I remember trading a silent glance with my partner. By then, we’d already found some paperwork with Armondo’s name on it. He had letters in his bureau drawer informing him that he was now a Registered Sex Offender and would have to report to the local authorities as such.
Except he hadn’t. He’d moved in here, with the two-year-old’s mother and her roommate and, of course, the toddler. King of his domain, he had a throne so appropriate to his nature, it made me long to flush him down it with whatever force might be needed. He was out of reach, as they’d taken him down to the cop shop to have a nice, intimate chat about the vic and what had happened to her.
It took a long time, that crime scene did, though there wasn’t much evidence–no shattered furniture here. No blood on the walls. No weapons left lying around. No indication that anything untoward had occurred. There were toys, and a crib, and toddler’s clothes, and a box of fresh diapers, and Mondo’s notification letters, and traps from the drains, and that was it. We did what we could, but we’d already heard the detectives saying that Mom and Mondo were blaming each other for beating the baby to death.
We all knew the odds, of course. A stepchild is sixty times more likely to suffer a serious injury than a natural child, and Mondo wasn’t the baby’s father. And there were those letters, his record for rape, and the blood in the diaper, saying it might be worse than that. Much worse.
It was going to come down to the rape kit and whatever “he said-she said” the dicks pulled out of the dynamic duo. The evidence at the scene just wasn’t going to make the case. So we finished up as best we could, and while we were still comparing notes, making sure we’d got everything, I heard a commotion outside the front door. My partner and I were standing in the living room, maybe twelve feet away, so I could hear a woman’s voice. I couldn’t see, but I could hear her. It was Grandma. She’d spotted the squad cars and figured her girl was in trouble again, and she wanted to know where the baby was. Could she take the baby girl home with her, rather than have her go out to the children’s shelter at Mary Graham Hall?
Dear God. I looked up at my partner just as the sergeant out there told Grandma the score.
That’s the night I learned that a grandmother sounds exactly like a mom when they find out their baby’s gone. It doesn’t matter whether the child is a newborn, in high school or thirty years old. It doesn’t matter what language they speak, what color their skin is, what faith they profess. Their mothers all hit precisely the same note, singing a song that cuts me to pieces.
I’m not saying that dads don’t suffer just as much. But they don’t haunt me. Not like the women do. Their voices don’t echo inside my head, every one of them loosing that very same soul-shredding cry of despair and grief and anger and terror and utter betrayal by all that should be, and now never will be, right again. That’s a ghost that can’t be exorcised.
But you know what the worst thing was? It turned out this was the second time around for Grandma. Four years before, the child’s mother was living with another ex-con when the toddler she had then was killed. Beaten to death, and at nearly the same age. The boyfriend landed in prison in that case, but when he heard about Child Number Two’s death, he spoke up and, just like Mondo, said Mommy had done it. That he’d only taken the rap for her sake.
That’s what horror means to me now–the worst possible thing that can happen befalls a child, and you deal with it as best you can. You emerge from that experience embittered and soul-scarred, a storehouse of hatred and grief coiled up under your heart, and then? Why, then it happens all over again.
There’s no bulletproof vest for that. No amount of body armor will ward off the sight of those empty eyes, or muffle that high note their mothers hit. There’s no guarantee I can do anything about the bastards responsible, either. Sometimes I can only stand witness, recording the facts, imagining what it was like for them in those last few moments before their souls escaped their pain, and their pupils, at last, were blown wide open.
Pat MacEwen is a physical anthropologist (translation: bone freak) with a special interest in genocide, and a sordid past in forensics and war crimes investigations. Rough Magic, the first novel in her forensic/urban fantasy trilogy, The Fallen, is out from Sky Warrior Publishing, as is The Dragon’s Kiss, first in a YA series. Her short fiction has appeared in Hartwell & Cramer’s Year’s Best SF, Volume 17, and in numerous magazines and anthologies in the mystery, horror, science fiction, and fantasy genres. She is also working on an anthropology textbook, The Anatomy of Genocide.
