Halloween Carnival Volume 1
Page 11
“The homeless guy who was found in Greer City Park. The authorities finally identified him.”
“Well, I’m not sure why you want to talk to me about any of this, and I really don’t have time. I’m sorry.”
Dustin turned away and started back toward Pennsylvania Avenue. He stopped abruptly when the reporter called out, “Have the police questioned you yet?”
Whirling around, Dustin hurried over to Shawn’s car. “How did you know the police questioned me?”
“I didn’t. Call it a hunch, which you just confirmed for me.”
“Why would you have that hunch? Did someone say something?”
Shawn shook his head, one corner of his mouth lifted in a slight smile. “No. All I needed to put two and two together was #MakeHalloweenScaryAgain.”
Dustin cursed softly under his breath. “It’s a stupid hashtag I came up with. Doesn’t mean anything.”
“Maybe it didn’t, at least not until some psycho decided to adopt it as his calling card. Or her calling card. I don’t want to seem sexist in my assumptions.”
“I don’t know why you want to talk to me,” Dustin said. “Even if the person who’s doing all this is using my hashtag, that has nothing to do with me. The same way Stephen King novels and Black Sabbath albums aren’t responsible for every nutjob that goes out and commits a mass shooting.”
“Can I quote you on that?”
“Leave me alone, that’s what you can do.”
“I don’t really think that’s an option. If I can make the connection with the hashtag, then lots of other people will as well. If I’m the first member of the press to reach out to you, I guarantee that I won’t be the last. Why not talk with me, go ahead and say your piece? Some of the other reporters won’t be as nice as me.”
“Well, if anyone else does contact me, I’ll tell them the same thing I’m telling you. No comment.”
With that, Dustin walked away.
—
When her son didn’t answer after she called him for supper, Debra Puckett went into his room, expecting to find the six-year-old boy playing a video or building a city with his LEGO blocks. Instead, he sat cross-legged on the bed (with his shoes on, which he knew was a big no-no), staring out the window.
“Jacob Scott Puckett, what are you doing? Your supper is getting cold.”
The boy tore his gaze away from the window slowly, turning his wide eyes to his mother. “Sorry, I was just watching the scarecrow that came out of the graveyard.”
Debra went cold, as if a bucket of ice water had been dumped over her head. Scarecrow. Everyone in town knew that someone dressed like a scarecrow had abducted that LeClaire girl and put her boyfriend in the hospital, had probably killed the derelict in the park as well.
She rushed across the room, clambering up onto Jacob’s bed, ignoring the shoe rule herself. The window looked out onto the front lawn and Drace Avenue beyond that. Dusk had fallen, limiting visibility, and at first the street appeared to be deserted, but then movement in her periphery made her glance to the left and she spotted the figure. Overalls, burlap sack, straw hat. He was standing by one of the telephone poles that lined the street like sentinels, tacking a piece of paper to the pole.
“How long has he been out there?” she whispered to her son.
Taking her cue, he lowered his voice. “A few minutes. He came out of the graveyard.”
Some of Debra’s friends made fun of the fact that she lived right next to the Mountain View Cemetery, but it had never bothered her. She didn’t believe in spooks and wraiths and didn’t worry that her family would end up in a real-life version of Poltergeist.
And yet something out of a horror movie had emerged from the cemetery. Flesh and blood, but no less terrifying.
Outside, the scarecrow suddenly turned, staring right back at her through the glass. He raised one hand and waved.
With a gasp, Debra grabbed hold of her son and yanked him off the bed, heedless to his cry of pain. She dragged him out into the hallway and slammed the door. “Stay right here,” she hissed at Jacob. She ran to the living room to make sure the front door was securely locked, then into the kitchen, where she’d left her cellphone charging.
After making her son go into the hall bathroom and lock the door, she called 911 as she returned to the living room to keep an eye on the scarecrow through the window.
