Then she took a seat and began reading her bank statement.
Harbus flipped Junior the bird and grinned, and Junior spread his left hand across his cheek. Removing his fingers one at a time until only his middle finger remained, he turned to give Harbus a sarcastic grin, and saw him hand a folded piece of paper to the girl sitting next to him. She laughed, and handed it to the person next to her, who stifled a laugh of her own. On and on it went, until it got to Junior, who, having read the note, tried not to laugh. But the best he could do was make a sound like a fart as muffled laughter blew out between his pressed lips, causing the whole class to burst out laughing.
True to her word, Vonda sent the entire class to detention. But not before she walked over to the person she thought to be the guilty party, the person with the reddest face: Art Wilkins Jr.
“What now, Wilkins?”
He tried to cover the note with his English book, but he wasn’t quick enough.
Vonda snatched the paper off his desk. Amidst catcalls and howled laughter, she looked down at the handwritten note, her face turning from pale to rosy, from rosy to red, and then to purple.
THE MOON WAS HIGH THE SKY WAS BLUE
AROUND THE CORNER THE SHIT WAGON FLEW
AND IN THE NIGHT A SCREAM WAS HEARD
VONDA WAS KILT BY A FLYING TURD!
“All right, Wilkins. Come on up.”
“I didn’t write that. I can’t help it if I laughed.”
Sighing, she said, “I know, Wilkins. Now, come on up.”
Junior followed Vonda to her desk, where she opened a drawer and pulled Old Faithful from it. “Bend over, Wilkins,” she said, and Junior bent over.
“Further over.”
He bent further.
“Further, touch the floor with the tips of your fingers.”
“What?”
Vonda swung the paddle and Junior sprang up like a jack in the box.
“Bend. Over.”
Once again he bent over, and once again the paddle found him.
She bent him over one more time, and swung Old Faithful with all her might, this time sending Junior staggering across the floor.
“All right, Wilkins. Return to your seat,” Vonda said, and then turned to Gary Harbus. “Your turn, laughing boy.”
“Why?” Harbus said, a look of shock and surprise etched upon his face. “What’d I do?”
“You’re the only one stupid enough to author something like this.” She slammed Old Faithful on the desktop. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s go.”
As Harbus received his final lick, the bell rang, and Vonda pounded the paddle against her desk. “Every person in this class will attend detention this afternoon. Anyone who does not show will get an additional five days, and a telephone call to their parents.”
Two o’clock:
Norval Jenkins had been a Deputy Sheriff for ten years. Coming on board three years after the Bobby Turner incident, he had never understood how something like that could’ve happened on three different occasions, and nobody on the job could ever figure it out. On one hand, he hoped it wouldn’t happen again, but deep down he thought he might like to take a crack at it. In all his time on the Force, he hadn’t even drawn his service revolver, much less used it in the line of duty. The most serious crime he ever investigated was somebody breaking into Henry Walker’s Esso, which, for some reason nobody seemed to understand, happened much too often. Norval had just returned to duty after a two week vacation to find the whole town in an uproar over what had transpired at the bank, and a newspaper full of stories about The Charleston Butcher.
Norval dropped the paper onto his desk. “Shit, Larry Dale,” he said. “That’s four bodies in six days, two in Charleston and two more in Huntington. The hell’s goin’ on over there?”
“Looks like we got us a sicko that don’t like women. God, I’d like to get my hands on that son of a bitch.”
“You and me both.”
“I’ve got a cousin on the Force over there told me that first woman got beat up and butchered like some kind of animal. And after it happened, her mama went and killed the ex-husband, claimed it was all his fault for leavin’ her.”
“I’ll be damned. What could make somebody do something like that?”
“Some crazy fucker. Gotta be.”
The door opened, and Larry Dale looked up to see Nathan Hayes bounding into the room, tossing a cigar to each of his deputies.
“Good news, boys,” he said. “I’ve just come from the hospital, where Johnny and Thelma have just welcomed John Austin Porter Jr. into the world.”
