Of the five children taken, only one survived. They named all four victims (Eric Campbell, Suzie Morris, Oscar Lukacs and Randal Sims), but there was no mention of Darren. He was simply “the surviving child.” The book had been written in 1969, and Mark wondered if they had decided against using it or had been asked not to.
Given that the book seemed to be the only public record of what had happened in that house Mark was probably one of the only people alive who knew that Darren Cox had been the one who’d survived.
Some magic bullet, huh? At least now you know how it all ends. Don’t you feel better?
Chapter Twenty
“Hello?” Christine called into the house after Mark had dropped her off. She hadn’t rally expected her parents to be home, but given their lack of regard for her privacy it was better to be sure of their whereabouts.
There was no response, and Christine started up the stairs. A noise stopped her halfway up the steps. She cocked her head to see if she could hear it again. When there wasn’t anything to be heard, she shook her head and chalked it up to the anxiety coming off of Mark making her a little paranoid.
When she made it to the top she heard it again.
It could have been a foot creaking on one of the loose boards on the second floor near her room but it could just been the house settling. She stopped and listened again, but this time there was just silence.
“Hello?” she called again, wishing her voice wasn’t wavering. There still wasn’t any response.
“Fine,” she murmured, and with a sudden dash of speed she pulled her bag from her shoulder and swung it in front of her as she rounded the corner to her room. If there wasn’t anyone there she was going to have a great time explaining to her Mom the scratches on the just repainted wall.
Instead of wall, the bag found a set of ribs and the man attached to them.
When she realized that there was someone there she let out one of the loudest screams she could muster while still swinging her purse at the doubled over intruder.
“Ahhhh, Jesus!” he yelled in a familiar voice. “I give up! I give up!”
“Oh my god,” she said, dropping everything. “Ryan?”
“Yeah, it’s me.” her brother groaned, lowering his hands and straightening up. “Oh my god,” he said. “Did you join a fucking gang or something? I haven’t been hit that hard since the lacrosse finals.”
“I am so sorry, Ry, are you . . .” she trailed off, and then punched him as hard as she could in the stomach. He gasped and sprung up, waving a hand to bat her away.
“Fuck!” he yelled. “Enough with the fucking hitting! What is the matter with you, are you on your period or something?”
“Fuck you!” she snapped. “You were going to jump out and scare me weren’t you? You freaked me the hell out!”
“Good! What did you think I was going to be?”
“Oh, fuck off,” she said, picking her stuff off the floor and then following him into the guest room across the hall from hers. It was going to be where Ryan would stay while he was home from college, but he was supposed to be there for at least another two weeks.
“Why the hell are you here early, anyway?”
“Well,” he said, kicking one of his bags towards the dresser. “I finished one of my mid-term projects early, so I got a head start.”
“Like what? You’ve never finished anything early, although now that I think about it I did hear some girls complaining about that in Boston.”
“God, you are so classy. I’ll tell you, but if you say anything to Mom and Dad before I do, I’ll tell them you got home an hour later than you were supposed to.”
“Fine,” she said. “Hey! I’m only twenty minutes late you fucking liar!”
“They don’t know that,” Ryan grinned evilly. “My God, have they got you on that short a leash already? I was just guessing.”
She rolled her eyes and dropped down onto the bed next to him. “Fine, whatever. What have you screwed up this time?”
“Jeez, you sleep through one midterm and all of the sudden it’s a big screw-up.”
“You didn’t!” she said, but wasn’t the least bit surprised. Ryan’s athletics and Dad’s money had gotten him into college, not his grades or his willingness to actually work.
“Yeah, I did,” he said with a resigned sigh. “The prof’s a real prick too, and there is no way he’s gonna let me retake it, and there’s no way I can pass the class with a zero on it, so I figure that’s just one less research paper I’ve got to work on.”
“Well, that is a spectacular screw up,” she said.
