Looking around, he recognized everything now. The hotel was right behind him, and the small grove of trees in front. Directly by the pool sat his mother, dangling her feet in, laughing along. She held a smoothie then, not a beer bottle. Slurping through the straw, her sunglasses hid the eyes which surely were snickering and the crinkles she got every time she grinned too widely
“Bubby,” he heard Lilly say behind him. Turning around, she ducked her head underwater, wearing big, clumsy goggles with the nose piece.
“I think she’s playing peek-a-boo,” his mother called.
“That’s a baby game, Mom,” he shouted back. “She’s probably playing hide and-”
His words were cut off when Lilly jumped up and landed on his chest, plunging them both back into the water. It was only half a dozen feet deep, so Michael could easily touch. Spraying water everywhere and returning to the surface, chlorinated H2O drizzled down from his long hair. Back then, he wore it nearly long enough to put in a ponytail, which Lilly had tried desperately to do many times, bringing tears to his eyes when she pulled too hard.
“What’s that for?” he said, not able to hold back a wide smile.
“I’m the shark,” she growled in a voice all-too-familiar. It was her “evil voice,” as she called it, but sounded nowhere near evil, because no matter how hard she tried, Lilly could not manage to deepen her voice enough. Instead, it made all the girls and adults go “awww.”
“I’m the other shark,” Michael said.
“I’m the big shark.” That was her word-of-the-summer. Big.
“I’m the other big shark.”
“No,” she said, demanding his cooperation. “You say, ‘I’m the bigger shark.’ Okay?”
“Okay,” Michael said, shaking water out of his hair. “I’m the bigger shark.” His deep voice was the bottom of the ocean, while her voice was as high as a mountain in contrast. Puberty does that, he thought.
“I’m the biggest shark,” she said, flexing her tiny arms and clamping her teeth together in imitation of a shark that lifting weights, apparently.
“I’m the biggerest shark,” he responded.
“You’re silly,” she laughed uproariously. Her brother, the comedian.
“You’re silly, too.”
“You’re sillier, Bubby.”
“You’re silliest.”
She grinned slyly and shouted, “But you’re sillierest!” He threw his hands up in defeat, and she swam around chanting, “I win; I win,” with her red curls mopping around in the water, and her eyes never empty of joy.
Michael was woken up from his dream by the harsh reality of a large, chunky man standing directly in front of his chair. He had a mustache that wrapped around his chubby face, and tired, brown eyes. Bits of donut glaze still sprinkled his ugly lips, as he extended a hand to shake Michael’s. Instead of shaking, Michael just stared unblinkingly.
“What?” he said with a scratchy throat.
“I’ve gotta ask some questions. Your parents home?”
“Mom,” he said. Looking over, he saw the couch was now deserted; his mom had gone off to somewhere else.
“Well, can you go get her?”
“No.”
The officer blinked in surprise. “Um, why not?”
“Sleeping.”
“She’s sleeping?”
Michael nodded silently. There was nothing in him that felt like talking. He would rather hide away in his room, and in fact he would have left but Detective Smith told him to answer the questions. If he had to respond, it would be with short, terse sentences, if they could even be called that.
“Well would you mind if I asked you some questions?”
“Rather not,” Michael said.
“You don’t have a choice.”
“Why’d you ask?”
“Just being polite.”
Angrily, he realized something. “Barging into my house is being polite?”
“I-”
“Isn’t that illegal?”
“Well-”
“Leave.”
The man did not budge, just stood there in shock. The nerve of this kid, he thought to himself. Telling me what to do. A trained police officer with a badge and all!
“Out,” Michael growled, pointing to the door. Detective Smith may had told him to answer any questions, but he was fed up now and this intruder would not leave. If he had not been so emotionally and physically exhausted, he would have gone right then and made this buffoon got punished. He was pretty sure coming into his house unwelcome was a sort of crime.
“I rang the doorbell,” the man said. “You didn’t wake up. I was just bringing back your bike. It’s outside in-”
“Out.” Michael slowly got to his feet, a terrible look on his face.
Finally, the policeman walked to the door and took a step out. Turning around, he stared at Michael, feeling no pity or remorse. Only anger and irritation surged through him.
“Next time you come to the police,” he said, “don’t expect any favors from me. And don’t expect me to help you anytime you’re in trouble.”
“I’d rather have a competent policeman help me, so that’s good.”
“You think I’m stupid?”
Michael did not respond, just stared furiously until the ugly man left and closed the door behind him. When he was gone, Michael sunk into the chair again, wishing it would pull him down and never let him out. Being a chair would be so much easier. All you had to do was learn to stand the smell and weight of people sitting on you, and all of the dirt buried in your crevices. Besides those small consequences, life would be perfect and simple. Sure, it would be lonely and friendless, but who wanted friends when all they served for was to be taken away?
The remained of the morning passed without notice to Michael, who spent lunchtime and dinnertime in the same position. Drifting in and out of sleep, the house around him remained the same, quietly pondering its next move. Nothing stirred all throughout the day, although many cars passed by, more than on any other day. A slight mist began to sprinkle down around lunchtime, giving everybody outside shivers. The drought was over.