-Jerrod Steihl Goes Home
by Ian Withrow
Traffic on the corner of Brisbane and Montgomery is light this morning, more so than it has been in a long time, and Jerrod Steihl feels peace in the relative quiet. The air is chilly; it tastes like smoky fireplaces, or snow that has not yet fallen, and the sky is as white as empty paper. Jerrod slips his hands into his sleeves and waits for his school bus to arrive.
“Might snow a shake,” he says to the vacant street corner and smiles, because the words aren’t his. They feel funny coming out of his mouth.
He walks in a small circle, careful not to lose his footing on the frost-covered sidewalk. From somewhere close by, a few blocks maybe, there is the squealing of breaks followed by the roar of a diesel engine. The recognizable yellow of the school bus rounds onto Montgomery and accelerates toward Jerrod’s street corner.
Jerrod hops a few times. Pulls at the shoulder straps of his camouflage backpack, adjusting the weight. He likes his backpack. It makes him feel cool, tough, and when the others see the swirling turns of black and army green they know that Jerrod is someone not to be messed with. Or at least they will after today.
Mr. Williams pulls the bus up to Jerrod’s corner and the screeching of the breaks is much louder, almost deafening. Now the air only tastes like exhaust. Jerrod frowns, glances at the mountains on the far side of the valley. The exhaust reminds him of gas stations and lawn mowers and summer days on Aunt Jennie’s speedboat. It doesn’t remind him of home. The glass and metal door yawns open and Jerrod sees Mr. Williams. He’s wearing his Seattle Seahawks coat, the blue one with the puffy sleeves and the ripped collar. Mr. Williams must be a pretty big Seahawks fan. He wears the coat every day.
“Good morning, Jerrod,” Mr. Williams says and waves a gloved hand. He’s smiling. Jerrod can see three black teeth and the large gap where four others had once been. Brenden Marshall says that Mr. Williams chews beer cans for dinner and that’s why his mouth looks this way. Jerrod’s mom used to say it was tobacco. Jerrod isn’t sure what to believe, but he thinks his mom was probably wrong. Jerrod has chewed gum before. His mouth doesn’t look like that.
“Good morning,” Jerrod says back. He climbs the three massive steps. Mr. Williams closes the door behind him.
“Should have a hat on, it’s too cold for naked skulls this morning,” Mr. Williams says.
“I forgot,” Jerrod says and starts down the aisle. He doesn’t mind talking with Mr. Williams, but doesn’t like it either. Mr. Williams smells bad, like old milk.
“Well,” he calls after him. “Better find something. Hurry up and grab a chair. Running a little late today.”
Jerrod ambles through and, holding his backpack on his lap, slides into an empty seat. The artificial leather is cold; it seeps through his jeans and numbs the backs of his thighs. Someone behind him says something and Jerrod hears his name. A few of the kids begin to snicker. Mitch Schroeder is sitting across the aisle. He offers Jerrod a slight smile and waves. Jerrod hugs his backpack against his chest and looks out the window. He doesn’t mind Mitch as much as the rest. But Mitch is still a kid, and as Jerrod knows, all kids can be dangerous if pushed in the right way. The diesel engine rumbles and roars as Mr. Williams guides the yellow monster down Montgomery.
The view from Jerrod’s window is a familiar slideshow of single-family homes and two-car driveways. Some of the houses are still decorated with plastic ghosts and rotting pumpkins, some have
changed over to turkeys and pilgrims, and one or two have skipped all the way to reindeer and assorted lights. All are covered in the thick and unwelcoming frost that comes every year before the first flurry of snow.
The bus pulls next to another street corner and two more children, Bennie Holliday and Karli Millstein, climb aboard. There is plenty of room beside Jerrod but the two pass by, offering only cautious glances. Jerrod leans his head against the icy glass of the window and sighs. The bus roars on.
Soon, the neighborhoods give way to vacant fields that are overgrown with yellow, reedy grass and littered with fast food wrappers and empty beer cans. Behind the fields, mountains stand tall and stoic, like guardians of some ancient place. A great column of smoke rises up from the tallest mountain as if a great fire is burning there. Rolling and melting into the paper-white sky in a season too late for forest fires. Jerrod stares at the mountains. He wonders if anyone else can see the smoke, if anyone else can hear the Voices. That single word repeating again and again:
Home.
