“Maybe I’ve matured,” I finally said, looking at Meg. “Don’t need to always go for the guts.”
She leaned over and pressed her soft lips against my cheek.
“Well, it’s subtle, I like it. I think it’s great progress.” She leaned back in her chair smiling and I just marveled at how adorable she was and how lucky I was to have her.
But now I had seen real horror once again, right there behind me on that porch swing. Meg had it all wrong; the Joker was right. There was nothing subtle about horror. It was gruesome and grotesque and Dale’s blood soaked the wood of the swing and the floorboards beneath and you could see the ragged tearing of his flesh and the innards through the opening in his abdomen.
No, nothing subtle about that. That was horror.
And no matter how much I stared out at the beauty of the lake, I couldn’t ignore it. Not when the wail of the sirens approached to remind of what was going on behind me. I had to turn around and face it. There was no other choice.
* * *
Police Chief Hooper hadn’t changed at all. He was just as fat and ugly as I remembered. We all stood at one end of the porch: Lonny, Oliver, Martin and myself. I looked at the faces around me. They were all pale, and I imagined my own to be the same. Nobody spoke.
A little further away from us stood Bob Wolfe, Sandy the chambermaid, Professor Bonz and the woman guest. They too were silent.
In the middle of the porch were Hooper and several other police officers, all standing around the swing. With them was a medical examiner looking over the body. One of the police officers was taking pictures from a variety of angles.
Dale remained seated, unaware of everything going on around him. Like the rest of us, he too was silent, would always be. It was crazy. He couldn’t be dead. I was sitting there right beside him on that swing just hours ago. And now he was still there. But he wasn’t ever going to get off of it. Not on his own. Dead. Murdered. It was all a dream. No more spooning peanut butter from jars snatched from our mothers’ kitchens. No more racing through the ravine during a game of Relievo. If I could just shake his body hard enough to wake him.
The officer with the camera continued taking pictures. I wanted to grab the camera from him and smash it into his face. Didn’t he realize Dale didn’t want to be photographed?
His eyes were open. That freaked me out the most. He looked right at me. How could he not see me? How could he not know what was going on now?
The doctor took a step back from the body. He looked at Chief Hooper.
“Notice the ragged edges of the skin along the wound?”
The chief nodded.
“Most likely a knife with a serrated edge. Judging from the size and depth of the opening, a rather large blade I’d say.”
“Maybe a hunting knife?” the chief questioned.
“Could be.”
The cop with the camera kept shooting.
“It doesn’t look like he put up any struggle,” the doctor continued. “No defensive wounds on the hands.”
He did look peaceful, I thought.
“Could it be,” the chief said, “that the killer came up behind him?”
The examiner nodded. “Possible.” He rubbed his chin. “Most likely they wouldn’t have gotten much blood on themselves that way.”
“No,” I said.
All heads turned toward me.
“The killer wasn’t behind him. He would have been in front. Dale saw the killer. You can see it in his eyes.”
His eyes were looking at something. They weren’t just vacant eyes. Even in death they held something.
The chief glared angrily at me. He conferred with the examiner some more in an inaudible conversation. Then he signaled for the ambulance attendants, who had been patiently standing nearby, to proceed with their end of the business.
I watched as they callously laid Dale’s body out on the outspread plastic bag. I couldn’t take my eyes away. I realized this would be the last time I would see Dale. I wanted to reach out to him, tell him I wouldn’t forget him.
One of the attendants pressed his eyelids closed.
No, I thought. Don’t shut out his world. Don’t close off his last look.
But I realized he could look no more.
I turned my head when they began to zip up the plastic bag. I did not want to see that, but the metallic sound ripped through my body like an icy blade.
After the ambulance pulled out, I opened my eyes and looked at the others. Martin’s head hung down, exposing more of his bare scalp; Lonny’s hands kept twitching as his fingers continuously moved to his head to adjust his hairpiece. It didn’t help.
Even Oliver seemed shaky. He kept exhaling deep breaths.
I listened as Hooper questioned Professor Bonz and the two women. They had all gone to bed early they told him, the professor accentuating his need to rise early to get onto the lake for his studies and expressing frustration at this current interruption.
I remembered seeing the female guest going upstairs to her room while we were still in the den. I also remembered the chambermaid, Sandy, coming down from Oliver’s room. What did she consider early? How long had I sat out on the porch with Dale? How late was it when I went up to my room? Nothing was clear to me.
Hooper thanked them and let them go about their business. Then he turned his attention to us.
As he crossed the porch approaching us, the floorboards emitting a strained creak with each step, he removed from his front pocket a plastic bag and pulled out of it a hunk of pepperoni. He bit off a huge chunk, gnawing it as he replaced the remainder in his pocket. He tugged on his belt when he stopped in front of our group.
The way he glared reminded me of the many times he would approach us as kids and accuse us of some mischievous activity. Like the time Oliver caught a duck with a fishing net and we put it in Hooper’s car. The next morning, the bird flew out as soon as Hooper opened his door. But it had left behind a gooey mess all over the car’s seats.
