by Brett McKay
“Hey, honey.” My mom turned to me as I approached. “Ret, I want you to meet our new neighbors. They live by the Andersons. This is Meg Williams and her daughter, Dawn. She’s your age.”
“Hi.” Mrs. Williams shook my hand with a giant smile. “My husband, Jim, is around here somewhere with our two boys. They’re five and seven.”
I didn’t care about the boys. I was only interested in her daughter. Dawn Williams, like the western singer Don Williams, but spelled differently, I hoped.
I kept my cool as I walked over to her. “Hi.”
She looked up with a smile and a spry “Hello.”
She was prettier up close. Her long strawberry-blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she wore a peach-colored shirt, shorts, and open-toed sandals. She sat Indian style on the blanket close to the end and next to ours. I sat on the only spot open on our blanket, which was next to her.
She was reading a Ray Bradbury book, Something Wicked This Way Comes, and put it down to talk to me. “I’ve seen you around. With your friends?”
“Yes, Jax and Gary.”
“Yeah, you guys like to ride your bikes a lot.”
“My bike is my life. Without it, I’m a cowboy without a horse.”
Her laughter excited me.
“You like Ray Bradbury?” I asked, motioning to her book.
“I love Ray Bradbury,” she said with passion. “I read all his stuff.”
“Me too,” I lied. “His stuff is the best. Well, I guess I haven’t read everything. I’ve read Fahrenheit 451, which was so good, and some short stories. I’m dying to read that one. It looks scary.”
She nodded. “It’s a bit creepy. Do you like scary things?”
I thought of the ghost in the Crooked House, Beaumont and Lester, the funeral home and the dead body, and tingles shot up my spine.
“Only in fiction.” My joke came without missing a beat, and she laughed. “Scary things in real life... not so much.”
“I admit I haven’t read all of his stuff, either. He’s got a lot, but I’ve probably read most of it. So, you like to read too?”
“Yes, I love to. I read mostly Louis L’Amour books. My grandpa has a stack of them, and I pick one up every time I visit. I like to write too. I wrote my first story a month ago.”
It was true. The writing bug had bitten me at school back in April, when a teacher spotlighted my work to the whole class. I didn’t have any friends in that class until she read my story out loud, then everyone wanted to work on the next project with me, and it made me feel special.
Her eyes lit up when I told her. “Really? What did you write?”
“A western, of course. It’s about a showdown in the middle of Main Street at high noon. They have to walk ten steps away from each other and shoot. It’s called ‘The Ten Steps to Death.’”
Talking about my writing to anyone embarrassed me. I didn’t know how it would be received, but Dawn seemed intrigued.
“Can I read it? You’ve got to let me read it. Is it finished?”
“Yeah, it’s finished. You really want to read it?”
“Yes, of course I do.”
“Okay. Yeah.” I nodded. “I’ll get it to you.” My ego stroked, I felt proud.
We clicked together like the sprockets on the Zipper ride.
Boom!
It startled us both, and we looked up to see the first firework. Darkness had fallen, and I didn’t realize how fast the time went.
More fireworks spread across the night sky in a colorful array, and the audience marveled over the display.
Dawn and I sat together for the rest of the show and commented on each firework.
“Oh, those are my favorite.”
“Mine too,” and so on.
WHEN WE GOT HOME, PUTTING things away was another chore, but it wasn’t nearly as hectic as packing to leave had been. When we were done, I sank into the sofa in our front room and daydreamed of Dawn. Enough light came in from the kitchen to keep me from being blind in the dark.
My mom walked in and sat next to me. As if reading my thoughts, she said, “It looked like you got along with Dawn.”
“Yes.” I nodded. “She’s real cool.”
“You two talked the whole night. I think she’s cute.” Mom smiled.
Shyly, I said, “I think she is too.”
“That’s good you two are friends now. Her mom said she needs some new ones. The move has been rough on her.”
Rough on her? I didn’t know what that meant, and I hoped she was okay.
