The Fort

by Aric Davis

They dropped off Luke at the entrance to the trailer park without a word. He got out, looked like he wanted to say something, probably “Bye,” or “Thanks for the ride.” Instead he just shut the door and walked away.

  Now the shit’s going to hit the fan, Tim thought to himself, and of course, he was right.

  His folks were silent for the rest of the ride, but when his dad parked the car, his mom said, “Room. Now. Your father and I need to discuss some things. And don’t look at me like you want to say something. I don’t want to hear a word of it.”

  “Tammy—”

  “No, Stan. Not now. Go, Tim, I’m too mad to look at you right now. And when we come to talk to you, I highly suggest that you don’t have your nose in a book. I want you sitting at your desk, not doing anything. Is that clear?” Tim nodded, an impossibly huge lump in his throat. “Then go,” said his mom. “Just go.”

  They came for him twenty minutes later. He was sitting at his desk, doing exactly what his mom had instructed, absolutely nothing. The minutes had dragged by like hours, every second a drop of water waiting to drop, pregnant for an impossibly long amount of time. It was almost a relief when he heard a firm knock at his door.

  “Come to the kitchen table,” said his dad.

  Tim stood, leaned back his head, and let out a deep breath. Will it just make things worse if I argue? He closed the door behind him gently and walked to the kitchen, to what felt like the hangman’s noose.

  His mom was sitting at the table with an open bottle of wine and an empty glass sitting in front of her. His dad had a beer where he was sitting. Normally Tim or Becca might have cracked a joke at a sight like that—it was just early afternoon—but today was not the day for jokes.

  I need to remember that I know what I saw, and that I’m not lying. Easier said than done. Tim sat in his chair, facing them and glad that he wasn’t crying or acting like a baby. The cops were wrong, but that wasn’t his fault.

  “First things first,” said his dad. “Your mother and I are extremely disappointed that you were involved in whatever it was your friends cooked up. Lying to the police, especially about something so serious, is no laughing matter.”

  “But I wasn—”

  His mom slapped the table, making her wine bottle and glass do a dance, and causing his dad’s beer to foam over. “Let him finish,” she snapped, “then let me finish, and then we’ll listen to what you have to say. But only, and I mean this, only if you are going to tell the truth.” She shrugged. “Everything you say right now sounds like bullshit.” His mom lit a cigarette, something Tim hadn’t seen her do in years, and drew off of it, the smoke collecting around the hanging light in the kitchen. His dad gave her a look, a not very nice one, and then continued speaking.

  “Like I was saying, this is serious business, Tim. The cops could have charged both you and us for what you boys did. I’m not going to ask why; you can tell me later, when you’re less indignant and give up on this notion that you can convince me that what you’re claiming is somehow true. I’m just—dumbfounded that you would be a part of this. This isn’t you.” He pushed out a sigh. “But I guess it is you, or who you’re trying to be, for God knows what reason. And we need to deal with it, now. Your summer is over, starting right now. You’re going to help me put in the patio, and when that’s done I’ll come up with something else.

  “That’s one thing. Another is this: I’ve already spoken to Carl, and you and Scott are no longer friends for the rest of this summer, also starting right now. I’m talking no contact. And if it was possible to monitor your behavior at school to that degree, you can bet we’d say you’d never be friends, period. You’re sure as hell not going to be hanging out outside of school, I can tell you that. I couldn’t get ahold of Luke’s mom, but same thing there, and Carl agreed, by the way. From now till school starts, you three are no longer friends. I don’t want to hear a peep about it either.

  “Carl and I also agreed that when his new schedule allows him some room to get time off, he and I are going to go out and tear that fort down. There’s no reason for it to be up there if you guys can’t use it. Do you have any questions?”

  “No,” Tim said, barely holding back the emotions and the tears with a mantra: We didn’t do anything wrong, and someday they will see that, and they will hate themselves for this moment. And I will fucking hate them too.

