What Hides Within

by Jason Parent

  Clive poked her arm. “Are you sure it’s the balls that suck?”

  Morgan rotated the orange nine-pound bowling ball in her hands. She counted fourteen divots in its overused, unmaintained surface. A greasy smear ran across a significant portion of its circumference. She dared not think about what it could be.

  Saturday at the Holliday Lanes in Somerset was rock-and-bowl night. Hordes of teenagers gathered for mediocre entertainment and movie-theater-quality food at movie-theater prices. It was the only bowling alley in the area and the last outlet of fun Somerset had to offer in an economically depressed decade.

  This should be called teeny-pop-and-crappy-bowl night, Morgan thought, but I guess that ignores the ever-so-witty play on words. She eyeballed the half-filled alley, a supposed place of cheer that looked more like an ominous carnival of darkness beneath the flashing pale-colored disco lights. Yet she knew the only truly scary things at that alley were the sound of another Justin Bieber tune and her own bowling ability.

  The teenagers in the lanes on both sides of Morgan made her feel old. She guessed she and Clive were the only two people there over sixteen, save for the old pervert behind the counter. Moms and dads in minivans would be picking up most of these kids by eleven, she assumed. Can’t stay out past curfew.

  It was her turn to bowl. She stepped up to the foul line with her fourth ball of the night. “I don’t even want to put my fingers into the holes. One of these punks probably put gum in them.”

  “Just bowl already,” Clive said, rolling his eyes. “You’ve already used just about every ball in the place. In terms of communicable diseases, you’ve probably touched every person in here.”

  “That’s comforting.”

  Morgan took a deep breath. She held the ball in front of her with fingers in position. For a moment, she stood poised. To the ill-informed observer, she would actually appear to know what she was doing. The moment passed quickly as she ungracefully slung her arm backward, only to softball pitch the solid mass halfway down the lane a second later. It crashed with a thud and slowly rolled toward the pins.

  “Unbelievable,” she heard Clive mutter. She turned and stuck her tongue out. Morgan’s no-talent throw somehow resulted in a strike and her lead.

  “Yeah! That’s how it’s done, baby!” she shouted. She wiggled her ass, taunting Clive like she was still in junior high.

  “What a gracious winner you are.”

  “Yeah, right. Like if you were winning, you wouldn’t be rubbing it in.”

  “Okay,” Clive said. “You may have a point. But just because I’d do it doesn’t mean you should. Everybody already knows that I’m the best.”

  “Not today you’re not. Just look at the scoreboard and try not to cry.”

  “The game is far from over. There’s plenty of time for you to blow it.”

  Morgan moved in close to Clive. He smiled, but she could easily see the insincerity in it. Exhaustion and disarray painted vaguely discernable imprints behind his blank face. She always could look beyond his snake-oil smile and into his heart. She knew something deeply disturbed him.

  “So how are you holding up?” she asked, indelicately broaching the subject.

  “Not bad.”

  “Don’t lie to me, Clive. I know you better than that.”

  “What do you want me to say? I thought we weren’t going to talk about this. I have no idea what’s going on. My hearing is better, but now—”

  “The voices?”

  “Something like that,” Clive said. “Anyway, I explained the situation to Judge Judy, and she’s been pretty cool about it.”

  “That’s good. You didn’t tell her about—”

  “Of course not! I can’t believe I told you about that.”

  Morgan heard the lie in his words. He needed her, even if he wouldn’t admit it. And she always gave it to him straight. Nothing candy coated.

  “And it’s ‘voice,’ singular,” he said.

  “You’re still hearing it, then? I’m worried about you, Cli.” She couldn’t hide her concern any longer. She loved Clive, but she wouldn’t tell him, afraid she’d push him away.

  “It comes and goes. Don’t worry about me, Morgan. I’ve been through worse.”

  “Oh, so now you’re a Vietnam vet or some hardened felon. Like what, Clive? What have you been through that’s worse than this? Don’t forget who you’re talking to. I’ve known you forever.” She put her hand on her hip and scowled.

  He seemed to acknowledge it. “It’s just an ear problem. It will be fixed in no time.”