Norval, grinning, said, “Well, I’ll be. I didn’t think she was due for another week or so.”
“Nah, she was due the last week of October. Doc Fletcher says he’s about four days early, but healthy as a horse. Either of you guys wanta sit in for Johnny tonight?”
“My pleasure,” Norval said. “What the hell. I’ve been off for two weeks.”
“Hey Norval, let’s get us a couple of presents and go see that little fella. How about it, Nathan?”
“Yeah, Larry Dale. I think that’s a great idea.”
Nathan told Norval to take the rest of the day, and be back at ten o’clock. While Nathan called to give his wife the good news, Larry Dale and Norval made a beeline to The Dime Store. After talking to Sharon, Nathan called his father at the hardware store and told him about the baby, and what Henry Walker had said about Reverend Stone and Marty Donlan.
“What do you know about that, Daddy?”
“Not much, Nathan. I was awfully young when it happened. Far as I know, Reverend Stone murdered his wife for no apparent reason, and Marty Donlan had a tragic accident down at the Main Street Bridge. Why? What about it?”
“Anybody ever find out why the preacher killed his wife?”
“Not that I know of, but people do break down and do things they aren’t able to explain. I’m sure that’s not the first time somebody committed a murder and said they didn’t know why they did it. I’ve always felt like he did know, but didn’t want anybody else to find out. Maybe she was having an affair, or she’d caught him doing something that would’ve been too embarrassing if it got out. Maybe they fought about it and he lost his head and shot her. Why? Why are you asking about something that happened so long ago?”
“I don’t know, Daddy. I got to talkin’ with Henry Walker, and he told me him and his daddy was following Marty Donlan when his car went off the bridge. Said Marty drove off there on purpose, and his daddy heard him tell Earl he didn’t know why he did it. That he was driving along and all of a sudden he was airborne. Said it was like he was watching it happen, like something out of a dream. You never heard anything about that?”
“Sure, I’ve heard all those stories. But you’ve got to realize, Marty Donlan was dying. He probably wasn’t thinking too rational-like. Leastways, that’s my take on it.”
“Yeah, well, I guess that makes sense, but when I asked Barney Linton why he’d robbed the bank, he said—”
“Let me guess. I don’t know why I did it.”
“Well, yeah.”
“Is that the first person you’ve ever arrested who told you he didn’t know why he’d committed the crime? Think about it.”
“Yeah, I see what you’re getting at, but you didn’t see the look on his face.” Nathan wanted to blow it off, but he had seen the confused look on Barney’s face, and after talking with Henry Walker, he didn’t much know what to think.
“You’ve been spending too much time with Jerry Mays.”
“Yeah, well, you could be right about that,” he said, thinking, I sure as hell hope you are. “Okay, Daddy, I’ll talk at you later then.”
“Okay son, congratulate the new parents for me.”
“Yes sir. I sure will,” Nathan said, and then set the telephone back in its cradle.
Detention
When Vonda Peters’ entire fifth period English Class reported for detention, there wasn’t enough room for them.
Vonda had sent word to Ron Ball’s secretary for Mrs. Mathis to expect the entire class, but Missy Hart had forgotten all about it. By the time half the students filed in, the room was full. Sally Mathis herded the rest of them into the library, stormed out into the hallway and headed straight to the principal’s office. When she returned there were fifteen minutes of detention left. She didn’t even notice that Gary Harbus had walked off while she’d been away.
Junior, who wished he’d had guts enough to follow him down the hall, said, “Hell, we should’ve left with Harbus.”
“Yeah, but if y’all got caught, you’d be in all kinds of trouble, especially if she called The Machine,” E.L. said, reminding him of Vonda’s threat.
“He’d machine your ass then, wouldn’t he, Junior?” Billy said.
Junior smiled, knowing that, yes, his dad would beat the hell out of him if Vonda Peters ever had reason to call.
“How about it, E.L., you spending the weekend with us?” Billy asked him.
“Yeah, Friday, Saturday, go home Sunday after church. My mom wasn’t too keen about it, but Dad talked her into it.”