  27

  Van Endel had expected the crime scene to have been horribly mishandled, but whatever unis had arrived first had done a good job of sealing it off. It was a small blessing. Tracy Vincent, the so-called whiz kid, as well as the youngest and most highly respected of the county coroners, was leaning against a tree, fastidiously eating an apple and reading a book. He was young, black, and brilliant, and how he’d moved up the ladder so quickly without making enemies was almost as amazing as his climbing it in the first place.

  Van Endel and Dr. Martinez approached him. The three of them knew each other by name and by sight, but had yet to share an after-work cocktail. Tracy was known to be a bit of a loose cannon at the bar, as Van Endel had been before making detective, and he had a fear that they might get along too well. Tracy folded up the book, stuck it in the back pocket of his jeans, and walked to them, hand extended.

  “Here to check out our crispy critter?” Tracy asked, a smile on his face. He shook Martinez’s and then Van Endel’s hand, then said, “Seriously, though, this one is going to be tough. I’ve got a body that’s been burned about as badly as one can be, a mouth on it full of busted-out teeth, and not a whole lot else.”

  “Are you sure on the time of death?” Dr. Martinez asked. Van Endel could hear a hope in her voice—a hope that the boys were telling the truth after all—but that was a hope that he had left behind in the chief’s office.

  “Come with me,” said Tracy, holding up the caution tape for them and then following after them. “Looking good, Doc. Keep hitting that gym. Just don’t get rid of all of that cushion, all right?”

  “Seriously, Tracy,” said Dr. Martinez, annoyed even as she fought to suppress a smile. “We have to go look at a dead girl. Show some respect.”

  “I got respect for days, Doc,” said Tracy, his smile audible in his voice. “As a matter of fact, I was respecting that a—”

  “Tracy, I am not in the mood,” said Martinez.

  “What say we go to work now,” said Van Endel, “and shut the fuck up?”

  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so on edge about a case, and knowing why made it even worse. It wasn’t normal to have more than a couple of material witnesses lying to you, and when they did, it was usually fairly easy to press on them until one of them ruptured and burst. This was different. Two groups of kids, different ages, and no associations besides the Benchley kids. Even among those two, there was no apparent angle, just a big sister and a little brother living in separate worlds.

  The pit where the body lay covered in a white sheet was surrounded by prints from a German shepherd, along with boot prints from its trainer. Such things were unavoidable at a fresh crime scene.

  As if reading his thoughts, Tracy said, “The other ones are mine. No one else has been in here. Which makes these fellas over here pretty goddamn interesting.” Van Endel and Dr. Martinez swiveled their heads to follow his finger. There was indeed another pair of prints—boots, if Van Endel wasn’t mistaken.

  “I brought shit to do molds,” Tracy said, “but I knew you’d blow a damn gasket if I did them before you could walk around and do all your stuff.”

  “I appreciate that,” said Van Endel. “You had a look at the body. Our missing girl is one hundred twenty-five pounds, give or take, and she’s listed at five feet, four inches. That anywhere close to a match with this girl?”

  “That’s where it gets tough, with this sort of barbecue. First glance, the woman in this pit figures to stand about five foot, tops, but people shrink as they burn. Think of the last time you cooked a steak.”

  “We get it, Tracy,” said
Dr. Martinez.

  “Can the kitchen references, then,” said Tracy, grinning. “Anyways, our girl here got cooked with an accelerant, could be gas, but I’m thinking hotter. Bones crack from that kind of heat, which further degrades our ability to nail down a positive ID. So where we’re at now is, we’ve got a young lady who may or may not be Molly Peterson, but who most certainly was killed and burned to death roughly forty-eight hours ago, give or take about four hours.”

  “That seriously the best we can do?” said Van Endel.

  Tracy knelt next to the sheet-covered body and slipped on a pair of white latex gloves. He removed the weights securing the blanket that covered the corpse until it would be placed in a body bag, and then pulled it from the top half of the girl.

  “To be perfectly honest, Detective,” said Tracy, “I think we’re doing pretty fucking good with what we’ve been left. Once I get her to the lab, I’ll be able to pin the time of death down a little closer, but sometimes, what you see is what you get.”

