Grandma Maggie walked up next to me, watching him motor across the lake.
“Thanks for telling me about your book? Uh huh.”
“Hush, Grandma.”
She giggled like a little girl and headed back to the house.
I turned to follow her and my good mood vanished when I saw a flicker of color in the woods along the far shoreline.
I stopped and stared and saw it again, just a flash of yellow shirt, and then it was gone.
Someone had been watching us.
I was watching a Big Bang Theory rerun in the den when the phone starting ringing.
“Got it,” Grandma called from the kitchen.
I glanced at the clock: early for Mom.
Grandma Maggie came in holding the phone against her chest, a strange look on her face. “It’s your father,” she whispered.
I took the phone and stared at it for a moment before lifting it to my ear.
“Hello.”
“Hi, baby, it’s Dad.”
I didn’t say anything.
“I’m so sorry, Becca. Let me explain.”
“Let you explain why you haven’t called me or returned my calls for three weeks?”
“I understand you’re angry. I really do. But if you hear me out, you’ll—”
“I’m not angry, Dad. I’m confused. I was worried.”
“I’m at a place getting help, Becca.”
“What kind of place?”
“A good place. The kind that helps people with their addictions.”
“You’re in rehab?”
He laughed. “Well, yes, honey, I’m in rehab.”
“How is it?”
“It’s going really, really well, baby. I wish I had done this sooner.”
“How come you didn’t tell me?”
“Today’s the first day I was allowed to call anyone. I only have another minute and then I get to call your mother.”
“You’re gonna call Mom?”
“I am. Hopefully, she’ll listen and maybe even come to visit me.”
A flood of emotions washed over me. I didn’t know what to think or say.
“Honey, I have to go now, but I’ll call again next week. I promise.”
“Okay.”
“I love you, Becca. It’s gonna be okay.”
“I love you, too, Dad.”
We said goodbye and hung up.
And then I started crying.
Police officer: When did you realize something was wrong?
Witness: When I saw the blood.
Police officer: Where was the blood?
Witness: Everywhere.
I sat on the sofa and rested my head on Grandma Maggie’s shoulder until the tears stopped coming. She stroked my hair with her fingers, comforting me like a little girl.
“Just when I had convinced myself everything would be okay one way, it changes and now the other way is a possibility again.”
She nodded. “I understand how confusing it all must feel.”
“Confusing and scary and—”
Before I could finish, the doorbell rang.
“Now who could that be,” Grandma said, getting up to answer it.
I heard voices in the foyer, and then she walked back in the den with Benjamin trailing behind her.
“You have company, Becca.”
I sat up straight. “Hey, what are you—”
“You ever play flashlight tag before?”
“What in the world are you talking about?”
He smiled and came closer. “Flashlight tag? Hide and seek?”
“Umm, yeah, when I was like ten.”
He pretended to be insulted. “Well, unlike you fancy city folks, us dumb country bumpkins have to make our own fun around here.” He reached out a hand. “C’mon, let’s go.”
I took his hand and let him help me up. “Go where?”
“I told you. To go play games in the dark. Your grandma said it’s okay.”
I looked at Grandma Maggie. “You sure?”
She smiled and nodded. “Might be good for you, honey.”
Twenty minutes later, I was standing in the dark woods just past the point with Benjamin and Mark and Kelsey and a half dozen other kids I had met earlier on the island. Several of them were passing around a bottle of wine and a joint. I turned both down when they were offered and did my best to stay clear of the smoke.
“Jimmy, you’re it first,” Benjamin said, gesturing to a tall kid dressed all in black.
Then he looked at me. “We get to the count of a hundred to hide and then he comes looking for us. He can use the flashlight to find us, but he has to tag us with his hand to win.”
He pointed at a cluster of large rocks. “Get back to base without him touching you, and you’re safe.”
“We don’t get flashlights?” I asked, feeling a little foolish.
“Only the hunter gets the flashlight.”
“Why? You scared of the dark?” Kelsey asked, smirking.
“Just making sure I know the rules,” I snapped. I was actually proud of myself for standing up to her.
Jimmy turned on the flashlight and shined it on his face. “I’m coming to get youuu, Barbaraaa!”
Everyone laughed and starting spreading out in anticipation of the game starting.
Benjamin came up close to me, lowered his voice. “You gonna be okay?”
“I’ll be fine. It’s just a game.”
“If you need me, call out and I’ll come find you.”
Jimmy started counting in a booming voice. “One, two, three…”
“Thanks, I’ll be fine.”
He looked at me, making sure.
“Go!” I said and pushed him playfully away. He flashed me a grin and took off into the woods.
“…nine, ten, eleven…”
I looked around. Only Kelsey and I remained in the clearing. She had been watching us the whole time. She glared at me, and then without a word, spun on her heels and disappeared into the shadows.
“…fifteen, sixteen, seventeen…”
I took off running.
The truth was I was scared.
I had been hiking in these woods dozens of times but never at night. Never alone in the dark.