  Morgan was more afraid for Clive than Clive himself. Sometimes things didn’t sink in too quickly with Clive. She would have to force him to see the gravity of the situation.

  “Does it… how should I put this? Does it tell you to… do things?”

  “Yep, all the time,” Clive said, looking gravely serious. “Just last night, it told me to kill Queen Elizabeth. I blacked out, but when I came to, someone’s corgi was licking my face.” He smiled, which only increased Morgan’s frustration.

  “This is nothing to joke about, Clive. Normal people don’t hear voices. There’s something seriously wrong with you, and I’m trying to help.” She dropped her head toward her red-and-green bowling shoes, pretending to be more hurt than she was.

  “All right, all right,” Clive said. “I’ll behave. To answer your question, I haven’t heard much from it. It isn’t talking to me now, and when it does, it usually just interjects an opinion here and there, almost like I have my own personal commentator for the events of my uneventful life.” He laughed. “It could have chosen a much more interesting subject for its documentary. Anyway, I try to ignore it.”

  “You do know it’s not real, right Clive?”

  “I know, Morgan, rationally speaking, anyway. But it certainly seems real, and it’s not my voice. In fact, it doesn’t sound anything like me. Its mannerisms, intonation, pitch, catch phrases, whatever—none of it sounds anything like the way I talk. Although it is a sarcastic fuck. I guess we have that in common. It’s squeaky, scratchy, maybe female. It’s like if you put the voice of my chain-smoking coworker on a forty-five and played it on one of those Fisher Price record players we had as kids, and then you flipped that switch that made it turn faster so that the voice comes out high-pitched, that would be what the voice sounds like. Well, that, or Margaret Thatcher getting high off helium and trying out American slang.”

  “So the voice is British? You’re not inspiring confidence here.”

  “Not so much British as proper, like an old, well-to-do woman trying to be hip but not fooling anyone.”

  “Clive, be serious.”

  “Shhh. Be quiet for a sec. I just heard it say something.” Clive paused. His mouth hung open with his body cast in an idiotic pose.

  “What did it say?”

  “I don’t think it liked me making fun of it. Never mind. It’s gone now, if it was ever really there at all. Of course, I know it’s all probably just some sick manifestation of my subconscious mind. Maybe I got hit on the head too hard but don’t remember it.”

  “That’s exactly what it is,” Morgan said. “Don’t lose your grasp of that. We’ll get through this, and I’ll be here for you every step of the way.”

  “Stop sounding so serious. Like I said, I’ll be fine.”

  Morgan tried on a smile. His words were unconvincing, but she didn’t want Clive to worry about her too. She couldn’t shake the feeling that his ailments were bigger and far more menacing than just an ear problem. “You don’t still think there’s a spider in there, do you?”

  “Could be.”

  “Cli,” Morgan began as though she were speaking to a toddler, “spiders don’t talk.”

  “I’m not crazy, Morgan.” Clive sounded annoyed. “I know spiders don’t talk. All I’m saying is that a spider could have waltzed on in there and fucked up my brain a bit. So I’m not ruling out a tiny, organic cause to my problem.”

  “But the doctor
found nothing.”

  “That doctor is an idiot. Anyway, I’m keeping an open mind to all possibilities until I know more.”

  “How long before you get your results?”

  “I get the CAT scan Tuesday. Results could be the same day. I’m not sure how it works. I guess I forgot to ask.”

  “Let me know as soon as you know.”

  “I will. I’ll call you right after. Now, if you’ll be kind enough to excuse me…”

  Clive moved toward the ball rack. Morgan knew he was tired of the conversation. She regretted restoring his medical issues to the forefront of his mind and let him bowl in peace.

  But Morgan’s worry wouldn’t go away so easily. She knew Clive was in for some rough times, even if he didn’t. Eventually, he would need her. Her duty was to wait and be there for him when that happened.

  CHAPTER 11

  D etective Reilly strolled up the stone pathway leading to the white single-family ranch set in a secluded part of Fall River, one she never knew existed. The four acres owned by the Samartinos were entirely surrounded by woods. The only manner of ingress and egress was a dirt path leading to a side street of a side street’s side street. Those who chose to live in a place like that, away from the turmoil of civilization, valued their privacy. They didn’t expect to find dead bodies strewn about their backyard.

