by Lisa Amowitz
“Jeez!” he sputtered, waking up with a start. “What the hell you doing here, Chuck? What’d you do now, Bobby Pendell?”
“He didn’t do nothing but not feel good. Least, far as I know.”
“When the sheriff drives your boy home, a man’s heart stutters a little.”
“I imagine it would.” Sheriff Barclay hefted himself off the couch with a grunt. “Mind if I have a private word with Bobby, Sam?”
“Sure—the kid’s asleep in his bedroom, but feel free to use mine.”
Dad’s bedroom was a collection of empty medicine bottles, torn-up girlie magazines, and dirty clothes. Bobby cringed.
“Look, Bobby. I don’t know how you knew to look in that Dumpster…”
“I—” Bobby started to say, but Sheriff Barclay shook his head, scowled and kept talking
“…and I’m not saying you had anything to do with the girl’s disappearance. But it is strange you knew to look.”
“Yeah,” Bobby said, glancing away. “It does seem that way. But I swear I—”
Sheriff Barclay squinted at him. “You should get that head of yours looked at. And your right eye looks all bloodshot.”
“I will.”
“I’m going to make sure you do. I’ll be back to check up on you. If you can’t get there on your own, call and I’ll take you there myself.”
“Thanks, Sheriff.”
The sheriff studied him for a beat, then added, “Listen. I don’t know what’s ailing you, Bobby, and I don’t know what made you climb into a Dumpster and convince yourself you saw a body. I do know it’s a weird coincidence. I’m going to have some tests run on the gown, and file a report with the State Police in Renssalaer County. If it comes back positive we’ll be talking again real soon.”
Bobby waited for the door to close, then glanced at himself in Dad’s dresser mirror. His left eye looked fine. But like the sheriff said, the right eye was bloodshot and he still couldn’t see out of it worth spit.
Something was wrong with him and getting worse.
He wasn’t imagining that.
CHAPTER
9
The next morning, Bobby studied his right eye in the bathroom mirror. It was a hideous sight, the white filled entirely with bright red blood. Closing his left eye, he peered at himself. The vision in the eye was definitely better, though still smudgy around the edges. But he looked like hell.
As promised, Sheriff Barclay checked in to make sure that Bobby took the day off from school. He offered to drive him to the VA for an examination, but Bobby had something else in mind.
Dr. Joseph Piedmont in Salisbury was an old friend of Bobby’s grandfather, Dr. Herbert Sparrow. At ninety, the old geezer was well past retirement age, but Bobby wasn’t interested in a state-of-the-art examination. He just needed a note for Max Friend to prove that he was fit to work, and old Doc Piedmont was the right man for the job. Though the memory of the girl’s body still gave him the jitters, Bobby was pretty sure, if he could just steer clear of crime evidence, he’d be good to go.
With her faded red hair gone white at the roots, the receptionist at Doctor Piedmont’s office looked as ancient and frail as the doctor himself. Bobby leafed through National Geographic magazines from the seventies. Fidgeting on the ripped vinyl of the waiting-room seat, he hoped that Dr. Piedmont wouldn’t ask him to take off the sunglasses that disguised his wickedly irritated eye.
The doctor peered at him over the rims of his bifocals. “Well, Bobby, it’s good to see you. But would you mind taking off those dark glasses?”
Bobby sighed. The doctor whistled, picked up a small penlight, shined it in his right eye, then peered closer. “My, my. What happened here?”
“I, uh…I fell and hit my eye. I got a little dizzy, but I’m fine now. I just need a note so I can go back to work tomorrow night.”
“I see.” The doctor wet his lips and scribbled in a pad, then looked back up at him. “Bobby, how are you all doing?”
“We, uh—we’re doing okay—it’s just that, I’m fine and I need to get back to work, Dr. Piedmont. I really need to.”
The doctor nodded. “I understand. Have you had any headaches? Blurred or double vision? That must have been quite a knock you had.”
“No. No. I’m fine. Absolutely fine.”
