by Amy Brashear
Shining the light at the floor, I see blood droplets leading to the basement door.
Using the railing and the flashlight as my guide, I make my way down into the basement. The light catches a faded bloody print on one of the wooden stairs. Bending, I run my index finger over it. It’s dry.
I shouldn’t be doing this. My palms are clammy and I’m shaking. But I don’t stop.
I keep walking.
There’s an imprint on the floor where the couch sat, the same couch where I sat on Friday night during the Tom Sawyer cast party.
We were all laughing and sipping punch and eating sugar cookies in the shape of Santa Claus. Nancy pretended she’d chosen Santa Claus on purpose as a gag, that she thought it was hilarious. Everyone believed her. I was the only one who knew the truth. This was the only cookie cutter the Clutters owned; I’d seen the insides of their kitchen cabinets and drawers and pantry. Funny how she’d rather make up a lie about all the many cookie cutters her family had at their fingertips than admit the truth. But by then I knew that it was much easier for her to lie in certain situations.
“Everyone wants Christmas early, right?” she said.
I sat on the couch talking to Landry, who’d built the sets. Seth was in the corner with Bobby, watching me. I caught him a few times rolling his eyes. I made the mistake of mentioning to Landry that I’d been here a couple of days ago.
He asked why, naturally surprised, since no one knew that I was Nancy’s tutor.
I covered it up quite well. “Dropping off something for her dad from my dad,” I told him without missing a beat.
Besides, it could have happened. My father was always advertising his services some way or another, through letters or leaflets or pamphlets. If anyone in this town ever got on the wrong side of the law, they’d think of only one lawyer to call.
It was fun lying like that, I have to admit. I’m just as good at it as Nancy was. At that moment I felt like I was in a play with her. We were both acting, inhabiting our parts. I think I’d be good at that, too—acting, I mean. I’m the only one around here who has seen a Broadway show. I could see myself at home on a stage.
After the party, a group of us went to a midnight spook show at the State Theater in Garden. I went because Seth wanted to go. We had to get permission from our parents. We were supposed to go on Saturday night, but Mr. Clutter didn’t want Nancy to be out too late and fall asleep in church the next day, so we went on Friday instead.
Since it was a group thing, he allowed it. Nothing scandalous could happen in a group. We stayed out past three. I didn’t wake up until close to noon the next day. I had no idea I’d never see Nancy alive again. That Saturday would be Nancy’s last full day on earth.
The light from the flashlight moves across the room and falls on a faint red stain on the wall. Touching the rough concrete, I close my eyes, my mind playing like a movie reel of what might have happened to Mr. Clutter and Kenyon. All at once I feel like throwing up. I turn to run up the stairs but bang my knee on a dresser. Bending over in pain, I see little droplets of something on the floor. When I touch them with my index finger, they’re wet.
Someone’s in the house.
Rushing up the stairs, I face-plant. My eyes smart. I rub my palm against my nose. That metallic smell and a rush of pain hit me.
I sniff to stop the blood from dripping out.
Mr. Stoecklein’s porch light comes on when I reach the landing. Standing in the middle of the kitchen, staring out the window, I turn off the flashlight and wait for a flashlight to be shone on me. The porch light goes out.
A hand covers my mouth; an arm grabs my waist, pulling me away from the window.
“Be quiet,” the voice whispers.
It’s a boy’s voice. Trying to wiggle free, I bend my leg back and kick my captor in the crotch. He falls to his knees. Quickly I flip on the flashlight and shine it in his eyes.
“Landry, what the heck?”
He has tears in his eyes. “Carly—”
“What are you doing here?”
“Can you shut that light off?” He reaches for my hand. He’s grimacing, squinting up at me.
I drop my arm. “Landry—”
“I’m okay.”
“No, you’re not,” I say, looking at the gash on his arm. I lead him to the bathroom. I turn on the light once I close the door, and examine his now bloody arm. “What did you do?”
“It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing.”
I rummage through a cabinet and find a couple of washcloths, one for him and one for me. I turn on the faucet and soak a washcloth with cold water, then wring it out.
“It doesn’t hurt,” he says. But he winces when I lay the wet washcloth on his arm.
“Sure.”
“I tripped. I must have caught my arm on a rusty screw in the—”
“You should get this looked at.”
“We’ve got more important things to worry about,” he says.
I start to dig through drawers, trying to find a bandage. “What do you mean? Mr. Stoecklein?”
“I found shells . . . empty shells.” Landry’s voice is hoarse.
“Where?”
“Outside.”
“Show me.”
“Carly,” he says, grabbing my arm. “Your nose . . .” He takes the washcloth that I have in my hand and runs it under the water. “What happened to you?”
“I fell up the stairs.”
“That’s a new one,” he says, trying to stifle a laugh.
“I’ll live.”
I try to take the washcloth from him, but he shakes my hand off his and does it himself. I open my mouth to breathe while he presses on my nose. A sharp pain rushes through my body. I want to cry out, but I don’t. His other hand brushes my hair out of my face. His skin is rough against my cheek. He’s a farmer, and farmers’ hands are not known for their softness. He looks in my eyes and smiles.
