“Not sure. But I do: she was the last person to see him alive—at least the only one who’s still here to talk about it—and that’s gotta count for something.”
Chapter Seventeen
Eisenhower Middle School
Faith, New Mexico
Susan Swift was grading papers at her desk when Cameron walked into the classroom.
“Sheriff Dawson, please come in.” She stood up behind her desk and reached across it to shake his hand. Everything about her—although quietly stated—reflected a well-bred quality, something hard to replicate if you weren’t born into it. She wore a navy button-down sweater draped loosely over her shoulders.
Cameron scanned the room for an adult-sized chair, a rare find in those settings, and spotted one in the corner. “Thanks for meeting with me,” he said, grabbing and bringing it to the front of her desk.
“I’m afraid I don’t know if I can offer you anything useful,” she said, her voice wavering a bit, “but I’m happy to help any way I can.”
Cameron nodded, sat down.
After a moment of silent contemplation, she said, “We’re having a difficult time coping with what’s happened here, teachers, the kids … everyone.”
“One student dead, another missing … and a teacher … murdered. It’s a lot to take in.”
“Alma …” Susan said, shivering, as if a cold draft had just blown into the room. She pulled her sweater closer over her shoulders, shook her head with sadness.
Sensing her discomfort, Cameron cleared his throat and slid the pad from his shirt pocket. “I know all this is difficult, but unfortunately, there’s no way to avoid it. I hope you can bear with me.”
“Of course,” Susan said, nodding and staring vacantly at the stack of papers on her desk.
“What I need to know is if you saw any significant changes in Ben’s behavior before all this happened. Did he seem bothered by anything? Agitated in any way?”
“No,” she said. “Not that I could see.”
“How about signs of violence or aggression? Ever see Ben show any?”
“Goodness, no.” She reached for the top button on her blouse and fumbled with it. “Ben wasn’t a confrontational kid at all. I don’t think I ever saw him angry … about anything.”
“What about the day of the murders? Cameron asked. “Observe anything unusual?”
“No. Same as always. The quiet kid we all knew,” Susan said, her voice trailing off. She paused, then added, “Maybe a little more subdued than usual, but that was because of the flu.”
“The flu?”
“Yeah. He was coming down with a case.”
Cameron crossed his leg and started writing. “Can you tell me more about that?”
She shrugged. “Nothing unusual, really. You know how kids are. They’re always catching things.”
He flipped a page and continued taking notes. “Symptoms?”
“Said he had a sore throat, that he felt achy.” She stopped to think, chin in the palm of her hand, elbow resting on her desk. “His nose was runny too, and he seemed feverish. You know, typical symptoms.”
“Observe anything else?”
“No, just a bit quieter than usual, is all,” she said.
“Something bothering him?”
“I’m more inclined to think it was because he didn’t feel well. I ended up sending him home.”
Cameron stopped writing and looked up at Susan. “What time was that?”
“Oh …” she said, gazing at the clock. “I’d say it was around two-ish.”
“Who came and got him?”
“His mom. She usually does every …” Susan stopped herself, shook her head. “Sorry. I meant she did ... anyway, she picked him up about an hour earlier than usual. It was late when he started feeling ill. I could have just kept him here, but I started getting worried. He was looking pretty awful.”
“How so?”
“Pale. And I could tell he was feverish just by looking at him. Perspiring, too, with the chills. Flu symptoms are like that, you know—they tend to come on pretty fast.”
Cameron looked up at her from his notes and nodded. “Any other kids come down with similar symptoms, before or after Ben?”
“No. I was worried about that. Usually one of them brings a bug into the classroom, and before you know it, everyone has it. I was hoping to dodge that one by sending him home right away.”
“How ‘bout his home life? He say anything to you during the day, or even previously? Any problems going on there?”
“I don’t think so. Ben just wasn’t that kind of kid. In fact, I doubt I ever saw him upset about anything. Shy, yes, but he always seemed happy, content. You know?”
Cameron nodded. He did know, first-hand. “What about classmates—problems with any of them at all?”
“None that I’m aware of,” Susan said. “Ben was pretty quiet most of the time, kept to himself, almost like he tried to make himself invisible.”
“Invisible?”
“Perhaps that’s the wrong word. Let me rephrase: he did his best to stay out of everyone’s way, didn’t want to be noticed …” she stopped, thoughtful. “Like he was always lingering somewhere off in the background? But no, never any problems with other students, not as far as I could tell, anyway. Seemed most of the time they hardly even noticed he was there.”
“A loner,” Cameron suggested.
“Well, yes. Except I hate to use that terminology. Has such negative connotations.”
“What about friends? Who’d he hang out with? Meet anyone new recently?”
“No. Like I said, he kept to himself—didn’t seem to have many friends.”
“Many—or any?”
She reconsidered, then shrugged. “I guess any, from what I observed. Now, outside of here—that may have been another story. Really, I don’t know what his social life was like once school let out.”
“What about his parents? Had you met them?”
“Oh, yes. Several times. Open house, PTA. You know. Things like that.”