The doctor nodded. “I’ll write you your note, but if you do have headaches or eye trouble, I suggest you don’t ignore them. Untreated head injuries can result in blood clots, you know. Blood clots in the brain can cause brain damage and are often fatal. There’s nothing else you’re not telling me, is there, Bobby?”
“No, sir. Not all.”
The doctor stared at him shrewdly, then jotted a note on his memo pad and handed it to Bobby.
“There you go. I’m pretty certain this is just a common subconjunctival hemorrhage. Can be caused by vomiting, coughing, or even a hard sneeze. Nothing to worry about.”
Bobby hurried out to the truck, note in hand, reasonably sure he didn’t have to worry about a blood clot, since he’d never actually hit his head. Besides, he was feeling fine now. Except that every time he blinked, the victim’s body was there, silently accusing him with its taped-shut eyes, begging him to do something. Anything.
How could he know if the grisly memory was real or not? What physical evidence did he have to back up any of the visions he’d had, except the tattered gown the sheriff had found in the Dumpster? And he’d never even seen that. With his eyes shorting out all the time, it was hard to tell the difference between what he’d really seen and what he thought he had seen.
Then Bobby remembered the scrap of material he’d stashed in the toolbox. He wasn’t even sure what color it was, if it was the same blue silk as the missing girl’s gown. He was going to have to look at it.
Bobby drove a mile out of Salisbury and pulled over to the side of the road.
If the scrap was the same blue silk as the gown the sheriff had found, maybe he was on the trail of an actual killer.
And he or she was still out there.
Bobby squeezed his eyes closed and slowly unlatched the toolkit. It only took a quick peek for the headache to hammer him.
He couldn’t risk losing another day of work to the sickness. He’d have to bring the fragment to Sheriff Barclay and explain where he’d found it. Which would make the man even more suspicious of Bobby than he already was, but it was the only way.
If only he knew what secrets were hidden in those woods, why he had had such a strong reaction to the path that lead deeper in. But he couldn’t chance going back there, either. It was starting to dawn on Bobby that, each time he had a vision, the physical reactions got more severe.
He’d have to do his research remotely.
The small library was quiet and empty, the three computer terminals unoccupied. Bobby holed up at the corner workstation in case anyone he knew came in. He was pretty sure everyone in Graxton and Greater Waterbury had heard about poor Bobby Pendell and his freak-out the night before.
Fortunately, no one came in, and the librarian was too discreet to bother him.
He wasn’t sure what he was looking for. There was very little information on murders in the Waterbury County area. The ones that came up were either the result of domestic violence, robbery, or related to the crystal meth underground.
The search was a dead-end, so Bobby tried a different tack. After about an hour, he’d found an aerial view of Graxton and its surroundings, circa 1957. The black and white photo showed the terrain to be remarkably similar to current-day Graxton, except for the fact that where the reservoir and dam was currently, there had once been a town called Perryville. The modern-day reservoir was at the far end of the woods that bordered the ball field. Bobby peered closer—set in the woods between current-day Graxton and what used to be Perryville was a large estate.
Further research indicated the estate belonged to a very rich family named Galloway, who had built it in the late nineteenth century. Bobby didn’t remember e
ver seeing an estate that large on any of the back roads. It was tough to estimate how close to it he’d wandered on his last disastrous visit to the woods.
“What’d the old man say about your eye, champ?” Dad asked, looking up from his newspaper.
“Broken blood vessel. Nothing serious.”
Dad grunted as Bobby rooted around in the pantry, then returned to his newspaper. It was only Tuesday, and there was barely anything left. He might have to cave and visit the public food pantry, breaking the ultimate taboo of Pendell pride. Instead, he had a brainstorm. He’d boil up the rice, spice the two cans of beans with chili and garlic powder, and that would take care of lunch and dinner. Then they’d only have to get through two more days.
Provided that, by the end of the week, he still had a job.
