That had been the pisser, the thought that the cops would find the zombies. Thinking about it infuriated Scott, but he’d quickly calmed down and told Gordon he would take care of it. Then he thanked him for the warning. “Don’t mention it,” Gordon had said. “I told Count that if the cops came around our places, that his girlfriend Chelsea would be hurt.”
“You what?” It was that confession that pissed Scott off more than Gordon getting picked up last night for a truancy violation.
“I just wanted to scare him, okay?” Gordon had protested. “I didn’t mean anything by it!”
Despite the fact that such a threat was something Scott would have levied against Tim himself, he didn’t like the idea of Gordon pulling something like this. He wondered how it was handled; did Tim take the threat seriously? Would he tell the cops Gordon had threatened Chelsea? If Tim’s folks got involved, the cops were bound to find out. “You better get ready to start denying you ever told him that shit,” Scott advised Gordon. He hadn’t been in the mood, nor in the proper space, to unleash his anger fully at Gordon — he’d retreated to the end of the hall near the lone bathroom at that end of the house for privacy. “Listen, we’ll talk about this later. In the meantime, call David and tell him what’s going on. I’ll take care of things here.”
“What are you going to do?”
Scott didn’t have an answer for Gordon at the time, but he assured him the problem would be taken care of.
Tom Bradfield listened patiently as Scott told his father about Tim Gaines attempting to blackmail Gordon Smith, how it all went back to that horror novel Gaines claimed he’d loaned to Gordon being found at the cemetery after it was ransacked. He told his father that Tim had been acting strangely the past few weeks at school; not talking to anybody, reading more weird books than was usual for him, and hanging out with George Ulrich and Al Romero, with the latter known for being a social outcast and a real weirdo. He also told him about Chelsea Brewer, how Tim had been hanging out with her lately, and he revealed some of her backstory to him: her penchant for gothic clothing and music, how she’d withdrawn from school briefly in the tenth grade and admitted to a hospital for self-mutilation. His father had visibly reacted to that, raising his eyebrows in a gesture that told Scott his father did not approve of such actions. Scott wrapped it up by telling his father about running into Tim and his friends at Susan’s party the other night and how Tim had made a cryptic statement to him. “He told us to be ready, that something was coming,” Scott said, the lie flowing effortlessly. “Then he kinda chuckled and left with his friends.”
Tom Bradfield took a sip of his coffee. He was a lean, handsome man, in his mid-fifties with short brown hair that held only a hint of gray. He’d arrived home from a business trip late last night and was already up bright and early, the Wall Street Journal spread out before him, already dressed for his morning golf game in a white tank top and gray shorts. “That doesn’t sound like much of a threat to me, Scott.”
“It will be if his parents get another hair up their ass and make noise again.”
“On what grounds?” Tom raised his coffee cup to his lips, his eyes daring.
“He’s told me more than once that he’s going to get even with me for what happened when we were in sixth grade,” Scott said, making up the lie as it came to him. “He’s had it in for me ever since. You know it, too. I just don’t want the cops to come around here. I know that took a lot out of you and Mom last time. I don’t want it to happen again.”
Tom appeared to consider this. He kept his gaze on Scott as he thought about it, sipping his coffee. Scott held his old man’s gaze; he could tell his father was trying to see if he was telling him the truth. Scott had deliberately lied about a few things to set a precedent; he’d established a few tell-tale signs that indicated he was lying about something and every time it happened, Dad caught him. Not this time, though. Dad was buying this story entirely.
“So what do you think we should do about it?” Tom Bradfield asked.
“I didn’t do anything wrong,” Scott said. “I was at Rebecca’s all night. I was also with Rebecca the night the Reamstown Cemetery was broken into.”
Tom Bradfield nodded and sipped his coffee casually. “That’s true. I can’t see how Tim could frame you for something like that. And you’re sure someone can vouch for you? Were there witnesses who can say they saw you?”
“We were at the movies the night the cemetery was broken into. I still have the receipts. After the movie was over, we went to Ruby Tuesday’s, then we went to her place. Her mom was home and we hung out with her all night. As for last night.” Scott shrugged. “We hung out with her mom until midnight, then she went to bed. Rebecca and I sat up and hung out in her room and I fell asleep.”
“I see.” Tom Bradfield took another sip of his coffee, his gaze not leaving his son. If he disapproved of Scott sleeping over at Rebecca’s last night, he didn’t show it.
“Anyway, I just have a feeling Tim’s parents are going to get the police involved again and I wanted to let you know.”
“Well, now I know.” Tom nodded at Scott. “Don’t worry about it. If they come around, I’ll talk to them.”
Scott smiled good-naturedly. “Thanks, Dad.” He left the kitchen, letting his faux relief shine through as he exited the kitchen.
He did not see his dad’s features change as he left the room. It was subtle, and if you did not know the elder Bradfield it would not be noticeable.
Tom Bradfield’s easy-going disposition had turned into a frown of suspicion.
* * *
Scott had just finished getting dressed after taking a quick shower when the doorbell rang.
