How could my imagination play such a trick on me? Or was it just trying to give me what I really wanted? God, I was so scared. I didn’t know what to believe in anymore. I didn’t know what to do.
No. I did know what to do. Time was running out. There was something I had to accomplish. I sat at my desk in my room at the inn and inserted a fresh sheet of paper into the typewriter. My view through the window showed me a good portion of the lake and the town. There was my landscape; now it was time to create. There was only one thing missing. I glanced over my shoulder at the bed. The Joker sat on the end of it.
“Where do I go from here?” I asked.
“Wherever you want the story to go,” he answered.
I began to type.
The pages kept flowing as the images of everyday life in Malton dripped onto the white emptiness. My hands sometimes felt like they couldn’t keep up with my thoughts. It was as if I were possessed by a demon that had cut open my skull and spilt out all the memories that filtered down through my mind over the years.
There was so much to tell and so little time.
I had never been capable of writing at the clip I proceeded at now. I poured out everything I could onto the pages. I didn’t want to stop, I didn’t think I was capable of stopping. As the day progressed, I felt I wouldn’t even have to take a break to eat, thought that feeding off the creativity of my writing would be nourishment enough.
But I did take a break.
I walked into town to Loon Tavern to grab some lunch. My mind was constantly molding and shaping thoughts that continually sprouted in my head.
After eating, I went back to the inn and kept on writing. I was on a mission. A mission to get my story out while I still could. The pages kept mounting.
Before I knew it, the past caught up with the present.
Here we were, gathered at the Tower House Inn.
That was when the story came full circle. That was what this was all about wasn’t it. The story had to be finished. The story that had begun those many years ago.
But how was it to finish? That was the question.
There was a killer among us. It could be anyone. Oliver? Woody? Martin? Maybe even me.
I dropped my hands into my lap and leaned back into my chair. My fingers throbbed with a dull aching pain. I stared at the pile of pages I already had and the uncompleted one I still had in the typewriter carriage.
I couldn’t write anymore. I was spent.
Besides, I was at a crossroads.
I just wasn’t sure what was going to happen next. I thought that maybe, just maybe, if I wrote what I wanted to happen, that it would. As if I had the power to change the story at will. It was a bizarre sensation. I felt like I was in charge. I was the one telling the tale.
The story had now become a puzzle. But the problem was there were still too many pieces missing.
Missing?
Lonny’s toupee was missing. That’s what the story needed next. What had happened to Lonny’s toupee?
THE SLAUGHTER OF THE LAMB
Following the last day of Junior High School, Jason Nightingale’s family moved out of Malton.
Oliver watched the moving van drive past his house with glee. He looked at it out his bedroom window with a smile on his face, his first smile in quite some time. That family had caused enough trouble in his life, he thought. Good riddance to them.
Now that the inquest was long behind them, life had returned to normal. He no longer wanted to think about Jason Nightingale, but it was hard with the family still living right around the corner. They were still a constant reminder, and Oliver wanted to forget. Forget everything. It was bad enough seeing the blackened carcass of a tree in his backyard to remind him of what had happened to his clubhouse, but to see Jason’s parents, little sister in tow, driving down the road nearly every day really sickened him. Why would they even want to stay around here? Wouldn’t everything be a constant reminder, especially living right down the street from the Tin Man’s house?
Then one day, Oliver saw a “For Sale” sign sticking in the ground in their front yard. About time, he thought.
So seeing the moving van roll past his house made Oliver happy.
He had other reasons to be happy. Junior high was finally over. Next school year, he’d be in high school. That will be cool, he thought.
Well, freshmen year will probably be a bit tough, but once he got through that first year, everything else would be smooth. He had a brother who was a senior, and one who was a junior, and he was sure they’d pick on him a little bit. That was to be expected. But he could take it. He wouldn’t allow himself to be intimidated by them, or anyone else in school. He was tougher than that.
