Nathanial's Window- The Wrath of Jesse Eades

by Peazy Monellon

  By the time he’d gotten back home, Nicky had already been laid to rest. It didn’t seem real. Looking around his room, he saw plenty of evidence to the contrary. His bureau was littered with trinkets that he and Nicky had picked up during various adventures: ticket stubs from football games last year (the Goshen Eagles had gone to the state finals though they lost the big game), the Hank Aaron rookie card Nicky had traded him for a pocket knife way back when they were kids, and a stack of photographs taken at a concert. Nicky’s grin mocked him and hurt his heart. How could he be gone?

  Guilt overwhelmed him. If he hadn’t dragged Nicky out that night, none of this would ever have happened. Nicky would be alive, and the black-hat man (as Tommy came to think of him) would not be hanging around his room. If only…

  Having long ago realized that no one else could see Jesse, Tommy still knew him to be real. He was there all right, but what was he? Was he a ghost? Tommy also knew that whatever it was that Jesse wanted with him had to be connected to the night of the accident. Perhaps something that had to do with the Perkins place? Did this strange man have something to do with the deaths of the two boys? Was he the one who brutally raped them and then killed them? The thought of this made Tommy even angrier. Could a ghost actually kill someone? He guessed so, since, effectively, Jesse had killed Nicky and had almost taken him out as well. But if a ghost could kill a person, then surely a person could kill a ghost right back? He glared at Jesse, who was sitting patiently in the chair in the corner.

  “Fuck you,” Tommy said.

  Jesse merely raised one eyebrow and stared.

  “Fuck you and the horse you rode in on,” Tommy repeated.

  Jesse cocked his head as if to say, ‘oh really?’ And then he began tapping on the wooden arm of the chair with his over-long, dirty fingernails. This he did in that slow, rolling way that people sometimes do when they’re waiting impatiently, pinky finger first, then ring finger, and so on in succession all the way to the pointer finger, lather, rinse, repeat... Tappity tap, tappity tap…

  Tommy glared. Jesse glared harder. He looked cold somehow, even though it was the height of summer and hotter than blazes outside. He looked icy.

  “Who cares?” Tommy said.

  Jesse gave him the ‘oh really?’ look again. And then he turned up the volume. The sound ratcheted up quickly from a normal tapping sound no louder than a brush on a cymbal might make, through the snare drum range, and all the way up to a thunderous base drum crescendo. Tappity tap, bangity bang, Boom, boom, crash…! The response from Tommy’s bruised and already hurting head was something along the nature of a four-alarm fire.

  “Yiiiiiiii…!” Tommy shrieked, slamming his fists over his ears.

  Jesse stopped for just a moment, glanced casually out the bedroom window beside him, glanced back at Tommy, and commenced drumming.

  Tommy wanted more than ever to choke the living shit out of him. Instead he rolled over, reached under the bed for the bottle of vodka, and chugged. Then he pulled the pillow over his head and willed himself to go back to sleep, a thing that was darned near impossible, given the racket that was going on inside of his head. When he finally found unconsciousness, it was more of a passing-out-from-the-pain than a drifting-off. Even then, he slept fitfully.

  During the days that followed, Jesse kept a near-constant vigil, though he randomly popped in and out for short intervals. Where he went was a mystery, though through the haze of alcohol and drugs, Tommy couldn’t have cared less.

  Three people visited Tommy at the house that week. The first was Officer Wheldon. A tall man with a decided limp, Jack Wheldon was many things: devoted father of four, loving husband to Amy, veteran and war hero, and Sheriff’s officer appointed to oversee the town of Goshen.

  Tommy and Jesse had been in the midst of yet another staring contest when he’d arrived. Jesse, who had yet to speak the first word to Tommy, seemed to hear the car before it ever pulled into the driveway. He rose and pulled back the curtain, peering outside. His face lit up as though this were exactly what he’d been waiting all this time for. Tommy heard the car door slam and then heard John’s voice from the garage as he greeted the officer. They were still too far away for Tommy to distinguish who was here or what words were being said. Instead, it sounded like the teacher’s voice in that old cartoon—wa, wa, waaaaa…

  Minutes later, the officer let himself into Tommy’s room.

  “Hi, Tommy,” he said, not without a degree of warmth. “How are you feeling?”

  Tommy stared at the ceiling.

  Officer Wheldon walked to the other side of the room and picked up the chair. Jesse watched his every move with obvious pleasure. Officer Wheldon looked right past him. Bringing the chair back to Tommy’s bedside, he sat down.

  “I hate to bother you right now. I know you’re hurting, Tommy, but I have to ask you a few questions.”

  Tommy stared at his feet.

  “I’m sorry about Nicky,” Jack said. “I’m sorry about your mother, too.”

  Tommy studied something up and off to the right, biting his lip while he did so.

  “It’s an awful lot for a young man to have to deal with,” he continued. “and I don’t blame you none for not wanting to talk about it. God knows you’ve been through enough.”

  Jesse leaned against the wall, folded his arms across his chest, and watched with interest. Tommy watched Jesse now.

