by Amy Cross
"But which of them was interested in occult shit first?" I ask.
She glares at me.
"Sorry. Occult stuff."
"Your brother wasn't interested in the occult," she replies tersely. "I don't know where you got such a ridiculous idea, but Bobby was only interested in clean, wholesome things."
Looking down at another photo of Bobby, I can't help but smile. My brother was a whole lot of things, but he sure wasn't clean and wholesome. He was a teenaged kid like every other teenaged kid, and if he managed to keep his darker side hidden from Ma, that's only because he was goddamn smart. I guess my mother hasn't heard some of the more salacious rumors that have been going around, which is probably a good thing, but if I'm going to get to the truth of this whole mess, I can't afford to be blinded by the image of Bobby as a fucking angel.
"What are you going to do?" she asks eventually.
"What am I going to do?" I ask, taking another drag from my cigarette. "I'm gonna put my hands around that little... woman's throat and squeeze so tight I'll be able to feel her neck bones crunching. That's what I'm gonna do. But first I'm gonna make her suffer. I didn't take time off work and drive all the way down here just to stand around looking moody." I pause for a moment, and I can see the look of concern in her eyes. "Don't worry, Ma. I've had plenty of time to think about all of this. I've got a whole plan all mapped out. The only reason I ain't filling you in is that I know you'll get all worried, and I'd rather take the strain off you for a while. Is that okay?"
She stares at me. "You're not going to get into any trouble, are you?"
"Me?" I reply, unable to stifle a grin. "What do you think I might do? Grab a steak-knife and start following that little trollop around town? Something real dumb like that, huh?"
She visibly bristles at the reference to her little escapade.
"I'm a lawyer, Ma," I continue, figuring that maybe I was a little harsh. "I've been a public defender for five years, for God's sake. You think I'm not smart enough to stay clean? Jesus Christ, it's nice to know you're so supportive. I know this system inside out, okay? I know what I can do, and what I can't do, and what I can do even though I can't really do it, if you get what I mean." Looking down at the little tin on the kitchen table, I grab a few more photos and start looking through them, until I find an old picture of Bobby with Cassie Briggs and Fisher Benhauser. They were always an odd trio. "Ma," I say after a moment, "you ever heard of Dappy Denver?"
"Who?" she replies, having resumed her towel-folding ritual.
"Dappy Denver," I say again, trying to get the name straight in my head, "or Dorper Denver, or something like that." I pause for a moment. "Darper Danver," I say eventually. "That's what it was. You ever heard of some kind around here named Darper Danver?"
"What kind of a name is Darper Danver?" she asks.
"No kind of a name at all," I reply, "at least according to any public records. I just remember overhearing Bobby and his friends talking about someone named Darper Danver. I remember mentioning it to Mulcahy five years ago when Bobby died, but he didn't think there was anything to it." I pause as I stare at the photo of Bobby, Cassie and Fisher. "You think there could have been a fourth member of their little gang?" I ask. "Some girl we never saw?"
"There's no family by the name of Danver in Fort Powell," she says with the certainty of a woman who has lived in the same town all her life. Poor Ma, she's spent her whole life sticking her nose in other people's business, and she's a goldmine of information. "I've never heard of anyone by the name of Danver nearby, either."
"There was something weird about it," I continue. "I overheard them talking about this Danver person one day, but as soon as they realized I was in the room, they clammed up, like they didn't want me to know anything. I made a couple of jokes about it, but they looked absolutely terrified, as if they'd almost let up the biggest secret in the world. I mean, it's hard to believe that there could be some kid we never saw, but..." I pause again, as I take another drag on my cigarette and consider the possibilities. "Darper Danver. It's a fucked-up name, isn't it? Sorry, I know, I know... it's a messed-up name. Either way, it doesn't sound real."
"So what do you think?" my mother asks as she finishes folding the towels. "Maybe it was just a little game they had between them?"
