by Lane Diamond
Man! I can't remember the last time I felt this good.
The food is gone and we've passed on coffee, well into our second bottle of wine, and she reaches over and grabs my hand. She leans in close and squeezes my hand as her eyes burrow into mine.
She throws me a curve ball. "Tony, tell me about 1978. I want to know about Alex."
PART 4 – Three Days in Hell
Chapter 17 – June 7, 1995: Tony Hooper
I can barely look Linda in the face. "You were there. Don't you remember?"
"I was twenty-eight, fresh out of school with my doctorate and into a new career, trying desperately to please the people for whom I worked and to make my mark." She pauses to measure her words. "I hate to admit it, but honesty compels me to say that I wasn't terribly concerned about Tony Hooper at the time. I did my job and tried to impress my new boss. I was there, but I wasn't there, because for me, you weren't there. Not really."
One more thing I like about Linda: she tells the truth even when it exposes her as less than the person she strives always to be—a rare bird, in my experience. Then again, my experience is more limited than I'd care to admit: jaded, cynical, solitary. My disappointment with humanity tends to inform my opinions.
Frank, ever the grandpa, recently disagreed with that self-assessment. He insisted that I'm protecting myself from further pain of loss, having experienced too much already, afraid that another such incident might push me over the edge. He said I love people without inhibition, devote myself to them with abandon, and open my emotions, thus making myself vulnerable. To guard against that vulnerability, I've built a wall to keep others out, to keep me safe.
Sounds like pure psychobabble to me.
Yet when I'm with Linda, I feel as though I might remove a few bricks from that wall. Maybe. In time.
"I've thought about 1978 a lot, lately," I say.
"That's only natural, under the circumstances."
I take another long sip of wine and refill our glasses. The second bottle is empty. "Nevertheless, I have a difficult time expressing my feelings about it."
"Please try, Tony. It's important."
Damn, I don't want to disappoint her.
Her soft eyes reassure me, and I'm more comfortable than I've felt in a long time—perhaps seventeen years. It might help if I open up to her. I've spoken at length with Frank and Master Komura about my memories, my psychological baggage, my loss. They've been my sounding boards throughout the years, and I trust them with my life.
It's different with Linda, more intimate. I think I trust her with my heart, an unusual circumstance, and a feeling I like... a lot.
I motion the waiter over and point to the empty wine bottle. "I think we need another one of these."
Linda doesn't argue.
What the hell, I may as well get drunk given the condition I'm in. "Are you sure you're ready for this?" Say no. Please, let me off the hook.
"Yes, I'm ready."
Chapter 18 – May 21, 1978: Tony Hooper
I'd suffered in bed last night, staring out the window as I floated in a mean state between sleep and consciousness. Stubborn instinct had refused to stay in its hole, burrowing from deep inside to give me the inevitable news: Alex would never again share his bright disposition and carefree smile.
For the first time since Mom had died, I'd cried. I'd screamed silently at myself, at Dad, at the world, at the Hoopster, and I'd cried some more.
Finally, dawn crept mischievously out of the darkness, like the bratty kid down the block come to tease me.
Had this been a typical Sunday afternoon, I'd have watched the Cubs game on TV with Alex, or shot hoops with him. Instead, I walked around the driveway and absent-mindedly dribbled the basketball, shooting it only occasionally, caring not a whit whether I made the shot—just going through the motions. Any motion.
Alex should have been there with me, struggling to make a shot from far outside his range so he could feel like a big man, or at least like his big brother. I wanted to talk to him and coach him. God, I wanted to hold him.
It had been twenty-four hours since I'd walked out the door and left him alone.
Still there was no word of him.
Every tick of the clock's minute hand struck a hammer-blow to my heart. I suffered privately and quietly, refusing to speak to anyone or even to remain near them. Dad was there, Frank was there to provide comfort, and some friends and neighbors stopped by after hearing what had happened.
Intruders! They distracted me from my anguish, my self-loathing.
We knew nothing with certainty.