“Your nose is going to make it,” he says, balling up my bloody washcloth and stuffing it in his jeans pocket.
I sniff and rub my hand against my nose. It’s a little sore.
“Ready?” he asks.
I nod.
I follow him to the back of the house. As he grabs the doorknob, I notice the telephone sitting on the edge of the counter. The wires look frayed.
“Hold on,” I say, picking up the receiver.
“Who are you going to call?”
“No one. It’s dead.”
“Maybe they canceled the service.”
“Maybe, but I don’t think so.” Gently placing the receiver on the hook, I take the wires in my right hand and feel them with my left. “They’ve been cut.”
“What?” Landry asks, moving to see for himself.
“Look. Someone cut the phone line. Which means the murders were premeditated. We have to tell the sheriff.”
“He probably already knows.”
“Probably, but maybe not.”
“Let me show you the shells.”
I swallow. I’m not sure why this sends a chill down my spine. The shells have long been emptied. “Right. The shells.”
We crouch near where the tall grass stands at the side of the barn, shining the light on the ground. A couple of shells lie hidden in the scraggly grass. I see them only when the beam from the flashlight catches the shiny gold metal.
“They’re empty,” he says, poking them with a stick that he found next to the fence post.
“Maybe they dropped them when they left.”
“Maybe—”
“I’ve called the sheriff,” a man hollers, cocking his shotgun.
Landry and I don’t move. We’re frozen, hunched over the shotgun shells.
“Turn around, let me get a good look at the two of you.”
We tu
rn slowly. I shine the flashlight in Mr. Stoecklein’s face as he aims the shotgun first at Landry and then at me.
“What the hell are you two doing?” he screams, his finger on the trigger. “Y’all are trespassing on private property. I can shoot you. I have that right.”
I hear a police siren in the distance. It’s approaching fast.
Mr. Stoecklein walks toward us, his eyes slits. “Carly Fleming, is that you?”
“Let us go, we won’t come back, I promise,” Landry begs.
“Landry Davis.” He snorts. “I thought I heard your busted old Ford.” He’s pointing the gun at Landry now.
“Please—Mr. Stoecklein—don’t kill us,” I plead frantically.
The siren is deafening now, bright headlights bearing down on us from the drive. A police car skids to a halt, spraying gravel. The driver’s door flies open, and a shadow emerges, hidden in the glare. Mr. Stoecklein laughs, aiming the shotgun in the air and firing off two shots. I flinch at both. “Next time, it’ll be you,” he says.
But his smile vanishes when Sheriff Robertson runs up beside him and wrestles the shotgun out of his hands.
“What are you doing?” Mr. Stoecklein yells. “They’re on my land.”
Throwing the flashlight on the ground, I shout, “It’s not your land!”
Mr. Stoecklein steps toward me. I take a step back. He looks at me and then at the sheriff. “Give me back my gun,” he says. But the sheriff stands his ground. Mr. Stoecklein tries to pry it loose from the sheriff’s grip. “Let me have my gun,” Mr. Stoecklein says again.
“Sir, you need to calm down,” the sheriff says.
“Me? They’re on my land.”
“It’s not your land!” I say again.
Mr. Stoecklein backs off. He stands off to the side with his arms crossed over his chest.
“Carly, why on earth are you out here on the Clutter land?” He looks over at Mr. Stoecklein, who’s muttering something unintelligible. “And at this time of night?”
“I . . . we found something,” I say, bending over.
He grabs his flashlight off his belt and shines it on the ground right where I’m pointing.
Taking the stick from Landry, I pick up one of the shells. “See, Sheriff Robertson? Clues.”
“Carly—”
“The telephone wires were cut, too.”
“Drop it,” the sheriff barks at me.
I open my mouth and he shakes his head, waving Landry and me out of the way.
The sheriff goes to his patrol car and returns with a couple of small plastic bags. Then he takes his flashlight and hands it to Mr. Stoecklein.
I’m desperate to be heard. “The blood on the bridge,” I begin. “It was . . .”
“It was animal, not human,” the sheriff finishes.
“What?”
“A farmer said that he butchered a hog on his place last week and dumped the entrails in the river.” He sounds tired and fed up as he tells me this. Then he turns back to Mr. Stoecklein and asks him to focus the light on the empty shotgun shells.
I don’t understand. It made sense. I thought we could help. The blood on the bridge was a good lead, evidence that would clear Bobby. My father always manages to get his defendants off on seemingly random discoveries like that. But then I’m reminded of what Dad always says about Perry Mason. I look at Landry. He’s standing off to the side, next to the patrol car, with his hands in his pockets. I got us in trouble . . . for what? I wipe my nose. I’m bleeding again.
“Here,” the sheriff says, handing me a handkerchief from his pocket. “Now, you two get home,” he orders. “Straight home.”
Landry walks me to my car.
“Do you think it’s weird that Mr. Stoecklein could hear us but not the killers?” I whisper.
“I don’t know,” he grumbles miserably. “I just wish I hadn’t come here.”
I open the door and start to get in. “You do?”
He holds the door open before I can shut it. “Carly, don’t go and get yourself—”
“Arrested?”