Besides, being on the sports teams in high school would help. Upperclassmen respected that.
Of course, he also couldn’t wait to make new friends. That was another thing Jason Nightingale had ruined. After the inquest into his death was over, so was the Jokers Club. Things were just never the same among the six of them. Sure Lonny and he were still tight. Lonny was very loyal, and Oliver could always count on him. But the others kind of drifted off.
He didn’t mind not hanging out with Martin or Woody. After all, Martin was such a wimp. It was kind of embarrassing sometimes to be around him. Oliver couldn’t really believe he had ever hung out with him now that he looked back.
And Woody had become really weird. It kind of freaked Oliver out. He remembered an incident with Woody in the cafeteria at school one day. Oliver had just gotten his food tray, some dark-colored mystery meat as the featured entrée, and he was looking for the seat Lonny usually saved for him. He passed a table that Woody was sitting alone at. Woody was playing with his food, pushing it around on his tray with his fork.
“You’re supposed to eat it,” Oliver quipped, “not torture it.”
Woody just glared at him, upper lip turning into a snarl. After a few seconds, he flipped his tray in the air, meat, string beans and mashed potatoes scattering all over the table and floor.
Oliver watched, dumbfounded, as Woody got up and stomped off. After that, Oliver steered clear of him, both at school and in the neighborhood. In fact, Oliver didn’t see much of Woody around Maple Street. It seemed like he didn’t leave the house much.
But Oliver did miss hanging out with Dale. Carpenter was a cool kid. Dale and Geoff were still pretty close friends and seemed to spend their time together, just the two of them. At first, Oliver was jealous. He didn’t like being excluded, and that was how it felt. He’d much rather hang out with Dale than Lonny. But Dale and Geoff didn’t seem to care to include Oliver anymore. Geoff probably had a lot to do with that. Oliver always felt Geoff judged him too much. But Geoff didn’t know what it was like growing up without a mother and with a bastard for a father. Geoff was an only child, a golden boy, who didn’t have to grow up in the shadow of older brothers whom he always had to try to live up to even though they constantly picked on him.
Plus, Geoff spent too much of his time with his head up his ass. Oliver got sick of listening to Geoff read his stupid horror stories. Hell, they weren’t even scary, and Oliver could always figure out the endings. They were pretty simple. How the hell did he ever think he’d get to be a famous writer? It was all a stupid dream. That was Geoff’s problem. He was always dreaming. He should stick to reality for a change. Maybe high school would smarten him up.
But the real reason Geoff and Dale didn’t hang with him anymore was Jason. Jason had ruined the club and now Oliver was glad to see the moving van drive down Maple Street, stop, and turn onto Autumn Avenue where it would continue out of town and out of his life.
Maybe some new kid would move into the house on Shadow Drive. Maybe someone a lot hipper than that shit Jason Nightingale.
If not, there was always high school.
But in the meantime, there was a reason to celebrate and maybe one last chance to win Dale over. Junior high was over. Oliver had convinced his oldest brother to buy a case of beer
for them to celebrate. Both Dale and Geoff (though reluctantly of course) had agreed to head out with Lonny and him to the woods near old man Callahan’s farm.
Oliver’s brothers gave them a ride out that way in the back of their pick-up. After being dropped off the four of them hoofed through the woods, taking turns carrying the beer till they reached the clearing where they used to hang out sometimes. The clearing had become a favorite spot for a few kids to congregate. It was secluded enough where you could build a campfire without betting noticed, but was also near enough to Autumn Avenue that you could thumb a ride back into town late at night.
A fallen tree served as a bench and they sat around drinking the beer and talking, mostly about what high school would be like and the anticipation of someday getting their driver’s licenses so they wouldn’t have to worry about bumming rides off people or thumbing home from places like this.
Lonny had gathered some small branches and twigs and built a tiny fire in the middle of the clearing. The flames drove away what little chill there was in the night air and lit up the immediate area. Oliver kept the beer away from the fire.