Hardy was deathly quiet. Morning sunshine faded away, becoming a blazing sun hot in the sky, before that was covered with clouds. People walked back and forth, spreading the gossip, hearing the rumors, comforting the Gray family on the loss of their two children. Many people assumed the three crosses and all the poles were not just a coincidence with the kidnappings; it seemed like some sort of disgusting ritual. That was just one of the many rumors, however.
Even as the rain began to drizzle and windows were clouded with a light fog that lowered itself like a casket lid onto the town, nobody visited the Walker residence. Since Nicole Walker had stopped being seen around town, many people almost forgot about her. Everyone knew the other little girl had been hers, but it was a distant thought, just a fact and not a person with a heart.
News reporters from bigger cities swarmed onto the cornfield and all around town, carrying large cameras and driving clunky vans, desperately wanting to be the first to deliver “Breaking News.” Detective Smith looked on it all with disdain, critiquing the way a tragedy had turned into a media fair. There were people, after all, who had lost things, lost friends, lost family. That did not matter to these hounds, who only were here to get their own name more recognition. Most of them had never even heard of, or been to, Hardy before.
More police officers flocked from Marcy, as the family whose house had nearly burnt down was interviewed and questioned intensely about the events of the previous night. They had seen nothing, heard nothing, and known nothing until the awoke to the heart and smell of smoke, fire, and burning corn.
Everyone was outside in Hardy, now. All the people from Marcy joined in the crowd, viewing the cornfield like a museum from behind police barriers. Restaurants were overrun, parks were trashed, and business boomed for everyone involved. This was the first taste of big-city life for Hardy, and things were certainly never
be the same. Crowds were over exaggerated, however, by the fact that every single person left their house that day, staying out of it until late evening.
Except for Michael, that was. He spent the entire day in a state of shock, tears, and pain. At times he doubted whether he would leave the chair again, perhaps becoming a sort of extension from it. Half-expecting people to come by and check in on the house, he was mildly surprised and somewhat angry when nobody did. He would have hated the interruption from some family friend he barely knew, but it would have been nice to know people cared. Surely, the Gray family was getting all sorts of visitors. He, however, only had an encounter with that ugly policeman.
That evening, his stomach rumbling and being ignored, Michael slowly got to his feet. Upstairs, he might find more lasting sleep. Lights flashed in front of his eyes, and for a second it felt like his brain might implode, but the sensation passed and he took one step towards the stairs, hair disheveled and clothes wrinkled.
The door leading out to their small driveway opened in a flash, and he turned to find Crystal sprinting towards him, Christian not far behind. She leapt onto him and tightly hugged him, shaking with sobs herself. Burying her face in his chest, all of weight shifted onto him, but he stood firmly. Slowly, he brought his own arms up and hugged her in return, feeling her silky hair and smooth shirt.
Christian began to say something, but stopped dead in his tracks. Clearly at a loss for words, he fidgeted with the strap of his backpack, which rested loosely on his shoulders. Beside him on the floor, Crystal had thrown hers off after seeing Michael in the state he was in.
“Um, our mom said we could stay for a night or two…” Christian said. “Just to make sure that you’re... you know, like…”
Crystal pulled back, and he reluctantly let go. Looking into her eyes, sparkling with tears, he thought for a second they would kiss, right then and there. He leant in a fraction of an inch closer, preparing himself, wondering how these emotions could be in him amidst all the chaos. Her skin was so smooth, and her lips trembled, no doubt holding back more tears. Messily, her hair was strewn down those perfect, slim shoulders, but it was all right with him. She looked beautiful, angelic; he leant in a fraction more.
In her own head, Crystal admired him, wishing he would come just a bit closer. Were they going to kiss? He could not have feelings for her; he was too independent, too handsome. Those lyrics played again in her head:
There’s only you in my life; the only thing that’s right … You’re every breath that I take. You’re every step I make … I want to share all my love with-
No, she commanded herself, stepping away from him. Not now. He’s... he’s not thinking straight. He’ll regret it later. I can’t... no.
Michael nearly sank down again in the chair when she stepped away, covering her face with a hand and walking back towards Christian, who looked on in confusion. Only a few seconds had passed to Christian, but to Michael it was the highs and lows of life, all wrapped up in that moment when she started turning away. Now the love was replaced by remorse and agony.
Hiding his emotions to the best of his abilities, Michael said, “So... um, hi.”
Crystal did not respond, just staring at the ground between her shoes, but Christian responded, “So how are you?”
He was always untactful, not knowing how to ask the simplest question. His tone always made it seem unthoughtful, like he was speaking to a robot, or maybe was one.
“I’m... here,” he answered awkwardly. “And... so are you.”
Crystal tried to hide back a smile on her downcast face, while Christian just laughed nervously. All of them were thinking it, feeling it, but nobody wanted to admit it. The thought, or the realization, was depressing and painful. Saying it out loud would drive a knife through their hearts collectively, and yet it was certain to be true: They needed Brandon. He was the soul of their group, always bringing the laughter and always having their back, no matter when it was or where they were.
