The Boys of Summer

by Richard Cox

  There was a siren then, or rather a ringing, that he realized was the doorbell. It was rare for visitors to stop by and rarer still for someone to do so unannounced, so he was immediately curious about who it might be. He was also drunker than he had realized.

  Jonathan opened his front door to find two men standing on the porch, men in matching dark sports coats, men he didn’t recognize. The one who spoke looked athletic, an inch or two taller than Jonathan, a little over six feet. His hair was dark and cut short. The other fellow was older, mostly bald and thicker around the middle.

  “Jonathan Crane?”

  “Yes?”

  Now the fellow held up a badge, something Jonathan had never seen happen outside of the movies and television, and for a strange moment he felt there must be a camera crew lurking just out of sight. It didn’t seem realistic at all that two policemen had suddenly appeared on his porch.

  “I’m Detective Frank Daniels. This is my partner, Detective Jerry Gholson. Would you mind if we asked you a few questions?”

  “Um, sure . . . I mean, no. I wouldn’t mind. Please come in.”

  He moved aside and the detectives stepped into his home. The light was on in the kitchen, and his visitors naturally headed in that direction. The bottle of Jameson was out where anyone could see it.

  “Having a drink after work?” the older fellow, Gholson, asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Stressful job?” he asked with a smirk. “Teaching kids?”

  “Not usually. But I just found out an hour ago what Bobby did. I guess that’s why you’re here? To ask me about him?”

  Daniels motioned toward the bottle of Jameson. “How many of those have you had, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “Two,” Jonathan said, though considering the size of his second pour this answer wasn’t necessarily accurate.

  “You feel comfortable talking to us under the influence of alcohol?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “It shouldn’t take long,” Daniels said. “We do have a few questions about Bob Steele.”

  Jonathan had nothing to hide from them, at least nothing about the events of the present day, but still his heart was beating so hard in his chest that he wondered if the detectives could hear it.

  “We’re sorry to come here under these circumstances,” Daniels said. “I’m sure it must be pretty tough for you, Bob’s death and all. I guess you two were pretty close.”

  “We were friends as kids.”

  “Just friends?” Gholson asked. “Didn’t you live under the same roof for a while?”

  Jonathan nodded. His ears buzzed.

  “I was about to say we spent a lot of time together because of our parents. My mom and his dad dated off and on for many years.”

  “Your mom still dates Kenny Steele,” Gholson said. “Isn’t that right?”

  “As far as I understand.”

  Jonathan could feel his perception wandering, could feel the Jameson doing the job that had been asked of it, and he wished he’d hadn’t poured such a stiff second drink.

  “I don’t really talk to her much anymore,” he added.

  “You don’t have a good relationship with her?” Daniels asked. He took out a notepad and wrote something.

  “My mother and I never really got along. I wish it were different, but I don’t think there’s much to be done about it now.”

  “When was the last time you spoke to Bob?” Gholson asked.

  Their communication as adults had been sporadic and finally ended for good when Jonathan wondered aloud if Bobby’s dad had turned his mom into an alcoholic.

  “A couple of years ago.”

  “Well,” Daniels said, “the next logical question to ask is if you have any idea why your friend would want to assault Fred Clark and burn down his restaurant.”

  This question was burdened with significance so overwhelming that Jonathan almost laughed.

  Instead, he said, “I only just heard about it, but I sure can’t think of any reason why he would do something like that.”

  “So that’s it?” Daniels said. “There’s nothing at all you can tell us? Anything you can think of would probably help, no matter how small it seems to you.”

  Jonathan had the feeling these detectives knew more than they were letting on. It also occurred to him that, five minutes before, he had stupidly typed on his computer the details of a crime he had committed with Bobby and the others many years ago. The evidence would be impossible to hide if these detectives wandered into his office, which was the next room over.

  “So you’re just going to stand there and lie to us?” Gholson asked.

  Jonathan stepped involuntarily backward.

  “What?”