Yet I knew.
I couldn't talk to Dad. I had no confidence in his ability to handle the situation. I'd seen first-hand how he crumbled under the strain when Mom died, and I expected him to crumble again. A damned lousy attitude, but an honest one. Frank might have helped, but he focused on Dad, perhaps sensing who needed consoling the most—again.
Diana called not once, but three times that morning, and each time I had to say I'd get back to her later. Despite her disappointment and concern, I couldn't face even her. I didn't know how to draw the lines between my own suffering and guilt, and my need for Diana to rescue me.
Perhaps I didn't want to be rescued. I wasn't finished punishing myself.
"Shit, I hate this!" I stared at the driveway as I dribbled the ball, and then glanced around the neighborhood. "Alex, where are you? Come on home, Hoopster."
Emotions tore at my mind until I could barely think, or stand, or breathe. One crept out of my psyche to overshadow all the others: anger—persistent, pernicious, persecuting. If someone had hurt Alex, I desperately wanted to get my hands on that someone.
What would I do?
Well, I'd done it before. I'd meted out justice on the spot—killed a killer, the drunken bastard who'd murdered Mom. I'd eliminated him without any real conscious thought in what was practically an out-of-body experience.
This time, I had plenty of time to consider my actions. Could I, with absolute premeditation, kill another human being? I couldn't escape the truth, so why deny it? If someone had killed Alex, I could kill the killer—again—if I got the chance.
What an alarming realization. Was it my rage pushing me to the edge? Would I go beyond the simple consideration of the act to its fulfillment, or should I leave it to the law? Which would be worse for the criminal: a quick death, or a lifetime of wallowing in misery behind bars without hope of parole, knowing that his life was already over but that he must suffer it all the same? Which was the more enlightened approach? Which the more costly? What price, life?
What was the value of Alex's life?
I grasped for answers as if catching raindrops with a fork.
What morbid thoughts I dwelled on. They jabbed at me like Muhammad Ali on speed. I couldn't shake the horror, the crushing foreboding that life prepared to deal me another devastating blow, a real knockout punch. Was it selfish to think that way, to think of the impact on me instead of Alex? Was that the essence of mourning?
"Goddamn it, Tony! Why such dark expectations?" I glanced around to ensure that no one had heard my outburst.
My thoughts drifted back to a time when Mom, Alex and I had gone to the beach at Cedar Lake on a sweltering July day. Alex had journeyed out too far and found deep water. He flailed and yelled for me as the strength drained from his little arms. He was four years old. I raced to him and got there just as he was about to go under. I tried to hide my own fear while holding him close. He shivered and fought to hold back the tears, so I laughed and light-heartedly called him a goof, and his smile returned. He looked around and, upon realizing the depth, puffed with pride. He'd never been out so far, hanging with his big brother in what he liked to call "the big water." I wanted to squeeze him like a warm blanket.
If I'd had a calendar of favorite days, that summer steamer would have been on it.
The recollection wisped away on the warm breeze, and I slumped as though a crane had parked a wrecking ball
on my head. I could stay awake no longer. Alex was missing, or worse. What would I do about it?
I'd sleep. It's all I could do.
I rolled the basketball into the grass alongside the garage, and staggered inside the house. I needed to leave behind the chaos, the fear and anger, and escape for a few hours into a dream world. Perhaps I could recapture there the life I'd once known—my old friend, happiness.
Yes, dreams. What else was there?
***
Alex is getting his curveball to work, even though he's too young to be throwing breaking pitches. He's determined to be a pitcher, which I think is a mistake. The kid can hit! He has a fluid natural swing that generates more power than you'd think possible from his little frame. He's a good glove too, and he can play almost any position. Although he's only ten, I swear that kid has Major League Baseball written all over him. Wouldn't that be a kick?
I can imagine how he would react to playing for the Cubs. Geez, I'd never hear the end of it. That would be a gas. Alex so loves the Cubs and Wrigley Field.
We were there April 17, 1976, to see the Cubs play the Phillies.