“Impressions?”
She shrugged. “Very, very nice people. I spoke with them once or twice about Ben’s shyness, how I was trying to help him overcome that. They seemed appreciative … grateful that I wanted to help him.”
“Concerned,” Cameron confirmed.
“Very much so.”
He paused, nodding, thinking. “I know Ben was a quiet kid, but had he shown any sort of fascination with violence lately?”
“No. Not anything I could see.”
“Not even with things on TV … movies … music, even?” Cameron asked. “Kids are exposed to a lot these days.”
“Yeah, I know what you’re saying …” She bit her lower lip. “But see, I’m trying to think of how to best explain this. You have to understand something: I’ve been dealing with kids almost every day for the past six years. You start to recognize the troubled ones. It becomes second nature for teachers. If Ben had any problems, I think I would have noticed. He just didn’t. He was a very considerate, sweet child.”
A considerate, sweet child who gunned down his entire family and then himself, Cameron thought, and then realized he’d had similar notions about Ryan Churchill.
Susan was still talking. “I know that sounds crazy in light of what he did, but that’s how he always seemed around here.”
“Okay,” Cameron said, moving on. “What about schoolwork? Any problems there?”
“Ben had a little trouble grasping things at times. I attribute that … or I attributed it, rather … to his shyness. I got the impression he was afraid to speak up, ask questions, and get involved in class discussions. As I said, I was trying to help him with that. His grades weren’t exemplary, but they were acceptable. I always felt he had the ability to do better, though. He just needed to step a bit further out of his shell.”
He’d done that, Cameron thought, only had gone much too far. It wasn’t adding up; there had to be more. He flipped his notebook cover,
then stood up. “You’ve been a lot of help, Miss Swift. Thank you taking the time. I know it isn’t easy.”
“I’m happy to help,” she said.
“If anything else comes to mind—”
“I’ll be sure and come by or call.”
“I’d sure appreciated it.”
As they walked together toward the door, Susan appeared to be struggling with something, then stopped. “Look, it’s probably not my place to say this.”
“Go right ahead,” he urged.
She paused, sighed. “I don’t know what came over Ben that day to make him do what he did—I honestly don’t—but I can’t help but feel someone or something must have influenced him. Quiet, well-mannered children don’t just wake up one day, murder their families, then kill themselves. Look … you and I both know Ben was not a violent kid, and I think we’re both qualified to say that. There just has to be more to this.”
More to this … Susan Swift’s words were still echoing inside Cameron’s head as he turned the key to his ignition. Then he thought about what she’d said next: Someone or something must have influenced him.
Someone else? He’d thought about Ryan but had never considered it further. And other than Ben and his family, there was no evidence of anyone else in the house. Still, he wondered about outside influences—could someone, somehow, have manipulated him into murdering his family? Did he go into that closet to kill himself because of the guilt he’d suffered afterward? Possible, but again, not a shred of evidence to prove it.
All he knew was that up until the murders, Ben showed no signs of anger or hostility and had no inclination whatsoever toward violence.
Good kid on the outside, but inside—that seemed to be a completely different story.
Just like Ryan.
Chapter Eighteen
45687 Monument Path Way
Albuquerque, New Mexico
A thick stench charged the air, a vile combination of urine and perspiration that lingered, growing stronger with each passing minute.
Kyle stood before an elongated hallway; it went on for what seemed like forever. At certain moments, the walls looked so white they were nearly blinding.
Stainless-steel gurneys sat parked along the narrow corridors, one for every door, each containing a wafer-thin mattress. She gazed down the hall at all of them lined-up so neatly in a row, like a traffic jam made up of shining mirrors, each one reflecting onto the next.
The whole place had a hollow, abandoned quality, one she could feel lurking behind every corner—an anxiety-producing aura thick as gutter mud and just as dirty.
Then there were the sounds, an endless array of throaty, guttural moans that seemed to come from nowhere and echoed down the cavernous corridors, almost as if bleeding through the walls; they filled the air, playing out like some eerie, torturous symphony. Even the lighting flooded the air oddly, covering everything like a thick, soupy vapor—a yellowy haze, drifting apart, then multiplying like resinous smoke.
Kyle was lost in some sort of otherworld.
Just then, she felt a presence over her shoulder, as if someone had walked past her. A rush of cold air danced down the back of her neck, making the tiny hairs along it quiver. A voice, high-pitched and raspy, spoke softly into her ear. It was thin, barely above a whisper. A child’s voice:
“Empty hearts, empty souls.”
Startled, Kyle spun around, but nobody was there.
A chill shot up her spine. She turned back again, only to find a pair of sallow, green eyes bathed in a milky film, staring directly into hers.
The dream was so disturbing, so vivid, it shook Kyle right out of her sleep. Lines of sweat raced down her cheeks and her nightshirt was soaked. Her body was raging like a furnace, even though her skin felt ice-cold to the touch.
It was happening again.
Just as she reached to turn on the lamp, the bulb popped, exploding into a big bright flash of light, then went dark. She fumbled her way to the wall switch, turned on the lights, and peered at the alarm clock: three a.m.
