Bad Things

by Tamara Thorne

  Carmen stood up. “I’m going back to bed.”

  Rick watched her go. “She doesn’t like dirty talk.”

  Dakota ignored him. “So do you think he is?”

  “Yes. Let’s get some sleep.” He gestured at the sofa bed Carmen had made up for them.

  “My dreams come true,” Dakota said, batting his eyelashes.

  “Try anything and I’ll tell your sister on you.”

  After they lay down on the lumpy mattress, Rick stared at the ceiling a long time, wishing sleep would come.

  “Piper?”

  “Hmm?”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking about my brother. After he changed, Robin became obsessed with leaving his mark on everything. He’d get into other people’s clothes, my mother’s makeup, the food. Remember, I told you he peed in the lemonade? He’d take my schoolbooks and jerk off on them—I caught him in the act once. After we were twelve or so, he masturbated on anything that moved. And laughed about it. He didn’t care if I saw. He used everyone’s toothbrushes. I kept mine locked in my room.”

  “What a fucker.”

  “Yes,” Rick agreed. “His greatest pleasure came from the violation of other people’s privacy.”

  “A rapist in every sense of the word.”

  “That’s right.” Memories flooded him, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. “And now he’s doing it again. To my son, my daughter, and to me. I’m going to stop him, Dakota, or die trying. I’m not running anymore. I’m going to take back what’s mine.”

  47

  October 31

  “I feel like Roddy McDowell standing outside Hell House,” Dakota O’Keefe said.

  “I know what you mean.” Rick raised his hand to shield his eyes from the noontime sun, bright and clear on this chilI autumn day. “I don’t think anything will happen for a few hours. Not until dark.”

  “I still think you should tent the place.” Dakota smirked. “Exterminate the pests.”

  “I wish it was that easy.” Rick shoved his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants. “Winter’s coming.”

  Dakota nodded, hugging himself. Like Rick, he’d had to put his grave-robbing clothes back on—a pair of shorts, running shoes with no socks, and a sweatshirt, all filthy. “I’m freezing my nuts off. Hey, is the pool water warm yet?” He glanced across the lawn at the sparkling blue water. “That would help.”

  “No. We only finished filling it yesterday. It’ll take days before it’s warm enough. Listen, I have jackets upstairs. One’s a humongous fleece job. It’ll fit you.” As he spoke, the cold wind cut through Rick’s T-shirt, making him shiver.

  “Well, we have to go in, right?”

  “Right. It’s okay, Carmen’s already been inside.”

  “Then why don’t we ask her to get the jackets?”

  Rick rolled his eyes. “Are you chicken?” he asked, terribly pleased to be the one delivering the words instead of receiving them.

  “I’m a hell of a lot more cold than I am scared, Piper.” Dakota gave him a wobbly smile. “Let’s go for it. Hell, let’s get crazy and get an entire change of clothes.”

  “Good idea.” As he unlocked the front door, Rick felt his nerves giving underneath his newfound bravado. You can’t back out now, he told himself, not after you called O’Keefe chicken.

  Nothing looked out of place as they moved through the living room. Beyond Jade’s closed door, he could hear Maury Povich’s voice blaring.

  “Hector hasn’t finished locking the openings up, has he?” Dakota asked when they reached the kitchen.

  “I doubt it.” Rick opened the refrigerator and withdrew a carton of milk. He stared at it a moment, then took it to the sink and poured it out.

  “Piper? What the hell are you doing?”

  “If my brother’s really here, you don’t want to drink this.” Returning to the fridge, he took out a couple apples, examined them, then washed them thoroughly, just in case. He tossed one to Dakota. “Hector’s been out in the yard all morning. I don’t think he wants to be alone in here any more than we do. And I don’t blame him.”

  “Piper, why don’t we just call the cops?”

  Rick sighed. “I told you, if someone doesn’t want to be found in this house, they won’t be found.” As true as that was, there was more to it than that, but Rick kept it to himself because he knew O’Keefe would do his best to talk him out of it.

