Got to Kill Them All & Other Stories

by Dennis Etchison

  The fry cook was watching her as she recrossed the street to her car.

  She found her way back to Alta Vista. On her car radio, the all-news stations continued to rehash the details of a particularly revolting murder. She shuddered, twisted it off and started her ascent up the narrow street.

  After a few feet, the car stalled. She ground the starter, but almost immediately it wound down and stopped for good. I should have been paying attention and downshifted on the turn, she thought. She kept trying the key, but it only clicked. The battery was dead.

  Right, she thought.

  Her lips drew back tightly as she set the wheels into the curb and yanked the hand brake. It's going to take more than this, she told herself.

  The street ahead was sharp and winding, the sidewalk broken and shrouded with untrimmed trees. She sighed. She did remember seeing some steps, didn't she?

  She returned to Sunset and, just around the corner, located an old concrete stairway that led from sidewalk level to the clifftop and the courtyards above. Without hesitating she took a deep breath, hefted her casebook and started climbing.

  A hundred steps later, she paused and lifted her eyes hopefully. She was no more than halfway to the top, though it was hard to be sure from her position. The tiered landings were foreshortened dramatically at this angle. Far below her, cars like toy models swished between the trees. She could see the whole of the school from here. It was abandoned now, the hurricane fence chained shut to protect the perimeters of the gray cement yard, which was intersected with the worn lines of diagramed game fields where no one would be allowed to play until it was unlocked at the end of the summer. She leaned against the landing and opened her book.

  A Probation Department gram was clipped to the progress report. She hadn't noticed it before. She read it carefully in preparation, then reread it.

  Billings, Billy had run away from home—from his foster home—last week, on the fifteenth. According to the update, he had been returned to the Hall pending a new hearing and follow-up investigation. Telephone contact unsuccessful, etc.

  Maybe they're not so nice, she thought. That must be what I'm here to find out.

  When her breath had returned, she resumed climbing.

  The house looked different from this side. Older, more weathered. A rusted lawn mower propped in the yard collected spiders. She stumbled to the porch and shakily thumbed the bell. Did it work? How could she tell?

  The screen frame creaked, the dusty mesh flopping like a breathing diaphragm. She knocked. The warped front door felt as if it might buckle and fold under her knuckles. She leaned over and rubbed out a spot on the window, but only blackness showed beyond the saw-toothed edges of the tattered shade. Her fingertips came away from the glass coated with sharp-edged particles of soot and grime.

  Maybe they no longer use this part of the house.

  A passageway next to the porch led through tall weeds and hanging branches and nettled shrubs that pricked at her hair and skin. As she emerged at the rear of the house, she was painfully aware of a stinging at her scalpline and scratches on both of her hands.

  "Hel-lo? Is anybody home? I only want to—"

  The back doorknob moved in her hand.

  She pushed. It was unlocked. She pressed her face to the crack and peered in at a widening view of the kitchen.

  There was a scurrying inside.

  "Well, praise the Lord," she muttered. Somebody's here, after all. "Mrs. Wintersole? May I come in?"

  She swung the door open and entered the service porch.

  Something slipped out of the kitchen.

  Now I've frightened her, she thought. I didn't mean to. I'd better explain fast. There's no turning back now.

  She shifted her weight uneasily and considered the kitchen. It was not quite right, somehow. It was not that it looked unlived in. Not exactly. Perhaps for a few days. The air was close and stale. She stepped onto the linoleum and swept the room with her eyes. Cupboards, refrigerator, doorway…

  "Mrs. Wintersole? May I please speak with you for a moment? I'm sorry to intrude on you like this. It's about Billy."

  … Doorway to the next room. (No one there. Hiding, probably. Should I go in?)

  Range, counter, sink. (Yes, that part was right. There. A jar of peanut butter, unlidded, two kinds of jelly, sloppy flatware sticky on the drainboard. So somebody is living here, after a fashion.) Wait a minute. Back up. Sink. (Jammed with dishes, cloudy water, something green growing there. Yuck.) Counter. (Tiles. Steak knife rack. Pot holders.) Range. (Spice bottles.) Doorway…

  Something. What? What was it?

