He thought about the novel he was supposed to finish, the one his publisher was waiting on. His fourth novel, which would end his contract and possibly open another. He had already taken the advance and now worried that he would have to pay it back. The working title was Walk the Sky. It dealt with a tribe of modern Native Americans living out in Nevada, the inspiration coming to him years before when he first read Leslie Silko’s Ceremony in one of his graduate classes.
“It’s useless,” he whispered. He placed his finger on the cover of The Paris Review, pressed his chipped nail down as hard as he could.
The front door opened. Kevin hadn’t realized it until now, because he had never been in this place when it was so quiet and near the back like he was, but the action caused some kind of bell to buzz in the kitchen. One of the waiters came out. In broken English he apologized that they were closing in five minutes.
“That’s all right,” said a voice, a woman’s. “I’m with him.”
At once Kevin stopped punishing his finger and the cover of the magazine. He kept staring at it though, while he wondered who else was here. Obviously no one, but surely the speaker didn’t mean him.
Maybe it’s Cathy, he thought, but he knew it wasn’t, because a) the voice belonged to an elderly woman, not someone in her early thirties, and b) it was highly unlikely that his wife, missing now for eight months, would come walking into Wang’s casually, as if meeting him here for a late dinner had all been part of her plan.
He was so wrapped up in his thoughts he wasn’t aware that the woman had threaded through the tables toward the back, wasn’t even aware of her standing in front of him, until she cleared her throat and said, “Kevin Parker?”
A fan. Of course it was a fan. Just someone who’d picked up one of his novels in the bookstore or library, someone who’d been impressed by what he wrote and wanted an autograph, wanted maybe to say some kind words. Ever since his last book had been added to Oprah’s Book Club, it seemed his readership had become mostly all women. Not that he minded really, except that recently it seemed those who now saw him felt true pity for him. They would ask him how he was doing, always whispering his wife’s name as if it were cursed. But nowadays it seemed the news had become old, almost taboo, as if speaking it would admit they weren’t up on current events, like that double-homicide that shocked the entire county just four nights back.
She said his name again, and this time he blinked, managed to pull his eyes away from his table and glance up. An old woman in her sixties, maybe even her seventies, with a wrinkled but kind face, and even kinder eyes. She smiled at him, her teeth yellowed, and said, “Kevin, don’t you remember me? It’s Anna Wilbanks, your first grade teacher.”
He stared for a moment, unsure of what to think, but then he remembered back thirty years ago, the woman who’d read to them during story time and let them use the paint brushes during art and who would sometimes give them naptime, even though she wasn’t supposed to.
“Mrs. Wilbanks,” he said, a shadow of a smile crossing his face. “I can’t believe it. How are you?”
“It’s Anna now, Kevin. We’re both adults.”
He smiled and nodded, but said nothing else. This woman was the last person in the world he’d expected to see. Just what was he supposed to say?
Before he could ask anything though, the woman said, “I know you’re probably wondering why I stopped in here. And while I know this will sound silly, I was hoping you could do me a favor. I’m an old woman whose eyesight isn’t what it used to be, and I haven’t been behind the wheel of a car in ages. But there’s someplace I need to go, someplace I was hoping you could take me. And don’t think I just happened to see you in here and thought I’d ask because you were the only one around. Kevin, you know how you were one of my favorite students. I always knew if there was anyone I could count on, it would be you.”
He stared up at her, still stunned to see her after all these years. Above them, the Muzak—now playing “Strangers in the Night”—cut off completely.
“What is it?” he asked, because he knew it was true, he was the only person she could count on, even after all this time. He didn’t want to disappoint her, not at all.
As it turned out, she was a fan.
Just not a fan of his.
Continue reading for an excerpt from Robert Swartwood’s novella The Man on the Bench
In the summer of 1922, nine-year-old Ethan’s only worries are chores, having fun, and keeping out of trouble.
But a shadow soon falls over the tiny backwater town of Benton, Pennsylvania that threatens to change everything.
First the cats disappear.
Then the little girls.
After that, the real horror begins.
“I absolutely loved The Man on the Bench. It was wondrous, intriguing, sweet, scary, surprising ... everything a good story should be.”
— David B. Silva
1
The summer of my first kiss was also the summer of the man on the bench.
It was 1922. Three years since the Treaty of Versailles was signed ending the war with Germany. Two years since a little unknown man named Adolf Hitler helped found the Nazi party in Munich. Henry Ford’s Model T was owned by over half the driving population of America, and in Paris James Joyce’s Ulysses was first published.
But all of this and everything else meant nothing to me.
I was nine years old, living in the backwater town of Benton, Pennsylvania. The only worries I had besides my chores were having fun and keeping out of trouble at the same time.
Except that all changed within the course of a few weeks.