He had stared at us then in hopes one of our members would finally crack and admit our guilt. But no one ever did. Except that one time Jason Nightingale squealed.
“I knew you were all back in town.” He glanced from one to another.
Nobody said anything.
“You probably didn’t have any idea I knew what was going on. I know more than you think. I didn’t like the idea of you guys coming back here one bit. I haven’t forgotten all the trouble you and that stupid club of yours caused. Don’t think for one second that I have.” He chewed as he talked and a bit of drool poked out of one corner of his mouth. He wiped it away with the back of his hairy hand. “You’ve left some black scars on this town. You’ve never been nothing but trouble to me. And here it is years later, and you’re still at it.”
“You got a point?” Oliver asked.
Hooper looked at him. “I don’t like any of you, never have. And if I pin this on one of you, it’d make me very happy.”
“You don’t think –” Lonny began, but a look from the chief stopped him from finishing and caused him to play with his hair some more.
Hooper turned to me.
“You were the last one to see him?” His breath stunk of pepperoni.
“Yes.”
“What time?”
I shrugged. “I really don’t remember.”
“About?”
I thought real hard, but the whole night was blurry; I just couldn’t remember. I really didn’t remember even leaving him to go upstairs. I just had vague recollections of climbing the stairs to my room. Time was a total blank.
“I really don’t know. We had quite a bit to drink.”
He bowed his head and shook it slowly, then with hands on hips, looked up at the porch roof and wheezed a slow sigh. “And you were the last one up?”
Wait a minute, I thought. Lonny had still been out. He couldn’t sleep and had been out walking the streets. He would have come up later. He would have had to walk right by Dale.
; “Yes,” I lied. “I was the last one up, except for Dale.”
“Why didn’t he go up?”
Why? If only he had this wouldn’t have happened. Everything would be all right. Why had I gone inside and not he? What had we been talking about? He had been telling me something. What was it? Why couldn’t I remember?
I looked over at the porch swing and the red streaks on its white paint, the splotch of red on the floorboards beneath it.
“I don’t know,” was all I could answer.
He huffed and another wave of pepperoni smacked me.
“I know Mr. Wolfe would prefer you all got out of his inn, but I’ll have a talk with him. I want you all around for a few days while we investigate this.”
“We have these rooms booked through Sunday night, chief,” Oliver said. “Unless you want to charge us with something, we are free to go as we please.”
“You’re still a wise-ass.” He scratched his fat belly. “Just remember. You’re not kids anymore.”
No, I thought. If only we were.
The chief started to walk away, and then turned back.
“I notice Mr. Woodman isn’t here.”
“He didn’t show,” I said.
“I guess I’ll have to look into that.”
* * *
After Hooper and the other cops left, we gathered in the inn’s den. We were all seated except for Lonny, who paced in front of the fireplace. Everyone was silent at first. I just shook my head, trying not to believe all this was happening. Dale was gone. His body was wrapped in plastic and on its way to some morgue where they’ll throw him on a cold steel slab to perform the autopsy. At least his body was already split open down the middle; that should make their work easier. They’ll rip out all his internal organs to get a sample and slice them up like vegetables for a salad.
This shouldn’t be happening.
I couldn’t stop thinking about his eyes, the way they were looking at me. I started thinking about when I first saw those eyes, when I turned around in class in second grade and saw the little blond-haired, gap-toothed kid looking back at me, smiling. The teacher introduced him as a new student in town.
At recess, while I played with some of my friends, I noticed him off by himself, watching us. He was still smiling, and I wanted to invite him to join in but was a little too shy to ask.
When school ended that day, I noticed him in line for the same bus as mine. He sat a few seats behind me and I kept wondering where he lived. Whenever I looked back, his eyes met mine and we both smiled. When I got to my stop and got off, so did he. As I headed down Maple Street, I watched as he went up Autumn Avenue and then turned down Elm. I raced all the way home to tell my mother there was a new boy in the neighborhood.
It was hard to believe that smiling seven-year-old boy carrying a lunch box and a pencil case would eventually end up having his abdomen sliced open with the serrated edge of a knife.
A strange thought occurred to me. This incident could give the story I wanted to write a new direction. This was like a natural progression of events. It was as if the story was starting to write itself. Maybe it’s why I came here. Maybe it’s whey we were all brought here.
Lonny broke the silence. “Why would anyone want to kill Dale?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Could be some maniac drifter,” Martin offered. “Just doing it for the thrill.”
“They’d have to be nuts,” Lonny said. “The way they butchered him.”
Oliver cleared his throat. “I think we should all realize that this may not be a random act.”
“What are you getting at?” I asked.
He stood up from his chair.
“Just, maybe he was killed for a reason. Maybe someone wanted him dead.”
“No,” Lonny exclaimed, as if it never occurred to him. “You think so?”
“But who?” Martin asked.
“And why?” I added.