He made as if he was casually going downstairs. He didn’t want to make it known to his dad that he was hanging around the house to see if the police showed up, so he’d darted upstairs to shower, being careful to be as leisurely and casual about it as possible. The more he could stick to his normal schedule, the better. Mom was in the master bathroom getting showered and dressed for the day, and Dad would no doubt be getting ready for meeting up with his golf buddies. Mom would probably go to the Country Club for whatever it was she did on Saturday. That left Scott with some time to get rid of the zombies.
He’d placed a quick call to Dave and Steve before he took his shower. “Get over here by ten,” he’d told them. “When my parents are gone, we’re getting those fucking zombies out of the guesthouse and getting rid of them.” Dave and Steve were already hip to it, having been tipped off last night by Gordon. They were only too eager to lend a hand.
Scott descended the last few steps quietly.
Dad was talking to somebody at the front door. He didn’t sound too pleased.
Scott hung back near the stairs trying to listen. From where he was standing, whoever was on the porch wouldn’t be able to see him, but Scott could hear them perfectly. They sounded like cops.
“…just like to have a word or two with your son about it.”
“I’m afraid not,” Dad said. “If you wish to speak to my son, it will be through our lawyer.”
“He isn’t a suspect, Mr. Bradfield. We just want to talk to him about a missing classmate of his. Can we please speak to him?”
“Tell you what? How about we schedule a meeting? You can question Scott in the presence of our lawyer. You can come here, or we can do it in my lawyer’s office. Whichever you prefer.”
“Can we come in and talk with you, then?”
“You’re talking with me now.” Even though Dad’s back was to Scott, he could tell Dad was putting on that smiley face that seemed to say, don’t fuck with me. “Now if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I have an appointment. I trust you can see your way down the driveway and to your vehicle?”
There was a short pause. Then: “Give us a call then, Mr. Bradfield. We’ll schedule something.”
Scott watched as Dad took a business card one of the detectives handed over. Then the detectives retreated off the porch and do
wn the driveway.
Dad stayed at the front door the whole time. Watching them leave.
When Dad closed the door and turned around, Scott was still standing at the bottom of the staircase. Dad gave no indication that he was surprised to see Scott standing there. “That was easy. We’re going to have to get them off your back, though.”
“Are we going to set up a meeting with Leon?” Leon Hagar was the Bradfield family attorney.
“Yes. Probably for sometime in the next few days.” Dad fished into his pockets and extracted his keys, which he tossed to Scott. “Do me a favor. Wait until those clowns are gone and then take the Corvette down to Landis Wash and have them do a hand wash.”
“Sure thing, Dad!” Scott grinned. Driving the Corvette was always a treat, one he hardly ever got to partake in. “I’ll leave in a few minutes.” He dashed back up the stairs to his room.
Once again, he didn’t see his father’s features change as he left his presence. That look of concern had grown stronger.
* * *
The moment the Corvette was out of sight Tom Bradfield got up from his favorite chair in the living room, crossed over to where he left his sandals, put them on, and headed to the kitchen. Carol had left fifteen minutes ago for the Country Club. She belonged to some social group, probably some kind of club for rich Country Club women, and the group held their monthly meetings in one of the conference rooms at the Bent Creek Country club. Tom had almost bought a house in the area, which was an exclusive, gated community, but he’d decided against it. He liked it where he was just fine.
Being in his development, which was close to the edge of Zuck’s Woods, was exactly where he wanted to be.
It had been easy to get Scott to take the ‘Vette out for a wash. Scott loved that car, and Tom had almost bought him one a few months ago, but Carol talked him out of it. She said they were giving their son too much. She was right, of course. Despite Scott’s involvement in extra-curricular activities at school, and his seamless academic and sports record, he and Carol did not require Scott to work a part-time job. They gave him a weekly allowance of three hundred dollars, which Scott was allowed to spend however he wished. Tom had given Scott his old SUV, and while that was a fine car for a boy to have, when Scott expressed such unbridled enthusiasm for the ‘Vette, Tom had almost given in and bought him one. “We buy him too many things,” Carol had argued. “If he wants one, let him work for it.”
Tom exited the kitchen through the side door. He paused at the side deck, making sure he was alone, then headed toward the rear deck.
The guesthouse sat lonely and forlorn a hundred yards away from the house. It was a shame they’d never done anything to the place. When Tom bought the house five years ago he’d had every intention of using it as a bona fide guesthouse. It was built by the original owner, but was left unfinished when Tom and Carol bought the property. They just hadn’t had the time to complete it.
Tom frowned as he drew closer to the guesthouse. The detectives hadn’t accused Scott of anything, but the first thing they’d asked was to speak to him. The second thing they’d asked was to conduct a brief search of the property. Tom had said no to both. The detectives told him they only wanted to question Scott about a missing classmate of his, a guy named John Elfman. They had reason to believe John was hurt and might have wandered onto the property, that he might even now be lying somewhere hurt and unconscious in the woods that bordered the yard, or maybe behind the guesthouse. As the detectives related this, Tom watched them casually and noticed something that troubled him.