The beer was already getting warm so Oliver drank as fast as he could. He had snuck beers from his dad’s fridge in the past, often at the urging of his brothers, so he was kind of used to the taste and the effects. The others were drinking a little slower, and he couldn’t wait to see the effect on them, especially Geoff.
“This is like a rite of passage,” Dale said. “The next phase of our life.”
“A better phase,” Oliver said. “No more stupid junior high.”
“Now it’ll be the big time for us,” Lonny added, swilling his beer.
“Not so much as freshman,” Geoff said, still working on his first beer, though Oliver was already on his third.
“Maybe for you, Thorn,” Oliver said. “When they see me on the football field, they’ll treat me a little different than you.”
Lonny chuckled.
“But that’s all right,” Oliver continued. “You keep writing your stories, I’m sure that’ll impress a lot of people.” Geoff just stared at him. “Maybe you can become some English teacher’s pet.”
“If you’re lucky, it’ll be Mrs. Stern,” Dale said. “I hear she has a nice rack.”
“That’d be too much for Thorn to handle,” Oliver replied, enjoying the setup Dale had just given him. He stared at the fire, knowing Geoff’s eyes were on him, loathing him right now. Good, Oliver thought. Let him stew in that for a while.
They were all silent for a moment, except for the occasional gulping of beer and the crackling of the fire.
Dale had been the first to hear something.
“Someone’s coming,” he said.
Everyone stopped moving and listened closely.
A twig snapped in the fire.
“It’s just the fire,” Oliver said.
“No,” Dale said. “I heard someone moving around, out there.” He pointed to the field beyond the edge of the trees.
Oliver waited to see if anyone was approaching, maybe some other kids out drinking, maybe old man Callahan. Maybe Hooper and his men. There was nothing they could do but sit and wait; there was really no place to go.
Then Oliver did hear something, a rustling, like footsteps in the grass.
“Go take a look,” he told Lonny.
Lonny put his beer can down and walked toward the edge of the clearing, disappearing into the darkness.
Oliver looked at Dale and Geoff beside him on the log. Dale looked curious, but Oliver relished the nervous look on Geoff’s face. Oliver wasn’t scared, in fact he felt a little rush of excitement as he began to wonder what could be the origin of the sound in the dark.
“Maybe it’s one of your monsters, Geoff,” Oliver said. “Maybe the thing that crawls up out of the well,” remembering one of Geoff’s better tales.
Lonny cried out.
Not a cry of fear, or pain, but a cry of wonderment.
It was followed by a loud thrashing noise and more yelling from Lonny. It sounded like a struggle was going on.
Oliver stood up from the log, clenching an unopened beer can in his right hand, thinking he could hurl it as a weapon.
No one else moved and suddenly the thrashing and yelling stopped. The sound of movement in the grass came toward the clearing. Oliver gripped the beer can tighter, getting ready for whatever was coming. Dale and Geoff remained seated on the log.
“Look what I got,” Lonny said, bursting through the darkness into the clearing.
There was a shape in his arms, squirming around, crying out. Oliver had to stare for a moment before realizing it was a lamb.
“It must have got loose from old man Callahan’s farm,” Lonny said, having a hard time holding onto the animal.
“What the hell you planning to do with it?” Dale asked, standing up and moving closer.
“Maybe he wants to fuck it,” Oliver said laughing.
It squirmed and kicked in his arms, but Lonny held tight.
“I don’t know why I grabbed it. Just seemed like the thing to do.”
“Well, why don’t you just let it go,” Geoff said.
“What do you think?” Lonny said, looking at Oliver.
Oliver did think. He stood there silently, staring but not seeing, the mind behind his dark eyes working, the gears turning. He had an idea and his mouth widened in a grin. Finally he spoke.
“Let’s eat it.”
“What?” Geoff said.
“Kill it and cook it. Right here on the fire.”