“Yeah. But I was going to say killed.” He closes the door for me.
I get in the car, start the engine, and drive slowly back down the Chinese elm–lined lane. When I turn right on the Arkansas River Bridge, I see headlights in my rearview mirror. My hands strangle the steering wheel. It’s Sheriff Robertson; it has to be. I see lights on top of the car. I travel down the road slowly, stopping at the stop signs rather than pausing like I usually do. Every turn I make, the car behind me follows. I turn onto my street. A streetlamp catches the roof of the car, and I want to be anywhere but here. I pull into the driveway and shut off the engine.
The sheriff’s waiting at the curb. I give him a questionable look and make my way up to the house. He follows right behind me.
“I thought we had an understanding,” I say without turning.
“So did I, young lady,” he replies.
“I left, didn’t I? I don’t need an escort. Please just go.”
“Can’t do that, Carly.” He’s side by side with me now.
I start to grab the doorknob but the sheriff jumps forward and knocks loudly, three times. My shoulders slump; I close my eyes and shake my head.
After a minute, Dad answers the door.
His reading glasses are perched on the bridge of his nose. He was in the middle of something. He looks at me, then at the sheriff, and then back at me again. With a heavy sigh, he invites Sheriff Robertson inside.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
It’s pheasant season. Hunting starts before dawn. Not that I slept very much last night, anyway, with the world of trouble I am in, but every time I hear a shotgun blast, I jump and my blood pressure rises.
“Don’t these hunters have any manners?” I say, grabbing my coat from the closet. I hate this coat. Back in New York I had an overcoat. This is one of those big fluffy coats that makes me look like the Michelin Man. I have to get out of this house. I’ll go to school early. I don’t want to be late for school, either. “I wish they would just go home.”
“I know you do,” Dad says from the couch in the living room. “But remember, Carly, this is their home.”
Always with a lesson, I think. I roll my eyes, turning to the door so he can’t see. “Can’t they hunt somewhere else? It gives me the willies,” I say.
“Now, you know the rules, right, Carly?” Dad asks, his voice louder.
I nod. Of course I do. After the sheriff left, Dad lectured me while Mom sat on that same couch, dabbing her eyes.
“I’ll repeat them to make sure,” Dad says. “Do not go back to the Clutter farm. Stay out of the police business. They don’t need your help. And after school, come straight home.”
“Yes, sir,” I say.
Asher bounds down the stairs. “I’ll be home late,” he announces. “I’ve got tryouts,”
He grabs his own fluffy coat. Another shotgun blast resonates through the house. He doesn’t even blink. He zips up, his jaw tight. I stare as he fumbles with his bag. I want to leave, but he’s dug out a notebook. It’s full of little handwritten diagrams, Xs and Os on a basketball court.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“I’m fine,” he snaps. “Just worried about tryouts, that’s all.”
“You don’t have to try out.”
He glares up at me. “Of course I do. For Kenyon.”
Dad gets up and joins us in the hall. Then Mom appears from the kitchen. Both have their eyes on Asher. He shoves the notebook back in his bag and turns to the door.
“Carly, someone from the Lock Shop is coming out around four o’clock to install new locks,” Dad says. “Since you’ll be home, you can let him in.”
“I’ll be running errands,” Mom chimes in, hands at her aproned hips. “Unless I need to postpone them,” she
adds pointedly.
“So we’re those people now,” I say. “People who lock up.” Dad’s jaw drops. He turns to my mother, whose face is a mask of disgust. She whirls and stomps back into the kitchen. Dad’s eyes blaze as he turns back to me and throws open the door.
“You’re this close, young lady,” he whispers. “Don’t get into any more trouble.” He musters a thin smile for Asher. “Good luck at tryouts today, son. I’m proud of you.”
But Asher is already at the sidewalk.
Dad slams the door behind me. I run to catch up with my brother.
When people found out about the murders Sunday afternoon, they started locking their doors. This was a new thing; no one ever locked their doors around here. People trusted each other, I guess. When we moved here in the ninth grade, we were one of the very few families that would lock up even if we were home. Eventually, we stopped. It felt safe. Not anymore.
The hunters are farther away now, but the pop, pop, pop echoes more clearly outside the house. Asher and I make our way to the bus stop. Silence falls except for our footsteps. It’s cold and nearly wintertime; it’s especially quiet. There are hardly any birds, even. There’s another distant shotgun blast, and I wince.
“Get a hold of yourself,” Asher snaps. “It’s only a shotgun.”
It’s only now I see Asher isn’t an outsider anymore. Asher was Kenyon Clutter’s best friend. Asher is an up-and-coming basketball star. He’s comfortable with the sound of pheasant hunting. He doesn’t confuse or conflate.
“So you say,” I mutter.
His face twists in anger. “Maybe you shouldn’t put your nose where it doesn’t belong.”
When the bus comes, Asher takes his seat near the front, next to his friend Grant, another basketball player. I walk to the back and find my usual empty spot—a whole seat to myself with no companion. I’m the only one who sits alone. We ride in silence, all twenty-one of us, to school. The whole time, I think of Mary Claire, who lives close enough to walk.