Nursery Rhymes 4 Dead Children

by Lee Thompson

  “One thing at a time.”

  Mike tapped the roof of the car and walked back to the Jeep.

  Chapter 22

  Life buzzed with movement and white noise that you lost track of if you didn’t listen for it. As we walked the path into the woods, eyes scanning the ground for any signs of a disturbance—freshly turned soil, half hidden bits of dead flesh—Mike pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and held it over his nose and glanced over one shoulder and then the other.

  I worked my way beneath a stand of dirty white birch trees to my far right, while Duncan took up the track to Mike’s left. To a casual observer it’d look like we searched for something simple and innocent—a fallen deer to fill the freezer, or a bed of morels to fry in a skillet slicked with butter. It reminded me of how off people were when it came to guessing the rambling chaos or pinpoint precision of other men’s words and actions.

  Mike’s right boot sank to the ankle in earth and something snapped, muffled by soil. Pulling his foot free, he set the shovel down next to him and knelt over the depression—a mixture of sand and spruce boughs. “I’ve got something here.” He shielded his eyes to the setting sun slanting through tree tops as he turned his head, watched me disappear behind a group of trees to either drain my bladder, or because he thought I found something else.

  Looking over his left shoulder, Mike smelled Duncan before he saw the broken man dive to his knees beside him. The cop dug into the soil, barehanded, and threw it into the air like a dog, scrambling, his breath sharp, sweat standing out on his forehead, eyes crazed.

  Mike wiped his eyes with his shirt sleeve and started digging, too.

  * * *

  I stood at the head of a clearing that sank knee deep into the earth, covered in rich grass. A ring of trees lined the perimeter, rocks beneath them, as tall as my waist, wedged in the earth, slick with moss and water. A perfect circle of bare black soil sat in the center, a ring inside a ring. I didn’t understand what purpose it would serve—off the main hiking trails the way it was, with no bench to sit and rest. I eased down three stone steps, into the bowl; feet squishing over a thick carpet of green, almost translucent in texture, as if its third dimension lacked completion.

  I took a deep breath, fingers itching. I studied the doll house that seemed to have grown organically from the soil, its windows opaque in the day’s dying light, tiny shingles damaged by time and neglect.

  The manor.

  I swallowed the lump in my throat. A slow vibration thrummed against the soles of my hiking boots and branches rattled like bones tossed into a fifty-gallon drum. I pulled my collar away from my throat, knelt in front of the miniature manor.

  What the hell is this?

  * * *

  Duncan cried out as he jerked a girl’s arm free of the soft soil. He studied it, running his hands over the shape of its elbow, down to its fingertips. He closed his eyes tight, the muscles in his jaw bunched. Mike pulled another arm free, but it didn’t look like a match, darker skin than the arm the cop held. Brushing dirt off graying flesh, he laid the arm tenderly on the mound of soil edging the knee-deep pit they’d carved by hand.

  Goddamn. This poor sonofabitch.

  The big cop swallowed a heart-wrenching sob and Mike looked over as Duncan brushed dirt and dark hair off a young girl’s face poking out of the ground. He dug his fingers into the dirt hiding her shoulders and shook her lightly, grains of soil falling from her brow, sticking to her open blue eyes.

  “Here, let me help.” Mike knelt next to him, part of him worried they stood on other hidden body parts, dead kids. An old nursery rhyme his mother used to sing, after Natalie had gone missing, dripped like dark water into his thoughts:

  A wise old owl lived in an oak

  The more he saw the less he spoke

  The less he spoke the more he heard.

  Why can’t we all be like that wise old bird?

  Mike looked at the dead girl, his heart sick with the image of his mother leading Natalie away into the woods, the nursery rhyme that followed, one he’d never understood, forgotten like so many things. The image staggered, folded upon itself until he and Nat sat on the pool, smiling on a warm summer night.

  She’s always wanted me to keep quiet. This fucking situation is bringing it all back. Goddamn it.