“Mom?” I didn’t really quite know what to ask—or how—but I needed to. “I really like her.”
My mom’s eyes lit up with excitement.
“I kinda would like her to be my girlfriend.”
“You do? That’s great, honey.”
“Well... I just don’t know how to ask her. Or is that stupid?”
“No, not at all. You could always do what we did when I was your age.”
“What’s that?”
“Write her a letter. You’re good at writing. You can ask her to be your girlfriend in the letter.”
It was true. I was more comfortable with writing. “She also wants to read my story. I mean, she really wants to. That’s how I know she’s cool.”
“She’s going to love your story.”
“You think so?”
“Who wouldn’t? Now let’s write that letter. I’ll get a paper and pen.”
The excitement in her eyes made her look like a schoolgirl again, asking boys for kisses and playing the flirting games.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Rosco
A new family, the Tibbits, moved into Fernando’s old house. I didn’t know much about them, only that my mom had taken welcome-to-the-neighborhood cookies to their house. She said they were from Texas and had a daughter and two boys, one who was about a year older than me.
We were hanging out in front of my house under the shade of a tree when a tall, stocky boy ambled toward us. He had a confident, sly stride and a gleam in his eyes. His thick hair sat on his head like animal fur that had been combed to the side with a wire brush, and his giant smile slanted slightly to the right.
“Well, ain’t you guys a sight for trouble with those shit-eatin’ grins a’ yers.” He was Southern, and his accent was thick.
To say he took us by surprise would have been an understatement. I’d never witnessed anyone introduce himself to new kids like that, especially using a cuss word. That was when I understood he didn’t care what anyone thought of him. He was who he was, like it or not, and no one was going to change him. I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything.
“Rosco Tibbits.” He held out his hand, and we took turns shaking it. “Just moved in down the street.”
“Hi, Rosco. I’m Ret, and this is Jax and Gary.”
“Where are you from?” Jax asked.
“Texarkana. On the border of Texas and Arkansas. You ever been down that way?”
“No,” I said, and Jax and Gary shook their heads.
“The best things come outta Texas. Like me.” He laughed heartily at himself, and we laughed with him.
He snorted as if he had something in his nose to get out, then he turned and blew a glob of snot onto the sidewalk. He pinched the remaining strand from the end of his nose, flung it down, and wiped his fingers on his pants.
“I have some Kleenex in the house,” I offered.
“No need. I got it.”
Jax and Gary shared a disgusted look with me. He was gross, but I liked his confidence. I was drawn to him.
“What’re y’all doin’? Mind if I hang out with ya?”
We all nodded.
“Great!” His grin spread and took up half his face. “What’s there to do around here?”
“Well... we got a creek behind our house. We can catch water snakes. Or... do you have a bike?”
“Yeah, I got a bike.” With his accent, it sounded like “back.”
“We go
tta show you the Moguls.”
We followed him to his house, and it was strange to see someone else living in Fernando’s home. I remembered his face in the crack of the open door and how withdrawn he seemed, and I felt sad.
Rosco opened his garage door and pulled his bike out from behind a stack of boxes and furniture I assumed were waiting to be unpacked and placed from their move. He pulled the door down and let it crash to the ground. Like mine, he had no electric garage opener.
“Let’s go!” he called, and we rode to the Moguls. We rode up top to the biggest hill, the one we’d performed our terrible show on, and looked out across the long line of dirt hills and trails worn into the ground from long hours of riding.
“Bitchin’,” he exclaimed.
“We do a lot of our bike shows on this mogul.” Jax puffed his chest out to impress him.
“I don’t know if I’d call them ‘bike shows,’” Gary said in a low tone of honesty.
“You got people to come see yer shows?”
“We’ve had some neighborhood kids pay to see it,” Jax said, and I wanted to roll my eyes and shake my head in embarrassment.
Rosco eyed the area slowly. Something was cooking in his head. “You guys do anythin’ else out here?”