Kyle was accustomed to the dreams. She’d been having them since she was a little girl, but these seemed different, more powerful.
“It’s a gift,” her mother told her when she was young. “A gift from God.” She too, had the gift.
“Like a present, Mommy? A birthday present?” Little Kyle’s brown eyes widened.
“Something like that, except it doesn’t come with pretty wrapping and a bow. Presents from God don’t come that way.”
Kyle glanced down at her tiny folded hands, then up to her mother, shrugging the way little girls sometimes do. “A present without wrapping paper?”
She pushed Kyle’s little nose and smiled. “You’ll understand it better as you become older, but for now, just know it’s nothing to be afraid of. It’s a good thing.”
“Why did God give it to me?” she persisted.
Her mother placed a gentle hand on Kyle’s shoulder. Her voice sounded confident, reassuring. “So you can help people.”
“Help them how?”
She paused for a moment, trying to figure out how to explain such a complex idea to such a young girl. “Let me see.” She gazed up toward the sky. “Let’s say a good friend of yours from school …”
“Like William?” Kyle asked eagerly.
Her mother raised her eyebrows and nodded. “Yeah, okay, like William. Say he was going to make a bad decision.”
“What kind of decision?” Kyle challenged, tilting her small head sideways. Silky braids bounced onto narrow shoulders.
“Well … let’s say he decided not to wear a jacket to school because it was sunny that morning. But you had a dream the night before about a big storm that was coming.” Her mother stretched her hands wide apart in an effort to illustrate enormity. “A storm that nobody’d predicted. You might call William that morning to warn him.”
“So he wouldn’t get all wet?” She covered her mouth with her hands and giggled.
“Exactly,” her mother said, laughing along, grabbing Kyle, and wrapping her arms around her, kissing the top of her head.
But her mother had never warned her about anything like this.
Kyle pulled open her nightstand drawer, grabbed her journal, and began writing down every detail she could remember, something she’d learned to do when the more confusing dreams came.
This one certainly qualified. That creepy hospital, she thought, as the hairs on her arm began to tingle, both empty and noisy at the same time. She could still hear those raw, tormented moans echoing down the hollow halls—so much pain and agony.
“Empty hearts, empty souls.” She said the words aloud, looked up from her journal to think for a moment, and then committed them to paper, still wondering what they meant.
Just then, an image jumped into her head: those haunting eyes, staring directly into hers. She trembled.
So dull and lifeless, a sickly color. And murky, like a cloud of mud stirring restlessly in a lake. She knew those eyes. She’d seen eyes like that many, many times before, both in dreams and in the walking world.
Those eyes belonged to the dead.
On her back and in the dark, she stared up at the ceiling, wide awake. This dream was a message. From whom, she had no idea, but she did know one thing: it was important. These kinds usually were, the ones that pulled at her consciousness, stretching it far beyond limits she never knew existed.
Even more important about the dream, she knew someone had lived it. Was it the little girl? Was she recounting some horrible, traumatic experience, one that ultimately led to her death?
And was she reaching out to Kyle for help?
Chapter Nineteen
Felice’s Diner
Faith, New Mexico
Felice’s was a cornerstone in Faith.
Clattering, bustling, and unpretentious, the affable little diner was a part of the town’s history. For many, this was more than just a place to eat; this was place to gather, to catch up on the latest go
ssip, and on each other.
The restaurant’s specialty was enchiladas, a crowd-pleasing favorite among the locals and a must-have for first-time visitors. The menu also accommodated those preferring the more conventional, stick-to-your-stomach comfort foods, like meatloaf, chicken-fried steak, and mashed potatoes smothered in gravy.
When time permitted, Cameron and Frank started their mornings there, discussing the day’s affairs while filling their stomachs.
Now they sat in their usual corner booth, each with hot coffee and white frosted cinnamon rolls laid out before them, warm, sticky, with the steam still rising.
Cameron had been picking at his roll for the past ten minutes without taking a single bite or saying a single word. Absently holding a fork in one hand, he stared out the diner’s window with vacant eyes, seeing nothing.
Frank glanced at him briefly, shrugged, then tore into his roll, chewing around his food as he spoke. “Eat your breakfast, son. You’ll grow up to be a big strong boy.”
Startled, Cameron glanced down at his plate, suddenly realizing where he was and what he was doing. He poked at the food a few more times, a conciliatory gesture, but made no attempt to actually eat it. Finally, he spoke. “I don’t need food. I need sleep.”
“You and everyone else.” Frank took another bite, chewed without tasting, then tossed the rest of the roll back onto his plate.
“The Churchill kid,” Cameron said, gazing out the window again.
“What about him?”
“How’s a thirteen-year-old boy manage to slip out of town without being noticed?”
Frank nodded silently.
“And he doesn’t have any resources,” Cameron continued. “No means of transportation, no money to speak of.”
“Unless he stole some,” Frank replied. “But with everybody on the lookout for him, I don’t see how he could take a piss without someone hearing about it.”
“So where’d he go?”
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