  Duncan shoved him away, eyes frantic. “I got her. Get out of the hole and give me some room.”

  Mike climbed out, glanced over his shoulder at the spot where he’d seen John disappear. Looking back at Duncan, the damp soil caked on their hands, he said a silent prayer he feared would never reach God.

  Give these families comfort. Closure.

  He tried to remember the last time he’d prayed, realized he hadn’t even done it for his mother, who rotted away, inside out, while he roamed the hall beyond her room, afraid to face her, afraid the dam would break and his anger, the questions, would spill forth. It made him wonder what that said about him, his own buried grief.

  Mike wiped tears from his eyes—knowing what he needed to do, but unsure if he could follow through.

  Duncan hugged his daughter to his chest with his left arm, stumbled from the hole, and cradled her head in his right arm. He laid pieces of her on the forest floor. He ran his fingers over her cheeks, snorting like a mad bull. Mike kneeled at the edge of the grave and worked more body parts loose of the soil.

  * * *

  The manor, made of wood and glass and granite, creaked in the wind. I took another step forward, the key burning the skin over my heart. In the pale dimness of the upstairs windows, I saw a flicker of movement. It receded into the dark depths contaminating the interior, reminded me of when I’d been too young to understand the toxicity of what had happened when I stayed there, the sudden move of a hand beneath my blanket, hot breath against my shoulder.

  I shivered, convinced the little man inside the house was me, in that other life—the trapped boy, confused, never free. I looked around for a broken branch to break the manor wide open and let the boy out, but everything was perfect here, like a little Eden. No death, only growth, brilliance. I pulled the pistol.

  A light hummed inside the belly of the childhood beast; shadows flickered up walls half glimpsed through tiny windows. A raven beat its wings around my head and lit on the roof’s peak. It studied me from glossy black eyes, its beak half open, as if preparing to speak.

  A woman spoke, a voice I knew and dreaded, “Are you ready?”

  I turned. Angela sat naked on the stone steps, her back to the forest. Sunlight flared across red hair that barely concealed pink nipples. “You know what you have to do?”

  I shook my head, fingers knotting from holding the pistol so tightly, unsure if I should trust her or give her what she wanted in All Saints when she’d called me Dark Man, put the barrel against her lips and pull the trigger. But I couldn’t because she knew so much she wasn’t willing to share yet. For some godforsaken reason she wanted me to figure everything out for myself.

  “Listen to your heart, Johnathan. What does it tell you?”

  I touched my chest. Mark’s key vibrated against my fingers. Pulling it free, I knelt down and leaned forward, looked at the manor’s door. It was a lock, a keyhole like an eye glaring from the center of the polished mahogany. Angela’s hair brushed my shoulder and I jumped. She whispered, “We have to hurry. Chaos is building its case against you.”

  I barely heard her, but something cold and wet slithered inside me, as if someone had tried on my body like a new set of clothes. I pushed back against the force as the little man in the window winked at me, teeth gleaming in the failing light, and the raven cawed overhead, wings ruffled by a gust of wind, its talons tapping the roof.

  Chapter 23

  I stepped inside the manor. The door slammed shut behind me. I spun toward the stairs on my right and saw the raven on the railing. A red splotch covered its chest in the shape of the skeleton key. I put my hand over my heart, felt thin bone, smooth flesh. Looking down I saw the pajam
as I’d worn as a kid. Raising my child-like hands, I stared at thin white fingers, the raven beyond them, hopping on one wounded leg. I wiped hair from my eyes and traced a hand over my chest, found the key still in my possession.

  Studying the bird as it studied me, I whispered, “What are you?”

  The raven cocked its head. “What are you?”

  “I’m a person. You can talk. Or are you only mimicking me?”

  “Little boy, listen.”

  Gooseflesh broke out over my back as someone screamed as if stabbed repeatedly. I clapped my hands over my ears. “Make it stop!”