"Doesn't sound like a game to me," I reply, folding the photo and placing it in my shirt pocket, before taking one final drag from the cigarette and stubbing it out on a saucer. "I'm gonna go out for a while, Ma. Maybe I'll do some digging, you know? See what's what in this quaint little burg since I was last here. I don't suppose the place has hit the twentieth century yet, let alone the twenty-first."
She flashes me an angry look.
"I'm not complaining!" I reply, holding my hands up in mock surrender. "I'm just saying. It's kinda reassuring that this place doesn't change. It's like everyone's exactly how they were five years ago. No offense."
"Will you be back for dinner?" she asks curtly.
"Sure," I reply with a smile. "Just like old times. Will Abe and Milly be joining us?"
"I imagine so," she says, carrying the towels through to the laundry room with a strange tone of unnecessary dignity. God, that woman's head must be a fucked-up place.
"Just so you know," I call after her, "I'm here to help, okay? I'm a busy woman, Ma, but I came all the way down here 'cause I knew you'd need someone to keep you steady!" I wait for her to reply, but all I hear is the sound of her footsteps heading own to the basement. "No-one else is gonna hold that little runt accountable for what she did! I knew that from the start!"
Sighing, I realize that I'm just shouting for my own benefit.
"Shitting fucking bollocks," I mutter, getting out some of the swear words I kept in while my dear old Ma was in the room. "Cassie Briggs is a murdering bitch. You know it, and I know it."
As soon as I'm out the front door, I light another cigarette and pause to watch the quiet, almost lifeless street. I swear to God, this town is fucking dead, and it's hard to believe that anything interesting could ever have happened here. Then again, I guess this might be precisely the kind of place where you try to hide something you didn't want the rest of the world to see. After working as a public defender for five years, I reckon I've built up a pretty good bullshit detector, and while I'm willing to admit that I might be wrong, I've got a buzzy feeling in the pit of my stomach that tells me it might be worth trying to find out whether this Darper Danver individual might be real after all. Sure, none of the local records have any mention of that name, but I know other ways I might be able to get to the truth. Maybe, just maybe, Cassie Briggs isn't the only one who needs to pay for my brother's death.
Cassie Briggs
As soon as I'm inside the cabin, the first thing I do is open the curtains. I'm sure this place was crawling with police in the aftermath of Bobby's death, but it's clear that the place has gone undisturbed for many years. Clouds of dust are floating serenely through the air, and as I walk across to the far wall, I feel as if somehow I'm disturbing something that should have been left well alone.
In the corner by the old wood heater, there's a dark stain in the wood. I guess they tried to clean up, to get Bobby's blood scrubbed away, but some of it had sunk into the grain. My last memory of Bobby was in this spot: standing right here, staring at his twisted, contorted body as he took his last breath; blood was gushing from a wound in his neck, and his eyes were blinking furiously as he stared at me, waiting for me to do something. He'd been fully aware of what he was getting into, of course, but there was still a look of shock on his face. And then he'd died, and I'd stood for a few more minutes, just staring at the body. I swear, those were the last quiet and peaceful minutes that I ever had.
On the other side of the wood heater, there's a name scratched into the wooden wall: Darper Danver. This particular name was there many years ago, though; in fact, it was one of the first indications of Darper's presence. For such a strange person, Darper sure does have a habit of an
nouncing her presence in the most unusual of ways. I honestly don't think she's ever arrived without first having left her name scratched into walls, floors, ceiling, car doors... any surface that can be damaged, really. I never really understood why Darper had this compulsion to leave her name everywhere, and I always assumed it was just some kind of half-assed attempt to remind everyone of her presence. It's useful, in a way, to know whether or not she's around, but when you've been away for five years, it can be tricky to remember which specimens are new and which are old.
Fortunately, I have a little help.