One of the detectives had been glancing around the property, making sweeps with those robo-cop eyes police officers and detectives always seemed to possess. He supposed it was standard procedure for a pair of detectives to give locations the quick once-over, only this guy seemed to be really interested in the area where the guesthouse was located, which he could see thanks to a direct view through the large windows in the living room of the house, which opened up to the rear of the property. He kept darting his gaze toward it, then averting it during the conversation. Tom feigned ignorance as he denied their requests to talk to Scott.
So naturally, Tom wanted to see what it was that had interested the detective.
He noticed the smell about ten yards from the guesthouse. It was masked with an underlying scent, one of freshly-scented pine. Tom wrinkled his nose. His limbs grew light, his heart raced as he approached the guesthouse and stopped.
The sun beat high overhead, already bearing down on what was going to be an unbearably hot day. Tom listened for any sounds within the guesthouse. He heard nothing.
Tom fished the key to the guesthouse out of his shorts and unlocked the door.
He pushed the door open.
The smell wafted out of the guesthouse, nearly bowling him over with its intensity. Tom took an involuntary step back and gagged.
Then he got a look at what was inside the guesthouse and choked back a scream.
His heart raced faster. His stomach lurched in his belly.
All the breath seemed to run out of him.
And then, tapping into a sudden burst of energy, he took a quick step inside, grabbed the doorknob and pulled the door closed.
Then he turned and ran like hell back to the house.
* * *
Tom Bradfield was waiting for Scott on the side deck when he came home an hour later, the Corvette newly washed and shining in the morning sun.
Scott grinned as he exited the vehicle. “Here we go! Clean as the day it rolled off the lot!”
Tom Bradfield was nursing a scotch — no ice, no water. He hardly drank alcohol before noon and here it was, barely a quarter till ten in the morning. “Scott, we need to have a talk.”
Scott was on his way to the side door of the house when Tom said this. He froze. “What’s up?”
“It’s about those detectives that came here earlier.”
“What about them?”
“They told me they wanted to question you about a guy named John Elfman. He’s gone missing. They asked if they could search the property. I denied their request.” Tom fixed his son with a steely gaze. “They didn’t bring up Tim Gaines at all. They didn’t mention the Reamstown Cemetery. Why did you lie to me?”
Scott rebounded from that direct question very well. He looked startled, then made a remarkable save. “I didn’t know anything about John Elfman. Honest. I thought they were going to razz me about Tim Gaines again.”
“I saw what you have in the guesthouse.”
There was no quick save for such a direct statement. Scott’s face went deathly pale. Tom could see his son’s hands twitch as he fought to remain casual. “Wh-what do you mean?”
“I mean, the two corpses in the guesthouse.”
“Corpses?”
“Scott, come up here on the deck. Sit down.”
Scott remained where he was, hesitating between bolting toward the house and approaching the deck.
“We need to talk about this, but I can’t do it if I have to shout at you from the deck. Your mother isn’t home, and we need to talk about this now before she gets home. I also don’t want to make a scene in case somebody happens to see it. So please, come here. Sit down.”
Scott looked like he was going to hesitate again, but common sense got the best of him. He quickly strode up the deck steps and slid into a chair on the other side of the glass table that so many late afternoon deck parties had been held around.
Tom saw Scott glance quickly at the guesthouse and he felt a momentary brush of shame as he saw the fear in his son’s eyes. This was the first time Tom had ever confronted his son about any of the crimes he’d participated in. When he was threatened with expulsion from Spring Valley Elementary School for his part in the assault on the Gaines boy, Tom had wanted Scott to see a child psychiatrist. Carol vehemently opposed it, and they’d had a bitter fight over it. Tom had relented. Carol had always been the one to coddle the boy; when Scott was thrown out of two private
schools for his behavior toward other students it had been Carol that met with the school administrators. Her attempts at smoothing things over hadn’t been successful, and she’d never been one to discipline Scott. Carol was on the fast track up the ladder at her current firm at the time, and there was no way she could afford the time off to deal with the administrators, so she’d made a deal with their son: as long as he kept a clean academic record and didn’t cause them any trouble, they would support him financially through school and into college.
In hindsight, Tom should have held his ground. Should have insisted Scott be seen by a child psychiatrist. Should have insisted on having more influence on the way the boy was being raised. Should have insisted that with the bad actions Scott partook in that there were consequences.
On the other hand, Tom should have been around more to insure the boy never wound up like him.
He and Carol should have had a firmer hand in raising Scott. They shouldn’t have been so focused on their careers and maintaining their status in the neighborhood.
As Tom sipped from his drink, looking at his son, he didn’t see a monster sitting across from him. He saw himself almost forty years ago. A scared, troubled kid who had no guidance, no way to unleash his frustrations. A kid who had potential but was in danger of sabotaging it due to some unspeakable streak of violence that thrummed inside him that sometimes took control unexpectedly.
Tom had been in his son’s shoes before. He’d committed a similar crime. And despite that, he’d changed that part of himself. Became a contributing member to society.
And kept his dirty secret buried.
“I want to help you, son,” Tom said gently but firmly. “I saw those corpses in the guesthouse and they couldn’t have gotten in there by themselves. You and I know that our family has the key to the place. I also think Gordon and your other friends had something — ”
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