Dead Scared

by Ivan Blake

  “But this isn’t a stunt, is it?”

  “No.”

  He took her hand, held it for a moment, and then headed for the police station. Gillian started back across the school parking lot. Mallory Dahlman stood by her mother’s car several parking spaces away, watching her. Mallory gave Gillian a tiny wave and a smile, then spun about and marched into school.

  * * * *

  Felicity Holcomb stoked the fire in the woodstove, pulled on her husband’s Irish knit sweater, grabbed a coffee, and stepped out onto the porch. There were streaks of bronze across the pale blue sky and a golden glow on the horizon where the sun was about to rise. Truly there were moments when her mountain top really did feel like paradise!

  The previous evening she’d picked up her mail in town, and such news! Her brother had written to say a New York gallery was interested in mounting an exhibition of her work. And in the same post, she’d got the latest issue of New Yankee Arts, featuring an interview with some old broad from the Maine north coast—her! What a glorious day.

  She stepped off the porch and headed across the meadow to her husband’s grave to tell him all the news. She spent half an hour by his side, then collected washing from the line, cleaned up the breakfast dishes, and finally settled by the stove to read the interview.

  Holcomb: When I was young, when my family came to Maine on vacation and we drove up the coast from New York, I had this dreamy idea of life in all the small towns we passed through. I expected they would be friendly, peaceful, happy places where petty frustrations and jealousies would be dealt with amicably. How wrong I was.

  Interviewer: That’s not how it is?

  Holcomb: For one thing, resentments and antagonisms are no less intense in small towns than in large; quite the opposite, in fact. I think intimacy magnifies the power of bad feelings. It’s amazing to me how much oxygen bitter feelings and suspicions consume in a small town, and when emotions explode, the damage they do is multiplied because their container is so confining. In a dying town like Bemishstock, the damage is even greater because the container is becoming ever smaller.

  Interviewer: Then why did you stay?

  Holcomb: After my husband died, I asked myself what I hated about this place and what I loved, and what I loved far exceeded what I disliked that I had to stay. I love the light, the colors, the moments of pure magic up on my mountain, and how they make me feel, and I realized I wanted to capture it all. Perhaps if I’d ever studied painting—if I’d been told how it’s supposed to be done—I would never have had the courage to try. I hadn’t, so I simply started painting. The same can be said of my writing. I never studied journalism. I simply loved the stories people shared with me, small stories of sorrow and success, of heartache and happiness, so I started writing them down. I suppose if I hadn’t started painting and writing, I would have had to raise chickens. That’s probably what my tombstone should say: Painter for want of Chickens.

  Had she really said that about chickens? Oh well, it made for an amusing anecdote. Her biggest fear, when friends at the magazine had asked for the interview, had been that she might say something to get Bemishstock riled up again. On balance, she didn’t think she had. Besides, who in Bemishstock would ever read New Yankee Arts?

  Yes, this was going to be a terrific day indeed!

  * * * *

  Deputy Ricky Pike was on duty at the reception desk when Chris walked in. Pike grinned. “Come to turn yourself in?”

  “I want to file a report.”

  “File a report? What the hell does that mean?”

  “I mean I want to report an incident.”

  “Like a complaint? You want to file a complaint?”

  “Yes...against Dr. Ronald Meath.”

  “Meath? Funny thing, we was at his farm the other day, asking about you.” Pike rifled through papers in a drawer, pulled out a form, and handed it over. “Here, start writing.” Chris took a seat against the opposite wall. Pike called out, “Chief, I think you better come out here.”

  “What is it?” the Chief replied from his office.

  “It’s the Chandler kid. Wants to file a complaint.”

  After a moment, Chief Boucher appeared, muttering to himself. “You shittin’ me?”

  “Can I talk to you?” Chris asked.

  “The station isn’t really open yet,” Boucher muttered, “but...oh what the hell, sure, come on in.” He signalled for Chris to follow and walked back into his small office. He pointed to a chair and sat himself down behind his desk. Boucher took his sweet time folding the newspaper he’d been reading, obviously disgusted with this infringement on his private time and not the least bit interested in what Chris had to say. Nevertheless, he picked up his buttered toast, took a large bite, and said, “All right, kid, let’s have it.”