“Mmm-hmmm,” he said, getting up and looking around his new room. There had been two other bedrooms, but Mom and commandeered the other room for doing “craft projects,” and that left Ryan with the smallest room in the house. “Anyway,” he said, tossing another bag in the direction of the closet, “what the hell kept you at school so long?”
“I was at the park. With my boyfriend.”
“Boyfriend?” he asked. “Oh my god, you’ve been here for like five minutes! Are you incapable of not latching on to some guy to make yourself feel better?”
“It’s not like that. He’s not like those other guys I used to go out with. He’s actually nice and doesn’t act like a giant prick all the time.”
“Oh, he’s gay! Okay, well, do go on.”
She just flipped him off and continued. “I’m sick of dating those sports car driving, immature jock assholes. Mark’s really sweet and seems to like me for who I am and not just something to try to have sex with.”
“So he’s a loser. A gay loser, apparently.”
“He is not a loser!” she snapped. “He may be different, but he’s not a loser. He’s sweet. And cute.”
“Cute and sweet. But different. Huh. So have Mom and Dad met this spastic gay loser yet?”
“Yes, they have,” she said, hitting him on the arm. “They have some issues. They don’t seem to want to give him a chance.”
“No, not Mom and Dad! They wouldn’t possibly be close minded about something!” he said, sitting down next to her.
“Yeah,” she said, hoping he wouldn’t press her for details. “They’ve known we’ve been going out for almost a month and a half and Mom hasn’t even mentioned having him over for dinner.”
“Shit,” Ryan murmured. She had tried to downplay the importance her mother placed on “Sunday Dinner” to Mark, but once she or her brother even mentioned the fact that they were seeing someone, her mother was all over them every waking second to have that person over.
“Look,” Ryan finally said, “if you keep my academic screw-ups on the down-low, I bet I can get Mom and Dad to have this totally straight, normal boy over this Sunday.”
“Really?” she said, sitting up quickly. “You’d actually do that?” While Ryan had a spectacular track record of irritation and disappointment as a brother, he did have a way of negotiating their parents into doing what he wanted.
“Yup. Besides,” he grinned, “you’ll owe me one, and I have got to meet this ‘super-different guy’ for myself. I haven’t had a good laugh in ages.”
Deep breaths. Just take deep breaths and you’ll be fine.
It was easy to think that, but as soon as Christine’s door opened on Sunday, deep breaths went right out the window.
“You must be Mark,” the brother from the pictures said with a wide, gleaming white smile. “I’m Ryan, Christine’s brother. C’mon in, big guy.”
“Yeah, that’s me. I . . . well, it’s nice to meet you.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Ryan said, waving Mark further into the house. Mark had tried to be as excited as Christine had been when she told them her brother had talked their parents into asking him over that weekend. As the day got closer, Mark realized spending time in the Baker’s palatial estate was far, far down on his list of things he wanted to do.
“Take it easy, buddy,” Ryan said, clapping a hand onto Mark’s shoulder and leaning in to whisper
. “This’ll be over in about an hour, tops, and then you guys can take off. Have a little, y’know.” He shot out his fist with a little whistle, giving Mark’s shoulder a hard slap. “You know what I’m talking about, stud.”
“Right,” Mark said. Ryan’s pictures hadn’t done him justice. He was at least a foot taller than Mark and with every slap and squeeze Mark could feel himself getting smaller and Ryan’s smile getting wider.
Boy, we’ve got to get him and Jack together. They would have a field day with you. Literally. I think this guy could throw you 50-yards, easy.
“Hey,” Christine called when they walked into the dining room, looking up from the silverware she was arranging on the table. “You’re sitting next to me. I hope that’s okay,” she winked.
“Uh, yeah, fine,” Mark said, taking the rest of the room in. In addition to the gigantic conference table they were apparently going to eat at, the room was lined with glass-faced hutches all filled with various plates and silverware that looked like they belonged in a museum rather than somewhere Mark could knock into and send them and his future spilling to the floor.