—
Workman pulled up to 322 Drace Avenue shortly after six p.m. He had been preparing to leave the station when the call came in, and he had convinced Sheriff Hammett to let him respond, since he had taken point on this investigation.
No sooner had he stepped out of the car than the front door to the house opened and a woman came rushing down the brick walkway. “Thank God you’re here,” she said. Behind her, a young boy stepped into the doorway, a thumb stuck in his mouth. “I’ve been scared to death.”
“I’m Officer Workman. Are you Ms. Puckett?”
“Yes.”
“You reported someone in a scarecrow costume lurking around outside. Where is he now?”
The woman pointed off toward Mountain View. “He wandered off into the cemetery about three minutes ago, after he finished posting all his flyers.”
“Flyers?” Workman turned, and only then did he notice that all the streetlamps and telephone poles had papers thumbtacked to them, the kind people put up when they had a missing dog. Walking over to the nearest streetlamp, he read the message on the flyer. Printed in blue Sharpie.
I WILL RESTORE ALL HALLOWS’ EVE TO ITS RIGHTFUL SACRED POSITION
WHEN I AM DONE PEOPLE WILL REVERE THE HOLIDAY AGAIN
ON HALLOWEEN NIGHT I WILL PICK ONE HOUSE IN TOWN
AMONG THOSE NOT DECORATED FOR THE SEASON
AND EVERYONE INSIDE WILL BE KILLED
THIS I PROMISE
#MakeHalloweenScaryAgain
Workman turned back to Ms. Puckett. “You’re sure he went into the cemetery?”
She nodded. “My son said he came out of there as well.”
“You get back inside the house and lock the door.”
“Is it him? Is it the same one who took that girl?”
“Ma’am, please get inside. I’ll talk with you more in a bit.”
Without further argument, she hurried into the house, snatching her son up into her arms.
Workman contacted dispatch on his radio, reported what he’d found, and asked for more cars to help him search the neighborhood. He knew he should probably wait for backup, but if the suspect was still in the area, he didn’t want to give him time to get away. Drawing his service revolver and flashlight, Workman walked over to Mountain View and started making his way diagonally across the cemetery. There were no lights here, but the night was clear and the moon full. There were only a handful of trees on the property, which minimized the number of possible hiding places. Of course there were some monuments large enough to conceal a person if he or she crouched down.
He walked slowly, his breathing sounding very loud in his own ears. The night was quiet except for the rustling of the autumn leaves, the sound of crickets chirruping, and the distant barking of a dog. Greer was typically such a quiet community; this was by far the most violent series of crimes he’d dealt with since joining the force. He didn’t like to admit he was afraid, but he was. He wouldn’t let that fear cripple him or prevent him from carrying out his duties, however. The people of this town depended on him and the other officers.
Workman paused with one foot in the air when he spotted a sneaker poking out from around a large family marker with the name edwards carved into the granite. It was a pink New Balance, just like the pair Sabrina LeClaire’s mother said she believed her daughter was wearing when she left for school this morning.
“This is Officer Warren Workman,” he said in a firm voice as he approached the marker. “I am armed and asking you to come out with your hands up.”
No movement, and Workman braced himself as he rounded the marker.
Still, he wasn’t prepared for the sight laid out before him. He’d been prepared for blood and mutilation, but Sabrina LeClaire lay there like she was in the midst of a peaceful sleep. Workman scanned the area quickly, then knelt next to her, feeling for a pulse. There was none. He noted the deep purple-and-black bruising that circled her neck like a macabre necklace. The girl had been strangled.
As he turned away from the body, the flashlight shone on the back of the Edwards marker and he saw the message scrawled there. At this point, it had become all too familiar.