  As she climbed the steps to the Samartinos’ front door, she could feel her presence wasn’t wanted. The Samartinos were peaceful folk. They had no need for her city’s laws or its enforcers. That sentiment was reinforced when Reilly’s gaze fell upon Anthony Samartino. He stood behind a screen door, his arms crossed, monitoring her approach.

  “Mr. Samartino,” Reilly said, trying to sell herself as a friend. “How are you today?”

  “What can I do for you, Ms. Reilly?” The words themselves were polite, but his firm tone hinted his irritation, no doubt an intentional contrivance.

  Reilly got right to the point. “Has Timothy said anything, anything at all, that could help our investigation?”

  “Ms. Reilly,” Anthony began, his voice now low and cautioning, “Timothy hasn’t said a word since the last time you saw him. He hasn’t said a word since he came across that poor little girl’s body. You said so yourself—the girl had been there for a while. What could he possibly have seen?”

  Anthony’s response was unacceptable, failing to close an open line of investigation. Reilly pressed for answers. “I don’t get it, Mr. Samartino. It’s been one month. One month of searching and re-searching this site. One month of canvassing all neighborhoods bordering these woods. One month of asking questions. One month of interrogating known sex offenders and other local filth. One month, and we got nothing. No evidence that this was in any way related to child molestation or domestic violence. No real evidence that a crime was committed against this girl at all, save for the markings on her ribs. But Valerie Page was murdered. I’m sure of it. Murdered without any apparent motive or explanation.”

  “Ms. Reilly—”

  Reilly wouldn’t be interrupted. She needed to let it out. “And the killer is begging us to catch him. The body was tossed carelessly behind a tree, dusted over with some dead leaves. Whoever did it refused to conceal his crime, at least not with any conviction. Therefore, he’s either sending some kind of message, or he’s feeling guilty for what he’s done. Since Valerie wasn’t displayed in any particular fashion, and no unusual markings, notes, or items were found on or near her body, I suspect the latter. Yes, this killer wants to be found out. Either that, or he’s stupid.”

  “I understand, but—”

  “He did nothing to remove his DNA from the body, nothing to destroy the evidence, including the body itself. Fortunately for Valerie, she wasn’t sexually abused. Had she been, though, genetic material would be nearly impossible to cover up completely. We would have this guy by now. Weather conditions and coyotes hid his crime for him, and I can’t believe that was intentional. The only thing we got is the knife wound, a few muddy footprints, size-eleven Reebok sneakers, and the hope that maybe, just maybe, your son saw something.”

  “Ms. Reilly,” Anthony began, pausing as if he expected another interruption. “I’d love to help you, but Timothy was traumatized by whatever he saw. He’s still traumatized.”

  “Please, let me speak to him one more time. It’ll be my last attempt.”

  “I understand where you’re coming from, Detective. I really do. God knows what I’d do to anyone who did something like this to one of my children.”

  “Which is all the more reason that you should let me speak with Timothy. He may be able to help us catch this sicko before another child has to die.”

  Anthony’s shoulders sagged, and Reilly knew she was wearing him down. Still, he blocked her entry. “I have to think of my son’s well-being first and foremost.” He slowly edged his inner door shut.

  “Five minutes. That’s all I ask.”

  Halting the door’s sway, Anthony stood silent. At last, he responded. “You’ve got two minutes. If for any reason I start thinking you’re making his condition worse, you’re gone.”

  “Fair enough. Thank you.”

  Anthony let the detective into his home and led her to his living room. Timothy sat, inattentive, on the couch, saving his limited concentration solely for slashing Tektites in the latest Zelda video game.

  “Timothy, would you mind pausing that? Ms. Reilly is here to see you again.”

  Timothy did as his father asked. He then turned and greeted Detective Reilly with a smile. He seemed and was a normal, healthy boy in all respects save one: Timothy wouldn’t speak.