  For a long hour at dawn, Rick had lain on the lumpy sofa bed pretending to be asleep while he thought about what he’d told Dakota: that he was going to take back what belonged to him.

  When he’d said it, he’d been talking about more than his children, more than his house: He had also been talking about his self-respect. The time had come for him to battle the real monster and leave the windmills behind.

  Rick had never stood up for himself, had never ceased to question his own worth. He’d known for years that his lack of fight stemmed from the insecurities that Robin had so carefully instilled in him so long ago, and even now, part of him screamed that if he took a stand, he’d be wrong and everyone would find out how totally inadequate he was.

  All his life he had taken the path of least resistance, compromising, making nice, turning the other cheek. His powers of calm persuasion were so considerable that even back in elementary school he could use words to avoid showdowns with school bullies. As an adult, he used them to charm bosses and co-workers, even policemen who wanted to give him speeding tickets. His charm had never failed except where his brother was concerned, but there it had failed miserably, leaving him floundering and helpless to fight back. But now that all had to change.

  Returning to Santo Verde and facing the past had been the first step in taking control of his own life. Getting through the last two days without cracking had been the next step. Then, last night, when Dakota and Audrey said they believed he saw the greenjacks and he realized they meant it, the first tingle of real confidence passed through him.

  If he called the police now, perhaps they could do something: set a trap, stake out the house, he didn’t know what. But chances were, as he told Dakota, they would fail. And if they didn’t—if they caught Robin—Rick would again escape the confrontation he had avoided all his life, the final confrontation.

  He knew that this was something he had to do on his own, and this morning he began to figure a way to get Carmen to leave for the night. All his life she had been his crutch, and he knew that her presence here tonight might well bring out his old weaknesses. He couldn’t take that chance. Instinctively he knew that if he met the confrontation head-on, faced it on his own, with nothing to rely upon but himself, and if he succeeded in overcoming it, he would have control of his own destiny for the first time in his life and would no longer be a prisoner of his own cowardice. He’d been handed a second chance.

  And that was something he couldn’t explain to Dakota, who lived for confrontations and drama. He would never comprehend how important it was for Rick to fight this battle alone.

  “I’m going upstairs,” he told Dakota, who had sat down in a kitchen chair. “Do you want your suitcase? It might be a good idea to take some things over to Carmen’s for the night.” He put his hand on the back stairs rail.

  Dakota tossed his apple core in the trash can. “I’ll come with you.”

  The atmosphere in the second-floor hallway seemed as murky as the light filtering in through the windows of the few rooms with open doors. Rick pushed the door to Cody’s room wide without allowing himself to indulge the goose bumps rising on his arms.

  The closet door stood wide open. Rick saw the closed panel, with the holes where the nails had been, but he ignored it, taking Cody’s jacket and the Halloween costume Carmen had helped him make from the hangers. He laid the clothes on his son’s bed, then closed the door, using Cody’s wooden desk chair to secure the knob.

  Across the room, Dakota had hurriedly changed into jeans and a clean shirt, and was now gathering his things
and stuffing them in his suitcase. Rick opened Cody’s drawers, took underwear, socks, pants, a shirt, and a sweater out, then took the boy’s backpack and folded the items and placed them inside it. The costume went on top. A red cape and shorts and blue leotard with a big red S sewn on. Rick approved, half wishing he had one just like it.

  “Ready?” he asked Dakota.

  “Ready.”

  He went to Shelly’s room and repeated the process, then looked around, curious to see if anything had been disturbed. Nothing had. The chair still blocked the closet door, the bed with the spray of bloodstains and the minuscule piece of dried flesh hadn’t been touched.

  Maybe he’s gone, Rick thought. Maybe it never happened. His confidence declined the tiniest bit. “Let’s get my stuff,” he said, heading out the door. Dakota followed quickly.

  It was the same here. He extracted the coat for Dakota and another for himself and threw them on the bed. Barely glancing at the closet cabinet in the dressing room, he swiftly changed into fresh clothes, jeans, and a flannel shirt. “Almost done,” he called to Dakota, who stood peering out the window onto the orchard below.

