The sky had darkened by the time the limousine dropped Charlie off at the house, where he had changed into his street clothes and put on his coat and hat. He had already decided not to visit Tommy’s Lounge that night; he needed to grieve in private. But he still needed to get shit faced. So he walked six long blocks to Darry’s Liquor Store, where he bought two bottles of vodka. He nodded to the cashier, whom he knew only by face, and walked home against the wind.
Inside the great empty house, he retrieved a glass from a kitchen cupboard, then sagged into his favorite living room chair. Removing both bottles from the brown paper bag, he set them on the end table. He opened one, filled his glass halfway, and took a deep gulp. The vodka burned his tongue and throat, and his body stopped shaking. He reached for the remote control and turned on the TV. A Sabers game came on and he saw they held a two-point lead over the Toronto Maple Leafs. He had no interest in watching anything; he just wanted some background noise. Christ, he needed to get rid of this house. He and Helen had purchased it after Johnny turned two, moving out of their apartment on Front Street.
Fifteen years ago.
Helen’s life insurance policy had paid off the remainder of the mortgage. Thank God she’d planned ahead. He suspected she’d known she was dying long before her diagnosis. His disability pay covered the taxes, barely, and put food on the table. And booze in his blood.
He could have provided his son with a better life. He could have gotten a job despite the intense pain in his lower back, where two discs had herniated in a fall from a scaffold, pain that had only increased with his waist size. He could have used what little cash he had for Johnny, instead of pouring it down his throat. So many wasted nights.
Wasted years.
He stood, weaving as he reached for the framed photograph on the TV. Helen, alive, and Johnny, age twelve, stared back at him, smiling.
My wife and son.
Sagging back into his chair, he barely recognized himself in the photo: slim, with a full head of hair, grateful for the present and looking forward to the future. He choked back a sob, and a teardrop splashed the glass in the frame. He wiped both eyes with the back of one hand, guttural sounds issuing from his throat.
A sudden thump overhead made him raise his eyes to the ceiling, listening. The sound hadn’t come from the ceiling; it had come from the floor above the ceiling. With effort, he got to his feet.
Johnny’s room—?
A sonic boom shook the house to its foundation, reverberating through his bloated heart. He flung his arms up, dropping the photo, and didn’t hear the frame strike the floor as the deafening roar shook the structure. The explosive sound dropped in volume, forming recognizable sounds: Screams. Screeches. Guitars.
Heavy-metal music.
Whoever had just turned on the CD player failed to notice that Johnny left the volume cranked up. The floor continued to vibrate.
He stepped into the hallway, moving through darkness, and stared up the stairway. Yellow light outlined Johnny’s bedroom door. The music came from the other side of the door. He swallowed hard.
Had someone decided to break into Johnny’s room after reading about the funeral arrangements in the Red Hill Gazette? Johnny owned nothing of value. His sound system and electric guitar had been purchased used, and his car had been destroyed in the accident.
Charlie stared at the door.
I should call Matt, he told himself as he turned on the stairway light and slid his hand up the banister, the wood cold to his touch.
He raised his left foot and held it poised in the air before placing it on the first stair. Then he pulled on the banister, his right foot settling on the second stair. He squeezed the wood, knuckles whitening as he forced his body up the stairs, which groaned beneath his weight. Sweat formed on his brow. His fingers clawed the banister, his heart rate quickening. His eyes never shifted from the light around the door. The music grew louder as he neared the top of the stairs, and soon he no longer heard the stairs protesting his movement.
A shadow glided across the floor on the other side of Johnny’s door.
Trembling, Charlie crossed the upstairs hall and stopped at the door. Frozen with fear, he stared at the knob. Unable to move his arms, he stood there, his breathing labored. Sweat trickled down his face, and his underarms turned sticky. Smelling his own fear, he raised his right hand, moved it forward, and wavered.
Do it, goddamn it!
He closed his hand around the knob, then twisted it left and right.
Locked.