“Like what?” I asked.
“Like build a fort. That hill over there’d be perfect.”
“What kind of fort?” Gary asked.
“A cave.” A grin slid across Rosco’s face. Then he bolted down the hill on his bike, jumped in the air off the second, smaller hill, lifted both hands into the air, and gripped the handlebars again in time to land.
“Whoo!” he called out and raced to the mogul he’d spotted.
“He’d be good in our show!” Jax said.
We tore off after him, each one of us taking the jump with more confidence than before, and rode up alongside Rosco, who was off his bike and scoping out the mogul for cave building.
“This’ll be perfect! We can dig into the side here, and it’ll be the entrance.”
“It doesn’t look like it will be tall enough,” Gary said.
“That’s why we gotta dig.” Rosco turned to him, crazy excitement in his eyes. “We’ll dig deep. I’ve built ’em before. It’s like buildin’ a mineshaft. We’ll have to use support beams for the roof.”
“Support beams?” I asked.
“Yeah. We’ll get some two-by-fours and stick ’em in there to keep the roof from collapsing. Anybody got wood?”
“I do have a pile at my house,” I said, thinking of the Millennium Falcon Jax and I had attempted to build.
We each went back to our houses to get tools. We all came back with shovels, except for Rosco. He brought a pick axe.
He stood in front of the hill, raised the pick axe high in the air, and drove it into the heart of the compacted dirt. He looked like a crazed hillbilly-murdering miner from Nightmare Theater.
We spent the rest of the day digging out our cave. I didn’t know what to think at first. I wasn’t much into it. But the farther we got, the more my excitement for the project grew. We got a lot of dirt out of that hill, enough that we could crawl into our small cave and start to picture the finished product.
“We gotta dig deeper,” Rosco said. “So we can sit up in here.”
The sun was going down on us, and I knew my parents would be anxious for me to return home, and the same went for my friends. We ended the day with a sense of accomplishment, excited for the next phase.
Arms shaky with exhaustion, I was hot and covered in sweat and dirt. As I lifted my bike to mount it, Morgan Anderson marched toward us. Her face was twisted in dismay and tight with fear, her eyes red and wet. Her body shook like a wet leaf, much more than my arms did.
“Hey, Morg,” I called out.
“Have you guys seen my sister?” Her voice shook as badly as her body.
“Joanna?” Gary asked.
Joanna was much older. She was twenty and had moved out months prior to go to college, but word on the street was that college hadn’t gone well and she’d moved back home.
“We haven’t seen her,” I said.
Tears that had been hanging on finally rolled down her cheeks and made me feel terrible for her. “She’s been missing all day.”
“Maybe she went somewhere and didn’t tell anyone,” Gary said.
She shook her head. “No. Her car is still at home. So is her wallet, and she doesn’t go anywhere without those.”
“Have you called the police?” I asked.
She nodded. “My mom did. They’re at our house now. We’re doing a search for her. Can you guys keep an eye out? Let me know if you hear or see anything.”
“We will,” I assured her.
She turned and walked away.
We were silent, but a thought kept racing through my mind: Lester and that house. Could it be a coincidence that Mr. Beaumont went missing just a week ago? And Mrs. Beaumont...
When I got home, all we talked about at dinner was Joanna. My dad wasn’t home yet, but we held a family prayer without him and asked for Joanna’s safe return.
My dad walked in on my way to bed, and I felt the tension heighten in the room as my mom’s face hardened. She glared at him.
“Hello,” he said sheepishly.
“Where’ve you been? I thought you were off at eight.”
“I was at work. Randy called in sick, and we had a big order to prepare.”
My mom pursed her lips and looked down, and I said goodnight to them both and hurried to my room. I heard their muffled argument through the walls for at least an hour.
