The Outkast

by Craig Thomas

  “Not if you don’t listen to them, Rob.”

  “I have no friends,” Robert lamented. “I’m alone.” Then, as if some measure of hope had just rushed into his melancholy heart, he added: “Well, my mom’s my good friend. She’s the best.”

  “I’m glad you have someone you can confide in, and who makes you happy,” Brian said.

  “And you, too, Sheriff Stack.”

  “Thank you, Rob. It’s my honor to be your friend. Now, take this.” Brian passed another sheet of Kleenex to him. “I want you to wipe your eyes clean, and then tell me the exact reason why Mr. Carter locked you up. And then tell me everything else that you think I might like to hear.”

  Chapter 3

  Ogre’s Pond was a small town of a little over ten hundred people. Seventy five miles northwest of Colorado Springs and nestled among a sierra of mountains, it was a speck in the ocean of places.

  Charles Smallwood had worked as a logger until he met his end eleven months ago. Of course, he wasn’t the only logger in town, but his matchless wealth of experience in the logging business carved him an iconic niche amongst his mates, driving the rest into oblivion. His fame radiated like an early-morning sun on a cloudless day, and with this rose a terrifying amount of enmity.

  About the time of his death, he had just bought a large farmland, a piece adjoining Kelly’s Ranch, down towards the Sebastian River. It was a fat investment of which nearly every denizen of Ogre’s Pond was envious. But the locals didn’t have to scotch under the heat of jealousy for too long because, barely a couple of weeks after the purchase, Charles Smallwood died.

  And then words began to fly around.

  Although the circumstances surrounding his death pointed to homicide—a cold case to date—speculations had been widely embraced within the community that his wife, Holly, was solely responsible for his demise.

  “She’s a witch,” some would say. “And a very terrible one, at that.”

  “No doubt,” others would agree. “But I bet she sent a hit man after her own husband. She couldn’t be satisfied with her black powers. Had to add in the service of a hired killer. Just how more hideous could a woman be?”

  Yeah, the word flew around pretty fast, spreading like wildfire, playing over and over again on the lips of old and young, men and women, friends and foes.

  In fact, some of the sheriff’s deputies swallowed the rumors, albeit with a pinch of salt.

  And it wasn’t much of a surprise that people talked in such a fashion, considering Charles Smallwood was the third man Holly had buried within a span of eight years. Her two previous husbands had died shortly after making their huge investments as well.

  As hatred towards Holly grew with the passage of each day, her only son became sucked into the whirlpool of hostility. He was ridiculed at school as the miserable, runty son of the Golden Witch.

  Then, there was the issue of Robert Smallwood’s size.

  And his somewhat troubling taste for horror books.

  ******

  As was his wont, Robert had a dream. A really dark dream. A nightmare.

  Although it was downright horrible, it wasn’t the worst he had had. In the past, he had awakened without any strength to speak, let alone cry. He had only lay there in bed—in the dark—shivering, and cold sweat had trickled down his face to his neck. He measured the intensity of each nightmare based on how much energy had been dissipated during the surreal experience—and consequently how weak he felt whenever he woke up. So, in the past, he’d had it a lot worse.

  Today, he woke up full of strength, and he was screaming. Tears, not sweat, streamed down his cheeks. And there were smears of blood on his hands.

  Yet, Robert was extremely terrified for another reason.

  When he came awake, he wasn’t in his bed. Instead, he was sitting at the entrance to the toilet in Mr. Carter’s office.

  A knife—was that a knife he had in his trembling hand? A glinting knife, partly coated with blood?

  And there was Mr. Trevor Carter, lying on the floor, motionless. There was blood on his neck, the same blood on Robert’s hands and knife, perhaps.

  Now, from where he sat in the lobby, his reflection on what had happened shortly after he’d stepped out of the dreamscape into Mr. Carter’s office got terminated by the Sheriff’s rising voice. Brian Stack was having a word with Holly in his office.