  “I believe Dr. Meath has been stealing bodies from the funeral home and performing experiments on them—”

  “Oh goddamn, not this again!” Toast and spittle showered Chris.

  “And last night Meath came into my home and threatened me. He said unless I helped him, he’d set fire to the Willards’ house.”

  “So you’re saying Dr. Meath offered you a job,” the Chief said with a smirk. “Lucky you.”

  “This is no joke.”

  “No, it’s not,” the Chief rumbled. “It’s a goddamn crime, you coming into town, creating misery with all your vicious stunts.”

  “Me?”

  “Your crack in the paper blaming the whole town for that girl’s suicide. Then your letter about Father David—”

  “I had nothing to do with any letter!”

  “Well your name was on it. Then your wallet up at Mrs. Holcomb’s place—”

  “Mrs. Holcomb is a friend!”

  “Makes what you were doing even sicker. And what you did to poor Floyd Balzer, well that was murder in my books.”

  “His dad—”

  “And then to go blaming his father, a respected businessman, and an employer who ain’t threatening to can half the town like your pa.”

  “It always comes down to that.”

  “And to ruin the life of a sweet, gentle man like Malcolm Duncan...” The emotion in the Chief’s voice surprised Chris. “You know, he still has friends in this town, close friends who’ll never forgive what you did to him.”

  “I did nothing to Mr. Duncan, I liked him!”

  “You were the only one who coulda taken the boy’s goddamn note from Malcolm’s desk.”

  “No, somebody else—”

  “You went to his fucking house! No one goes to a teacher’s house!”

  Boucher was livid and had been bellowing at the top of his lungs. He drew a long breath to calm himself. “Now you come in here saying stuff about a harmless old man who wouldn’t hurt a fly. Why, I have to ask myself? Maybe to shift attention away from what you’re really up to? Well it ain’t gonna work, Chandler, I’m watching you.”

  “Why does it have to be me?”

  “Did you just hear me? Your name on a letter, your wallet at old lady Holcomb’s place, threats everybody heard you make, and goin’ to a teacher’s house!”

  “That all proves nothing—”

  “It’s a pattern! And as my daddy used to say, if it walks like a duck, and it quacks like a duck...” Boucher’s voice rose, “then it’s probably a fuckin’ duck!”

  “You okay in there, Chief?”

  “Yes, Ricky, we’re just having a nice chat, Mr. Chandler and me, getting a few things straight.” He turned back to Chris. “We about done here, son?”

  “I didn’t do any of those things. I swear! I’m being set up!”

  “Oh, Christ, so now you’re the victim. Let me tell you how I see things. This was a quiet town. Oh, we had a few problems, a few drunken kids, a few fights. Then the Chandler family arrives, and we got ourselves a goddamn crime spree! Hate mail, vandalism, and a suspicious death. And now you come in here and accuse a nice old gentleman who’s lived in our town for twenty years, who scrapes
by, working two-three jobs and making cheese. And he’s supposed to be a goddamn grave robber? Especially when no one else in the whole goddamn town thinks any graves have ever been touched...and I mean ever? No, boy, I don’t see no victim. I see a goddamn maniac, hell bent on making everyone else suffer!”

  “It’s all circumstantial!”

  “Now you think you’re a goddamn lawyer? Well, you ever notice there’s folks everyone trusts, and then there’s folks you meet and you just know you can’t believe a word they say? Well, you’re one of those people, boy. I don’t believe a goddamn word comes out of your fucking mouth!”

  “And that’s my fault?”

  “Sure as hell ain’t no one else’s. Since you arrived in this town, you been walking around, dressed in black, won’t talk to no one, goddamn sneer always on your face, making all your teachers hate you with your nasty attitude and your arrogance in class, always ready to fight like you’re on a hair trigger. Oh, I talk to people. I know what they think of you. And you wonder why folks don’t trust you? How stupid can you be?”