Dad wheeled over to the dining table. “Not bad, Bobby. This is actually quite tasty.”
Dad’s new attitude was a welcome change, but Bobby couldn’t help but wonder if it was out of worry over him. After he’d cleared and washed the dishes, he grabbed his guitar. “I’ll be out back at the old house. I’ll bring the phone in case you need me.”
Pete scampered ahead and Bobby followed, trudging through the tall grass to the narrow footpath that led to the forlorn old house. Its yellow shingles worn down to the dingy brown of decayed teeth, the house slumped on the hillside like a giant beast that had tried to make itself comfortable but got stuck in an awkward position.
Tail wagging, Pete sniffed around the house’s perimeter, hopeful for a rodent to harass. Bobby pulled up a stool on the sagging porch, rested the guitar across his lap, and watched the play of light and shadow on the mountaintops. The old house had a much better view than the modular.
It was hard to be out here, like trying to sip scalding tea—sweet, but painful. Bobby figured if he came here enough, eventually he’d develop a thick callus against the hurt of Mom’s departure. After three years, he was still waiting for that to happen.
He kept a sleeping bag and camping lantern inside the house for those nights the paper-thin walls of the modular felt as if they were collapsing in on him.
His fingers tapping the guitar’s smooth surface, he glanced at Mom’s rusted gardening tools, the tipped-over clay pots filled with crumbly soil and dried-up stalks. Even after Dad had come home disabled, even after they’d moved their entire life into the flimsy modular, Mom used to come out here and plant flowers. Surveying the dried ruins of her flowerbeds, Bobby wished he’d put more effort into carrying on the tradition.
He picked up a gardening glove, one that had once been on Mom’s hand. Once he’d been able to slip his own hand inside, but they’d grown too large. He held on to it and closed his eyes—could he sense where she was?
Nothing came to him but the hoot of a few owls and the light breeze brushing past his cheek.
He dropped the glove and looked out at the panorama of gently rolling mountains. They used to have an old metal swing out on the porch where Mom would sit between him and Aaron, rocking and reading to them from their favorite books.
Bobby closed his eyes again and tried to imagine what his world would be like if all he had were sound and smell and touch. And terrifying visions.
He shivered, a chill crawling up his neck. The image of the gashed throat flashed in his mind’s eye again. The question was, did he use these visions to solve a murder, possibly preventing others from happening, or did he walk away?
Bobby picked up a small, rusted shovel and hurled it into the trees.
He tried to imagine what Mom would tell him to do—would she say to just ignore the clues and pretend it all never happened, or to deal with the consequences and uncover the truth?
Bobby picked up the guitar and began to strum. Out at the house, all his licks were wailing blues riffs, desolate and fragile, like wind howling through bare branches. The improvised riff doubled back on itself, becoming more soulful, more complex. Bobby found himself singing that wordless melody again, braiding the worry, the horror, and the yearning he felt for Gabe into its notes.
Pete raced from the side of the house to the foot of the porch stairs, ears up. He started barking as a figure made its way toward them. Bobby squinted. No one ever came down here except Aaron, and he was still at school.
“Hey, there!” Gabe called, waving.
Bobby’s heart froze. He felt trapped, cornered. What the hell is she doing here?
Gabe bounced through the tall grass. Pete ran to meet her, tail wagging happily.
She stood at the base of the steps, smiling up at him. “Sound travels amazingly well out here. I heard your playing. It was wonderful.”
His face hot, Bobby resisted the urge to run into the house, slam the door and lock it behind him. Except the lock had stopped working years ago. The girl had no clue that her presence only made things worse for him. Only reminded him of things he couldn’t have. Things he’d lost. Things he still might lose.
“Just fiddling around,” he said, his voice a hoarse croak.
She climbed the few stairs to the porch, clutching a few sprigs of blue and pink wildflowers she’d picked on her walk. “I heard my dad say he felt bad you were missing out on your burger tonight. I brought three deluxe dinners with fries. Your dad seemed pretty damn ecstatic over them.”
