Stand up to them, show them you’re not afraid. A good pop to the nose and they’ll never bother you again.
His father’s advice. It had seemed reasonable enough when he first heard it, but he’d since discovered that punching a bully in the face could make him mad.
Fingers raked the back of his shirt. Tim swore and dodged left, but a hand latched onto his shoulder and dragged him to a halt.
Tim spun around. “Randy, so nice to see you again.”
Randy floored him with a punch to the jaw.
Tim hit the ground and rolled onto his side, wincing. “How’s your hand feel, Randy? I’ve got more where that came from!”
Randy’s roided out goons yanked him to his feet and pinned his arms behind his back.
“Go ahead,” Randy said. “Say something funny. I dare you.”
Randy stood a full head taller than Tim and outweighed him by at least forty pounds.
Tim glanced over his shoulder. A quick scan of the street confirmed a lack of witnesses.
Perfect. Outnumbered, outmuscled, and alone.
Tim’s mom always said he didn’t know when to keep his mouth shut. He supposed she had a point, because what he said next was, “Looks like that eye’s turning into a nasty shiner. Guess you’re not as tough as you think.”
Randy thrust a finger into Tim’s sternum. “You don’t have a clue who you’re dealing with, do you? So I guess you’ll just have to learn the hard way. First lesson: nobody hits me and lives to tell about it. Second lesson: there’s nothing I hate more than a wise guy.”
“Why’s that?” Tim asked. “Too hard to spell?”
The confused look on Randy’s face was almost worth the jab to the stomach that drove Tim to his knees.
“Pick him up,” Randy said. “This kid’s even dumber than he looks.”
The goons lifted him up, and Tim leaned on them heavily.
Randy brandished a switchblade and triggered the release. Four inches of polished steel sprang from the hilt.
Tim went rigid.
Didn’t see that one coming.
Randy touched the blade to Tim’s forehead. The steel felt cold. And razor sharp.
“Do I have your attention now?”
Tim opened his mouth, but couldn’t manage a sound.
“That’s the smartest thing you’ve said all day.”
One of the goons cackled. The other one worked Tim into a full nelson.
“Listen real close, Tim. If I catch you talking to Maria again, I’ll cut your tongue out. I’ve got a rusty pair of garden shears set aside special for the job. But since you’re new here, I’m gonna let you in on a little secret—I always follow through on my threats. And because you seem like a slow learner, I’m gonna give you a taste of how serious I am.”
Randy pressed the blade against Tim’s lips. “Open your mouth.”
Tim tried to wriggle away, but the muscular goon had an iron grip.
The other goon dug his fingers into Tim’s jaw and forced his mouth open.
“I’m gonna cut you, Tim. So I’d advise you to stay real still.”
The blade swept across his tongue, cutting into flesh and making him scream. He stared at Randy in disbelief, his heart pumping so fast the beats blurred together. The coppery taste of blood filled his mouth.
“You don’t talk to anyone without my permission. You don’t even breathe unless I say so.” Randy retracted the blade and slipped it into his back pocket. “I’m glad we had this talk, Tim. Because now we can focus on beating the hell out of you. What do you say, Lenny? Feel like giving him a head start?”
“Nah,” Lenny said. “I had enough running for one day.”
Randy brayed laughter. “What do you say we show the new kid what a Glenwood beating is really like?”
Punches hammered into him from all sides. Knuckles pounded his face, his stomach, his back. He dropped to the ground and curled into a fetal position as three sets of feet kicked up and down his body.
When Randy and his goons finally left, laughing and high-fiving each other, Tim lay on the sidewalk, bruised and bloodied, thankful to be alive.
***
The nurses at Glenwood Memorial Hospital were courteous and efficient, which was fortunate since Tim figured he’d probably be dropping in again soon. With any luck, after his next visit the hot nurse who’d just cleaned his wounds might offer to cure him of his virginity.
Or maybe not… but a guy could dream.
