, the knife zigzagging in front of me. My confidence was shot. Some Calvin McKey I’d make.

  He took a step toward me. “Why are you here?” he asked again, his voice dropping a register. “You shouldn’t be here.” His eyes were wet and startlingly bright.

  “Howard, please,” Elaine muttered.

  “Back off!” I said, jabbing the knife at the space between us.

  He edged closer. Seven feet. Six and a half feet. His square-jawed face was waxy and coated with a sheen of sweat. A sour boozy odor seeped from his pores. Feeling h
elpless, I continued to flick the blade at the air in front of him. He put his hands up but crept closer. Six feet. Five feet. Four and a half feet. He was near enough to lunge and wrap his big hands around my throat. “Give me the knife,” he said, gesturing to me. “You don’t want to hurt me.” Sure, I thought. Suddenly, he took a swipe at my outstretched arms, trying to catch me by the wrists. I ducked and thrust the blade at him, striking his left thigh. The tip penetrated his wool trousers. He cried, “Damn!” and pulled away, and the knife fell to the floor.

  Then, as if the house had cracked open and had begun to cave in, the massive grandfather clock to my left heaved forward. Its chimes clashed loudly, chaotically, and its weights struck the inside of its walnut casing. Time seemed to be folding in on itself. Only feet away, Halo sprang into action and caught it, his knees straining under the weight. He struggled with its top-heavy bulk, grunting through his teeth. “Jesus!” he moaned, “Help me!” But as soon as he uttered it, he lost his grip, and time sped up: The clock hit a wingback chair hard, gonged, splintered, and tumbled to the floor, a heap of broken panels, glass shards, dials, and gears.

  Elaine palmed the sides of her head as if the noise were melting her brain. That’s when I saw Judy, the author of the mayhem. “Come on!” she shouted. I glanced at Halo, who was applying pressure to his wound and breathing hoarsely. Everything was blurry and about to go sideways. I didn’t want to pass out. “Come on!” she yelled again. “What are you waiting for?” But I couldn’t steady myself. The floor was bending away from me, and the ceiling was folding down over us. I took a step and nearly collapsed. Judy seized my hand and tugged me, stumbling, out the door.

  JUDY, NOVEMBER 22, 1948

  When I heard the commotion downstairs—a thump, breaking glass, a cry—I snapped Charlene Peters’s journal closed. A man’s voice, Halo’s voice, bellowed, “What is this? What are you doing here?” I shoved the book into my coat, filing away a sentence or two, unable to process the rest. I rushed out of Cleve’s room and to the top of the stairs, which minutes before, I’d crept up.

  After Philippa’s confrontation with Edith, I’d followed her, suspecting that she was headed to the Closses’. I didn’t want her to go alone. I was a block away when I watched her follow Elaine inside. “Jesus Christ,” I thought, “she can’t be serious!” When I approached the door, I was surprised to find it sprung from its latch. When I nudged it open, Elaine was walking down the hall to the back of the house, away from the parlor where, most likely, Philippa was waiting. No one else was in sight. My first impulse was to join Philippa, but I didn’t want to cause a scene and miss my chance to snoop upstairs. The opportunity wouldn’t present itself again.

  After popping into a bathroom and a guest bedroom, I located Cleve’s room at the end of the hall. The off-white walls were hung with boring seascapes and an architectural sketch of a Capitol City Hardware building. In an old bookcase, he’d stacked textbooks, adventure novels, and back issues of Boys’ Life. His baby blue bedspread was tucked in at the sides; a quarter would’ve bounced on its surface. His large dresser, which reeked of furniture polish, was free of knickknacks, other than a blurry photo of him on The Crawdad Express, smiling, holding a fish. I rummaged through the dresser, which was full of fastidiously folded clothes. I peeked in his closet, which also was spookily neat. Everything felt tidied up, scoured. As I turned from the closet, I spotted his red backpack under the edge of the bed. It was always with him. I remember him swinging it at me from his bike like a flail. The clash still stings a bit—and I still don’t understand why he was so furious.

  I unbuckled its flap and searched inside. Unlike his room—but much like his desk at school—its contents were a jumble of loose papers, pencils, notebooks, and even a broken compass. At its bottom, dusty with pencil shavings, was the reddish-brown journal he’d had out on his desk the day Miss M ordered him out of class. I opened it. Written on the inside flap was “Charlene Peters: 1928 to” in neat handwriting that reminded me of my own. What the hell was Cleve doing with my birth mother’s diary? What’s the connection? I couldn’t make sense of it, but I knew it was significant. I let a few pages fall through my fingers, stopping on a random page dated February 21, 1929, and a name jumped off the page: Halo Closs.

  PHILIPPA, NOVEMBER 22, 1948

  Halo roared after us: “Stop, damn it! Just stop!” We glanced back. He was on the stoop, blood blooming across his pant leg. I steadied myself against Judy, still woozy. “We’ve got to go,” Judy said in my ear. “Can you move? Can you run? You’ve got to.” I wanted to throw up, my stomach was somersaulting, but a voice clicked on in my head: “Don’t be a weakling. Be brave. Go!” As Halo started toward us, Judy tugged on me again, and the sidewalk lurched and began sliding underneath us. Somehow my feet were carrying me forward.