  High above the double doors, moonlight stretched through the window and the chandelier glittered. Ahead on my left, the sound of someone playing a lilting melody on piano, a bass stab here and there, thunderous in the following stillness, rocked me back on my heels. I pulled my pajama top closed and looked at the railing. The bird puked up a piece of yellowed paper, rolled and tied shut with a red ribbon.

  The piano player tapped the keys, drowned the screams. I hoped that Mike was in there practicing, and that he’d be done soon, so we could get out of here and go play in the forest while his parents slept. The old routine slipped over me. “Mike?”

  I moved down the wide hall, black and white tile cool against the soles of my feet. The raven bent and nudged the parchment forward with its beak.

  The house sighed as something beat against the upstairs windows. Growing more furious, it kept pace with my heart. My voice echoed down the hall. “Mike?”

  Stopping next to the railing, I stooped and steadied my hands by force of will, braving myself to snatch the roll of paper, and be quick about it, before the raven had a chance to stab me with its beak.

  The bird eyed me, its head cocked at an impossible angle. The boy in me wanted to laugh, but the piano snagged my attention. I knew that song. I tugged at the red ribbon as I looked down the hall at the wide doorway from which the music bled. The paper, old and yellowed, tore in a soft whisper as I unrolled it. A girl’s handwriting in blue ink stained the page. An entry date at top, no name.

  August 7th, 1987

  I don’t know why I keep doing it, but I can’t seem to stop. I feel bad for you, for what I’ve done. I know I’m sick, that I need help, but what good would it do, really? What if it’s part of me? Every time you come over, I itch with fire. If I had the ability to write poetry, I would. I’d write it for you, put these hands to better, purer means. Forgive me my trespasses. What I do, I do in love.

  Sweat soaked through the thin paper. I wiped my hands on my pajama bottoms and stepped forward, patted the raven’s head. “You brought me something special. But what does it mean?”

  The bird cranked its head to the right and bounced on one leg. It stared at the living room doorway and sang, making up its own lyrics to a song I had loved as a young teen.

  For a week we’ve been on our own

  And blood bright red marks the pages, tome,

  But that’s not how it used to be.

  Now this jester sings for the king and queen,

  In a lie he borrowed from the stream

  And a voice that came from you and me,

  I eased along the wall toward the living room, slid the paper in my pocket. The raven followed.

  Angela sat at the piano, the large window behind her looking out over the dark lawn. She and the raven sang together as she met my stare.

  Oh, and while the boy hid his crown,

  The jester stole his last smile and frown.

  Those loved, and hated, burned;

  No verdict was returned.

  And while Johnny read The Book of Patron Saints,

  God and devil, masturbate

  Hearts just dirges in the dark

  The day the music died.

  The music stopped. Died, hung in the air for a moment.

  The front lawn burst into flames. No. Crosses burning on the lawn, writhing men screaming toward heaven, bound by barbed wire, their voices like a choir of ill children. The stench of rotting vegetation, spilled blood, disappointment and anger, settled around me like ash. Fire lit the sky and something beneath, born of earth and ruin, slithered across the grass; a man with a lower body like a serpent, large vertical mouth full of teeth, a bright blue light perched where its tongue should have been.

  I stumbled back and bumped into something. Hands grabbed my shoulders. I jerked free, stumbled forward, fell prostrate as if worshipping the burning martyrs, or the serpent kings, or Angela’s smile.

  Turning over, my arms and mouth numb, I met my brother’s gaze.

  It was a trap!

  I glanced back, to throw my anger at Angela—in tears and words—but she faded, a soft pulse. Curtains stirred. Mark sighed and the windows rattled in their casings. “It feels like forever.”

  Since you touched me?

  Mark squatted, braced his arms on his knees. “We need to set things right.”

  It’s too late for that. You did what you did. And I killed you.

  “You’re so confused.” Mark sank to his knees and crawled forward. I tried to push myself back, away, but my body betrayed me. My bladder threatened to burst. Mark’s hand extended toward my waist.

  No!