“Blood Feast?”
“Hell yes!”
“All right!” Billy said, already excited about seeing the horror movie.
* * *
Earl Butler sat on the couch, watching his favorite afternoon show. The Three Stooges Comedy Hour consisted of a group of Stooges short-clips put together by a television station in Bluefield, VA. Last night his father had told him to take a sickle to the weeds and vines in back of the house, but when Earl woke up this morning, he’d forgotten all about it. When the rusty old gate creaked open, and then slammed shut, his father’s words came rushing back. And when those heavy footsteps came thudding across the porch, Earl said a silent prayer:
Please God, let him come in drunk as a dog and pass out in his bed.
Horace Butler wasn’t drunk. But he was in a foul mood, due to a water main that had burst in the washhouse, preventing anyone from being able to bathe. He was tired, and filthy. All day long he’d been toiling in a dark and dank smelling hole like some kind of rodent. His back hurt. His knees ached. His head felt like Joe Frazier had been using it for a punching bag. The rest of the crew had gone over to Donnie’s to drink beer and swap bullshit stories, but not Horace. Oh, no, not Horace. Horace had a wife and kids clutching onto his wallet, sucking the life right out of him, and he couldn’t have sucked down a beer after work today if his life depended on it.
Horace Butler didn’t have shit.
Leastways, that was what Horace thought, and he was right. He didn’t have shit, and he never would. Not because of his wife and kids, though, but because of Horace. Every two weeks he collected his paycheck and gave his wife just enough money to pay the bills, and to purchase an inadequate amount of food. The rest went for beer, whiskey and tobacco, and the cheap moonshine his cousin Billy made up at his farm. And God help his family if any of them ever needed to see the dentist or a doctor.
“Hey, Daddy,” Earl said when his father walked inside. “Just gettin’ off work?”
“No, you stupid fucker,” Horace snapped on his way to the old refrigerator. “I’ve been bowlin’ all day.”
Yeah, right. You dropped out of school in the third grade, but I’m stupid.
Horace opened the door, shaking his head at a thick sheet of ice bulging from the small freezer compartment that prevented the little spring-mounted door from shutting.
“Lazy, fat-assed, good for nothin’ bitch,” Horace mumbled under his breath. “The fuck does she do all day anyway?” He grabbed a beer and slammed the door shut, walked over to the kitchen cabinets and pulled out a half-full Mason jar, uncapped it and took a long drink of moonshine, squinting as the homemade brew burned a fiery path to his stomach. No wonder he sells this shit so cheap, he thought, laughing and gulping a mouthful of beer before taking another sip of moonshine. Then he looked at the television, where Moe was in the process of slapping the hell out of Larry and Curly Joe.
“That Moe,” he said, and then turned up the Mason jar and guzzled another mouthful, barely noticing the burn as, this time, the shine went down a little easier. He screwed the cap back in place, and returned the moonshine to the cabinet. On his way to the couch, he stopped and took another swig of beer, which splashed into his belly, happily mixing together with the moonshine, drawing from Horace a belch—a split-second later, a long, loud fart.
When Horace walked through the front door, Earl had one eye on Moe, Larry, and Curly Joe. The other eye was trained on his father. When Horace looked at that thick wall of ice, and cussed his wife for being a lazy bitch, Earl grinned. The squint and the ridiculous looking face had left Earl fighting to keep from laughing. But when Horace belched, and then cut that loud, humongous fart, that was all she wrote: the fat lady was singing. Earl burst out laughing, and no matter how hard he tried, he just couldn’t stop. Even when a cold-blooded look spread across his father’s face, he could not stop laughing.
Horace stalked over to the couch and grabbed a fistful of Earl’s t-shirt, ripping the fabric as he yanked him to his feet. He backhanded his son, and his hand came away bloody.
“Somethin’ funny? Huh? You little son of a bitch!”
“I’m sorry, Daddy!” Earl wailed, a trickle of red running across his lip. “I didn’t mean to!”