There was a sliver of moon high in the August sky but not enough to do anything except cast more shadows. I felt like I was lost in a haunted house.
I stopped running after a few minutes and caught my breath. I looked around for a place to hide, deciding it would probably be better if I stayed close to base.
I worked my way toward the shoreline, looking for a stand of thick enough bushes to hide under. The night was sticky and hot and I could feel mosquitos buzzing my arms and neck. Suddenly, the idea of crawling under a bush or a fallen log didn’t seem so appealing.
Instead, I looked for a tree to climb and found the perfect specimen only a few yards away from the lake. It was an ancient weeping willow, gnarled and bent over, like a tired old man waiting at a bus stop.
I scuttled up a thick branch and found a natural nesting ledge where two other limbs branched off. It was perfect.
I sat there in silence and waited for something to happen.
I didn’t have to wait long.
Maybe five minutes passed before I heard the crash of heavy footsteps in the woods below. Leaves crunching. Branches breaking. Whoever it was wasn’t being very cautious or quiet.
And then I saw the stab of a flashlight beam on the ground below and understood why. It was Jimmy. No need for him to be as stealth as the rest of us.
I held my breath, a chill of nervous delight spreading through me, and remained perfectly still.
He paused for a second, fanned the light out over the water, and then continued on his way.
I let out my breath and relaxed.
If Jimmy was heading down the shoreline, away from base, shouldn’t I make a break for it? Or was it a trick and he was down there hiding? Waiting for someone to make a move?
I though
t about it some more and had just made up my mind to climb down and sprint for base…
…when I heard more footsteps, and then whispering:
“You’re being silly, babe.”
“Don’t you dare tell me that. I heard what you said to her.”
I chanced a peek—it was Benjamin and Kelsey.
“If you needdd me, call out and I’ll come find youuu,” she mocked.
“I was just being nice, babe.”
“You were flirting.”
“She’s a kid, Kels. I told you what my ma said about her folks, and her having a nervous breakdown.”
“I don’t care if she’s some kind of mental case.”
“She’s not a mental case. She’s just a dumb kid. My ma’s making me be nice to her.”
“I don’t care what your mom says. I don’t like it.”
“Babe—”
“Let someone else be nice to her. You’ve done your charity work for the summer.”
I didn’t remember anything else after that.
Like before, my brain shut off then…and everything went black.
And then it went red.
Police officer: It’s okay to tell the truth now, Rebecca. We found the knife.
Witness: (starting to cry) I am telling the truth.
Police officer: We found Benjamin, too.
Witness: Benjamin?
Police officer: His body. Floating in the lake, Rebecca. Covered with the same knife wounds we found all over Kelsey.
Witness: (crying; unintelligible)
Police officer: We know, Rebecca. We know what you did.
Witness: (crying) No. I was hiding in my treehouse.
Police officer: We know you killed Benjamin and put him in the lake, and then you ambushed Kelsey in the woods.
Witness: (crying) No. The lake…is life.
Police officer: Just help us understand why.
Witness: I was in my treehouse.
Police officer: Your grandmother is downstairs and your mother is on the way.
Witness: The lake is life. The lake is life. The lake is…
Police officer: (to Officer 2) I think we’re done for now. She’s already been photographed, but we need to get her clothes logged in evidence.
Police officer 2: Yes, sir.
Police officer: Be careful. She’s covered in their blood.
Witness: The lake is life…
THE GOOD OLD DAYS
The letter arrived early this morning.
A plain white envelope.
No return address.
I found it mixed in with a holiday catalog from Sears, a couple of sale flyers from the local shopping mall, and a bill from the telephone company.
I am nothing if not an old fool; each month I send off my twenty-three dollars and fifty cents for my telephone service, yet there is no one for me to call. And certainly no one to call me. I have an unlisted number, so I don’t even hear from complete strangers trying to sell me something.
I am alone, and that is how it should be.
Still, sometimes I can’t help myself; I find myself dialing one of the department stores and inquiring as to whether or not certain merchandise is in stock—even though I have no interest whatsoever in the product. Or I find myself calling and ordering a pizza pie from the corner shop, even though I am not the least bit hungry. Hell, I don’t even like American pizza. And still other times, I call long-distance to the airport to request specific flight information—checking on arrival times for out-of-town guests who exist only in my mind.
All this—all this foolishness—just to have some measure of human contact in my life.
I know how awful this all sounds, how pathetic…but some days I just can’t stop myself. And when the night comes and I’m lying there in bed with nothing else to think about, I feel so ashamed and embarrassed and so very, very old. It’s a horrible, lonely feeling, and on nights like this, I rarely fall asleep before dawn.
One of these days, I’ll have to get rid of the damn telephone. Throw it out by the curb with the weekend trash. Rid myself of all temptation.
The little boy across the street saw me standing there by the mailbox, and he smiled and waved at me. His name is Brian. He is six years old and seems a happy child.