  She tapped on the wall to the other room.

  In front of her, a figure jumped into the doorway.

  She gasped. "Oh! I'm sorry. I—"

  "What do you want?"

  A boy of ten or eleven. He gripped both sides of the door jamb and rocked toward her.

  She backstepped. "I just wanted to see your—Mrs. Wintersole. Isn't that her name?" Of course it was. "I mean—"

  "You can't go in there."

  He glared at her.

  I don't blame him. So this is Billy. He must have run away from the Hall. AWOL'd and come straight back here. Naturally. It was his home now, wasn't it? Whatever the problems with his new parents, he had worked them out in his head and come back on his own. Well, good for him, she thought. The Hall is no place to grow up. This is better, much better, in spite of everything; this is real life; this is where he belongs. He finally accepted that and came back.

  He must have slipped away within the last few hours. I wonder if they've noticed yet? Apparently not as of this morning. I'll have to call in and tell them. I'm sure the Juvenile Court will accept his voluntary return to his placement home. Case closed. It's so much better this way. He knows where he wants to be. You can't argue with that. I can't.

  "Is she here now? I should talk to her. Just for a minute. And then I'll be on my way. I'm glad to see that you're all right, by the way."

  He watched her suspiciously. "Who are you?"

  She backed to a chair. Why did his question throw her? It was simple enough. "Do you mind if I—let's sit down, okay? I won't bite. I promise." She tried a smile.

  The boy seemed relieved. He sat across from her. She pretended to busy herself with her files.

  "You're not the cops, are you."

  "I'm Miss Fowley. You can call me Linda. No, I'm not the police," she added, though he sounded as if he knew the answer. "I'm one of those people whose job it is to help kids. Like you. Do you understand?"

  "I don't need you."

  No, she thought, I guess you don't think you do. Still, his remark pierced her. I can try, if you'll only let me. Because it's all I have.

  "Let's see. You're eleven now, isn't that right?"

  "Twelve."

  She clamped on a grin. Let him have that much. A year means a lot at his age. "Is your mother here?"

  "My mother's dead."

  "I—I know." She searched for details in his file. "I meant your foster mother."

  He frowned at her strangely. "You better go now. Otherwise…"

  He let it trail off. He's beginning to like me, I'm sure. But he's fighting it. I've got to show him that I don't mean him any harm. I so want him to trust me.

  "Do you expect to see her soon?"

  "No."

  He continued to look at her peculiarly.

  "I don't mind waiting, if you don't. It's part of my job. There's nothing wrong, believe me." Was there? "You don't mind waiting, do you?"

  He didn't say anything to that. He fingered his hair away from his forehead and gazed through the doorway into the living room. His face was dirty. Like the kitchen. I'm supposed to make a note about hygiene, she thought. And the living room so dark, even at this time of day, with the shades drawn tight. She's probably not much of a housekeeper. But what did it matter? I won't mention it in my report. He's at home here. Though he does seem a bit ill-at-ease. Well, he hasn't been back that long
. Plus I'm here.

  "You don't want to see her," he said.

  "What about Mr. Wintersole? Is he at work now?"

  "No." He sounded genuinely surprised.

  Now there was a ticking in the kitchen. Somewhere a lonely dog was barking defensively, and a big car, a Cadillac or limousine, passed in slow dignity on the street outside.

  She drummed her fingernails awkwardly on the table.

  "Look, I have an idea. Suppose you tell me what you did today? What you're going to do when I leave? Or tomorrow? What are you going to do tomorrow, for instance? What do you do for fun?"

  "I don't have much fun. I'm waiting to hear from my friend."

  That's good, she thought. "Your friend?"

  His throat contracted, his voice strained. "You know."

  "No, I don't. Why don't you tell me? I'm interested. Is he coming over to play later?"