  ******

  “This is a pretty serious case we’re dealing with, Mrs. Smallwood,” Brian told Holly, who sat with her hands in her lap. Her blue wrinkled short-sleeved top hung loosely on her scrawny shoulder. The blouse’s neck was too wide. She appeared too exhausted. “And the fact that a teen’s involved doesn’t make it any less grave.”

  Holly let out a sigh, her eyes full of sorrow and paranoia.

  Brian did a slight revision of his statement. “Of course, he’s a kid. And what that means is, when all is said and done, he’ll be treated as such. If he was an adult, we’d be talking differently now, but such difference would lie only in terms of his penalty, not the harm done.”

  “What harm and penalty are you talking about, Sheriff Stack? Have you decided to gang up together with them to destroy me and my son?”

  Brian scowled. “What made you think anyone is ganging up on you?”

  “Oh, the walls have ears.”

  Sitting up straight, Brian said, “And did the walls hear about me, too? About my involvement in the so-called plot against you?”

  “You?” Holly said, adjusting her blouse that was sliding off her shoulder. “I just said it. You don’t need to lay it bare on the table for me to know where you stand, Sheriff. I can read between the lines. I can sense undertones.”

  Brian rested his elbow on the desktop, propping his chin against his palm. He wanted to caution Holly that running her eyes through the print in-between the lines wasn’t the point in question, and that even the best of guesses, every so often, could be nothing better than an instrument of misdirection. But he held his peace, letting her pour her mind out.

  “So, they say my little Rob has murdered a man—he’s done a terrible harm. And what will be his penalty?” Holly shoved to the edge of her seat, stretching her hand towards the Sheriff, as if requesting a response in form of a handout. Then, she retracted it. “Oh, don’t even bother telling me,” she said. “I know exactly what his penalty will be. He’ll be taken away from me and locked up in a teen penitentiary, waiting till the time is ripe for him to feel the vicious stings of the law.”

  Brian watched her vent.

  “Isn’t that so, Sheriff?”

  “There’s not a thing as teen penitentiary, Mrs. Smallwood,” he said at last. “And I want you to know that this—”

  “There isn’t such a thing?” Holly said with wide eyes.

  “Well, there’re juvenile detention centers all across the country, if that’s what you’re—”

  “Teen penitentiary, juvenile detention—where does the difference lie? In the names?” She chuckled briefly, and then collapsed on the table, her head literally bobbing up and down as she wept.

  Brian said, “Holly, are you okay?” and realized immediately how dumb he sounded.

  “No, I’m not okay,” Holly said in a muffled voice, sniffling. “How on earth can I be when the whole world has chosen to come crashing on me?”

  Grabbing a sheaf of tissue (he was doing a good job distributing tissue today), Brian walked around the desk and handed it to her. He squeezed her shoulder gently, feeling the bones, hoping he could sooth her, that he could give her an unspoken assurance that, the situation—not he—was responsible for her being shoved into this unpleasant corner.

  He walked back to his seat.

  When Brian had ascertained her eyes were clear enough to focus on him, he said, “I want you to know that this has nothing to do with what anybody’s saying.”

  “You stated when all is said and done, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, I did. What’s your point?”

  �
��To me, it’s already done. Decisions have been made. We’re just footling around here, killing time.”

  “Not the way you look at it. I called you in to ask you a few questions that might help both of us as this case progresses.”

  “Sheriff Stack, I think I have my own question,” Holly said, wiping off the residual snot from her nose. “What actually made you believe Rob killed Mr. Carter?”

  Brian shook his head. “It’s not about what made me believe Rob did anything. The question is more like, what could make anyone believe that Rob didn’t do it? What could convince the Coroner’s Office, the townspeople, the Sheriff’s Department that he didn’t do it? In fact, what could convince you—besides being your son—that he didn’t commit the crime he’s been suspected of?”

  Holly’s jaw dropped as she listened to the Sheriff.