And anyway, it was better than the reality. Today’s encounter with Randy had left him with nine stitches, two black eyes, a split lip, and a wealth of bruises up and down his chest and back. Not bad, really, considering the beating he’d taken.
When his parents arrived at the emergency room, his mother was frantic. “Timmy, what happened? Who did this to you?” She always called him Timmy, no matter how many times he said he hated it.
Tim shrugged. “Some guys. I’m not sure who they were.”
His father folded his arms and scratched his chin. “Why is it that every time we move, the bullies always seem to pick on you? You’ve got to stand up for yourself, Tim. Show them you’re not afraid. You do that and they’ll leave you alone.”
“Sure they will—right after they break every bone in my body.”
“Timmy! Don’t talk to your father that way.”
“Can we go home now please? I’m beat.”
Tim eased himself off the exam table and hobbled to the door. His whole body hurt, tongue included. The cut didn’t require stitches, but it stung like a bastard. He wouldn’t be kissing anyone for awhile, that was for sure.
All this over a girl he hardly knew. She was pretty cute, though. It might have been worth another stitch or two to kiss her—at least then he’d have something to show for his pain.
This was his third school in as many years, and everywhere he went it was always the same—the nicest girls always fell for the jerks. Newton should have included it as one of his universal laws.
His mother steered him through the automatic doors and into the parking lot. “I don’t want you going out alone anymore.”
Tim rolled his eyes. “What are you going to do—walk me to the bus stop in the morning?”
“You’d better watch it,” she said, “I just might.” She smiled at that, but Tim was pretty sure she wasn’t joking.
They piled into his dad’s Audi and drove across town, passing through a labyrinth of unfamiliar streets. It still amazed him that his dad could find his way around, having only lived here a week. Unfortunately, Tim didn’t possess his father’s navigational skills. His last girlfriend liked to joke that he couldn’t find his way out of a grocery store, which was totally unfair because it only happened that one time.
Tim still didn’t know what to think about Glenwood. Aside from Randy and his goons, it seemed like a nice enough town—huge homes, quiet streets, trees all around. It was a stark contrast to their old neighborhood in Boston’s Back Bay, despite the fact that it was only a two hour drive.
Tim massaged his jaw and stared out the window. The sun’s passage had trailed a lavender ribbon across the sky. He watched it fade into darkness, dissolving into the shadows stealing over the rounded peaks of the Berkshires.
They were almost home now. Another mile or two and they’d pull down their street—a dead-end fringed by forest. The Audi’s GPS showed green space all over the map, a number of sections measuring a few miles square. Their house lay in the shadow of the largest section—Washaka Woods.
When they got home, Tim stalked to his bedroom and flopped onto his bed. A chest-high stack of boxes surrounded the TV. He’d promised to unpack this afternoon, but that was before Randy turned him into a community punching bag.
The guy was a lunatic. What kind of person went around slicing people’s tongues just for talking to his girlfriend? He’d have to avoid Maria from now on, and everyone else for that matter. At least until this whole thing blew over.
So much for cashing in
on the sympathy factor.
He stuck his tongue out and tapped it gingerly with his finger.
His dad was right about one thing—no matter where Tim went, he was a magnet for bullies. While most people steered clear of bullies, Tim couldn’t help but provoke them. People like Randy deserved to be knocked down a notch. Too bad he didn’t have the muscle to back up his words.
He’d have to be more careful in the future. He was in high school now. A freshman, which essentially meant he was the lowest form of life inhabiting the halls of Glenwood High. Something akin to plankton. No question that high school was more dangerous than middle school. There were always a few guys like Randy; it didn’t matter where you went. And guys like Randy might give you more than a bloody nose or a black eye. If you pushed them far enough, guys like Randy might kill you.
Tim stared at the unpacked boxes and sighed. Just when he started getting used to a place, they would pack up and leave all over again. It was his father’s fault—he kept getting promoted. He just took a new position as senior vice president at Greenleaf Insurance. Top management. That meant moving to corporate headquarters.