  “You’ll have to excuse my partner,” Daniels explained. “All he does anymore is sit around and tell boring stories from his glory days. And lately he’s been going on and on about these cases of arson he worked back in the eighties. Apparently there was some kid named Joe who burned down a house and then disappeared. A week after that, some other kid from the same neighborhood burned down a restaurant. And now yesterday this fellow, Bob Steele, burns down the exact same restaurant and this time murders its owner. Since all you kids were friends, Gholson has the crazy idea everything is connected somehow.”

  Jonathan understood any police department would keep records of past cases. He knew these records were stored in computer databases, and maybe by now even the old case files had been archived electronically. But that he was standing in front of the same detective who investigated crimes Jonathan had helped commit twenty-five years ago—this was difficult to believe. Yet here Gholson stood with his partner, Daniels, asking about what happened at Lone Star Barbecue and how it might be connected to Jonathan’s past. It didn’t matter that he had never been officially implicated in those childhood crimes. Gholson obviously believed Jonathan knew something or else he wouldn’t have come here tonight.

  Back then Todd had taken the blame for burning down the restaurant, which was no small crime. But Joe Henreid was a missing child who had never been found. Could Bobby’s behavior last night have reopened interest in that missing person case? Why the hell had he written that shit on his computer?

  “Really?” Jonathan finally said. “You think there’s a connection?”

  “So you remember the cases I’m talking about?” Daniels asked.

  “Of course I do. I knew Todd Willis. I vaguely knew Joe. Of course I remember them.”

  “The way it went down,” Daniels said, “at least as far as we understand it, is this: Joe Henreid burned down the empty house, which was in Tanglewood, where all of you lived. Afterward, he ran away from home and is presumed to have been abducted. A week or so later Lone Star Barbecue was burned down, and though all five of you were close friends, including David Clark, whose father owned the restaurant, Todd Willis admitted to setting the fire alone. Does that sound right to you?”

  “That’s how I remember it,” Jonathan lied.

  “Have you spoken to Todd since?”

  “No. He moved away from Wichita that summer and I never heard from him again.”

  “No idea where we might find him?”

  Jonathan shook his head. “No, sir.”

  Gholson stepped forward, halving the distance between himself and Jonathan, his breath juicy with tobacco.

  “Mr. Crane, let me tell you something. I may not know exactly what happened that summer, but I know the official story is total bullshit. I don’t believe for a second that an eleven-year-old kid torched a house on his own. And if I’m correct, who might have had helped him do it? Maybe some other kids who lived over on the next street? Especially since, a week later, one of them burned down a restaurant where his buddy worked? Do you see what I mean? I don’t believe Oswald acted alone and I don’t think Joe Henreid did, either.”

  Jonathan’s brain buzzed angrily, like the busy signal of a land line telephone.

  “What do you want me to say?”
he finally croaked.

  “Tell me what really happened that summer. You know something. I can see it in your face.”

  Jonathan opened his mouth and said nothing.

  “You tell us something, and we’ll tell you something,” Gholson said. “We’ll tell you what Bob said right before he was shot.”

  Jonathan blinked. Now he understood why the detectives were pressing him so hard about events that had transpired twenty-five years ago. Whatever Bobby had said, it was complicating their investigation . . . and if they were willing to share it with him, maybe they didn’t consider him a suspect. Maybe he could admit knowledge of the childhood fires without implying his own participation. Even if they found what he had written on the computer, surely the statute of limitations on that crime had run out long ago.

  And he really wanted to hear what Bobby had said. Had he remembered what Jonathan could not?

  “You know how Todd Willis was in that weird walking coma?” he finally said to Gholson.

  “Of course I do. All the parents in your neighborhood used that against him when the restaurant burned down.”

  “At first we thought what happened to Todd was pretty cool, so we invited him into our club. But then Joe set that house on fire and Todd became obsessed. He thought we had been upstaged by some little kid. And since David was always complaining about his dad, how he was a shitty boss, Todd got the idea to burn down the restaurant. I mean, it was insured, so he saw it as more of a statement. A rebellious thing. When none of us would play along, he did it himself.”

  In this situation, Jonathan found lying came quite easily, as if he were building a scene in a novel.

  “So you knew he was going to burn down the restaurant?” Gholson asked. “Back then the rest of you claimed no knowledge at all.”

  “Our parents forced us to say that.”