  "Can't. He's locked up. But he'll get away when he's out on a field trip, or write a letter. We have a code. And I'll tell him it's all clear, and he'll split and come back. Then I don't know. Go off somewhere together, I guess."

  Locked up. Field trip. She was getting a feeling. "Is this friend of yours in the Hall, by any chance?"

  He turned to her curiously. "How did you know?"

  "I thought you might have met some new friends in there. Most kids do. It's not so bad when you have a buddy. They're good to have. They make things easier, don't they? He'll remember, you'll see. Friends are like that."

  "Yeah, they are. I didn't think grownups knew about it," he said wonderingly. "But I didn't meet him there. We knew each other from before."

  "From where? Let's see." She sorted through the pages. "Santa Mara, right? Did you know him there?" How nice, she thought. Some sort of continuity, even though he couldn't have been very happy in that other town. No known relatives. I'd better not probe too deeply. Who knows what—

  "It wasn't very nice there. So we made a plan. He helps me, I help him. We did that, and we left. They picked us up when we got to L.A. We still have our deal. He does his part, I do mine. He did his last week. After, he got scared and ran. I did my part, too. That's what I have to tell him. So he'll know it's okay to come back. Then, I don't know what we'll do. Go someplace together, I guess."

  "Why don't I tell him for you? I'll pass by the Hall on my way home."

  "You'd do that?"

  "Of course I would. But first, wouldn't you like to tell me more about your 'deal'? I'll write it down exactly, I won't change a word. And then the Counselors at the Hall, why, they'll be able to understand your friend better, and help him."

  "They can't help."

  "Sure they can! Most of them are just like me," she lied. "They want to help. Only it's not easy to do the right thing sometimes, if we don't understand. You have to explain it to us. You can really help. That's not so hard, is it? Otherwise—"

  "Grownups don't want to help. They want to hurt. They know how, too. They beat us, lock us in—they never tell on each other, either. It's like they have a club. Well, we have our own club now, too. Billy and Chris. There's going to be a lot more members, as soon as other kids find out."

  Tears blurred her eyes, tore at her throat and burned her nose. She couldn't speak.

  "You better go now," said the boy.

  "I—I thought we made a bargain," she said with difficulty. Please, she thought. Let the helping start here, not stop. The world is such an indifferent place, especially for the young. I can't make myself go on with it like this. I care enough to do something about it, I do.

  "What?"

  "We made a deal ourselves, you and me, remember? You tell me, and I'll tell th-the other grownups. We'll get together and do something about it, I promise."

  "You're just like my mother," he said icily. "She always cried first, and then she'd hurt me. It's too late now."

  Like my mother, too, she thought. I wanted to lash out. And I did, finally, one last, terrible time. I wonder if Papa knew? He never spoke of it, not when they came to carry her away, not to me, not ever. Perhaps he should have. So that I could have explained how it was and why it happened, why I did it. And then he could have understood. He could have loved me. I wonder if he did, afterwards? He never told me. I must have been the needle of his heart. It was too late for us. But it's not too late now for Billy and his friend Chris and the others, so many others. It can't be, not yet.

  She lowered her eyes and jabbed at the folder with her pen.

  "I'll be coming back to see you very soon," she managed. Her lips wouldn't work right. "You and your new mother and father. You'll see. I'm sure they're very nice people. If they're not—"

  He was laughing. "You don't know anything, do you, lady?" His lips pulled back, baring his stained teeth.

  She got up helplessly and turned her shoulders away from him.

  I have to be alone for a while. Call in first. I have to tell them. Do it later. But I must call for a tow truck, at least. The Automobile Club. Where is the phone?

  She hurried blindly into the living room.

  She heard him jerk to his feet, heard his frantic voice. It's too late, a voice inside her was saying. It was always too late. No, it's not. It's not!