Pulling the tattered old notebook from my backpack, I open it to the page relating to the cabin. Long ago, before this even started, I learned to make annotated maps of every place I went, along with clear descriptions of every spot where Darper Danver had scratched her name. Sure enough, I find a brief mention of the specimen next to the wood burner, and over the next few minutes I scour the entire room, making sure that I can find every instance of Darper Danver's name. All in all, there are seven, and they're all accounted for with no spares. I can't help but feel relieved, because it's clear that Darper hasn't been here since Bobby's murder. Sighing, I start to wonder whether maybe I've been getting worried about nothing. Still, there's more work to be done before I can be certain.
With my backpack resting on the floor, I head back outside and start inspecting the external walls. Once again, although there are plenty of examples of Darper's name scratched into the wood, they all tally with the notes I made five years ago, which means that Darper definitely hasn't been back to the cabin. I know her too well to believe that she could ever resist the urge to carve her name into every surface she found; after all, she might have a lot of virtues, but there's no way she has even an ounce of self-control. As I finish making a complete circuit of the cabin's exterior, I breathe another sigh of relief as I realize that she clearly hasn't been here. If she ever came back to Fort Powell, she'd certainly return to the cabin. Flicking through my notebook, I realize that the inscription of her name on a fence outside my parents' home must just be a solitary example that I overlooked all those years ago.
Wandering back into the cabin, I take one final look around. I swore that I'd never come back here, and now that I've checked one final time for any sign of Darper, I figure it's time to make good on that pledge. It'd be too easy to spend the rest of my life wallowing in self-pity and regret, reliving the moment of Bobby's death over and over again, but I want to move past these events and get my life back on-track. The residents of Fort Powell might not have moved on from the past, but I'm not going to be like them. I'm going to look to the future. I take one last glance at the dark stain that marks the spot where Bobby fell, and then I turn toward the door.
And that's when I see it.
A chill runs through my body as I stare at the name, carefully carved into the door-frame. Stepping closer, I try to work out if there's any way that I could have missed something so obvious. I hurriedly flip through my notebook, desperately hoping that I've made a mistake and this carving has been here all along; moments later, however, I realize that there's no mention of Darper's name having been carved on the door-frame. What's worse, however, is that I'm certain this carving wasn't here a few minutes ago when I was checking. I look closer, and slowly a feeling descends upon me: a feeling of being watched, of having someone nearby. I turn, but there's no-one behind me. How the hell could Darper have done this while I was here, and without attracting my attention? Sure, she's sneaky, but she has her limits.
"Where are you?" I call out, although I immediately feel dumb. There's no way she'd answer such a simple question. She's here, and wherever she's hiding, she's undoubtedly laughing at me, just like the old days.
Becky Madison
Jesus Christ, that's her! I'd recognize those sad, heavily-bagged eyes anywhere, not to mention the frizzy dry perm that looks like a dead poodle balanced on top of her head. She looks like a fucking zombie, wandering the aisles of the store, mindlessly picking up the occasional can and dropping it into her shopping cart. I figured the ravages of time wouldn't have been too kind, but I didn't expect her to look so pathetic.
Stifling a grin, I wander toward her.
"Hey, Mrs. B," I say as I get closer.
She turns to me, and for a moment she stares blankly before she's hit by a sudden moment of realization. Cassie Briggs' mother has always been one of those down-trodden, loser-type women who seem to traipse moronically from store to store without really having any purpose in life. I remember years ago, when I was a kid, I made a special effort one day to get closer to her, so I could check that she was actually breathing; having seen how still and quiet and dull she seemed, I'd started to wonder if she was a normal person. It's good to see that she hasn't really changed much.
"Becky..." she stammers, like a deer in the headlights.
"How you doing?" I ask, looking at the packet of powdered soup in her hand. "Tasty, huh?"
"What do you want?" she asks, her voice filled with fear.
"Groceries," I reply with a grin.
She stares at me for a moment. "You don't have a basket."
"I don't?" Looking down at my hands in mock horror, I act as if I'm surprised. "Well, blow me away, I guess I'm a bit out of practice." I pause for a moment, enjoying the look of fear in her eyes, and then I pick up a packet of razor blades. "Weird how expensive these things are, huh? Apparently razor blades are, like, one of the most stolen items ever. Fucked-up world, ain't it? So I heard Cassie's back in town. Is that right? They let her out?"