#MAKEHALLOWEENSCARYAGAIN
TWO DAYS UNTIL HALLOWEEN
Shawn noticed something peculiar as he drove through town just after lunchtime. On the surface, things seemed normal, business as usual. Coasting down a residential street, he admired all the decorations in the yards. Jack-o’-lanterns, some with crudely carved faces and others with elaborate designs, lined almost every porch. Orange twinkle lights draped windows and doors. Front lawns had been turned into cemeteries. The legs of witches stuck up out of shrubbery. Window clings shaped as vampires, zombies, Frankenstein’s monsters, black cats—basically every creature you could think of other than scarecrows. Lawn gnomes and pink flamingos had been replaced with trolls and tiny Sasquatches. Shawn saw several people outside, putting up more decorations. Their faces were not lit with festive joy and excitement but were instead set in grim expressions.
The peculiar thing was that yesterday when he’d made a similar drive through town he’d seen almost no decorations for Halloween. The residents had gone from basically ignoring the holiday to embracing it in full glory. He’d stopped by Walmart earlier, and the aisles dedicated to Halloween items had been a madhouse, people shoving one another to get at the shelves, like Black Friday come early. He suspected that by nightfall there wouldn’t be a single Halloween decoration left at any store in Greer.
As Shawn turned onto Gallivan Street, he passed more houses decked out for the season…until he came to the one that was his destination. He pulled to the curb in front of the small yellow house with the empty lawn and bare windows. Yesterday he’d driven by, and it had been the only house decorated on the street, making it quite conspicuous. Now it was conspicuous for the exact opposite reason, the only house on the street not decorated.
He made his way up the front walk, glancing to his right to find a woman staring at him through the window of the house next door. When she saw him looking, she quickly pulled back, letting the curtain fall into place.
At the door, he rang the bell and waited. A silver Kia Rio sat in the driveway, but the blinds were all shut. He supposed the writer could be out on foot since he did like to walk to work, but a minute later the door opened and Dustin stood on the threshold. He looked haggard, dark bags under his eyes and his hair slightly disheveled as if he’d recently gotten up for a nap.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“Only to talk.”
“I’m not giving any interviews, so you can forget about that.”
Shawn held up his hands in a surrendering gesture. “Off the record.”
“I never thought you reporters did anything off the record.”
“I won’t lie, there’s a story here that I’m hoping to get at. If you give me just a few minutes to make my pitch, I can convince you to let me interview you.”
Dustin’s face was a mask, and Shawn worried the writer wasn’t going to let him in, but then Dustin sighed and took a step back. “You’re wasting your time, but come on in if you want.”
Shawn stepped inside, discovering that all the decorations that had previously been in the front yard were now strewn about the living room. A life-size dummy with a furry werewolf mask was propped on the sofa, looking relaxed and as if waiting for a beer.
Dustin made his way across the room to a swinging door. “I just made some coffee. Want a cup?”
“Sure,” Shawn said, and followed him through the door into the kitchen. The walls were robin’s-egg blue, the floor white linoleum. He got the impression on a normal day it would be a bright and cheery room, but the curtains were pulled tight and vertical blinds closed off the sliding glass door that led out back, creating a gloomy and despondent atmosphere that seemed to perfectly match Dustin’s mood.
The writer went to the coffeepot and poured two cups. “Cream or sugar?”
“No, I take mine black.”
Dustin handed over one cup, then poured ample amounts of milk and sugar into his own. Shawn never understood those who said they liked coffee, then killed the taste with sweetener and cream and flavor shots. Dustin took a seat at a small round table, and Shawn sat across from him.
Shawn took a sip of the weak coffee and winced at the taste. “What kind of coffee is this?”
“It’s a caramel/cinnamon/hazelnut blend.”
“Tasty,” Shawn lied, then changed the subject. “I went by the library earlier, but they said you were taking some time off.”
“Yeah, I have some vacation days built up. Normally you have to request vacation a month in advance, but when I called in this morning JoAnn seemed thrilled not to have me come in. She told me to take all the time I needed.”
“Why did you take down all your Halloween decorations?”
Dustin snorted a laugh. “Why do you think? The same reason I removed all my Facebook posts with the hashtag. Not that it matters at this point; everyone in town already thinks I’m a cold-blooded murderer.”