Wadded notebook paper flies into Jerrod’s seat from somewhere behind him, dividing his attention and bringing him back into the bus. Someone bursts out laughing. It’s a girl’s laugh. Nicki Waters. She’s always been one of the meanest.
“Saw that,” Mr. Williams says. “I see it again, you’ll walk the rest of the way to school.” The laughing stops, but the snickering is still there. The snickering is always there.
Jerrod cautiously turns his head and looks at the paper that has come to rest beside him in the crevice of the seat. He uncurls the wadded paper. At first he thinks it may be blank, that it might be one of those “infinity snowballs” the kids sometimes throw at him. Then he turns it over and sees the message:
“Dear Jerrod,” it reads in bubbly, circle-dotted writing. “We don’t like you. We hate you. You smell bad and you are a fat fatty fatso. You have boobs and you are a boy! Why don’t you just die because all you do is take up space. Sincerely, Mrs. Rider’s class plus Bobby Pinken and John Sears. P.S. You SUCK!”
Jerrod stares at the note, rereading the words until his vision blurs and tears roll down his face. Wiping his eyes, he risks a glance across the aisle. Mitch hasn’t noticed. He is busy fogging the glass with his breath, drawing superheroes with his finger. Spiderman first. Then erasing with the sleeve of his jacket, re-fogging, and drawing what looks to be the claws of Wolverine next. Then Spiderman again, crude and ugly in the misty residue of his breath.
“Spiderman always knows when to run,” Jerrod says.
Mitch doesn’t answer. He continues to draw.
Crumpling the paper back into a ball, Jerrod drops it on the floor and kicks it under the seat in front of him. He hears his name again. Whispers, then the words, “fat ass” and “weirdo.” He clutches his backpack, this time feeling the hard, rectangular presence of the Book.
Not anymore, the Voices say. Not after today.
“All right,” Mr. Williams says when the bus is stopped in front of Lewis and Clark Elementary. “I’ll see you guys in a few hours.” He swings the door open and kids file out, giggling past Jerrod as they go. Jerrod pretends not to notice and picks at an imaginary stain on the front of his sweatshirt. When the bus is finally empty, Mr. Williams says, “Come on, Jerrod. Time to move on.”
So Jerrod does, thanking Mr. Williams politely as he descends the stairs. He steps onto the frozen concrete sidewalk, crosses the schoolyard and takes his place at the back of Mrs. Rider’s line, where the rest of the third graders are already waiting. Mrs. Rider is at the front, asking the Farley twins how their evening went and if they had any troubles with their math homework. Her hair is black with stringy, gray highlights. Her eyes are brown and warm. Jerrod loves Mrs. Rider. Feels he can tell her things he wouldn’t tell anyone else. If he had a choice, Mrs. Rider would be his grandmother, instead of the boney-bodied, wispy-haired old woman he is forced to kiss each Christmas and every other Easter.
The bell rings and everyone gets quiet, and for a moment there is only the wind and the brittle leaves scraping across the playground, and the diesel roar of the school bus driving away. The chatter of other classes as they line up in other areas of the playground. Jerrod hears none of these things. He looks over his shoulder at the mountains. The column of smoke continues to writhe into the sky. He watches it, and smiles.
“I know,” he says. “I’m coming.”
* * *
Belinda Rider stands before her class, silently counting as her students wait for her command. She has 24 this year. It’s a big number–the biggest she’s ever had. Eight more than she ought to have considering the size of her classroom and the curriculum she is expected to cover. She knows this will become an issue in the spring, when the prospect of summer ignites the souls of all children, sending them into early afternoon frenzies that are almost impossible to control. But for now, in the cold morning air, she doesn’t mind the number. They are quiet and pleasant, and as she sees their rosy cheeks and running noses, and their wide, obedient eyes, she can’t help but feel love for them.
“Okay, class,” she says, turning to the side and extending a hand to guide them. “Let’s head inside. Remember this is pizza week. You’re only two good days away, so no fooling around.”