With every yell, Horace slapped him, and slapped him hard.
“You think I’m funny?”
SLAP!
“What’cha laughin’ at?”
SLAP!
“Laugh now, huh?”
SLAP!
“C’mon, laughin’ boy!”
SLAP!
Earl, screaming and crying, pleaded for him to stop, but he wouldn’t. He kept on beating and yelling and yelling and beating. Finally, as he was winding down, Horace said, “Did you cut down them vines like I told you?”
Tears flooded Earl’s cheeks, as he said. “I forgot… I’m sorry.”
Horace, whipping Earl across the room like Gorgeous George hurling an opponent across the wrestling ring, said, “Get your sorry ass out there and do what the hell I told you!”
Earl crashed through the screen door, landing face first on the old wooden porch, where he looked up to see his wide-eyed younger brother—who had been riding his bicycle toward their house—make a quick U-turn and haul ass in the opposite direction as fast as he could.
Earl couldn’t help it.
He laughed.
“Did I just hear you laugh again?”
“No sir!” Earl called out, and then scrambled down the steps to the back of the house.
Horace kicked the door open as his son fled to the rear of the house. Watching him round the corner, he thought of the old Dobie Gillis line: I’ve gotta kill that boy!
He snickered and laughed, and then laughed again.
Then he bent over at the waist, howling with laughter.
Eleven o’clock:
“Hey Mary, how ‘bout another beer,” Billy Dillon called out.
He should have been home over an hour ago. He had to get up and go to work tomorrow, but he didn’t care because he was half drunk, and when he got like that he did just exactly what he wanted. And right now he wanted another beer.
Mary Cousins sat a beer in front of him and slowly shook her head. “Why don’t you go on home? Eunice has called here three times in the last hour. She’s gonna be madder’n a wet hornet.” Mary liked Eunice. She liked Billy, too. She just wished he would wise up and realize how lucky he was to have a good woman waiting at home.
“Lighten up, would ya’?” he said. “I’m fixin’ to go.”
Billy grabbed his beer and took a long drink, and Mary walked away, muttering, “Some people never learn.”
* * *
William Pitch sat behind his expensive walnut desk in the library of Pitch Place, finishing off a shot of tequila. Spread out before him were four 7x10 manila envelopes Vonda Peters had given him. Pitch opened the f
irst and shook out its contents, and saw Gary Harbus, the self-proclaimed king of class clowns, smiling up at him. Pinned to the photograph was a note:
As you can see, I’ve given you one extra.
Please get rid of him… For me.
Forever in your debt,
Vonda.
Glancing down at the absurd features of Gary Harbus, he couldn’t help wondering what such a small child could have done for Vonda to want him dead.
Oh well, too bad for him. Let’s see what else we’ve got here.
He dumped another photograph on the desk. “That’s more like it.”
Probably ten, a little younger, maybe.
The next envelope revealed another child.
“Ah,” Pitch said. “Innocent as a new born baby.”
Then he shook loose the contents of the last envelope, and gasped.
Friday Afternoon
Jimmy Pritchard pedaled his bike down Everson Avenue, wondering if they were going to see that scary movie tonight. He sure hoped so. But for now he had to catch up with his brother, who was six blocks ahead, riding his bike alongside Billy and Junior. Jimmy pumped his legs as fast as he could, trying to reach them before they made the bottom of the hill. When he came to Main Street, he didn’t even slow down; instead, crossing right in front of an oncoming taxicab that had to swerve to keep from hitting him.
“Hey, you guys!” he yelled. “Wait up!”
But they didn’t hear him, and Jimmy kept chasing, ignoring traffic as he raced through intersection after intersection without even bothering to look up… until a pickup truck collided with the careless little cyclist, sending the child hand over feet to the sidewalk while the truck screeched to a stop and a white-bearded old man jumped out and ran over to him. “You all right?” he said. Then, scooping the frightened child into his arms, he carried him to the truck and laid him in the cab. Moments later, he was back at Jimmy’s bike, picking it up and hauling it back to the truck.
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