I couldn’t get any sleep, and not just because my parents were fighting. I couldn’t stop thinking about Joanna’s disappearance and the terrified look on Morgan’s face. I had a sinking feeling that I knew what had happened to her—or at least who had taken her. Getting anyone to believe it would be impossible, though.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Discovery
The sun was out and bright the next day, but I saw only gloom and darkness. An ominous feeling overwhelmed my soul, and I pictured myself as a cartoon with a black cloud over my head.
I didn’t even step outside until eleven o’clock. Scott told me my friends had stopped by and asked for me while I was still in bed. It’d been a rough night. Between my parents fighting and my suspicions surrounding Lester Kilborn and Mr. Beaumont, so many thoughts had been shooting through my mind that I couldn’t focus on anything, especially sleep.
I opened our garage door, dragged my bike out, and pulled myself up on it. I squinted from the bright sun, trying to acclimate to the day, then, absent of energy, I rode my bike down the driveway and into the street.
I headed for the Moguls, knowing my friends would be there working on our cave fort. I stopped at the fork in the road. Straight ahead were the Moguls. I saw my friends’ bikes parked at the foot of the hills, but a house hid my view of the cave.
To my left, the road led to the Andersons’ home and Dawn Williams’s house. She hadn’t left my mind, either. I saw activity in front of the Andersons’ house, and I couldn’t ignore it. I rode my bike toward their home and stopped about twenty feet short of it.
“I’m leaving!” Joanna, Morgan’s sister, yelled as she stomped to the red Dodge Dart parked in the driveway. Her hair was a raggedy mess, and her clothes were wrinkled. It was Joanna, Morgan’s missing sister.
“Joanna!” Her mother scrambled out the front door, face twisted with frustration, guilt, and grief. “I just want to talk to you for a minute.”
Joanna snapped around, bloodshot eyes blazing with hatred and anger, lips tightened. “There’s nothing to talk about!”
I couldn’t describe her voice as anything other than pure evil. It was dark and deep, and it didn’t sound right. Chills ran like ants up my arms. Morgan crept out the front door, watching in shock. She crumpled to her knees on the porch and sobbed.
“There’s a lot to talk about, young lady!” Mrs. Anderson sounded st
ern. “Everyone spent the entire day and night searching for you, including the entire police force! We deserve an explanation!”
“The hell you do!”
Joanna opened her car door, and her mother grabbed the top edge of it to keep it from shutting. Standing in front of her daughter, Mrs. Anderson made it clear she wouldn’t tolerate Joanna’s behavior anymore.
“What has gotten into you? Did someone take you? Are you on drugs?”
Joanna looked dead into her mother’s eyes, and I got a good look at her. Her skin was pasty, and dark rings circled her eyes. “Let me make this very clear to you. I am leaving. You will never see me again. In fact, I am no longer your daughter.”
Mrs. Anderson might as well have been hit in the chest with a sledgehammer. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but the words caught in her throat.
“Let go of the door,” Joanna demanded.
“Joanna... please. I love you.”
“Back off.” Joanna’s words were like ice, and her arms shot out. Joanna pushed her mother so hard that Mrs. Anderson flew off her feet, and her body crashed to the ground with a thud. I couldn’t believe what I’d seen.
Morgan ran to her mother’s side as Joanna jumped into her car, slammed the door, and sped away with a screech. Mrs. Anderson stayed on the ground but placed a hand on Morgan’s shoulder.
I rode my bike fast to their house to help. I ran to Morgan’s side, and she lifted her leaky eyes to me, lips trembling.
Absent of better words, I said, “Mrs. Anderson, are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” She groaned. “I just need to lay here a minute. Get my wits about me.”
My immediate urge was to help her to her feet, so it was strange to sit idly by and stare at her lying on the ground. But just then, Mr. Anderson pulled his car into their driveway. In a flash, he jumped out and ran to her side. I stepped back as Morgan and her dad lifted Mrs. Anderson to her feet.
They thanked me, even though I’d done nothing but eavesdrop. They went back into their house, and through the screen door, I heard Mrs. Anderson say, “She just came home ten minutes ago... Didn’t say a word. Went straight to her room...”