Bobby stared back, not sure what to say. “You didn’t need to do this.”
“I know. I just kind of wanted to. Plus, I wanted to see how you were doing.”
Bobby looked down, his jaw clenched tight, his stomach in knots. “Well, you can see I’m just fine. You should go.”
“I came all the way out here just to see you, and you’re sending me away?”
His throat was parched, electric current crackling under his skin. His breathing sped up like he’d just sprinted at top speed. “I just need to be alone.”
Bobby risked a glance at her. The corners of her mouth drooped, the copper-gold hair falling in her face. What did she want from him?
“I’m not going to bite you. After last night I—”
Bobby felt his anger heat to a boil. “Never mind last night. I’m okay. You can go now.”
The flowers still in her hand, Gabe leaned on the rail and stared out at the field. “What are you so afraid of, Bobby Pendell?”
He squeezed his eyes closed and exhaled, the fight gone out of him. “I’m not afraid of anything except not having a job.”
“My dad’s not going to fire you just because you got sick on the job. You think it’s easy to find good workers like you?”
“You don’t understand.”
“What don’t I understand?”
Bobby stood and began to pace the rickety porch, the loose boards groaning under his boots. He had to get rid of her without admitting the power she had over him. “I heard you arguing yesterday. Your dad has you on a tight leash. He wouldn’t want you visiting here.”
When he turned around to complete his pace, he found Gabe blocking his way, staring up at him with those amber eyes. “It’s not like you think. I’m not that way.”
“What way?”
“I’m not like my mom. She—she’s awful. She hurt my dad. Broke his heart. That’s why he moved up here. To get away. He had a booming business in the city. Sometimes, because I look so much like her, I think he—”
“Please leave,” Bobby begged. “Now.”
Instead, Gabe reached for his face and brushed a strand of hair from his eyes. “Why should I leave, Bobby? Give me one good reason.”
He tried to breathe in and out very slowly to smother the fire that raged under his skin. It was a game to her. His feelings, his emotions were all a game.
She edged closer, the curve of her body leaving only a warm, pulsing gap between them. Bobby could feel the prickle of current leap the gap, drawing him closer. He let out his breath in a shuddering sigh.
He was losing this battle. Big time.
“I like you, Bobby Pendell. I liked you the first time we met on the road beside th
e corn field.”
He kept his eyes squeezed shut. If he couldn’t see her, maybe her grip on him would release. Maybe he could break the connection and walk away clean. He was sweating, trembling from the effort.
Then her finger grazed his cheek, travelling slowly to his lips. “Soft,” she said. “You’re a study in contrasts, Bobby Pendell—hard as nails, yet soft as goose down.”
He shuddered from the effort of resisting. Hot shivers shook him from his spine to the tips of his fingers. Touch her, they said. Touch her or you are going to burn to a pile of smoldering ash.
Breathing hard, he managed a step back, his eyes still closed. “This is wrong.”
“Why?” She moved closer. He didn’t need to see her to feel the pull of her, the moon controlling the tide. There was no escape.
He wasn’t sure who made the first move. Who cupped their hand on the other one’s neck and pressed their lips to the other one’s mouth. Leaning against the boarded-up window of the old house, they were a tangle of limbs, desperate to breathe through each other’s lungs.
“Oh, God,” he murmured. “Why are you doing this to me?”
“Doing what?” She stroked his hair. Her lips opening, she pressed her body into his. He was an inferno, a raging wildfire, no longer caring what it burned. Like a nightcrawler on a hook, he could try to wriggle free all he wanted, but it was too late for that. He was fish food.
He’d never wanted anything as badly as he wanted Gabe. Would it hurt if once, just once, he could have a taste of heaven?
With his last bit of strength, he pulled away. “Your dad wouldn’t want you with a guy like me.”
“Stop it, Bobby. Daddy doesn’t want me with anyone. He doesn’t want me to end up like Mother. He was glad when I ran away from her and came to live with him here.”