The light inside the room went off, and the music came to an abrupt end. Charlie’s heart stuttered in his chest. The sudden silence terrified him more than the music had. Releasing the knob, he spun around and charged downstairs, his footsteps thundering. He didn’t run to the closet to fetch his coat, or bolt outside without it, or even call the police. Instead, he ran straight into the living room, threw himself into his chair, and seized the open vodka bottle by its neck. He raised the bottle to his lips and tilted his head back, chugging the vodka like water.
Eric awoke with a start, gasping for breath. He sat up, digging his fingers into the fabric beneath him. Images of the Death Mobile submerged at the bottom of the school swimming pool lingered in his mind. Only the streetlight shining through the curtains assured him he had awakened from the nightmare in his own bed. The wind howled outside, and he wished he didn’t occupy a corner bedroom. The digital clock on his bedside table flashed 1:17 a.m. at him. He lay back down, his chest rising and falling. Almost six more hours until he had to get up.
Plenty of time for more nightmares.
His eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, focusing on the dark light fixture in the ceiling. He threw his left arm over his eyes, shielding them, and tried to sleep. The funeral had provoked the nightmare, he reasoned, but what had inspired his subconscious to fabricate the image of his jaws fastened together with barbed wire? He’d never heard of such a thing. His heartbeat slowed and his breathing returned to normal.
Floating …
A sound outside drew his attention to the window, followed by another.
Footsteps?
He recalled the numerous occasions Johnny had climbed up the side of the house, crossed the roof, and knocked on his window, scaring him half to death.
No one could be out there now. Not in the winter, and not on a night like this.
He heard the sound again.
Pulling his arm away, he raised his head and stared at the window just as a silhouette glided away from it and disappeared.
He blinked twice. Had someone really just been standing on the roof outside his window? Throwing back the covers, he slid from bed and crept across the room. His hand inched toward one curtain, his fingers suspended in midair. He grasped the cloth in a tight fist and jerked it back, switching on the desk lamp in the same instant.
His eyes widened and his blood ran cold.
A face, pressed against the other side of the glass, stared back at him.
His entire body jerked as he jumped back, and his heart stopped beating even as he realized he faced his own reflection, the window solid black behind his spectral countenance. He switched off the lamp and the reflection vanished. In its place he saw five dripping tendrils extending from a palm print. He stood still, waiting for his heart to return to its normal speed, then wiped his right hand over the glass. The handprint remained etched in frost on the other side. He pressed his hand against the print, fingers spread apart, confirming it had been made by a hand with fingers longer than his own. He’d heard footsteps on the roof, glimpsed a shadow, and now this. Had someone tried to break into the house?
No, Red Hill’s crime rate was nonexistent.
Except for murder …
Was someone standing on the roof even now, with his back pressed against the side of the house? All he had to do was raise the window and stick his head outside to discover the answer. Instead, he checked the locks on the window and closed the curtains. He backed toward th
e bed, his eyes fixed on the window, and climbed into bed.
An hour passed before he fell asleep again, and when his alarm went off in the morning, he ran to the window and flung the curtains aside.
Creeping sunlight shone through the oily handprint.
Chapter 19
As he made his way through the crowd of students funneling into the lobby, Coach John Wrangler felt it in his bones: this was the year. His boys were going to beat Silver Wood that night, and Red Hill High School would enjoy its first winning wrestling season. The needling from the school’s other coaches would finally cease.
Wrangler had a respectable, if unspectacular, team. For the first time in the eight years he’d been the coach, all twelve weight classes had been filled by experienced upperclassmen. Todd Kumler, Derek Delos, Cliff Wright, and Eric Carter had been on the team since their freshman year. If Johnny Grissom had remained on the team, almost half the varsity squad would have been comprised of seniors.
Grissom.
Poor bastard. No real surprise there. And no real loss, either. It didn’t take a psychic to see where that kid was headed as soon as he started high school. Todd had been worth a dozen Grissoms.