  A moment later, he’d gathered his toiletries and a brown cable-knit sweater.

  Dakota looked at him. “Can we go now?”

  “One more stop. I want my laptop. Come on.”

  The study door was closed, and as he opened it, Rick was surprised to see that the little computer was open and turned on. He had left it plugged in to recharge, he remembered, but as he stared at the starburst screen-saver pattern on the screen, he was fairly sure he hadn’t forgotten to turn it off yesterday—or was it the day before? He never forgot. But the last couple days haven’t exactly been normal. You could’ve forgotten.

  “What’s wrong?” Dakota asked from behind.

  “Nothing,” Rick replied, handing his belongings to O’Keefe. Slowly he walked across the room to the desk. “I just don’t remember leaving this on.”

  If Dakota hadn’t been waiting for him, he would have pulled the desk chair out and sat down to check the contents of his article files. As it was, he leaned across the massive desk chair and touched one key, just so that he could make sure everything looked okay on the screen.

  The screen bloomed in the dim light, but the desktop didn’t appear. Only two white words broke the sea of blue:

  ICKY RICKY

  He touched my computer. He’s probably read my files. “You little fucker. You son of a bitch.” He nearly laughed as he realized his outrage had restored his confidence.

  “Shit, Piper,” Dakota breathed behind him. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  “I’m surprised he figured out how to get into the system.” Rick leaned farther over the back of the chair and pushed the page down button. Nothing else was on the screen, just the file’s end mark. “He’s probably never had access to a computer.”

  “He’s here alone with Jade most of the time. He has access to television, magazines, all of that. He could figure it out.”

  Rick nodded as he scrolled up the screen. “Shit. He did get into my files.” The words had been written below last week’s column. “The little shit.” He turned to face O’Keefe. “Maybe he learned how to use this by watching me. He liked to sit in the dressing room and watch our parents make love. He’d be two feet from them, and they didn’t know. He could go anywhere, and nobody ever heard him or saw him. Unless he wanted them to. He’d just watch, with this horrible grin plastered across his face.” Involuntarily he shivered. “Let me unplug this and we’ll leave.” For now, he added silently.

  Rick shut down the computer and pulled the jack from the back. He needed the power pack, too, which was a pain because he had to climb under the desk and reach up behind it to get to the electrical outlet and unplug it. “Shit,” he said again, and pulled the chair away from the desk. “This will take a couple minutes.”

  He could see Dakota’s foot tapping impatiently as he got down on his hands and knees. The massive desk was as deep as it was wide, and as he crawled beneath, his body blocked the light. Wishing he’d remembered the flashlight, he began to feel along the cord, intending to follow it to the outlet.

  “What the hell?” he muttered as his fingers hit something cold and hard. Feeling along the floor, he realized it was a curved metal object and that the cord lifted off the floor to feed into it. What the hell was it?

  “What’s taking you so long?” Dakota asked nervously.

  “There’s something funny down here.”

  “Swell, just swell. For Christ’s sake, be careful, Piper!” Dakota ordered. “He was fucking with your computer. You might get electrocuted or something! You’ve got the adapter, just get the fuck out of there! You can get another cord at the store.”

  “You’re right.” He grasped the cord just where it fed into the metal, thinking that if he couldn’t pull it out of the wall socket from here, he’d do exactly what Dakota said. He yanked the cord.

  Metal crashed against metal, so close that the wind of its passing blew into his face. He heard himself scream, felt his skull crash painlessly against the underside of the desk as he scrabbled, frantic to get out of the dark hole. Dakota was yelling something behind him, then suddenly his ankles were grabbed out from under him. He flopped onto his belly as O’Keefe dragged him out from under the desk.

  “Rick! Are you okay?” Dakota cried.

  “Yeah.” He still held the cord, and now he saw the metal object he pulled along with it. “Holy Christ!”

  It was a bear trap. A big rusty bear trap.

  “My God,” Dakota whispered as he saw the trap. “Now we call the cops.”