A shadow fell across our tiny town.
First the cats disappeared.
Then the little girls.
But before that, there were Bobby, Joseph, Curtis, and Melvin. And their need to inflict pain on anyone younger than them.
2
Benton wasn’t one of your normal small towns.
Our general store wasn’t one of those places kids went into with wide eyes, their mouths drooling over all the candy in the jars. It was just some rundown house owned by Mr. Parker, who ordered supplies every week and had them shipped in from Harrisburg.
Our school had one room and was used for church on Sundays. Usually the only kids who attended were from ages six to twelve. The other kids took the three-mile hike into Providence, which was a prosperous mining town to the north. Not quite a suburb yet but getting mighty close.
There was no mayor, no township, and no office to elect a constable, so the one from Providence occasionally made his way into Benton to make sure everyone was keeping civil.
And for the most part everyone was.
Everyone except the children, though there were hardly many of them all told. Just enough to squeeze into that one-room school house, no more.
The only boys my age were William Dukes and Fred Wilson. We were best friends and closer than glue.
Except when Bobby and the rest of them were after us.
Then it was every man for himself.
3
It was a hot Thursday afternoon and we were down by the creek on the other side of Miller Road. It was a narrow thing, not much good for fishing and such, but at least the water was cool and came up to our knees when we stepped in. There were usually frogs in there along with crawfish and we’d try our best to find them, to try to get ourselves a new pet to play with.
We were doing just that when Bobby and the others showed up. They were all older than us, Bobby the oldest at fourteen. It seemed they never really had much to do except chase after us.
In Benton, there really wasn’t much else to do.
“Well, well,” Bobby said, grinning his crooked ugly grin. “What do we have here?”
It was enough for us. We darted out of the water towards the road, leaving our shoes and shirts behind. They weren’t worth getting anyway, and besides, it was a safe bet we’d find them eventually. Even if they would be hanging from a tree
.
Though we weren’t a gang or anything, William was our leader. He was the strongest, the smartest, and we always listened to whatever it was he had to say. We’d follow him over a cliff if he led us. He was that kind of guy.
Now he was leading us up the road through the high grass. Behind us we heard Bobby and the rest as they splashed through the creek and shouted after us.
Across the road were the woods, which weren’t really woods at all but only a couple of acres of trees, with an opening in the middle with a small pond and field. Through the woods was Harris Road that led to most of the houses in Benton, ours included.
The obvious choice was to head through the woods and try to lose them there. Bobby and the others probably knew this, as did William, so maybe that was why William shouted, “Down the road!” and swerved that way.
Fred was right behind him and followed without hesitation.
I hesitated though, uncertain. I didn’t understand. Going through the woods would be the better choice.
Behind me, the shouting was getting closer.
I second-guessed myself and kept going straight.
I glanced over my shoulder just once as I broke into the shade and dashed through the trees. Bobby shouted something to Joseph, Curtis, and Melvin, and they took off down the road after William and Fred. Bobby kept going straight for me.
I never really understood why Bobby hated me so much. As he was the leader of the pack he roamed with, it would only make sense he’d go after the leader of our pack. Instead he always came after me.
Always made sure he had more punches at me than anyone else. But the beatings were never too bad. Not bad enough that my mother would notice. At least Bobby and the rest of them were smart on that end, because they knew none of us would say anything. Because we were nine and telling on them would mean we were babies and we were nine and we were not babies.
I guess, though, I did know the reason deep down.
Angela, Bobby’s sister, was almost a year younger than me. Eight years old wasn’t much, but she was pretty, that was for sure. And though I wasn’t in love with her, I did like her to some extent. But I guess she liked me even more and Bobby knew this and hated the idea of his sister liking a little brat like me.
I ran full out through the trees, dodging limbs and leaves. I’d been roaming through here as long as I’d been alive and knew the way pretty good. Then again, Bobby had been roaming them even longer and he knew them better.
I was chubbier than most kids my age, but not fat, and somehow I was able to run pretty fast for my size. But sometimes it wasn’t fast enough. I hoped it would be this time.
Through the trees out into the clearing towards the pond and open field. There was a wooden bench there by the pond, something that looked as if it’d been there since the beginning of time, and I wished some adults were sitting there now, because only adults made Bobby stop, made him slow down and smile and try to act like a decent young man his age.
But there was no one there. I was alone, just me and the huffing and puffing monster behind me, who sounded as if he was catching up.
I sprinted through the field, towards more trees, my bare feet smashing down the grass. I briefly wondered where William and Fred were, how far they’d gone and whether or not Joseph, Curtis, and Melvin had given them any punches yet.
“Come on,” Bobby shouted, eagerness in his voice, “I just want to talk!”