The Cubs get off to a huge lead, 12-1, and it looks like a lock. Alex goes nuts as his favorite players get hits and score runs. He keeps eating those lousy, sixty-cent pizza slices, which fairly resemble cardboard smothered in tomato sauce and mozzarella.
He pesters Dad relentlessly. "Please, just one more slice?"
Dad furls his brow and grins. "That's what you said two slices ago."
"I promise. Just one more slice, and one more bag of peanuts, and another Pepsi. That'll be it. I promise!"
"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Sure it will be." Dad hands him the money.
"Come on, Tony!"
He's too small to go on his own, and I have to jog to keep up with him as he bounces between the other fans in the runway like an escaped pinball.
He yells over his shoulder, "Hurry up, Tony, I don't want to miss any of the action."
When the game ends and Mike Schmidt has hit four homeruns to lead the Phillies to a big comeback win, 18-16, Alex shrinks in disappointment. Until we get outside the ballpark.
His enthusiasm resurfaces like a submarine missile launch. "Hey, Dad, can we stop for a Chicago-style hotdog? And maybe an Italian Beef?"
Dad and I look at each other and laugh. Where in the world does the skinny little kid put all that food?
Alex sits alone in the backseat and plays catch by himself. He slaps the baseball into his glove, over and over and over, for the entire ninety-minute drive home.
When we get there, he jumps out of the car and runs to the end of the driveway. He yells, "Hey, Tony, do you want to play some catch?"
Man, are you kidding me? It's been a long day and I need a break. I'm exhausted. I can barely get out of the car, let alone toss a ball around. "Sure, Hoopster, I'll play for a little while."
"All right!"
Chapter 19 – May 21, 1978: Reports, Rumors and Re-Enactments
Lou Pratt loved to fish. He found it thrilling to stand on the bank of the Fox River in the hopes of hooking a big carp or, if he was lucky, a catfish. They were about all that survived the squalid waters of the Fox. Carp were horrid, despicable fish that made for poor eating, but he was more than happy to fry up a catfish. Never mind that they scavenged for their existence in the same sludge and sewer runoff. Catfish were eating fish and that's all there was to it—the gospel according to Lou Pratt.
Sunday meant a few competitors along the banks of the river, which was fine with Lou; he enjoyed the conversation that accompanied the competition. Light pressure tugged at the fishing line. A smart one, he thought, but not smart enough for an old pro like Lou. With a short, rapid flick of the wrists, he set the hook and worked his catch toward the shore.
He whistled through his smile. "Well, salt my gravy! Ain't you the pretty one?"
Tangled around the catfish was a determined weed. Lou dragged it through the water to a small tributary that ran beside the old carnival grounds on the west side of town, several yards below the dam. It offered fewer obstacles, both above and beneath the water. He gripped the catfish in his right hand and, immersing it in the water, used his left hand to untangle and release the stubborn weed, and unhooked the fish.
He held his prize high for inspection. "I do believe you'll make a fine dinner tonight. Maybe I'll add a few of your friends to the freezer. I am feeling lucky and that's for sure. Then I'll—"
He gasped and jumped from the water, and instantly forgot about the catfish that just got away. He riveted his concentration on the horrifying sight before him, and, as it came into focus, he could hold his breakfast no longer. He turned and ran up the path a few yards, where he vomited into a bush off to one side. He heaved and shivered for a minute.
When he was able to control himself, the horror notwithstanding, he returned to the water and gradually focused again on the tragedy.
"God have mercy."
He leapt up the shallow bank and darted toward the main lot. His stomach churned yet again, though it must be empty. He put it out of his mind. He had to reach the payphone across the street.
***
Chief Bill Radlon responded to the call. His small force, with the help of a couple county sheriff's deputies, still searched for a missing ten-year-old boy. Uneasiness crawled like ants up his spine. There must have been another explanation for Lou Pratt's hysteria. It couldn't have been Alex Hooper, who'd last been seen awaiting his father and a pizza at his home on the north ridge, high above the Fox River valley.