  “Hi, Timothy.” Reilly beamed with real excitement. She liked the boy, and in her own callous way, she even felt the tiniest bit of pity for him. But she needed him to get over it. It was just a dead body, no big deal.

  Timothy slunk from the couch and walked over to Detective Reilly. Taking her hand, he dragged Reilly to the Samartinos’ fifty-two-inch flat-screen TV. On it, Link, a pointy-eared sword-wielding elf, stood battle ready. He was frozen in time by a miracle of modern technology, the pause button. In one hand, he swung a fierce blade. In the other, he clasped an ornate shield. After all, protecting the lands of Hyrule from the likes of Ganon and his villainous horde was never easy.

  As the two stared at the screen, Timothy tugged on Reilly’s hand. She took the gesture as a signal for her to lower herself to his height. When she complied, he cupped his hand around Reilly’s ear and leaned in close. “I’m ready to tell you now,” Timothy whispered.

  “Tell me what?”

  “I saw him.”

  Reilly stepped back, surprised by the revelation. Realizing the need for delicacy, she tempered her voice. “Who did you see, Timothy?”

  “A man.”

  Timothy walked up to the television screen. He touched his finger to the pointed tip of Link’s blade. “He stole one of these from her.”

  “You saw a man take one of those from the bod… from the little girl?”

  Timothy nodded and hung his head. “Only his was smaller than Link’s,” he muttered softly. Then he began to weep. His voice grew louder with his sobbing.

  “He was crying too. He said he didn’t mean for it to happen and that the girl was in heaven now. Then he stole her knife and made me promise not to tell. You won’t tell him I told you, will you?”

  “Who are you talking about, Timothy?” Anthony interrupted, his face riddled with confusion and worry. “Did this man touch you?”

  Reilly gave her most sincere smile, ignoring Anthony’s outburst. “No, Timothy, I won’t tell him. I promise. Neither will your daddy. You did a good thing telling me like you did. The man you saw needs help, and you and I can help him.”

  “Really? I was so scared. He was so sad, and I didn’t want to tell on him for stealing. I thought he would get in trouble if I told anyone.”

  “That’s okay, Timothy. He won’t get in trouble for stealing.” But he sure as hell shoul
d get the death penalty for what he did to Valerie Page, if only we had it here.

  Reilly glanced over at Anthony and gave him a wink. Anthony’s nerves seemed to settle. Tears were forming in the corners of his eyes. A murderer had come too close to his family. Reilly knew she had earned herself an ally.

  She crouched down beside the boy. “Now, Timothy. What exactly did this man look like?”

  CHAPTER 12

  C

  live’s Tuesday morning began with a sense of déjà vu. The only abnormality was a displeasing shower, where dark, putrid water percolated off his head and body, leaving a ring of black dirt circling the tub. Although the water appeared clear coming out of the showerhead, contaminants collected around his feet, flowing in a y-shaped pattern toward the drain. He assumed a pipe had burst, a monthly occurrence, and thought nothing more of it.

  Otherwise, he awoke at the same time to follow his usual morning routine, only to drive the same route to the same hospital where Dr. Allen had examined his ears four days prior. He then took the same elevator to the same floor and trotted down the same off-white, Lysol-doused corridor to a nearly identical, albeit differently numbered, waiting room.

  “May I help you?” a crusty old wench called from behind a glass shield. Her ancient head was barely visible over the high counter. What Clive could make out resembled withered leather topped with pillow stuffing.

  “I have an appointment with Dr. Severn. I’m Clive Menard.”

  “Have a seat.” The receptionist sounded irritated, as if Clive’s mere presence was an annoyance. She slid the window shut, sealing herself off from all intolerable patients. Clive couldn’t help feeling slighted.

  That’s all right, he thought. She’s got to be pushing ninety. She’ll be dead soon.

  “I guess customer service isn’t exactly a job requirement in the medical field,” Clive said aloud, not caring who heard him. Nonetheless, he was unfazed by the cold reception he had now twice received. After all, it was the least of his problems. That unnerving, eerie voice owned a priority spot among his thoughts. The fact that his right ear had somehow unclogged itself did little to alleviate his concerns.