“Why? I don’t know. But maybe the chief’s right, maybe it’s one of us.”
He almost smiled as he said this. We all looked at each other.
Yes, I thought. This would fit in with the story.
“You mean one of us wanted to get rid of him?” Lonny said. “Are you crazy?”
“Someone is.”
Something I had forgotten came to me. “Lonny, didn’t you see Dale on the porch when you came in last night?”
“That’s been really bugging me. I remember being down by the marina, drinking that bottle I had. I’m pretty sure I finished it, cause I remember chucking it into the lake.” He began to pace. “I was really drunk. I know I headed back to the inn.” He stared at the floor. “I came in the front door. I had trouble opening it for some reason. And I went up to my room.” He looked up at us. “But I don’t remember if I saw him or not. He could have been awake, maybe I even talked to him. I don’t recall. Maybe he was passed out.” His body trembled. “Or maybe he was already dead and I walked right by him without noticing.”
“Do you have any idea what time it was?” I asked.
“What are you getting at?” His voice rose. “Are you trying to say I did it?”
“I’m just asking –”
“Why would I want to kill him?”
“You’re the one desperate for money,” Oliver offered.
“He wasn’t robbed!” Lonny’s face turned red.
“No, but you begged me for money yesterday. Maybe this is some way of threatening me, scare me into paying you off?”
“You’re nuts! I always thought you were smart. You’re just an idiot!”
“If Dale was brought here to be killed,” Martin said to Oliver. “Remember, it was you who invited us to this reunion.”
He laughed. “Why would I need to kill anybody? I’ve got everything I want.”
“Maybe that’s it,” I said, leaning forward. “You’re the most successful one of us here. Maybe you’re afraid of exactly what you said about Lonny, that one of us will take advantage of your success and try to blackmail you. Maybe you brought us all here to get rid of us.”
“That’s ludicrous. Blackmail me with what?”
“A horrible wrong committed long ago.”
He approached me and leaned over. “I did nothing wrong.”
“You still believe that? Is that what you keep telling yourself?”
“I don’t even think about it anymore.”
“Don’t you?”
He turned and walked across the room.
“Besides, I may have sent the invitations, but this reunion wasn’t my idea.”
“Oh, whose then?”
He turned around. “It was Woody’s.”
“Woody’s?” I said, surprised.
“He wrote me awhile back, suggested that we all get together. I took it from there.”
“Why should I believe you?”
“I don’t care if you do.”
“Do you think Woody’s here?” Lonny suggested.
I thought about it, about what Woody said to me when I last visited him.
“I suggest we all keep our eyes open,” Oliver said.
“It won’t matter,” I responded. “We can’t control our destiny in this thing. This whole thing is like a story. And we’re all just characters. We’ll just have to let the tale play out.”
“And just who might be writing this story, Thorn?” Oliver asked. “You, perhaps.”
“If only I was this creative.”
Lonny let out a deep breath and shook his head. “This certainly isn’t going to help my insomnia.”
“There’s one thing we haven’t considered,” I said.
“What?” Martin asked.
“Maybe this reunion is more complete than we thought.”
Oliver looked irritated. “What are you driving at?”
“Maybe Jason is here.”
“You’re not serious?” Lonny looked up, his voice half laughing, half quivering. “I mean, you really don’t think so? Do you?”
“Why not?”
“You’re a bigger fool than I thought you were,” Oliver grunted. “Jason Nightingale is dead.”
“You don’t have to remind me,” I said. “We’re the ones who killed him.”
HOUSE OF THE TIN MAN
Woody shone his flashlight out his dark bedroom window onto Geoff’s window at the house next door.
Come on, Geoff, he thought. Hurry.
Finally, the shade lifted and Geoff stuck his head out.
“What are we going to do, Geoff?” His voice was loud enough to travel across the lawn separating their houses but quiet enough so his parents downstairs wouldn’t hear.
“I don’t know,” Geoff shrugged.
“We’ve got to do something. We can’t leave him out there all night.”
Geoff lowered his head, as if he were concentrating real hard.
“Meet me outside,” he finally said. “And bring your flashlight.”
Woody knew where they were going: back to the Tin Man’s house.
The house was mired at the end of Shadow Drive. Not to either side of the dead-end street, but directly at the end, so that if the road were to continue, it would go straight through the front door. It was a lonely old house, badly in need of repairs. A rusty gutter hung unevenly from the front edge of the roof, the left side dangling as if it would give way with the slightest accumulation of rain. Behind the dust-covered windowpanes on both floors were dark green shades pulled down, obstructing any view, in or out. The house hadn’t seen a paint job in years and not a flake remained of whatever color it had been. There were only dingy gray clapboards cracked and calloused like the owner’s dried skin.
His name was Emeric Rust. He seemed a century old. He’d lived in the house forever, Woody had been told. His face was a mass of wrinkles, resembling a mountainous region on a topographical map. Round eyes appeared to bulge out of his head. His crown was topped with, surprising for his ancient years, thick white hair.
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