Shoes scuffling over pavement, the children head inside. They are mindful of their spacing. Their lips are tightly sealed. No one wants to be the one to ruin the monthly pizza party for the class.
Belinda smiles down at them as they pass. Karli Millstein with her ladybug barrettes. Kurt Rowe in the Grizzly football jersey he has worn every day since his birthday. Nicki Waters, lips always turned up as if she just got away with something, or is about to try. Belinda’s eyes linger on the girl, and she wonders which of the two it is today. Maybe neither. Probably both.
Then Nicki is gone and Mitch Schroeder is there, head down, untied shoelaces tapping the ground with every step.
“Good morning, Mitch,” she says.
“Morning.”
He still has the bruise on the back of his neck–a thumb-sized purple smudge in a halo of yellow, just below the hairline. Seeing this makes her smile fade away, makes the cigarette burns in his jacket all the more noticeable, and she suddenly recalls the glazed look in his father’s eyes at the parent-teacher conferences. The stink of alcohol on his breath.
“Is everything okay?” she says, because it’s all she can think to ask, and makes a mental note to check back in with the counselor. She tries to remember where she put the forms, the ones all teachers are required to fill out whenever suspicions of abuse arise. They’re somewhere in her desk–probably the bottom drawer, behind the detention slips, the confiscated bubble gum, and her throat lozenges.
Mitch answers without looking up. “Yeah. I’m fine.” Then, like the others, he vanishes through the doorway.
She is about to follow when she stops. Her instincts are telling her she has only seen 23 faces this morning. Someone is missing. She turns around and sees him, a snowman of a child in a gray sweatshirt standing at the far end of the painted line. His backpack hangs low on his back. The straps swallowed up by the cotton of his sweatshirt, and the soft flesh of his chest. To Belinda, it looks as if he’s carrying the weight of the world in there. He is looking over his shoulder, and he’s giggling.
“Jerrod,” she says. “We’re going in now.”
Jerrod says something that isn’t directed at her.
“Hey, Jerrod.” She starts down the painted line. By the time she reaches the boy she is limping, the cold infecting the bone-on-bone grind of her arthritic hip. She smiles through a wince and puts a hand on Jerrod’s shoulder. Heat radiates from under his coat. He flinches and looks up at her.
“It’s time to go,” she says. “You’re classmates are already inside.”
“Okay,” he says, hopping to adjust the weight of the backpack, and starts for the door.
“Who were you talking to back there,” she asks, limping along beside him.
“Are you?”
“I have a new home, now. My parents said no, but I’m going anyways. They can’t stop me anymore.” He hesitates before going through the door and whispers. “I only have one more chore before I get to go. Like a test.”
Belinda frowns. “Who says so? Your parents?”
Jerrod doesn’t answer, and as he steps through the doorway, Belinda decides to alert the counselor of this child as well.
* * *
“Sit down, everyone,” Mrs. Rider says when they’ve all entered the room. “And take out your journals, please. You know the drill. I want you to write about the best thing that happened to you last night and the worst thing that happened to you last night. You have ten minutes.”
Jerrod unzips the large pocket of his backpack, pushes the Book aside, and retrieves his spiral-bound notebook. He opens it to the proper page, grabs a pencil from the metal lip just inside his desk, and begins to write.
He’s good with words, has been since he was very young, and is able to construct the new letters with relative ease. They’re more difficult than the cursive q’s, z’s, and y’s he learned last year on Mrs. Morey’s ice-cream paper, but after practicing at home these past few days, the new letters are coming out quite nicely.
“Five minutes,” Mrs. Rider says from her desk. “Start wrapping things up, please.”
Jerrod finishes early. He puts his pencil down and stares at the wooden surface of his desk, at the things that had been carved by students who must be grownups by now. There is the smiley face with the red-inked eye, the etching of the name TuRnER, and the letters F-U-K. Jerrod has never been able to figure out the last one, because it isn’t a word he’s ever heard of. F-u-c-k he’s heard of, but not F-U-K. He thinks the letters might be initials, or maybe something from the Book that he hasn’t gotten to yet.
Horror Library, Volume 5 Page 2