Wrangler spotted Eric Carter hunched over the water fountain outside the restrooms. Eric had improved a great deal since joining, but lately he’d become unreliable. Stopping at the fountain, Wrangler waited for the kid to stop drinking. When Eric stood, wiping his mouth on the back of one hand, his sleepy expression turned into a look of surprise.
“Ready for tonight, Eric?”
Eric nodded. “I’m ready, Coach.”
“We missed you at practice.”
“I know. I was a pallbearer at Johnny’s burial.”
Not even an apology. “I know you’re upset about your friend, but try to stay focused. This match is critical.”
“I’ll try.”
“Good man. You’ve come a long way. This could be your year.”
Wrangler proceeded down the corridor. The crowd of students thinned as he passed the intersecting locker corridors. Approaching the gym doors, he saw two sophomore boys sitting on a bench between trophy cases, chatting with a well-developed freshman girl who stood before them, shifting her weight from one leg to the other. He tried to ignore the trophies: football, baseball, basketball, soccer, swimming, track. Everything but wrestling …
Reaching into his pants pocket, he took out his keys and unlocked one of the gym doors. As he pushed the door open, light from behind him slashed the darkness, his shadow bleeding across the floor. Sensing something in the space ahead of him, he searched for the emergency-exit lights across the gym. Had the circuit that provided power to the gym gone bad? Stepping inside, he threw on the light switches to the left of the doors. The overhead fluorescent tubes flickered to life and he froze where he stood, staring in disbelief at the horrible tableau before him.
At first, he thought he had stumbled onto a practical joke; then his brain tingled as blood rushed from his head in a torrent. Opening his mouth to scream, he felt his center of gravity form a lump his throat, then all at once the floor rushed up to meet him. He banged his head and felt cold wood against his cheek. His heart palpitated as he lost consciousness.
Turning left at the intersecting corridors, Eric saw Gary approaching him from the opposite direction. He wished their lockers were located in different areas of the building. Nodding to him, Gary stopped at his locker and spun its combination lock.
A distant flurry of motion caught Eric’s attention. Fifty yards ahead, in the central corridor, two boys leapt off a bench and raced to the gym. A single gym door stood propped open. As the boys crouched, he saw that a body lying on the floor held the door open. The boys pulled the unconscious figure’s arms, raising Coach Wrangler into a sitting position. A redheaded girl stepped behind them, looked into the gym, then unleashed a piercing scream that shattered the morning quiet. Recoiling at the same time, the boys released their grip on Coach Wrangler as they scrambled back in shock. The coach collapsed again, his head rolling from side to side.
Eric sprinted toward the gym. The girl continued to scream, and he heard other students pounding the tiled floor behind him. He skidded to a stop beside the underclassmen and gazed in horror at the source of Coach Wrangler’s distress.
Two gymnastic rings had been lowered from the gymnasium ceiling, between the nearest basketball backboard and its free throw line. A body clad in blue jeans and a Buffalo Sabers jersey hung upside down, one Nike-clad foot shoved through each ring. The rings pulled the boy’s legs wide apart, and his fingers dangled in a pool of blood spreading on the floor, crimson streaks crisscrossing his torso. Eric’s eyes widened and as he gaped at the grisly sight, more students jostled for position behind him.
“Oh, my God!” someone shouted, followed by another scream.
The body had no head.
Gary opened his locker door and stared into Todd’s lifeless eyes. The wrestler’s head had been impaled on a coat hook in the back of the locker, and blood dripped from the jagged flesh beneath his jaw, spattering disheveled papers stacked a foot deep at the bottom. Gary felt the McDonald’s sausages he’d had for breakfast inch up the back of his throat like slugs. He spun around, slamming the door shut with his back pressed against it.
Jesus fucking Christ!
His eyes darted from side to side, but no one else stood in the locker section to see him. Everyone had run off to see why that girl kept screaming.
What the hell?
Eric ran around the corner, wild eyed. “Someone’s body is hanging upside down in the gym!”