  Chris was horrified; was that how people saw him?

  “Look, kid,” Boucher said, leaning across the desk, “I was probably like you when I was young, thought I was tough, thought I was better than everybody else. Then the army sorted me out—”

  “Why the hell does everybody keep saying they’re just like me?” Chris said. “You’re not! You’re nothing like me! None of you!”

  “No, you’re right,” the Chief snapped. “No one in this town is the piece of shit you are.” His voice grew louder. “You hang around here like goddamn stink round an outhouse. Christ, I would love to wipe the sneer off your face!”

  Chris had no idea he was sneering, then realized...he was!

  “Now, get the hell out of my office, and don’t come back until I tell you to—and believe me, I will. And then we’ll talk...or rather, you’ll talk. Because when the time is right, I’m going to make you sing like a goddamn canary.”

  * * * *

  For the rest of the day, Chris heard none of the taunts from his schoolmates and only came out of his fog of confusion when Gillian stopped him in the corridor mid-afternoon to tell him the rumors had indeed begun.

  “People aren’t saying anything about us,” she said quietly. “They are saying,” she paused, noticeably embarrassed, “that you and Mr. Duncan were lovers, and the note to Mr. Duncan wasn’t from Floyd. It was from you.”

  “That’s crazy! Everyone knows that’s not true. People saw Floyd’s note.”

  “No they didn’t. Only Principal Dell, Madelyn’s mom, and Chief Boucher ever actually saw it, and they aren’t telling people who wrote it, probably to protect Floyd’s family. Lots of people know what the unsigned letter said, the one that accused Mr. Duncan, but no one saw the note from Floyd...so some people are saying you wrote both. You wrote the note to Duncan because you were lovers...and then the letter to Dell to squeal on Mr. Duncan...when he...broke up with you.”

  “This is so nuts!”

  “So, I guess we don’t have to worry about people thinking I’m your girlfriend.”

  “Even if you really are?” He reached out to take Gillian’s hand. “Look, let’s cut class for the rest of the day.”

  “Okay,” Gillian said without a moment’s hesitation. “Where will we go?”

  “We’ll go and see Felicity Holcomb.”

  “What a great idea,” she said. “I haven’t seen Felix in months.”

  Mallory Dahlman, who’d been hiding around the corner, listening, watched them go, her face red with rage.

  * * * *

  “I just knew it would be a great day,” Felicity Holcomb said. With cups of cocoa, before a lovely fire, Gillian and Felix chatted happily as Chris looked on, smiling. They talked about family, Felix’s article, plans for her upcoming exhibition, and the latest letter from her brother in which he recounted their childhood shenanigans on Long Island. Chris and Gillian joined Felix in a wonderful dinner of venison stew, and then, as stars came out and the moon rose over the bay, it was time to go. On the porch, Felix said how pleased she was to see them together. “If you ever want a place to ‘get romantic,’ just come on up.”

  “Please, Mrs. Holcomb!” Gillian replied with feigned indignity.

  “Although I’m starting to think you could do a lot better than this guy,” Felicity said. “He finally gets up the nerve to ask you out and where does he bring you? Up a mountain for a free meal and an afternoon with an old woman four times your age.” Then she smiled and hugged them both. “Seriously though, the one thing life has taught me—you have to grab all the love that comes your way, because you never know when it might be taken from you.”

  They said their good-byes, and Chris and Gillian began their hike by moonlight back down through the dark wood and the bitter night, feeling wonderfully warm together. Part way down the hill, Gillian said quietly, “I had such an amazing afternoon.”

  Chris stopped, turned, and took Gillian in his arms. Off to one side of the trail, they heard the hoot of a snowy owl through the trees, then the strong beat of its wings as it flew from its perch and fell upon its prey. Chris could just make out Gillian’s face in the moonlight, but he could see the glow in her eyes. And then they kissed.

  A branch snapped somewhere in the dark.

  “You hear that?” Gillian asked

  “Probably a deer?” Or not...