Glenwood, Massachusetts.
Who the hell set up their headquarters in Glenwood, Massachusetts?
He caught a glimpse of himself in the dresser mirror. He was a sorry looking sight—two black eyes, a gash on his cheek, and a bruise on his forehead in the shape of a sneaker print. That last one made him laugh.
“Still better looking than you, Randy,” he said, running a hand through his dirty blond hair.
He clicked on the TV and caught a glimpse of the news. He was about to change it, surf around a little, see if maybe they got the Playboy channel here, but then the words Missing Child Update flashed across the screen. He’d been following the story since they moved here.
A scrawny newscaster wearing either a bad toupee or a misplaced bird’s nest said, “A major turning point occurred today in the search for missing ten-year-old Ryan Brakowski. Earlier, two joggers stumbled upon what police are now labeling a crime scene. We go now live to Brian Jacobsen, who is at the scene with the jogger who made the discovery. Brian?”
“Thank you, Peter. As you can see from the bustle of activity behind me, local officials are crowded behind this cordoned-off section of Washaka Woods in Glenwood. Even at this late hour they are still gathering evidence. I’m here with Ralph Masterson, one of the joggers who made today’s shocking discovery. Ralph, what can you tell us about today?”
Ralph, a nerdy looking man in his late thirties, stepped eagerly to the microphone. “Well, I was jogging through these woods with my girlfriend like I do every day. When I ran by this spot, I saw a flash of gold out of the corner of my eye, so I stopped to see if maybe someone had dropped a ring or something. I went to the side of the path where the underbrush looked all trampled down, and I saw a broken necklace with a cross on it. I was going to pick it up, but then I noticed what looked like dried blood on the leaves surrounding it. When I looked closer, I saw more blood and a piece of a shirt snagged on some thorns.”
The camera cut back to the anchorman at the station. “What a gruesome discovery, Brian. What else can you tell us?”
“Well, Peter, details are still sketchy, but police tell us that they have located a few torn strips of black and white checkered clothing. Our sources have confirmed that this matches the type of shirt Ryan Brakowski was wearing on the day he disappeared. The boy’s family, however, could not be reached for comment. That’s all we have for now. Reporting live from Washaka Woods, I’m Brian Jacobsen for Channel 6 News. Back to you Peter.”
Tim clicked off the TV and shook his head. He drew back the curtain and stared into the forest looming beyond his backyard. Randy cutting him with a switchblade…Ryan Brakowski murdered in the woods behind his house…maybe Glenwood wasn’t such a nice place after all.
CHAPTER FOUR
Malley’s.
Malley’s and scotch.
That’s all Jay remembered about the night he got fired. Except that wasn’t exactly right. He’d seen the boy again too.
Last night’s events filtered back to him in bits and pieces, like a slideshow of grainy images. He barely remembered leaving the bar and had only a hazy memory of racing down a blackened stretch of the Mass Pike, one eye squeezed shut to prevent double vision.
He rubbed his aching head and rolled over to find a woman lying naked beside him. She had a tangled mane of bleach-blond hair and the gaunt look of a heroin addict. God only knew what he’d done with her, what he might have caught.
He slid out of bed and pulled on a pair of boxers. A shriveled condom lay on the floor by his feet.
It wasn’t his. Crystal was on the pill.
He risked a glance back at Jane Doe, who shifted in her sleep, scratched herself, and rolled over.
At least she had sense enough to know what she was doing. Certainly not a drunk like you.
He hung his head and let the words sink in.
You’re a loser, Jay. A no-good, worthless drunk. Just like your old man. Maybe you’ll even die the same way he did. Wouldn’t that be something?
He grabbed his clothes and stomped into the bathroom, hoping the exaggerated noise might rouse the woman from his bed. After washing his face and lingering for a few minutes at the sink, he heard her collecting her things. He waited until the front door swung shut before venturing out of the bedroom, shaking his head as he descended the stairs.
Not my finest moment.