“It’s Todd,” Gary said in a low tone.
“How do you know?”
“Because his head is in my locker.”
“WHAT?” Eric stared at the locker behind Gary with mounting fear. “How did it get in there?”
“Well, I sure as hell didn’t put it there!”
Eric shifted his gaze behind him, making certain they remained alone. “Who else knows your combination?”
Gary felt himself turning red. “What difference does that make? Anyone can break into these lockers. The only thing that matters right now is that we get rid of this—thing—before the cops get here.”
Eric stepped back as if he’d been slapped. His reaction seemed automatic. “‘We?’”
Gary detached himself from his locker. “That’s right. You’re up to your neck in this just as much as I am.”
“I had nothing to with this!”
Gary stepped closer to him. “Neither did I. But if the cops think I did, they just might look at Johnny’s ‘accident’ a little more closely than they have so far.”
Eric clenched his teeth. “I’m getting tired of helping you clean up your messes.”
Gary pointed at his locker. “Hey, I’m a victim here. As for the other thing, you’re not some innocent bystander—you’re an accessory.”
Accessory. Eric’s brain absorbed the word. “What are we supposed to do—carry Todd’s head out the front door?”
Biting his lower lip, Gary scanned the corridor. “Give me your gym bag.”
Eric recoiled. “No!”
Gary leaned closer. “Give me that fucking bag or I’ll take it from you.”
“That’s what you think.”
They stared at each other for a moment, neither boy blinking. Then Gary averted his eyes, which settled on a classroom door at the far end of the corridor behind him, beyond the cafeteria. Turning his back to Eric, Gary reopened his locker.
Eric gazed in horror at Todd’s features. Nothing could have prepared him for what he saw: the murdered boy’s eyes stared out of the confined space and his mouth hung open in a silent scream, his face spattered with blood and his hair a coagulated mess. His black eye had bloated up like the skin of a rotten apple, and his stitched lower lip was dry and cracked. In his mind, Eric reattached the head to the upside-down corpse in the gym, like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.
Gary ruffled through a pil
e of books and papers on the shelf above Todd’s head, his movements growing frantic.
“What are you doing?” Eric said.
“Looking for my switchblade. I left it in here yesterday and now it’s gone!”
“Is that it?” Eric pointed at the handle protruding from the jagged base of Todd’s neck. Covered in blood, it resembled the dangling cords and muscles.
Gary gaped at the sight of his knife, blood draining from his face. “Oh, shit. My knife. They used my knife!” Using a handful of homework papers and tests like a towel, he grabbed the handle, pulled the knife free of Todd’s stump, and wrapped it up. Turning to Eric, he nodded at the door at the far end of the hall. “Go to the shop and snag a roll of duct tape, then meet me in the team room.”
Eric narrowed his eyes.
“Just do it!” Gary slammed the locker shut and ran in that direction, but turned right at the corner and continued along the hall on the far side of the gym to the locker room.
Eric hurried down the shop room stairs, relieved to see no one else there. Weaving between lathes, jigsaw cutters, and table saws, he made his way to the cabinet where Mr. Peterson stored the duct tape. The cabinet door was locked.
He grabbed a long, flathead screwdriver from a counter and used it to pry the cabinet open. He discarded the screwdriver, snatched a roll of silver duct tape, and bolted up the stairs, praying Mr. Peterson would not walk through the door before he reached it. He ran out the door and down the corridor to the gym locker room. His sneakers slapped the floor as he ran between lockers to the elite team room.
Gary sat on a wooden bench, a basketball squeezed between his knees, his eyes trained on Eric, who skidded to a sudden stop. He held his switchblade, washed clean of Todd’s blood, and placed the blade’s tip against the basketball’s rubber nipple. Squeezing his knees tighter, he pulled the knife through the rubber. A blast of air hissed from the slice and the ball deflated. He rotated the ruptured ball, cutting it almost in half.
Johnny Gruesome Page 12