  “And I can see what’s going through your mind right now. Yeah, you’re sitting down there and thinking, Oh, I was right about him, after all. He’s made up his mind together with the people. They’re coming to get my son.

  “But you know what? I didn’t call you in to tell you how badly I want your son to be arrested. I called you in to let you know that the odds are stacked against him regardless of my own sentiment. Really stacked against him. The fact that he was the only one in the office at the time of Mr. Carter’s death, the bloody knife found in his hand, the hair. You see, all of these things—and even more—point in the direction of accusation.”

  “They got his hair at the scene, too?”

  “There were blood-soaked strands of hair—red hair—found at one corner of the toilet where he was sitting, as well as on the desk and the office floor. The Office of the Coroner made an educated guess the strands came from his hair.”

  “Because he’s a redhead.” Holly chuckled. “They could have been from anyone’s hair. And you know that, Sheriff, don’t you?”

  “Exactly,” Brian said, as if sharing Holly’s view with a profound enthusiasm. “That’s what I thought at first. And anyone would have thought so, too. But when you factor in the blood on his head and the drying wetness in the hair found at the scene, it makes you wonder some more. And I have to quickly point out that he was the only redhead present at that point in time, as far as anyone knows. But having said all of these things, no one has made a cut-and-dried decision on anything yet. I’m only making a comment about the situation as it stands.”

  “But the odds are stacked against him nonetheless, right?” Holly said. “Oh, my God. I’m a dead woman.”

  Brian looked at her for a brief moment, hoping his explanation had made any sense so far. Then, he said, “The hints at the scene were so revealing they made the guess appear terrifyingly true.”

  She stayed silent.

  For a long time, Brian didn’t speak, either. “I’ve pressed the boy, done everything possible to make him open up to me, but he’s maintained his stand. Said he didn’t do it.”

  “Of course, he didn’t.” Holly’s voice was oiled with the grease of perfect ire, perhaps anger at the ridiculousness of the charge being leveled against her son. “How could my boy have killed a man?”

  Brian dismissed her question. Not that it required an answer, anyway. “What have you noticed about him lately? Any unusual behaviours?”

  She shook her head. “He’s as normal as any twelve- year-old to be.”

  “What sort of things does he engage in during his leisure time? Sports, books, movies?”

  “He likes watching and playing soccer. And like any other typical teenage boy, he likes action movies in addition to cartoons.”

  “Books, Holly? Does he read books that are related to the kind of action-packed movies he watches?”

  “Yes, he does. He watches action movies as much as he reads stories that depict them. He likes when the stories are really intense.”

  “Intense as in thrilling or horrific?”

  A hint of confusion on Holly’s face. “Thrilling is horrific as much as horrific is thrilling. What’s the difference?”

  “I guess there’s none,” Brian said, deciding to bury that aspect of the interview to avoid unnecessary protracted debate. He smacked his palm against the desk lightly. “I’ll let you go now. But please, keep an eye on the boy.” He stood up to get the door. “And might I say you should be ready to see more of me, in case the test reports come back positive.”

  Chapter 4

  “Get your sorry ass over here,” Trevor growled at the boy.

  Robert inched closer towards the principal, trembling.

  Since his enrolment at the junior high, he had always been going through hell. His two arch-tormentors had been the principal, Trevor Carter and the acting vice principal, Donnie Murphy.

  “What’ve you got today? Any of your trollish pictures lurking around? Those miserable, misshapen creatures that look just like you, can I see them?” Trevor laughed, a creepy sound issuing from a sadist of a man.

  Ordinarily, Trevor’s eyes were a shade of blue, but whenever he was busy bullying Robert, the boy always saw eyes as pale green as a wolf’s, something downright scary.

  “Talk to me,” Trevor insisted. “Can I see any of them? Do you have them here?”

  Robert shook his head, his trembling intensifying.

  Trevor grabbed the boy’s collar and dragged him closer. “So, tell me a secret, runty one. How many people does your mother plan killing this year? Has she adopted a new power to lure another man into her fatal net yet?”