Christian finally broke the awkward silence. “So... what’s the plan?”
“The plan?” Michael asked.
“Well, you always seem to have a plan... and I thought you would,” Christian said with a shy, faltering voice.
“He’s right,” Crystal added.
“Well, there isn’t anything to plan.”
“Why not?” Christian asked. “So what if she burnt that cornfield? And killed them? Yeah, I said it. And I don’t care that now we’re one person short.”
“We’re not,” Michael growled. “I lost my sister. Brandon lost his, too, and his life.”
“So you’ve lost your motivation?” Christian countered. “This is about more than your sister, man. Think of what’ll happen next, in twenty years. We can save those people. We- no, you can make her pay. For what she’s done.”
Michael stared furiously for a second, but his expression started to soften, and that determined glow began to seep into his eyes. “You’re right,” he said in a low whisper. “You’re actually right.”
“Why the surprise?” Christian smiled.
Ignoring him, Michael continued, “I’m sorry, both of you. No, let me finish. I’ve been selfish.”
Crystal interrupted, “Michael, you lost-”
“Yeah, I did. But there are other people out there. The thing about Lilly was she always thought about others. She was happy because she didn’t worry about herself. I know if she in this same situation, she’d want to help those families, both in the past and the future.”
“We’ve got a chance to change that future,” Christian said.
“I agree.”
Michael smiled at the two of them, and said, “Same here. If we can’t get them back, we might as well get justice for them.”
“We need to know what happened, Michael,” Crystal said tenderly. “Even if it hurts... ”
“And we need you to tell us everything you know,” Christian added. “Everything.”
“I know,” he said, nodding in agreement. “Let’s go up to my room. I’ll tell you then. Don’t want Mom walking in on us talking.”
“Where is she, anyways?” Christian asked while they trooped up the steps. He looked anxious to ask the question, but nonetheless he did before he could stop himself.
“Don’t ask,” Michael said.
When they were all seated in his room, Michael and Crystal on the bed, Christian in the black spinny chair, he looked at them intently. Crystal was seated beside him, and reached silently for his hand, which lay on the bed. At his angle, Christian could not see, so Michael gladly gave in and felt her warm, tight grasp on his frozen hand.
“There’s something I never told you,” he began. “Something me and Brandon found out.”
22. Threats
Back at the cornfield, Detective Smith stared impatiently at the setting sun, glaring into his eyes. Despite the sunglasses, its rays were very annoying, and all day they had caught him off guard with the flashing, sharp pain they caused when looked at too directly. Besides the sun, everything was mellow, since the crowds had long passed through and many police officers left earlier in the day, normally at lunch or dinnertime. He, on the other hand, had nothing more than a sandwich all day, and even that was nasty. Sitting in the car for hours on end, the meat had gone bad and the cheese smelled foul.
“What’s on your mind, Detective?” the chief asked him.
He was standing there, twiddling a short, scrappy mustache which he grew to “look more official.” Fat rolls stretched at his uniform, and bulged unpleasantly from the end of his sleeves. A double-chin hung lower everyday, and now was beaded with sweat and remains from dinner. According to a junior officer, he had stopped no less than three times on his break, always ordering the largest, most obnoxious meal he could find.
“Nothing, sir.”
In all honesty, there were a lot of things on his mind. This was, undoubtedly, the work of the same lady who had kidnapped those two girls. Well, now there was a teenager to add. T
he bikes, Michael’s frantic attitude, and the three crosses all pointed to it: Brandon had been taken. Despite these obvious clues, nobody believed him. When he had spoken his concerns to another officer, that man replied that he always worried about things too much, and if he did not keep his mouth shut the chief would send him off to California with that loser officer. That “loser officer” mentioned was Steven, one of Detective Smith’s best friends and his loyal partner.
“Oh, come now. I’ve learned to notice when a man is lying. Just because we had that slight argument not long ago, you can still tell me your hunches and beliefs.”
“As long as they have nothing to do with that lady, right?” Detective Smith responded with a snappy attitude. That slight argument had been the chief threatening to send him to California, or fire him altogether.
“That lady does not exist,” the chief growled. “Remember?”
“You asked.”
More and more officers filed away, slowly but surely leaving only a dozen in the field. There was no investigative work to be done, now, but still Detective Smith lingered, taking in the presence and hoping, somewhere, Michael and the other two had a plan. These were dark times, for sure, and even if Hardy returned to normal, thinking of these terrible events as only a nightmare, he knew that it was a plague to himself, one he would never be rid of.
The sun was now lower, hardly visible while it painted the sky many shades of orange, red, and yellow. Like an artist perfecting his painting, the color slowly expanded into the blue sky, giving everything a shadow of brilliance. Once, this would have been a beautiful scene. Now, with the charred crosses and vacant field, holding only sore memories and burnt hopes, it seemed like the start of a nightmare. In reality, this was just the middle of a never-ending plague, brought down on Hardy every twenty years.
“What do you make of it all, chief?”
He looked over at Detective Smith with an air of surprise. This detective was a concoction of many things, and most of all intriguing. If he was not so rebellious and had a better temper, he could be a great man.
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