  “Poor girl,” said Dr. Martinez softly under her breath, then made the sign of the cross across her chest.

  Molly, or whoever it was, had been burned to almost nothing. Her skin was ash, covering not-quite-burned red flesh, along with white and yellow fat. Her eyes were gone, and her arms were folded up unnaturally, as the fire had forced her limbs to tighten. Her neck was tilted back as far as her spine would allow, her mouth open as though she were still trying to scream. The teeth were destroyed, just as Van Endel and Martinez had been told they were. If Tracy can get an ID from those, he’s even better than he says he is. Van Endel stared death in the face for a few moments longer, and when he looked away, he saw that Dr. Martinez had turned as well.

  “Cover her up,” said Van Endel.

  Tracy did, moving around the body deftly, taking care not to put his feet too near her. There would be time for poking and prodding later, but that was for the lab, not where she lay now.

  “You see what I mean?” Tracy asked when he stood up. “That girl is gone. I’ll do my best—you guys know that—but I’m not sure there’s anything here to learn, aside from the fact that it was one evil motherfucker who did this to her.” Two stretcher-bearing EMTs interrupted him as they walked down the path.

  “I want everything you can get,” said Van Endel, “even the stuff you think is nothing, all right?”

  Tracy nodded, and Van Endel and Dr. Martinez made their way back up the path to the detective’s car.

  They were silent for the most part as they drove, Van Endel processing the day so far, and Dr. Martinez no doubt doing the same. The boys’ prank had done this much good, anyway: it had launched the search that had led a police dog to the corpse. Not that they’d meant to do it, of course, but it was something, and it was far more than he’d had to go on before. It was tough to feel anything but bad about it, though. Finding the body eliminated hope completely. Molly had been found, just not the right way.

  “You’re going to find him, Dick,” said Dr. Martinez. “You have to. I know that you feel a life is a life, and that this girl’s death should be no more important than any of this bastard’s other victims, and I agree with that. But the brutality of this…there was just no reason to ruin her the way he did, none at all.”

  “Unless we’re missing something and there is a reason. It would hardly be a surprise at this point. Everyone else is messing with us, why not throw in a perp with motivations that are impossible to understand?”

  There was something tugging at Van Endel’s brain, and he let it work away while they drove to a pay phone so he could tell Chief Jefferson he was going to need to make a horrible phone call.

  I’m missing something, but what?

  28

  Hooper woke alone, his face glued by sweat to the thick shag of the carpet in the front room. The phone was ringing in the kitchen, and he stood unsteadily to make his way to it. He tried to swallow, but his mouth felt pasted shut. He turned on the sink and sank his head into its metal bowl to drink. Finally, he pulled himself out and answered the still-ringing phone.

  “Hello,” said Hooper.

  “Hoop? That you?” said a voice that Hooper could recognize but not place with his scrambled brain. He sat heavily on the floor, the phone teetering ominously on the counter as he sank to the ground.

  “Yeah, this is Hooper. Who’s this?”

  “Carl, buddy. You sound like shit. Everything OK?”

  Hooper smiled despite the pain in his leg and the throbbing in his head. Thank God it was just Carl. “No, I’m sicker than a dying dog. Fucking summer colds are the worst.”

  “You’re damn straight they are. Listen, I was just calling to confirm working on the car tomorrow, but I figure you’re probably not up for that.”

  Hooper smiled again. He’d forgotten about his plans for tomorrow completely. “No, sorry, man. I got to take a pass on that. I’ll let you know when I’m better. We can hook up.”

  “That’d be great. My crazy stepson got into some shit today. Wait’ll you hear it. It will blow your mind. I’d been feeling like he and I were the only sane ones over here, but now I’m on my own. Him and his buddies just went batshit.”

  “Can’t wait,” said Hooper, his vision blurring. What the fuck did he care about Carl’s kids?

  “Listen, I’m not doing anything,” Carl said. “Why don’t I have Beth make you up some of her famous chicken soup, and I can run it on over?”