  I tried to bat his hand away, surprised at the slap of flesh hitting flesh. Mark frowned and pinned my arms to my sides. He leaned in, until our noses nearly touched. “You’ve gotten so much wrong.”

  Let go of me!

  I squirmed, but Mark held me fast. The raven hopped around us, and stopped next to my waist. Its tongue flicked out, wet its beak. I squeezed my eyes shut, felt something inside me break away from my core, and drift toward the ceiling.

  * * *

  Mike stood. Black soil clung to his pants and hands. Duncan stayed on his knees, crawling around the pieces, putting an arm on this naked torso, that one, crying as he worked a jigsaw puzzle of flesh and bone—like all the king’s soldiers trying to put Humpty Dumpty back together. The cop smashed his hands against the ground, spittle on his lips. “I don’t think they’re right.”

  Mike rubbed his wrists against his eyes. “I can’t tell either.”

  Duncan stood and walked a tight circle around the bodies. He looked at the pine needles and Mike wondered if the poor man wanted some thread to stitch his baby girl back together. He’d seen the price men would pay to get their dead back, in Cuba. Watched as the black tide came in and consumed a local family while he put a gun to the witch’s temple and engaged heaven and hell.

  Duncan’s shoulders slumped. He cleared his throat and pulled his cell phone from his pocket. “Shit, my mind is mush. I don’t know what I’m thinking. I broke the law just now.”

  “How’s that?”

  “By being stupid. I should have called this in. We might have destroyed evidence. Goddamnit. I just…”

  “Your superiors will understand. It’s your little girl.”

  Duncan nodded, rubbed his temples, brow bunched. He plopped down next to his daughter and ran his hand through her hair. He hit a button on the phone and held it to his ear. “Where’s McDonnell?”

  Mike looked around the forest, listened for a moment. “Let me go look for him.”

  “He better not have run off.”

  “John wouldn’t.”

  “He tried to cover for his friend out at the Andrew’s house. That was the second murder he tried to keep a lid on. I don’t think that makes him a good guy.”

  “He’s better than me.”

  “We need to talk about that still.”

  “My record.”

  “Yes.”

  “Not happening.”

  Duncan shrugged. “You want to get locked up too?”

  “You’re going to take John into custody?”

  “Him, that shit for brains mayor, the drunk coroner. Their lives are all going to be drowned with this.” He waved a hand at his daughter, the others. “Someone should have stepped forward.”

  “I’m not disagreeing. Let me find him.�
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  “Don’t think you can find him and hide him.”

  “Never dream it.”

  “Don’t be smart. You’re seeing most of my life right here, washed up.” His voice grew thick as he said, “Her mom isn’t the greatest mother, but she tried, for Angie.”

  “And now?”

  “She’s not going to keep trying for just me.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “What do you care? People get divorced every day.”

  “She’s going to blame you though, isn’t she? But your biggest problem is blaming yourself. John knows something about that. Do me a favor, don’t throw him in with the other two. He’s different.”

  “Find him. Bring him back.”

  Mike sighed as Duncan called the crime in. He hung up a moment later. “GPS. They’ll be here within a half hour. Should have kept it on my daughter. I never bought her a phone, seemed stupid to let a teen run up a bill, talk to boys, you know?”

  Mike waited, wanting to hear Duncan out. He realized it was a play, more than just sympathy. He wanted an angle, a bit of leverage to use on the man, to keep John from sitting in some dank cell that stank of drunks and child molesters and abusive husbands. He bowed his head.

  Christ, forgive me.

  * * *

  Cat woke to the sound of a car racing down the street. She ran her hands over her clothes, thanking God she still had them on. Her jaw ached, head throbbed. Fingers groped in the dark, and she felt concrete beneath her. Raising her head, she caught sight of a window, a dozen feet above the floor. Cat listened, trying to figure out where she was, mind trapped in a haze she struggled to see through, to recall what had happened. She remembered the argument with John, a car billowing smoke like heavy prayers thrown at God. And she remembered the bare ache in her heart, left by Mark when he’d done what he’d said he would.