  “Because they thought their reputations in this town mattered more than my investigation.”

  “Look, we were children, and Todd was disturbed. He was always saying weird things, doing weird things. It’s not our fault he—”

  “You could have told someone before he did it. That’s if what you’re saying is true, which I wouldn’t bet my pension on.”

  If this was all they had to work with, Jonathan thought, Gholson and Daniels were never going to understand Bobby’s motive for visiting Lone Star Barbecue. For that matter, neither would he.

  “You say this is all ancient history,” Gholson continued. “But when the same restaurant is intentionally destroyed in this manner not once but twice, I don’t care how many years separate the two crimes—there is probably some kind of connection between them. When you consider the incidents this week involving Alicia Ulbrecht and Adam Altman—friends of yours, both of them—maybe you can see why we’re asking you some tough questions, Mr. Crane.”

  Jonathan had not heard Alicia’s name spoken aloud since high school, and it was surreal to hear it now, especially in this context. She was the first girl he had ever loved, and Jonathan had wondered about her many times over the years. He had never made any attempt to look her up, however, in part because he assumed she had moved away long ago.

  “Alicia Ulbrecht?”

  “So you’re telling me you don’t know about that?”

  “No,” Jonathan said. “I don’t.”

  “I guess you don’t watch the news around here. Three nights ago, Alicia Ulbrecht’s house was burned down. The night after that, a new construction project in Tanglewood went up in flames, a house being built by Adam Altman. Then we have Bobby’s visit to Fred Clark’s restaurant last night. All three of these victims are connected to you, or at least they were back when you were kids.”

  “So what you’re implying is I’m a suspect in these crimes.”

  “I didn’t say that,” Gholson said in an amused voice. “Frank, did you hear me say that?”

  Detective Daniels shook his head. “No, I didn’t.”

  “This is ridiculous. I didn’t know about any of this until tonight. I haven’t spoken to Alicia or Adam in like twenty-five years.”

  “We wouldn’t expect you to come right out and admit the crime,” Daniels said. “But you should probably consult with an attorney.”

  “You’ve got to be joking. Why?”

  “This morning someone sent an email to our sergeant,” Gholson said. “We think it was a reference to these crimes.”

  “Whoever it was,” Daniels added, “was smart enough to use Gmail in a way that hides his IP address.”

  “Why would that concern me?”

  “The email wasn’t a useful tip or anything like that,” said Gholson. “It was some kind of clue. A cryptic message. The title of the email was ‘THE CITY WILL BURN.’ Written in all caps for maximum effect.”

  “We think the content of the email might be song lyrics,” said Daniels. “We’re not exactly sure.”

  A memory occurred to Jonathan then: Todd with his keyboard, playing music for them.

  “Are you going to tell me what was in the message?” Jonathan asked them.

  Gholson cleared his throat, as if he were standing in front of a television camera. He recited the lyrics robotically.

  “‘I’m gonna get you back, I’m gonna show you what I’m made of.’”

  The memory was clear now, bright and clear. Jonathan wondered how he had ever forgotten Todd playing this music for them. Even this morning, when he had awoken from the strange dream, the significance of the song and Todd’s playing of it had not occurred to him.

  “That ring any bells with you?” asked Gholson.

  Jonathan realized his hands were shaking, and he was tempted to pick up his drink and down the entire thing, detectives or no detectives.

  Instead he said, “I’m not sure. It does sound familiar.”

  Gholson looked at him gravely. “Maybe I can refresh your memory. What was the name of the club you invited Todd to join?”

  He pretended to think about it, if for no other reason than to buy himself time. Here Gholson thought he had discovered some explosive truth and Jonathan was struggling to understand a memory that was basically impossible.

  “Our club was called The Boys of Summer.”

  Gholson smiled triumphantly. “So you can see why we have interest in your childhood exploits. Three of your friends have been involved in some kind of arson incident since Monday, and in the last one, two people died. You could make the argument that Bob Steele set all three fires, but he probably can’t send email from the afterlife. Which means someone with information about these crimes remains at large. And considering this newest clue, lyrics from a song called “The Boys of Summer,” you can understand why we want to know everything we can about your club.”