I returned the wave—but not the smile—and carried my mail inside the house. I flavored my morning coffee with a shot of brandy and sipped it while standing at the kitchen counter, staring out the window. When the cup was empty and my courage was there, I sat down at the table and opened the letter…
There are many ways to kill a man.
We were trained in dozens of methods.
Some quick and clean.
Some not so quick.
And some not so clean.
I’ve used them all…
My first kill: a young man, barely out of his teens. A scientist. A genius, I was told. He was German and very ugly. A pale, pasty face covered with pimples and ratty little sprouts of black hair. Ugliest man I’ve ever seen. He was on a train traveling west across the heartland of Europe. A stoop-
shouldered troll in a too-tight dark suit and a sweat-stained hat. Guarded by three men so alike they could have been brothers. Three very stupid men. But this was before the war, and people were not as careful then.
Sitting across the aisle, I watched him eat his dinner—roast beef with gravy, mashed potatoes and steaming sweet carrots—then I followed him inside the lavatory and choked him to death while he was washing his hands. He was weak and soft and went very easily.
As planned, I slipped off at the next stop and found a car waiting for me two blocks north of the station, parked in a narrow alleyway behind a noisy tavern. The trunk was unlocked. I found keys and instructions beneath the spare tire, and two days later, I was drinking tea and window-shopping in New York City. I never read about his death in any newspaper.
Several months later, I was just beginning a new assignment in London when Pearl Harbor was attacked. Suddenly, I was a very busy man. A very important man. By the end of the war, I had killed nearly a dozen men on each continent. Some of these men were great warriors, and not all gave their lives as easily as my ugly, young scientist friend. Those four years marched hard across my back. Still harder inside my heart.
Twenty-three kills. Twenty-three lives taken by my own hands. Many times I remember staring at those hands in the darkness and thinking: Twenty-three is not so many. There were thousands of lives lost. No, twenty-three is not so many…
At the time, I had thought that with the war winding down and the world undergoing such dramatic change, my life would soon be different. That the killing would eventually stop, and they would find other—more significant—tasks for me to consider.
I was wrong.
It wasn’t much of a letter.
Four words—that’s all there was to it.
Four simple words.
Red ink on a folded sheet of white tablet paper.
I recognized the handwriting immediately.
The last letter had arrived eight months ago. Back in springtime, when I was busy planting my vegetable garden in the side yard and my arthritis was doing so much better.
He’d been living in south Florida then. Somewhere on the Gulf Coast with a lovely gray-haired lady by the name of Eve. There’d been a color photograph of the two of them enclosed—tanned and smiling and holding hands—and the P.S. joked that he was thinking of changing his name to Adam after the wedding service.
Jesus, I did some belly-laughing that afternoon. It was just like Peter—eighty-three years old and getting married again (What was it? His fourth, fifth time?). He was still a pistol, that’s for sure: having his picture taken with senior citizen beauties, casting a line out into the clear blue surf every damn morning, and probably taking side bets at the shuffleboard court. And still smiling…God bless him, always smiling.
I didn’t see how he could do it—even after all these years—but that was just me being me.
; At least that’s what Peter would have said. I could just see him now: he’d flash me one of his thousand-watt grins and rabbit punch me in the shoulder a couple times and say: “Ya gotta stop carryin’ the world on your shoulders, Frankie-boy. Ain’t enough room up there for the whole damn world. Start enjoyin’ life a little more. C’mon, now, lad, live a little.” And then he’d wink at me. Some nights, I can still hear his voice in my dreams…
We had always been like that, though—like night and day. He was so loud and boisterous. God, you couldn’t shut him up once he got going. And, Christ Almighty, he was a handsome bastard. A real charmer with the ladies. We used to call him “Movie Star,” and the name fit him like a glove.
And then there was me: the quiet one, the careful one. Like a machine, he always used to tease me. “That’s why you’re so damn good at your job,” he would say. “Like a goddamn machine…”
But as Joseph often used to point out: we were all different but the same. Different on the outside, but the same on the inside…and that’s where it counted.
That’s right—there were three of us back then.
Me and Peter, and that crazy son-of-a-bitch Joseph…God, I still missed him something awful.
Joseph passed away a while back. At the time, he was living in a townhouse in downtown Baltimore, with his eldest son, an unemployed computer salesman. After we’d “disappeared,” he’d changed his name to Thomas Holt and married some Mexican woman he’d met in a west Texas Bingo hall. I never saw her picture, but he wrote about her in a couple of letters. Supposed to be a real looker and a helluva cook. Several divorces and almost thirty years later, Joseph went out and caught himself a killer case of pneumonia while shoveling snow off his front porch dressed only in a bathrobe.
That was Joseph, all right—always the reckless one. Always taking unnecessary risks. Even in his old age. Trust me, back in the good old days, Peter and I covered his skinny ass on more than one occasion. And, of course, he covered ours, too.
The same day that the letter arrived—bringing news of Joseph’s illness—Peter flew up to the hospital where our friend was being treated.
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