“Hey,” Ryan said, clapping Mark on the back so unexpectedly that it almost knocked him over. “Let me get your jacket. Don’t want to get it all messed up, do we?”
“Yeah. I mean, I guess not,” Mark said, fumbling with the ratty denim he wore almost year round. Getting dressed had been funeral-level nerve wracking. What he’d managed to put together was a button-down shirt that was trying to squeeze him to death and pants that screamed ‘Hey, check out these crappy socks!’
“Nice jacket,” Ryan muttered, probably too low for Christine to hear in her time-zone on the other side of the table. “You don’t see a lot of these anymore.” Mark sighed and made his way over to Christine.
“You’ll do fine,” Christine said, kissing Mark on the cheek while they were still alone.
“You sure? I think Ryan might be hiding my coat. I hate when that happens.”
“Mark, just relax,” she said, patting him on the arm.
“I’ll try,” he said, looking around some more. “Do you eat in here every night?”
“Yeah,” she said, going over to a cabinet and getting a set of cloth napkins and napkin rings. “It’s a little weird with just the three of us, but Dad hates to eat in front of the TV.”
“Right. That would be weird.”
Ryan came back in with his parents in to greet Mark with almost warm smiles and loose handshakes. They sat while Mrs. Baker and Christine went back into the kitchen to retrieve the food. After several trips, the two managed to fill the table as Mark took turns nodding and smiling at all the members of Baker family.
When they finally sat down and he was served, Mark realized that he had too many forks. Like, twice the normal amount of forks. He almost opened his mouth to say something, but caught himself when he realized he hadn’t just been given everyone’s forks but there was an equally excessive amount of forks for everyone at the table.
There was salad, soup, bread, cheese for the bread, and some kind of steak and mushroom dish he wouldn’t have been able to spell, much less pronounce on his own. Ryan and Christine’s parents had white wine, and he and Christine had soda.
“We wouldn’t want you riding your moped under the influence,” her father said, smiling and getting a laugh that was a little too big from Ryan. Mark would’ve corrected him, but realized that it was about as pointless as his assortment of many-sized forks.
The only thing that made Mark feel better was the fact that Christine’s parents (Harold and Cynthia, they offered, but Mark stuck to Mr. and Mrs. Baker) seemed as uncomfortable as he was.
“So what do your parents do, Mark?” her mother asked during the soup course, Mark heard the quick gulp from Christine, who had been taking a drink.
“Actually, Mrs. Baker,” he said, “my parents passed away when I was young. I live with my Uncle Joe.” He paused, and then said. “He works at the post office.”
“Oh.” Cynthia said. “I’m so sorry. Christine didn’t say anything about your parents.”
“Why would I?” Christine said, an edge creeping into her voice.
Mark wondered if he dropped one of his forks, how long he could stay under the table “looking” for it before he was missed. Long enough to tunnel to freedom? Worth pondering. He glanced across the table at Ryan, who smiled at him from around his third glass of wine.
Harold simply cleared his throat, and Mark watched as the Baker women stifled the rest of their argument. Ryan gave Mark another nod and smile.
Well, someone’s having fun, so that’s good. Chin up, kiddo, only two more courses to go.
Ryan’s estimate was right, and about an hour after he had given up his coat he got it right back. Mark tried not to look like he was running for his life as he and Christine left, and he was sure he saw a fair share of relief in her parent’s eyes. “You kids take care of yourselves,” her father called after them as they headed down the walk.
“Dad!” Christine called over her shoulder.
“Right. Just . . . be careful out there.”
“Oh, that was a blast,” murmured Mark, reaching into the storage compartment to get the spare helmet.
“It wasn’t that bad, Mark,” Christine said, lightly slapping him on the back. “I’ve seen much worse, and I am so sorry about the whole ‘parents’ thing. I know I told my mom about your whole family situation.”