"I don't think that's any of your concern," she replies, putting the packet of soup in her basket before hurrying along the aisle.
"Not any of my concern?" I ask, wandering along after her, with the packet of razor blades still in my hands. "That's a sad thing to hear you say, Mrs. B, especially since Cassie and I were kinda friends for a while. I mean, not best friends, but we had a few of the same buddies when we were growing up. She used to hang around with my little brother Bobby. You remember Bobby? Tall, kinda skinny kid. Always a little nervous, very polite, very loyal. A good friend to anyone who knew him." I wait for a reply, but she's clearly trying to ignore me. "I'm sure you remember Bobby," I say after a moment, "and there was Fisher too. He was the good-looking one, really, wasn't he? They were a fun gang, huh?"
"I'm sure," she replies tersely.
"Shame about what happened," I add after a pause. "They were such good friends. It was a real little good old-fashioned small town gang of fun-loving kids. I always used to love seeing 'em heading off for some new adventure. It was like a slice of hometown America."
She walks around to the next aisle.
"Anyway," I continue, raising my voice so that she can still hear me, "I'm just in town for a few days, visiting Ma and seeing that she's okay, helping her out with a few odd jobs here and there, and I was wondering who else is around. It's always a shame when a good little gang gets broken up, especially in a town like this where there's not really anything much else to do. You stop being friends with someone in Fort Powell, you're still gonna end up seeing 'em around, aren't you? Like ghosts of a friendship. That's gotta be tough, right? No-one likes ghosts."
"I'm sorry," she says, clearly struggling to remain polite, "but I have to go."
"Hold up!" I shout, running after her as she makes her way to the register. "I feel like we've got off on the wrong foot," I continue as she hurriedly places her items on the belt. Goddamn, she's really panicking. I don't think I've ever seen someone look so flustered before. "Look," I add, "I know how it is. Things are kinda weird between our families, and that's only to be expected, and you probably think I'm here to cause trouble and tease you and whatnot, and I just think that's kinda sad, you know? I mean, that things have reached this level of distrust and incivility."
She ignores me as the cashier rings up her purchases.
"How's Cassie doing, anyway?" I ask.
"She's fine," she replies curtly.
"Fine, huh?" I say. "She's fine. That's cool. A little hard to believe after she's spent five years in prison, but I guess some people deal with that kind of shit better than others, right? All the prison politics and whatever other shit goes down in those places." I wait for an answer, and it's kinda amusing to see how determinedly she's trying to ignore me. "She at home?" I ask after a moment. "I feel maybe I should go see her some time. We've got a lot to talk about."
"I think it'd be better if you stayed away."
"Why's that?"
"Please," she says, turning to me with tears in her eyes. "Don't cause trouble, Becky. Cassie just wants to start her life over and move on. She was never convicted of any crime."
"I understand that entirely," I reply, taking an old-fashioned candy lollipop from the display and unwrapping the head, "and I think it's a very healthy response to what happened. I think everyone should move on with their lives. Those who still can, of course. Those who still have a life."
"That'll be twenty-two dollars and eight cents," says the guy behind the register, smiling uneasily at Mrs. Briggs before glancing briefly at me.
"Shame Bobby can't move on, though," I point out. "Shame he doesn't have that opportunity."
She studiously ignores me.
"I didn't mean that to come out as a nasty comment," I continue. "I wasn't having a dig, Mrs. B. I was just stating a fact, you know?"
"I don't think we have anything to say to one another," she mutters as she signs her credit card receipt and hurriedly gathers the grocery bag into her arms. "Goodbye, Becky. I hope you have a pleasant stay, and I hope your mother is doing well, all things considered. Please, don't try to contact my family again." With that, she turns and heads toward the door, but as she passes the sensors, an alarm starts to ring. She turns to look back at the cashier, and there's a look of blind panic in her eyes.