  Sliding towards the brink of a sob, Robert said, “My mom doesn’t kill. She doesn’t hurt anyone.”

  “Oh, yes, she does,” said Trevor ecstatically, still grasping the boy by the collar of his shirt. He looked down into Robert’s bleary eyes, and said, “What did I tell you about talking back to me?”

  “It’s ... it’s ... an abomination for a troll like me to talk back in the perfect world of Mr. Carter.”

  “That’s right. And how many times have I told you that?”

  Robert paused, trying to remember.

  “You’re a lot of things—horrible things. And as we both know, smart isn’t one of them.” Trevor released his grip on Robert’s collar in exchange for the boy’s left ear, clasping it between his thumb and forefinger, squeezing and tugging as hard as he could. “I’ve told you times without number to never talk back to me.”

  Robert burst into tears.

  “I’ve also told you to stop looking at your stupid scary pictures while you’re within the school premises. You have the tendency to poison other kids’ minds with that garbage. When you get to your mother’s—”

  “I wasn’t looking at my pictures today,” Robert protested feebly.

  “Oh, there he goes again—talking back to me. What a pitifully forgetful soul.” Trevor dragged the boy all the way to the toilet with his ear, not giving a damn if he tore it off the tiny skull or not.

  Robert, who had been whimpering as he struggled to repress his pain, couldn’t endure it any more. He exploded into a very loud cry.

  Trevor closed the toilet door, and locked it. He put his mouth to the key-hole and shouted, “When you get to your mother’s enchanted cottage, you could look at the crazy pictures as much as you desire.”

  Inside the toilet, Robert was crying and trying to explain that he wasn’t looking at any pictures. He hadn’t even brought any books to school in almost a month since Heather Collins, an eighth grader, had told Mr. Murphy about the comic adaptation of The Black Mirage. But Trevor was already gone. He had no interest whatsoever to listen to the runty troll, a phrase he had used so many times it had become overworked even to him.

  Suddenly, a voice echoed in Robert’s head. A scream.

  He was screaming.

  Maybe he was scared of the space in which he had been locked up?

  But that would be utterly ridiculous, because he was hardly afraid of anything like the boogeyman or any similar crap that kids within his age bracket considered creepy. Nothing frightened him—not eve
n in the dark. Nothing, except the two bullies in his life.

  Yet, he kept screaming.

  And even about that same moment, he heard Trevor Carter scream, too. Apparently, he was poking fun at Robert’s predicament.

  Robert collapsed on the floor amidst his screams.

  And dozed off to a deep sleep that led him into the zone of another very horrible nightmare.

  Chapter 5

  Shortly after Robert and his mother had left the Sheriff’s Department, they walked down Cheshire Avenue to the bus terminal. Not long, the bus emerged from the distance and started to slow down. But as soon as the driver realized who they were, he put his foot down.

  Kids gawked from the window of the bus; a couple of ladies exchanged glances, looked down at Holly and her son, and started to laugh.

  Holly was busy waving at first, with the hope that the bus would stop, and she didn’t come to grips with what was transpiring. But then, when the bus sped past them, awareness hit her like an uppercut blow to the chin. She lowered her hand slowly, her jaw dropping. At that instant, she felt an internal exhaustion that threatened to engulf her more than ever.

  Why had everyone chosen to be so cruel to her? What had she done to deserve all of this public derision? She wished she could procure an answer. But the deeper she sought a reason for their action, the farther it slipped away from her.

  The thought of Robert going through this dark time together with her felt even more intense—so much it almost knocked the wind out of her.

  Repressing a tear for the boy’s sake, she grabbed Robert’s hand, and they started to walk home. “I guess the bus is for another route—not ours. But we can walk home, can’t we?”

  “Yes, mom. I love walking.” Robert looked up at his mother with pleading eyes. “Are we going to pick some berries on our way home?”

  “Maybe,” Holly said.