“That’s not true.”
“One hundred people have defriended me on Facebook since yesterday, and you should see some of the nasty messages I’ve gotten on there. And my friend Henry won’t even speak to me anymore, thinks I gave the police his name to get them off my back.”
“Did you?”
“No. Or maybe. I mean, I don’t think so. Doesn’t matter, turns out he and his wife have been out of town since mid-October. He’s off the hook, but I still seem to be a prime suspect. You said other people would make the connection between my hashtag and the murders, and you were right. I’ve been getting requests for interviews all day; one reporter from the Spartanburg Herald told me I needed to talk to him if I hoped to clear my name. Clear my name? I haven’t been charged with anything, and yet I have to clear my name.”
“Have the police questioned you again?” Shawn asked.
Dustin nodded. “Officer Workman and some others were waiting here when I got home last night around nine. I told them I’d been at Joe’s Place in Greenville for their open-mic night since five. They called Becky the manager and confirmed that, but they still looked at me like I was Jack the Ripper.”
“Everyone’s scared. Those flyers went up all over town. Everyone’s talking about it and obviously taking it to heart. I’d say eighty percent of the houses in town now have decorations out front. Aren’t you worried about what might happen without any decorations out on Halloween night?”
Dustin covered his face with his hands and rubbed vigorously. “I was afraid if I left the decorations out, the neighbors would see it as some sort of admission that I was responsible for all this, or at least that I supported it. I guess I was trying to make some sort of statement. I don’t know what to do here.”
“Do you feel guilty?”
“What the hell would I feel guilty for? I didn’t do anything,” Dustin snapped, but his expression suggested Shawn had hit a nerve.
Shawn didn’t respond, just sipped his coffee. The silence stretched out. Shawn had taken a few psychology courses in college, and he knew that often the best way to get people to open up was not to press them. A lot of reporters didn’t understand this.
“I didn’t mean anything by it,” Dustin said after a minute. “It was nothing but a hashtag I thought sounded cool, something I thought I could get to take off and it would be a good promotional tool for my books. I couldn’t possibly know that some psycho out there was going to pick up on it and use it for his own sick, twisted reasons.”
“You’re right, you couldn�
�t have possibly known, and it’s not your fault.”
“Then why do I feel like it is?” Dustin said, and he seemed near tears.
Shawn reached out and placed a hand over the writer’s. “Because you’re a decent person.”
Dustin stood and walked over to the sink, pouring out the rest of his coffee. “You know, I used to be very critical of writers who would remove their books from print after some unstable person claimed they drew inspiration from the works, but now I get it. I totally get it.”
Shawn slid his coffee cup aside. “You know what? Those writers are wrong, and so are you. You’ve got nothing to feel guilty about, and that’s why I’m here.”
Leaning against the counter with his arms crossed over his chest, Dustin cocked his head to the side. “Why are you here? What are you hoping to get out of this little visit?”
“I’m hoping for the same thing I’m always hoping for…a good story.”
“There’s no story here. I don’t know anything about what’s going on.”
“Exactly,” Shawn said, standing. “And that’s the story.”
Dustin looked both confused and intrigued. “What are you talking about?”
“Everybody’s looking at you with suspicion just because of the kind of art you make; it’s utter bullshit! It’s like some kind of modern witch hunt, and Greer is the new Salem.”
Dustin cracked his first smile since Shawn had arrived. “Look, I’m pretty upset about all this, but let’s not get overly dramatic. It’s not like the town wants to burn me at the stake.”
“Don’t they? If not literally, then at least metaphorically? It isn’t right for them to treat you like this, and I’m offering you a chance to get your side of the story out there. Maybe generate a little bit of sympathy.”
“You really think that would work?”
“Absolutely. We’re two talented writers, we’ll be able to come up with an exposé that will paint the people of this town as a pitchfork-wielding mob and you the unjustly persecuted hero.”
“You’ll do this story instead of covering the murders?”