  Undaunted, Halo pursued us, his leg slowing him only slightly. The sky was strewn with fast-moving rain clouds, and a breeze blew at our backs. We dashed by pedestrians on A Street and bolted in front of traffic on 8th. Cars blared their horns. We flew past Eastern Market, North Carolina Avenue Methodist Church, and the Carolina Theater. We hurtled ourselves across two busy lanes on East Capitol, coming close to being clipped by a streetcar. Pedestrians barked, “Watch it! What’s the idea! Stupid fucking kids!”

  We were about to cross to Tennessee Avenue when Judy stopped. She put her hands on her knees and caught her breath. “We have to split up,” she said. “You go down Twelfth and lead him up the fire escape to the top of Hill Estates. I’ll go around the other way.”

  “What?!”

  “And use the plank. It’s important.”

  Judy glanced over my shoulder. “Wait here, let him see you, then do what I said.”

  “No! Why would we do something like that? It’s crazy.”

  “So we have the upper hand.”

  “I’m not doing it. No way.”

  Judy touched the side of my arm and locked eyes with me. “You stuck a knife in his leg,” she said, still breathing hard. “You can do this.”

  I pulled away. “We need to find a safe place to hide, not lure him to us!”

  “We have to end this,” she said. “Do it for me.” She took off before I could hold on to her, before I could demand that we think it through. We needed to step back from the chaos and construct a reasonable plan. Halo spotted me from the edge of the park. I couldn’t believe what Judy was asking me to do, but what choice did I have? I had to go.

  When I reached the fire escape, I jerked down the counterweighted ladder. It groaned and hit the ground with a clang. Thirty yards away, Halo appeared and began stumbling through the rear access alley toward me. His large frame lurched forward, as hulking and disheveled as Frankenstein’s monster. With his adrenaline up, he would rip me in two if he caught me. I focused on the iron rungs and started climbing. The sky had darkened to a slate gray, and the breeze had stirred into a wind. Droplets of cold rain pecked at my cheeks. The flaky metal bit into my palms, but I ignored it. I had to make it to Hill Estates for Judy’s sake, for both of us. As I ascended through the shaky, noisy, labyrinthine structure, I chanted to myself: “Be brave, Phil. Be brave.”

  When I emerged onto the roof’s open expanse, the wind whipped through my hair, tossing startling spurts of rain in my face. Halo was at the bottom of the second story. Climbing the ladder with a wounded leg had slowed him, but he was undaunted, his muscular arms hoisting his body up with ease. He kept calling out: “Talk to me! Judy? Philippa? Stop running away!” I thought of my tarot reading, especially the Devil card. Here he was, Halo Closs, the Devil himself, the cat-faced creature with twisted horns, leathery wings, and vulture’s claws, crawling through metal bars toward me. What was the word Sophie used? Depraved. He was a depraved man, a vampire, draining the life out of everyone he knew.

  I bolted toward Hill Estates, dodging the chimneys, lightning rods, towering furnace vents, and almost jumped to the other building. It would’ve been my first trans-alley leap. But my fear of
thwarting Judy’s plan—not to mention being unable to make the jump—stopped me. I hastily dragged the plank to the raised edge of the roof and slid the bridge over the gap. The board was eight inches wide and an inch thick and not usually much of a challenge to navigate, but I’d never crossed it in the wind and rain—nor under so much stress. I didn’t want Halo to catch up to me while I was on it, but I also didn’t want to hurry and stumble. So, I advanced cautiously, stiffly, all the while terrified I wasn’t moving fast enough. I had the urge to glance over my shoulder, but I was afraid it would shift my weight, and I’d lose my balance. My nerves buzzed, and the plank seemed made of rubber under my feet. A burst of wind slapped me with the pungent odor of garbage, and a glass bottle clattered below. Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed a stray cat flit between trash cans and vanish under a dingy awning.

  I reached the end of the board, hopped off, and spun. Halo was ten feet or so from the opposite edge. “Philippa,” he said, “I just want to talk!” I didn’t believe him, not for a second. He hobbled forward, his shoulders rising and falling as he gulped air. His hair was damp with rain and sweat, and his left pant leg was soaked with blood.

  Behind him, four roofs away, Judy had just popped up from the fire escape.

  “You don’t understand,” he said breathlessly.

  “Don’t come any closer,” I said, taking a step back.

  “You’re always running away,” he said, as he stepped up and balanced on the board. It creaked and bowed with his weight. “I’m not going to hurt you or Judy.”

  I didn’t know what to do. Every muscle in my body was drawn tight, my throat was bone dry, and blood whooshed in my ears. If he made it to Hill Estates, I’d be trapped. I’d be done for.

  He took his first step and peered down, scowling.