  Rick sat up, rubbing the back of his head as pain started to set in. “No,” he said, pulling the trap forward.

  “Why the fuck not?” Dakota demanded.

  “It belonged to Conlin Piper.” The excuse came easily since it held some truth. “It’s an heirloom, and I’m not going to let the police take it as evidence. According to family history, he was fond of hunting bear in Holcomb Valley.” He pointed to an area of bare wall to the left. “When I was little, there was a bearskin hanging right there. Supposedly it was Conlin’s catch, but personally, I think he bought it.”

  “Piper, why in hell are you talking about frigging bearskins?” Dakota exploded suddenly. “You were almost killed just now, and you’re acting like nothing happened!”

  He didn’t know why he was so calm, so instead of answering, Rick found the catch on the trap and released it, opening the jaws just enough to allow him to pull the cord free. “This thing could use a squirt of WD-40,” he told Dakota, letting the jaws close again. The teeth had a quarter-inch gap between them, and he realized that if he’d put his arm in it, as had been intended, it wouldn’t have been severed—quite. An unexpected giggle escaped his lips, heralding an impending case of hysterics. He pinched the back of his hand, twisting the skin between his thumb and forefinger until tears sprang to his eyes and the laughter receded.

  “Rick?”

  “I’m fine,” he said. “It looks like the cord is, too.” He looked at Dakota. “Sorry. It was a little unsettling having that thing crash down in my face. I’m lucky I still have my nose.” He stood up and wrapped the cord around the adapter, then slipped it and the laptop into his computer case and put the strap over his shoulder. “Let’s go.”

  Dakota pointed at the trap. “Are you going to leave that here? God knows where you’ll find it next.”

  “Good point.” He reached down and retrieved the trap. “This thing weighs a ton. I wonder how he moved it.”

  They descended the main staircase only to find Jade sitting in his suede recliner, petting one of her stuffed dogs. Great. This is all I need. “Aunt Jade?” he said stiffly.

  “Stinkums is dead,” she announced as she stroked the poodle, a mangy yellowish one with a faded green ribbon around its neck. It was posed so that it appeared to be sleeping, with its nose tucked beneath its tail. “He’s dead, isn’t he, Lu
vems?” She scratched Luvems behind its ear, and a clump of fur came off. “Luvems,” Jade intoned, sitting up straight, “was a champion!”

  “I’m sorry about—” I can’t say “Stinkums” “—your dog,” Rick finished lamely.

  “He’s so jealous,” she said dreamily.

  Rick traded glances with Dakota. “Who’s jealous, Aunt Jade?”

  “Why, my darling little Robin, of course. He’s such a good boy. Except when he’s jealous.”

  Jade often spoke of his brother as if he were still living, and Rick had never taken it seriously. How stupid he’d been. “Where’s Robin now, Aunt Jade?”

  She looked at him sharply. “Why, he’s dead, Richard. You know that. He’s dead and buried.” She laughed, a sound like nails raking a blackboard. She stared pointedly at the bear trap. “That’s a dangerous toy, Richard. Don’t hurt yourself.”

  “What do you know about this?” Rick demanded.

  “What should I know?”

  “How it got under my desk. Do you know that?”

  She giggled and scratched her dog’s ears. “He’s so jealous. And it makes me mad when something happens to my little lovedotties, but he says it means I’m his. His alone, and no one else can have me.” She blushed, the cackling giggle growing in intensity.

  Dakota tugged his elbow, tilting his head toward the door. Rick nodded and followed him outside.

  “She knew about that trap, Piper.”

  Rick looked at Dakota. “I agree.”

  “She’s psycho.” O’Keefe paused. “So’s your brother. Anyone who would make love to that dried-up old snatch-cracker would have to be mad.”

  “I agree.” Suddenly the consumer spot on the morning news sounded attractive. “Tomorrow I’ll find a place to send her and her lovedotties.”

  They walked toward Carmen’s. “Why not today?”

  Rick glanced at his watch. “Well, it’s two o’clock already, for one thing. Let her have one more midnight fling.” He smiled grimly. “For old times’ sake.”