  “But I still have to ask the questions,” Jack said, and sighed. “The night of the… accident… what were you and Nicky doing out there? Why were you out so late?”

  Tommy closed his eyes, clenching them tightly as if to hold back the memory.

  “I’m not here to hurt you, son,” Jack said. “But I need some answers. I got a call the following morning from Mr. Riley. One of the groundskeepers at the cemetery discovered some vandalism. An old tomb was broken into and he feels like it had to have happened the evening of the accident.”

  Tommy didn’t move, didn’t see Jesse perk up.

  “Now, I’m not accusing you of anything,” Jack Wheldon went on, “but I have to ask you if you know anything about this. You were obviously out there that night. Did you and Nicky see anything that relates to this?”

  Nothing.

  “Were you and Nicky out there at the cemetery that night, Tommy?”

  Slowly, Tommy rolled his head back and forth in the negative, denying the question, denying the memory.

  It was at that very moment, that Jesse Eades finally decided to speak up. But as he opened his mouth, belting out his disapproval of Tommy’s answer, he did not use his own voice.

  Tommy, eyes still closed and unsuspecting as all hell, heard the voice of Laura Cooper come back with a vengeance from the grave.

  “LIAR!” his mother’s voice screamed. “LIAR, TOMMY COOPER!”

  Tommy’s eyes shot open and his blood went cold. He lurched forward, facing Jesse now, mouth slack, all color having drained out of him.

  “Son!” the officer cried out in alarm, grabbing Tommy’s arms and holding him in the bed. “Are you all right?”

  And then Laura’s voice again, from Jesse’s mouth, mocking this time, “I ought to wash your mouth out with soap, you lying little bastard! You know I raised you better than that.”

  Tommy began to vomit. He vomited on Officer Wheldon’s shoes and in his lap. He vomited up the pills and the booze. He vomited up the memory of his mother in a hospital bed. He vomited up the telephone pole and the crunching of metal. He vomited up Nicky Freeman, and Laura Cooper, and Beth Riley. He vomited so hard that he even vomited up his own soul, but he could not hack up Jesse Eades.

  “Put it back,” Jesse Eades said calmly in Laura Cooper’s voice. “Put Nathanial’s skull back in his tomb.” And then he smiled and went back to looking out the window.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  By the time Officer Wheldon got cleaned up and back in his office, it was nearly noon. He was half-starved, in a foul mood, and worried sick over Tommy Cooper. When
he’d left him this morning, Tommy had been covered in vomit and weeping uncontrollably. His sister had rushed in when she heard the commotion and strongly suggested that Jack leave. He hadn’t wanted to leave Tommy in that state, but he was also certain that his presence was only making matters worse.

  Damnit! What went on out there that night? It was obvious from the skid marks on the road that Nicky and Tommy had been traveling at a high rate of speed. That wasn’t unusual for Nicky. He drove too fast wherever he went. Jack had warned him multiple times and had finally taken to writing tickets in an effort to slow him down. So the speeding itself wasn’t a surprise, but what were they doing out by Henley Road? About the only place out that far was the Perkins Place. What the hell would the two of them have been up to out there? And why were they in such a hurry to get out of there? He knew full well what the locals said about the property, had heard the rumors of a haunting. Let a murder happen on any property and the rumors will fly. He wasn’t entirely sure that he believed in ghosts, himself. Besides, he’d been out there enough times since the murders and seen precious little of note.

  The place was a real thorn in his side, a constant reminder of his failure to solve the case. He had his suspicions. Goshen was a small town and he knew every citizen in it. Still, there wasn’t enough evidence to build a case. For one thing, he’d never found the exact spot where the crime was committed. It was a large property and surrounded by woods to boot. The actual assault and murder could have happened anywhere in the surrounding area. God knew he’d searched. He’d searched for days and months on end and found nothing. Where was the evidence? Where were the clothes the children had been wearing? Where the blood and where the murder weapon? They’d been bludgeoned with something, some kind of tool or farm implement, according to the coroner, though he couldn’t be more specific. He simply called it a blunt object and moved on. That left it open for being just about anything.

  And what of the tomb? Jack was pretty sure that Tommy and Nicky had something to do with it. They had been in the vicinity when the crime occurred and it seemed like the kind of thing that a couple of teenaged boys would get up to. Just a bit of harmless fun that got out of hand, maybe. And he was well aware that the kids liked to hang out in the cemetery, but he also knew that Beth was usually with them, and, up until now, they had caused no problems.

  He’d questioned Beth this morning and she claimed to have no knowledge of the vandalism. The fact that she and Tommy were no longer a couple was news to Jack. Her father confirmed her statement that she had stayed in that evening, watching TV mostly and then going to bed early. Still he had the feeling that she wasn’t being entirely honest with him.

  If Nicky and Tommy were responsible for the missing skull bone, then where was it? He’d had the horror of examining Nicky’s wrecked automobile this morning. There had been blood— a lot of it. Blood, and broken glass, and even a sneaker that had come loose during the trauma, but no skull. Had there ever been one? Jack Wheldon did not even know that. The rest of the bones had been accounted for though and it seemed likely that it had been there once. Sighing, he resigned himself to long hours researching in archives and county records to try and ascertain the specifics of Nathanial’s death and interment. There wouldn’t be much, given that the boy died over a hundred years ago, but he’d have to cross all the Ts and dot the Is.