He admonished himself for jumping to conclusions. He'd know soon enough. Doc Wenthal, semi-retired, former County Coroner and still an occasional consultant, was on his way to the river to help with the preliminaries.
The chief pulled into the empty lot that sat idle most of the year, the most notable exception being during the Founders' Day Carnival. At the end of the lot, a man waved his arms in frantic gestures, as though it were necessary to hurry in order to save the dead body.
He pulled to a stop alongside the man and got out of his car.
Chapter 20 – May 20, 1978 (One Day Earlier): Reports, Rumors and Re-Enactments
At the back of a long unused and ignored piece of farmland, north of the gravel pits and east of Crystal Lake, stood a dilapidated, nearly ancient farm shed. Mitchell Norton happened upon it accidentally one day while doing some impromptu hiking around the gravel pits, as he attempted to gather his courage and join some kids who swam in the lake there.
It struck him as a satisfactory place to escape from the world, something he did often.
***
Now conscious, Alex Hooper lay gagged and bound to a wooden workbench against the north wall. He stared at the ceiling and nervously watched the meaty, motionless spider suspended in its web a few feet above him. Tears slithered down his cheeks as he attempted to make no noise at all.
He knew the faint sounds that emanated from his right must be from the terrible man who'd hit him and brought him here, yet he couldn't force himself to turn his head and look. He chose the safer route, remaining perfectly still and quiet, as if doing so might make him invisible. When he'd been younger and monsters had lurked under his bed at night, this had been a most effective strategy.
Help me, Tony! Come and save me! Dad, I'm so scared!
***
Mitchell sat on a dusty chair in the corner of the shed, stared at the boy across from him, and agonized over how to proceed. He dreaded his next move. The demon was in charge here, and he knew all too well what the Reaper wanted. Yet he sat frozen, unable to bring himself to action, hunched over in his armchair with elbows on knees and head in hands. He massaged his temples and growled in frustration at the pain that so distracted him.
He glanced at the boy, who trembled uncontrollably, and again groaned as the demon returned in a swirling, dizzying montage. He taunted him and showed him new wickedness, the sight of which at once terrified and compelled him. Inevitably, he threatened Mi
tchell with unimaginable punishment should he disobey.
He could not.
He raised his head, stood and approached the bench, until the boy lay beneath him. Although the boy kept his head still, he rolled his eyes right and focused on him.
Mitchell spoke in a flat voice, without emotion, controlled by forces outside his power. "You've been trying to avoid me, I know, but I am the deliverer. You cannot hide from me."
***
The man blurred through a murky puddle of tears, yet Alex remained quiet, and still but for his shaking, which he was helpless to prevent. Above him stood something different from what he'd seen before. The same face watched him, the same man, but his eyes blazed like something out of those cheap, Saturday night horror movies that he and Tony loved. Though he'd never seen it in real life, he recognized the unmistakable glare of insanity.
I have to keep quiet. If I concentrate, I can disappear. I can do it.
"Tell me, son," the man continued, "are you worthy to stand in the light? Have you been a good boy? Or might you burn in the terrible fires? Do you know that I am the judge and the jury?"
Alex didn't understand. In his terror, he barely heard the words.
"I have never seen the light, but I'm told it's a place of warmth, peace and joy. However, I have seen the flames of despair, torture and agony, and I know most of us will end up there. My hosts have shown me these things, for I am the chosen, the dispatcher to the new world."
The wicked man stalked to a table at the edge of his sight, and opened a small duffel bag. He pulled out a knife that could double as a machete, carried it over to the bench, and held it high.
Alex groaned and emptied his bladder as he searched desperately for some sign of rescue. Fear overwhelmed him, but also profound sadness, for he knew he would soon leave Tony and his dad behind. He felt sorry for them, somehow knowing that they'd suffer the pain long after it had passed for him. A mature resignation steeled him against the horror, an understanding well beyond his years—an acceptance.