Sunlight pierced his eyes as he stepped onto the porch, the brightness amplifying the pounding in his head. He plodded over to the LeBaron and fumbled for the sunglasses baking on the dash. He slid them onto his face, blinking experimentally.
Sometimes he felt like a vampire. Prowling the streets late at night in search of drink, passing out just before dawn, and in the morning taking refuge from the sun.
He closed the car door and began walking, not sure where he was going, not sure whether he cared. As he passed through the quiet neighborhood, he took an inventory of his life. He’d lost his job and his fiancée, and in both cases it was alcohol that people had blamed.
It seemed ridiculous. Aside from the two times Hoffman had mentioned, alcohol had never affected his work. He might’ve rolled in with a bad hangover once or twice, but he still did his job better than most of the other teachers at Glenwood High. He hadn’t lied to Hoffman when he said he’d never had a drink in work; it was true. Between dinner and 3 A.M. were his drinking hours. He never once strayed from that schedule.
Like Hoffman, Crystal blew his drinking out of proportion. Probably because her mom was an alcoholic. She used to smack Crystal and her sisters around, steal money from their college fund. The whole works. Crystal feared he would become like that one day. But he wasn’t even close. He had never hit her, had never stolen from her.
... Not yet, a voice said.
He’d been hearing it for a few years, a sarcastic holier-than-thou voice that he’d give anything to quiet. He wished he could find the section of his brain where the voice resided and cut it out with a scalpel. If he could do that, then he might finally have some peace.
He wasn’t an alcoholic like everyone seemed to think. Sure, sometimes he had a little too much to drink, but those times were the exception rather than the rule. He was an expert at walking the line between being drunk enough and too drunk, not like his dad who was always fall-down drunk. Real alcoholics were like his dad. They were bums, people who couldn’t hold a job for more than a week, people who didn’t care for anyone but themselves and their booze. He might have a slight drinking problem, but he certainly wasn’t an alcoholic.
He’d show them all how wrong they were to place that label on him. After a few weeks of well-deserved vacation, he’d get another job. And not some crappy public school job, either. Last year, he had gotten an offer to teach at Philip’s Academy up in New Hampshire, an offer he’d turned down because it meant moving away from Crystal. If the positio
n wasn’t available any longer, there was sure to be another one like it somewhere else.
On that kind of salary, he’d be able to afford a new car. He’d finally be able to trash the LeBaron. Most times that piece of junk did nothing more than keep a section of his driveway dry when it rained.
He’d show Crystal too. He’d been thinking a lot about the night she left. About how she pretended not to see the boy just so she could accuse him of being drunk.
It sounded funny to put it like that, but what other explanation could there be?
Something about the kid really creeped him out, though. Both last night and the time before the kid just stood there at the fringe of trees, eyes as black as the night around him. Staring at him. Staring through him.
And the glow. What about the glow?
But he forced the thought from his mind. He wouldn’t allow himself to think about that.
When he got to the intersection of Maple and Main, he realized he did know where he was going after all. He waited for a lone car to pass—a black Lexus with the license plate VENTUR CAP—and then shuffled across the street. With less than ten thousand residents, Glenwood never saw much traffic. It was a nice enough place to live. It had a small town look and small town feel. A good place to raise a family.
He approached Glenwood center. A World War II memorial rose from the traffic circle ahead of him, a massive granite column that loomed over a strip of hedges sheared to spell out the town’s name. To his right stood St. Mary’s church with its whitewashed walls and wooden steeple, and across from that sat the library—a colonial saltbox with weathered brown shingles.
He strolled past the library and made a left onto Summer Street where a group of boys played whiffle ball. He smiled at their innocence. Those kids didn’t have a clue about how life could beat you down. When he was their age, his biggest problem was devising a way to avoid Amanda Fletcher on the walk home from school.
A few minutes later, he reached his destination. He climbed the steps to the old Victorian and rang the bell. It was a monster of a house, consisting of three stories, a widow’s walk, and five gables fused together at oblique angles.
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