  Jack hated the whole damned mess. One boy dead and another’s life torn apart, and for what? He would likely have to file charges against Tommy. If it came down to it, he might have to haul Beth Riley in and charge her as well. And they were good kids— all of them. A little rebellious at times, but he suspected it had way more to do with age and hormones than any character flaw or criminal intentions.

  He was just sitting down at his desk, his head swimming with questions when Kathy Spencer stormed through the front door. She looked aggravated. She looked like the last thing in the world that he needed right now.

  “I’d like to speak with you, Officer Wheldon,” she demanded. She didn’t say “hello,” didn’t ask about his well-being. Apparently she was too upset for common courtesy.

  “What’s on your mind, Mrs. Spencer?” he asked, motioning for her to sit down in the chair in front of his desk.

  She took the seat like a conquest, sitting down quickly and with a good deal of authority. That was how it was with her these days. She’d certainly come from humble enough beginnings, seeing as how she was the daughter of Paul Riley and sister to Beth. But ever since she’d married Jeff Spencer Jr. who was the eldest child of that son-of-a-bitching bank president, she’d taken on airs she hadn’t a right to. These days she acted more like she was the queen of the royal family of Goshen rather than the daughter of a caretaker.

  “I want Tommy Cooper arrested immediately,” she commanded.

  Just like that! Her will be done!

  “And why is that, exactly?” Jack asked.

  “Listen, Officer,” she said, as if he didn’t have a name. As if he were no more than his position and someone she could freely order around. “You and I both know what he’s done. We both know who’s responsible for looting that grave.” She was indignant now, superiority oozing out of her like a pox. “My family’s been overseeing that cemetery for generations and nothing like this has ever happened. It’s outrageous!”

  “What makes you think that Tommy’s responsible?” There was a definite edge to his own voice and he did not try to temper it. Jack’s patience was wearing mighty thin at this point.

  “Oh, I know darned well he is, and I think you know it too. Him and that… that… Nicky Freeman! Ingrates, both of them! They’ve caused enough trouble around here! I don’t see why respectable families like the Rileys and the Spencers should have to put up with any more from the likes of them. God has punished Nicky Freeman. Now it’s up to you to get Tommy Cooper.”

  “Really?” Jack said, raising his voice. She was becoming loftier by the second. “What proof do you have that those kids had anything to do with this?”

  “Proof?” she hissed. “Finding the proof is your job, Officer. How about instead of sitting here doing nothing at your desk, you get off your lazy ass and get out there and get the proof! I want this boy in jail.”

  Rage coursed through Jack’s being, his head threatening to explode with it. He leaped to his feet, knocking his chair to the floor in the process.

  “Or what?” he demanded, the knuckles of his clenched fists digging into the top of his desk.

  Kathy Spencer stood up as well and met his gaze head-on. “Or I’ll speak to my father-in-law about it, that’s what. You know very well that Jeff Spencer is head of the town council. Do what you should be doing and wrap this up. And do it soon or I’ll have your job!”

  With that, she turned on her heels and huffed back out the way she’d come in.

  Damn! Jack thought. This day just gets better and better!

  He sighed, picked up his chair, and sat back down. With his head in his hands, he began going over the questions in his mind again. What did this have to do with the Perkins Place?

  What he did not see was that Johnny Ramputti and Chris Testani were standing directly in front of his desk now. And he wouldn’t have seen them had his eyes been wide open. Sometimes, when you don’t believe in something, and you do that hard enough, your mind tricks you into not seeing it even though it’s right in front of you.

  Johnny and Chris had been good-looking boys once. That was not the case today. Johnny’s neck was obviously broken judging from the odd way that his head lolled on his neck. One moment, he was facing Jack Wheldon in a sideways kind of manner and then his head rolled forward and down, his chin coming to rest on his chest. He simply reached up, as though he were well-used to the frustration, placed one hand on his chin and the other on the top of his head, and straightened the thing so that he could see again.

  Chris was in no better condition. Both of his eyes were blackened and there were bite marks on his chest and stomach. Blood and gra
y matter leaked out of a post-mall-sized hole in the side of his head. A trail of tears stained his cheeks and snot gathered on his upper lip. He’d cried hard right up until the end.

  And though Jack couldn’t see them, there was nothing at all wrong with his ears. The walkie-talkie on the desk snapped to life, belching out a high, squealing noise followed by a couple of seconds of static. Officer Wheldon stared at it, expecting a bulletin from the Sheriff’s Office.

  “Please, Mister,” Chris Testani’s voice pleaded. “Please don’t hurt us!”

  Jack’s brain attempted to slam shut! This could not happen, wasn’t happening, just could not be! The back of his neck burned with terror. He could hear the tears behind the child’s voice, desperation and fear filling up the space. Instinctively, he knew that he was listening to their final moments.