  “We better get home,” she said. They held hands for the rest of their walk down the trail.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Wednesday, November 27

  The sound of a siren and the smell of smoke roused Chris from his sleep. The clock by the bed said midnight. His father shouted from below, “Chris, get up!”

  The smoke was faint. Even so, Chris leapt from bed, grabbed clothes, drew back the hatch cover and dropped down onto the landing. “Is that smoke?”

  “Yes, there’s a fire. They might need our help.”

  “Where?”

  “Up on the mountain. The fire truck from town just went up the track. Come on!”

  “Mrs. Holcomb’s place?” Chris cried as he ran after his father.

  Chris could see flames high on the hill against the night sky as they ran up the lane and across the main road to Mrs. Holcomb’s trail. A police barricade blocked the trail, and Chief Boucher, shouting into a walkie-talkie, held up a hand to stop them from crossing it. After a moment, he ended his bellowed communication with the fire chief up at the cottage and turned to Chris’s dad. “Not needed,” he said, “the fire department has everything under control. Don’t need a pair of gawkers.”

  “She’s my friend. I want to help!”

  “Leave it to the pros, boy.”

  “Pros? They’re volunteers, they need all the help they can get!”

  Chris’s dad tried to remain calm. “Look, Chief, the plant pays for one of the town’s trucks. I should be able to see how the equipment I sign for is being put to use...or I may have to reconsider our investment.”

  The Chief stared, his anger palpable. “All right, all right, you can go up.”

  “Get the car, son.”

  “Whoa there!” the Chief called after them. “Walk. Don’t want any other vehicles messing up the trail. Hard enough getting the fire truck up there.”

  “No, I walked the trail earlier this evening. It was frozen solid,” Chris said.

  “You what?” Boucher asked.

  “I was...” Oh crap. “I was visiting Mrs. Holcomb.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we’re—”

  “After I specifically ordered you not to have any contact with her?” Boucher shouted.

  “But we’re friends.”

  “And you’re also a suspect in her attack...and now, maybe in her murder!”

  “What? She’s not dead...”

  “Don’t know. The fire chief hasn’t been able to get inside the building yet. And he smelled gasoline.”

  “No, God no!�
�

  “So move away from the barrier, and don’t even think about trying to get up the hill by another route, either of you.”

  As Chris and his dad turned for home, the Chief yelled, “And I’ll expect to see you both in my office first thing in the morning.”

  * * * *

  The visit to the police department before school was as perfunctory as their previous visit, except this time Gillian came along. The Chief accused Chris of going up the hill to terrorize the old lady, and Gillian described the lovely afternoon the three of them had spent together. The Chief said Chris had disobeyed a court order to stay away from the old lady, and Chris’s dad pointed out that a bellowed demand from a blowhard does not constitute a court order. And the meeting was over.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Thursday, November 28 to Monday, December 2

  Thanksgiving passed without celebration at Willard Farm. The days following the fire were filled with heartache. Mrs. Holcomb’s remains had been found in the ashes of the cottage. Word was she’d died trying to find refuge beneath her bed. Why she hadn’t fled the cottage as the fire raged was a mystery. Much of her body had been badly burned. Her face, however, which she’d covered with wet towels as she’d hid under the bed, was remarkably undamaged. The police, in an especially vicious gesture, demanded Chris make the official identification, thinking perhaps the ghastly sight might shock him into a confession. Instead, he drew some consolation from the peaceful look on Felix’s beautiful face, and to the Chief’s horror, even bent to kiss her cheek before the county medical examiner draped the sheet back over the corpse. For an instant, and in spite of the strong odor of fire, Chris detected the faint smell of wildflowers on her skin.

  On Monday, all sorts of stories were going around school: old lady Holcomb had been prevented from escaping by a blocked door; she’d been practicing some sort of ritual when she tipped over a candle and set her witch’s robes on fire; Chris Chandler was the principal suspect since he’d admitted to spying on the old lady; and since she was a known prostitute, her murderer had probably been a dissatisfied customer.