“Great,” Mark muttered, passing her the spare helmet.
“What was I supposed to say?” she said. “I mean, lying to them wasn’t going to do any good, and they’d find out sooner or later.”
“I would have preferred later,” he said, staring the V up and just barely avoiding peeling out of the driveway.
“Hey!” she yelled, grabbing a hold of his jacket. “I wasn’t even ready back here!”
“Sorry, sorry,” he said, stopping at the intersection and waiting for her to get situated.
“They saw that, y’know. You’re not exactly endearing yourself to them if you keep up shit like that!”
Mark let out a deep breath, and was very glad that his helmet covered his whole face so he could keep her from seeing his clenched jaw and flushed cheeks. He blew out a large, lungful of air and then finally said, “I’m sorry. You’re right I just . . . fuck! I can’t even breathe in this get-up! I look fucking ridiculous! And your brother? Oh my god, are you kidding me?”
“Hey,” she said, reaching around and stroking his chest. “You look fine, okay? And yes, he is a giant ass, but this will really help you out with them, okay? Trust me.”
“I do, I just--” he was interrupted by the impatient beeping of a car that had crept up behind them. “Fucking A,” he muttered, taking off down the street.
“What do you want to do?” she asked when they next came to a stop. “Do you want to go home and change or something?”
He thought about it for a moment, and then realized that Joe was probably out at the bar with his crew, and the house was just sitting there empty. It was also a giant mess, as it always was, but the thought of an empty house was far too tempting.
“Well,” he said. “Joe has left for the night, and won’t be back until late. We could skip the movie and hang out at my place for a while. If you wanted too.”
“That,” she said, giving him a squeeze, “definitely sounds doable. Besides, I’ve been very curious to see your place anyway.”
“Don’t get your hopes up.”
In his rush to get her over there, Mark had forgotten how messy and disorganized he and Joe had left the place. The living room was filled with empty beer cans, and as Mark was showing her around trying to act cool about the whole thing, he suddenly remembered the half-eaten bowl of cereal in his room that was quickly spawning life.
“Well,” Mark finally said, waving an arm around the small, cluttered living room, “this is it.”
“It’s nice,” she said, looking around and taking it all in. Mar
k couldn’t help but wonder if he looked as out of place in her house as she did in his. “What’s upstairs?”
“Just the bedrooms,” Mark said.
“Oh really?” Christine said, wagging her eyebrows, and then with a sudden burst of speed she took off.
“Hey!” Mark cried, racing after her.
By the time he got to the top of the stairs, she was already down the hallway. “Hmmm!” she called in a loud, sing-song voice, “which one is Mark’s room?” She was heading towards the door at the far end of the hall, and before Mark could call out to her, she flung open the door to Joe’s room.
“Whoa,” she said with a grimace. “Please tell me that’s not it.” As messy as he left the rest of the house, Joe saved his special messes for his boudoir.
“No,” Mark said, coming up behind her. “That’s my Uncle’s room.”
“Thank God,” she said, backing away and closing the door. She spun around, and before she could dart around him, Mark grabbed her.
“Is this part of the tour?” she said.
“No, the rest is upstairs.”
“The roof?” she said with a wry smile.
“No, the attic. That’s my place.”
“Oh really?”
She kept stepping closer, and Mark found himself backing up with each step until he stumbled back into the doorknob.
“So am I the first girl that’s gotten to see your attic hideaway?”
“Maybe,” he said, reaching behind him to open the door. She stepped back just enough for him to open it, and when he did she squirmed past and raced up the stairs.
“It’s messy!” was all Mark could bring himself to say as he darted after her. As delightfully forbidden as the idea of having her in his room was, faced with the reality of it, he found his mind racing to see if he could remember if he had left anything embarrassing out that she shouldn’t see. He was pretty sure all his dirty underwear was in the laundry basket, and the Playboys he liberated from the garage were safely under the mattress.
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