Heading into the trees that would take me out onto Harris Road and to the safety of houses and adults, I glanced over my shoulder only once, hoping and wishing and praying that Bobby would trip, that he would fall on his face.
Only it was me who tripped.
Right over my own stupid feet and then I was down, skidding across the grass and burning my chest.
Bobby was on me a second later, his knee digging into my back and his hand pressing my face into the ground.
“Aw, poor baby,” he said, laughing, and pressed my face even harder until I could hardly even breath.
I did whatever I could to get him off, kicking and bucking and waving my arms, but it was no use. My eyes were squeezed so tight I couldn’t see anything but white dots in the dark and I started to cry—I started to cry just like he wanted me to and I hated myself for it.
Then, suddenly, his hand and knee were gone.
For some reason I didn’t realize this at first, and just lay there, my face pressed into the grass, still kicking and bucking and crying.
“Ethan, get up.”
It wasn’t Bobby’s voice.
I raised my head, tears in my eyes, and saw my Uncle Grant standing a couple yards away, putting most of his weight on his good leg. He was dressed in his work clothes and had his arms crossed, scowling at Bobby.
Sniffling, I stood up and wiped my face. Glanced behind me and saw Bobby standing there, his hands behind his back, like he’d just gotten there and didn’t know what was going on.
“Are you all right, Ethan?”
I looked at my uncle and nodded once.
“Well, Robert, what do you have to say for yourself?”
Bobby had nothing to say for himself. He stood with his hands behind his back and stared ahead, a slight knowing grin on his face.
“Well?”
“Well what, sir?”
I slowly walked towards my uncle, who continued standing there with his arms crossed.
“I think an apology is in order.” My uncle’s hand fell on my shoulder, and he gently turned me around to face Bobby. “Come on now, Robert, tell Ethan you’re sorry.”
Bobby’s eyes left my uncle’s and stared straight at me. It wasn’t so much a stare as it was a glare. He opened his mouth and I saw his teeth gritted together.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice complete ice.
I wasn’t sure which I hated more, being beaten up by Bobby or my uncle saving me. Because now the anger in Bobby was just going to boil, and the next time we met up the beating would be even worse.
“Okay now. Why don’t you run along, Robert, before I feel the need to call on your parents.”
Bobby’s eyes shifted back to my uncle and for a moment he did nothing more than stare. Then he nodded and turned away, started back towards the pond and the trees.
I watched him leave and then felt my uncle’s hand pulling me away. I looked up and saw him nodding at the trees towards Harris Road.
We walked in silence for a while. William and Fred crossed my mind and I wondered just how far they’d gotten. Had they outrun Joseph, Curtis, and Melvin? Or had they gotten caught, were now sustaining some kind of beating, a beating that would only increase when Bobby got there and dished out whatever he felt like giving them?
“It was the strangest thing,” my uncle said. “I was walking along the road and thought I heard some shouting and for some reason knew you were in trouble. So I ran through the trees and yes, there you were. Are you sure you’re all right?”
I nodded once again without a word.
“What about William and Fred? Where are they?”
I shrugged. I didn’t feel much like talking.
We’d entered the trees and were now making it out onto the side of the road.
“What about your clothes? You know you can’t go back home without your mom asking you where the rest of your clothes went to.”
He had a point, but I wasn’t about to head back to the creek anytime soon.
“How ’bout I cover for you? If she’s there, I’ll get her distracted and you can go in and get some other clothes to wear in the meantime. What do you say?”
I looked up at him and nodded, still wondering what had happened to William and Fred. Uncle Grant was grinning, which made me grin too. It was always something good to see, because I knew that when my uncle grinned everything was going to be okay.
And for a moment, I actually believed it was.
ALSO BY ROBERT SWARTWOOD
NOVELS
No Shelter
Holly Lin is livin
g two lives. To her friends and family, she’s a pleasant, hardworking nanny. To her boss and colleagues, she’s one of the best non-sanctioned government assassins in the world.
But when a recent mission goes wrong causing one of her team members to die, she realizes she might no longer be cut out for the work—except the mission, as it turns out, is only half over, and to complete it will take her halfway across the world and bring her face to face with a ghost from her past.
Things are about to get personal. And as Holly Lin’s enemies are about to find out, she is not a nanny they want to piss off.
No Shelter is 65,000 words long and recommended for fans of Lee Child, Barry Eisler, and Duane Swierczynski.
“Excellent—memorable and something I’ll read more than once.”
— HTMLGIANT
“No Shelter is part mystery, part thriller suspense, and all kinds kick ass!”
— The Man Eating Bookworm
—————
Man of Wax
Ben Anderson goes to bed Sunday night, lying next to his wife in the comfort and safety of their Pennsylvania family home, to wake up the next day in a rundown motel in California — alone.
The Calling Page 32