  The telephone was perched on a stand in the hallway. She clacked the receiver from the cradle and brought it to her cheek. In the abnormally dim and quiet house the brittle hum of the dial tone was unnervingly shrill and insistent. Like the car radio and the news headlines on TV which she had tried not to let herself hear, the story about the double murder of a middle-aged couple not two blocks from here.

  She shot a glance from the hall across the living room to the sliver of the kitchen doorway, thinking: The X'd file. That was what it was about. I couldn't help reading part of it, the other home call that was to have been in this neighborhood, canceled and reassigned to the LAPD, because the foster parents had both been killed. And the placement child, a little boy, still wandering at large. What was his name? Was it—

  She saw only a slender portion of the kitchen from here, but it was enough to reveal to her at last what there was about the room that had seemed slightly askew, so barely out-of-place that she had not consciously noticed. But she noticed now.

  She saw the gas range and a part of the wall paneling above it, the part where the knife rack hung. In reality it was more than a steak knife set. There were two knives missing from one end. They would have been the longest. And there were only table knives by the sink. And now, at this moment, she saw that the blank space had grown larger, a broad space on the rack where more than two were missing, a gap wide enough to finally catch her eye and hold it.

  She snapped her head aside, her eyes wide in the darkness. She pressed the cradle again and again, but the operator did not come on the line.

  A few inches in front of her, a door. She huddled deeper into the recesses of the hall. As she brushed against it, the door began to open.

  She reached behind her and jiggled the phone as she squinted into the shadows. A bedroom. The bed unmade. His? No, wait, a king-size bed, a pile of clothes on it. No, it was a person, asleep on one side, faced away from her. And something more. A second sleeping form lay next to it, rolled against the wall. Mr. and Mrs. Wintersole, she thought, shocked. I'm sorry, I —

  Her eyes cleared.

  They were not sleeping. There were two curved butcher knives embedded in the middle of their backs.

  She put the backs of her hands to her mouth, tasting the blood from the scratches on them.

  Footsteps behind her, small, quick, furtive steps.

  She turned. Started to turn. It's them, she thought, it's his — no, don't let him see! Protect him. You can do it. Say it. Say it now, let it out, all of it, after so long —

  "Let me help you! Billy, I love you, I do! Somebody does! It's going to be all right, just let me help you, please, for the love of God don't reject —"

  She completed her turn. He was standing there in the hall behind her, arched high on his toes, a
n unleashed fury contorting his face.

  "My name's not Billy," he spat, an unspeakable vengeance convulsing his voice. "I told you not to go in here, but you wouldn't listen. Don't you get it? Billy's the one who lived here. I used to live two blocks away. My name's Chris. Remember it!"

  His arms arced in the half-light, holding for an instant before they came down. In his fists were two more blades, a honed, serrated steak knife and a skewer. Their tips caught the remaining light as he plunged them down and away from him, pointing them with perfect, practiced precision into her chest.

  Red Dog Down

  The boy did not go inside when he heard the mother calling. Instead he waited at the end of the alley and finished his popsicle while two men walked through every yard to the street and back again. Finally they put the leash and wire loop back into the truck. One of them spoke into a CB radio, uncoiling the cord from the dashboard like a black snake. The other wrote something on a clipboard and started the engine. They were about to leave when they saw the boy still standing there between the trash cans and the fence.

  "Hey," said the driver. "You sure you don't know where he is?"

  The boy sucked his popsicle stick.

  "Which way?" said the other man.

  The boy pointed to the intersection at the end of the alley and the streets and tract houses on the other side, across the busy boulevard.

  "Well, give this to your mom. Tell her to call us if he comes back."

  The boy took a card from the driver's hand.

  "And bring in those papers," said the other one.

  "See, he doesn't have a license. If she can find the papers…"

  "The rabies certificate."

  "Did he have his shots?"

  The boy shrugged.

  "She can fax it. The number's right there. Do you know what a fax is?"

  "Come on," said the other one. "We got two more calls."

  "You be a good boy. We don't want to hurt your doggie. But we have to see him, okay?"

  The boy nodded.

  The truck drove away.