  “Yes, I can understand,” Jonathan said. “But I wasn’t the only person in the club. I haven’t set any fires this week. And I sure as hell didn’t help kill someone.”

  Gholson and Daniels just stared at him.

  “So what did Bobby say before he was shot?” Jonathan asked.

  Daniels looked down at his notes.

  “He said Todd Willis told him this was the end.”

  Jonathan thought he might pass out. His mind was swirling out of control. Something was wrong, really wrong, and the lyrics Gholson had quoted earlier were the answer to a question he wasn’t sure how to ask.

  He wished the detectives would leave. He wished they would leave so he could finish his drink and make five or six more of them.

  “I know this has something to do with that summer,” Gholson said. “If you’re innocent, as you claim, why not just tell me what’s going on?”

  “Because I don’t know what’s going on.”

  “You sure?”

  “You think I’m lying?”

  “I think,” Gholson said, leaning close to Jonathan again, “that you’ve been lying since we got here.”

  Daniels grabbed his partner’s arm. “All right, Jerry. I think we have what we need. Thanks for your time, Mr.
Crane.”

  “No problem.”

  “Think real hard about what happened back then,” Gholson added. “And the next time I come by, maybe you’ll have more to say.”

  PART THREE

  June 2–11, 1983

  ZONE FORECAST PRODUCT

  NATIONAL WEATHER SERVICE NORMAN OK

  TXZ086-022200-

  WICHITA-

  INCLUDING THE CITIES OF ... WICHITA FALLS

  947 AM CDT THU JUNE 2 1983

  .TODAY ... SUNNY. HIGH AROUND 102. WINDS SW 10-15 MPH AND GUSTY.

  .TONIGHT ... MOSTLY CLEAR. LOW NEAR 80. SOUTH WIND 5-10 MPH.

  .FRIDAY ... SUNNY. HIGH AROUND 105. SOUTH WINDS AROUND 10 MPH.

  .FRIDAY NIGHT ... CLEAR. LOW IN THE LOW 80S. SOUTH WINDS AROUND 10 MPH.

  .SATURDAY ... SUNNY. HIGH 107.

  .SUNDAY ... SUNNY. HIGH NEAR 110.

  12

  Until two days ago there had been an antenna mounted to the top of his black plastic jambox. The jambox was a dual-deck model with two rows of red LEDs that flickered metronomically when you played a cassette. He enjoyed recording from the radio, and he liked to play those songs back in fits and starts as he learned to pick out their melodies on his Casio keyboard. He possessed no background in music except for a few lessons handed down by his Grandpa Willis. He did not play in the school band. But he could imitate songs he heard on the radio, and he would have been doing that now if he hadn’t accidentally snapped off the antenna two days ago. You couldn’t pick up many stations without the antenna. In fact, the only station clear enough to hear played country music, which wasn’t music at all, which was more of an oxymoron when you really thought about it.

  Todd Willis had been awake for almost six weeks now, awake in the sense that he was apparently living in the real world again. The problem was, when he had been asleep, he had dreamed things that seemed real when he was dreaming them. Like for a while he had believed himself to be a kid named Thomas. For several summer weeks, or so it seemed, he had spent his days with Jeff and Greg Stillson, two brothers who played oddly futuristic video games and swam in their backyard pool and always smelled like chorine. The Stillsons were kind to him, and they didn’t seem to mind that he never spoke aloud. They didn’t even care when he beat the crap out of them at their own video games. And then one day, with no fanfare or explanation, Jeff and Greg had disappeared and Todd retreated again into the white and empty void where there was no sound or color or smell or taste. In this void the only sensation was fear that vibrated at him from everywhere. A while later he would dream something else, like he was the very first human to test a new teleportation machine, or a famous scientist, or a man whose whole life was really a movie someone was watching. Sometimes, instead of visual dreams, he heard music, amazing songs that would have been famous had anyone else known about them. But no matter what he dreamed, no matter what he heard, eventually he was forced back into the endless white void. It was a realm where isolation consumed you from the inside, where you could not ignore the pointlessness of all life in the universe, and Todd feared it like nothing else.