  “No,” said Hooper, too quickly and too harshly. “I don’t want to pass this thing around. Trust me, it’s a killer.” He chuckled. “Believe me, do yourself a favor and stay away from here for a day or two, all right?”

  “All right, buddy,” said Carl, but Hooper was still afraid his friend really thought he should stop by. And if he does I’ll probably have to kill him. He’d call an ambulance if he saw me now, and once they dig that bullet out of my leg the cops will get a warrant in no time. “But if you change your mind,” continued Carl, “let me know, OK?”

  “Will do,” said Hooper, before pulling the phone off of the counter onto the floor with a crash, righting the base, and then replacing the handset to disconnect the call. Christ.

  He was thirstier and more nauseous than he’d ever been since Vietnam. He slowly pulled himself up and slid, using the counter as support, to the sink. He turned on the water and then stuck his head under the basin as he’d done the last time. The water was cold, and the shock of it against his warm skin was glorious, as was drinking oceans of it as the liquid poured from the faucet. Without removing his head from the sink, Hooper opened the cupboard closest to it and let his fingers fumble around until he’d extracted two glasses. He pulled his head free and filled them both with water, set the glasses on the counter, and then stripped off the jeans he was wearing. He suppressed a scream as they came off of his right leg, and then he shook them loose onto the floor.

  With the pants off, Hooper steeled himself to finally look at his leg. Craning his head back, he could see a small black hole surrounded by blood. Coagulated blood, thick like pudding, was in and around the hole, along with a red stain that went all the way to the bottom of his foot.

  Hooper limped back to the long-forgotten bags from Meijer and quickly found what he was looking for. He took the bottle of grain alcohol from the paper bag back to the kitchen, set it on the counter, and opened it. This is going to be bad, but you have to do it. Hooper dropped a towel on the floor, stood on it, and poured alcohol down his injured leg.

  The raging fire of pain was instantaneous. It was a heat of pure white flame that seared up Hooper’s leg and all through his body, consuming his very thoughts. All that there was room for in his mind was pain, but he managed to replace the bottle on the counter and then pour a glass of water over his leg. The pain didn’t disappear, not fully, but it did temper, thanks to the dilution of the alcohol.

  He let out a deep breath, then almost laughed at himself: the sound had been nearly orgasmic. He looked back at his leg. It was
wetter than before, and most of the coagulate was washed from it, but otherwise it looked the same. Hooper grabbed the other glass of water, then hobbled away from the sink.

  He made his way down the basement stairs, using his body to provide friction against the wall, so as not to tear the handrail from the wall. It seemed an eternity since his chase with Amy had reached its conclusion with the two of them tumbling down these steps, but it had been only a few hours earlier.

  He came slowly off of the last step and looked at the cause of all of this. She was bound as she’d been when he left her, and he could tell that she was at least temporarily resigned to her imprisonment. The pole she was attached to had been painted red, and if she’d been trying to escape, there would have been paint shavings on the ground and on her hands.

  Amy was either asleep or pretending to be so, and Hooper wanted to wake her so that he could discuss his injury with her, as well as the need to punish her for her attempted escape earlier that morning. He couldn’t fault her for trying to get away, but it was still a behavior that needed to be broken from her, just like one would teach a child not to interrupt, or not to speak with a mouth full of food.

  Hooper watched her lying there, beautiful in such a perfect way, and he decided that he’d let her sleep. He left the glass of water next to her, then made his way slowly up the stairs before shutting off the light.

  It was still light outdoors, but Hooper ignored the window. He sat down heavily on the sofa, after turning on the TV. He had little use for the thing, especially right after one of his little hunting trips, but this was different. After all, Amy was here. He let his mind focus on the screen, and found a news station. There were boring stories about Iraq—who could possibly care?—and then, finally, his story. He beamed at the screen. They had found the body he’d left at the drive-in. Everything was coming together perfectly, except for getting shot. They’ll figure out time of death soon enough, and then they’ll decide whoever claims to have shot me is full of shit. It had been hard work, stealing a girl Amy’s size, killing her, smashing her teeth with a hammer, then burning her and leaving her in a shallow grave, but all the effort had been worth it.