“You’re not serious?” Geoff said. But Oliver was, and the look on the faces of the others told him they all knew he was.
“I don’t know,” Dale said, shaking his head.
“Yeah,” Lonny said. “Let’s do it.”
“Who’s going to kill it?” Geoff asked, but it was a foolish question.
Oliver stepped forward, his hand grabbing onto the hunting knife he almost always had attached to his belt.
As if the lamb knew what was coming, it jumped out of Lonny’s arms.
“Get it!” Oliver screamed.
Dale and Geoff just moved out of the way as the lamb ran in a circle, confused as to how to get away. Lonny dove and grabbed the animal by the wool on its backside. He lay on the ground gripping two fistfuls of white, the animal dragging him a bit as its legs dug at the ground trying to escape.
“Don’t let go,” Oliver said and grabbed a thick branch from the pile Lonny had gathered for the fire. He stepped in front of the lamb and raised the branch over his head.
The beast struggled in Lonny’s arms and as Oliver held the branch high in the air, he looked down into the wild panic in the lamb’s eyes and thought about how helpless the creature looked. Innocent and helpless, just like he felt the times his old man would yank off his belt and give him a strapping, usually with the buckle end stinging into his arms and legs and back as he cowered beneath the blows wishing they would stop, wishing he could turn the tables on the bastard and just grab the belt out of his hands and give him a kick-ass whooping. Then he would see how it felt, how humiliating it was. Never mind the pain. Oliver could take the pain. He was tough. It was the degradation that really sickened him. How the beatings made him feel like a helpless animal.
Like this little lamb.
The helpless lamb’s eyes looked away as Oliver swung the branch down onto its head, again and again. His eyes widened, the muscles in his face grew tight in a mad grin as he watched the blood fly from the lamb’s head as the branch struck it over and over. His own blood was pulsing through his body with exhilaration as he realized this must be how his dad felt when beating him. It was a mad rush that made him feel good, made him feel strong.
Finally there was a loud crack as both the lamb’s skull and the branch gave way at the same time.
Lonny let the animal go and got up on his knees. The lamb’s legs kicked a couple more times then stopped. Oliver stood there with the broken end of the branc
h still in his hands. He looked at the dead carcass, then up at the boys, the grin never leaving his face. He tossed the broken branch aside.
“It’s dinnertime!”
He withdrew his knife. Everyone just watched in amazement as he grabbed the top of the lamb’s head in his left hand, holding it up, and drew the blade across its throat, a wave of blood gushing out. He flipped his knife over to the serrated side and began sawing at the neck till he hit bone and continued. It was tough cutting through the spine, but once the blade fractured and splintered the bone, the head tilted back further and he felt the separation. The rest was easy, slicing through the muscle and skin in the back of the neck; he felt it give way. The body dropped to the ground and the head hung free in his hand.
He held the trophy in his outstretched hand, turning it so he could look into its dead eyes, so it could see who the real master was.
Oliver looked at the others. Dale and Geoff looked stunned, the latter’s face pale. Lonny looked on with glee.
Oliver set the head down on the log and then proceeded to the lamb’s body. He gutted it and skinned it, tossing its inner organs into the fire where the flames engulfed them.
He didn’t care that blood was getting all over his clothes and hands. It actually felt good. His brothers would appreciate this if they saw what he was doing. They would think he was a man, not just some teen boy.
He knew what he wanted to do, how to finish the kill, to make it complete. He wanted to taste its flesh.
With Lonny’s help, he drove some sticks into the ground on either side of the fire, and then with his knife he cut another stick to make a spit and impaled the carcass of the lamb on it. He hung it over the fire on the two upright branches.
They went back to drinking and watched the meat cooking, taking turns to turn the spit over. Oliver got an idea and stuck another branch deep into the ground. He picked up the lamb’s head, looking into its dead eyes once again, and then rammed the head on the top of the stick.
Jokers Club Page 19