by John Gault
Now, at last, he was coming to the clearing. He stopped running and stood hidden by the trees and brush that grew on the periphery. He listened to satisfy himself that there were no other people around, no searchers still in the woods. Then he took a few more silent steps to a point where he could see the whole clearing. It was quite empty. “There’s nothing to worry about,” he assured himself for perhaps the tenth time that day.
He was at the hole’s lip now, and he dropped down into his lying position, face peering down into the darkness. Everything seemed precisely the way he’d left it two days before, and there were no signs that the hole had been revisited by anybody. Some of the anxiety and tension left him, but some still remained. Who knows who came out here for a look, and who knows what they saw? A vision of schoolchildren, teenagers maybe, standing around the hole throwing in rocks came and went in Jamie’s mind. “Hello,” he said tentatively. “It’s Jamie again. Remember?” No response. “Hi down there,” he shouted, cupping his hands to his mouth. “It’s okay. I’m alone. It’s safe.”
The scratching sound was soft and far-off at first, but he heard it grow louder and more distinct. Yes, it was them. They were still all right! Then the other sound came, the grunting that he thought sounded more like pigs than anything else he’d ever heard, and which he had decided was their “language.” He mimicked the sound as best he could, not knowing what he was saying, but hoping it was what he was thinking: “Come out. I am your friend.”
He saw the first set of yellow eyes, blinking upward at him and the light. Then the second set. And the third. The unintelligible jabber in the pit grew louder and more prolonged, and Jamie was more sure than ever that his friends, troglodytes or whatever they were, were actually talking to one another. He also began to think they were talking about him. And he thought he saw, though he was uncertain because of the darkness below, one of the creatures raise a hand (well, what else would you call it?) and point at him.
Jamie smiled and waved. “Guess what,” he said. “I’m going to tell somebody else about you. But don’t worry, she won’t tell. She’s a really nice lady, and she’s really beautiful and smart, too. I bet she’ll even know what you like to eat.”
The pig noises below suddenly stopped, and he saw a fourth set of eyes appear, then a fifth. The trogs were in a close group now right about where Jamie figured was the middle of the bottom of the hole. They were watching him, and what’s more, they were listening. They had to be.
“I’ll be back tomorrow,” he said, rising to his hands and knees. “And maybe I’ll try to bring her with me.”
Sandy listened to the story with an increasingly heady mixture of fascination and horror. With a great effort of will, she kept from interjecting and contradicting. For the first time since she had met Jamie Benjamin, she began to appreciate just what his mother had been trying to tell her. This was no simple little childhood fantasy, this tale of Jamie’s, this was awfully close to a full-blown psychosis. For one of the few times in her young life, Sandy O’Reilly felt almost completely inadequate, her B.S. in psychology no more use to her than her high school diploma. The only thing she did know was that she could not say or do anything to crush the boy’s illusion. What if she sent him over the line? That line seemed closer and thinner than she’d ever suspected before. And anyway, she had no right to interfere in this family. Next week they’d be gone from her life. No, the best thing she could do was to play along.
“What . . . uh . . . what did you say you thought the creatures were, Jamie?” she asked, listening carefully to every word she spoke and every inflection, trying to hide her true feelings and make her interest sound genuine.
“Troglodytes,” he replied. “It means cave dwellers. Sometimes they’re just called trogs.” If he had sensed her concern, he wasn’t showing any signs of it. “After I first saw them—it was when we were on Easter break, like I told you—I went to the library and I looked through some books and I found them. I don’t know if they’re really troglodytes, but I think so. They’re small, about the same size as me, and they’ve got hair all over them, and scales. And little yellow eyes, like a cat or something. And I think they have claws, and really sharp teeth.”
“And they live in this hole?” Think fast, Sandy. “Is this . . . uh . . . the first time you’ve ever seen them, Jamie, I mean here in Jericho? You never saw them in any of the other places you lived?”
“No,” he said. “Never . . . Hey, do you want to come and see them? I told them you might come, I told them about you and about how I was going to tell you my secret. How about it, Sandy? We can go right now, it’s a long time until dark. This is the third longest day of the year, you know.”
Don’t answer right away. Keep him talking. If you go there, and you don’t see anything—well, of course you won’t see anything, you idiot!—then what do you do, tell him he’s lying, tell him he’s imagining things, tell him he’s crazy? If you’re going to shatter this boy’s fantasy, Ms. Sandra O’Reilly, you damn well better have something to replace it with.
Okay, carefully now. “Jamie, I know you told your friends about me, but maybe they didn’t understand. I mean, if they are what you think, troglodytes, I’m sure they don’t speak English. If I went there with you, they might not like it. They might hide from both of us. I mean, they must have hidden from the search party, right? Maybe you’re the only one they trust.” Not bad, O’Reilly, it looks like you can actually put one over on a disturbed twelve-year-old boy.
Jamie thought about it for a while, and Sandy could almost see his mind going over and over her argument, looking for flaws but unable to find any.
“Yeh,” he said finally, “you’re probably right.” Sometimes he sounded so old, so . . . wise. And sometimes he sounded so terribly young and trusting and vulnerable. “Thank you Sandy, thank you for believing me!”
She forced a smile and nodded. But she felt like a lying shit.
“Hi, Teddy,” he said quietly, closing the door behind him.
“I wondered when you’d get around to me,” the bear said huffily. But the tone was lost on Jamie, who was much too excited to pick it up. He had so much to tell his friend.
“She believed me, Teddy, she really did! She asked me questions and everything, and I could tell she believed me! And she’d have come with me to see the trogs too, but she was afraid she’d scare them away or make them mad at me. Isn’t that great, Teddy, isn’t she great!”
“Yeh, great,” Teddy’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “And I suppose you told her about the old man, too, right? I bet she’s on the phone right now, calling the cops.”
“No, I didn’t. I promised I wouldn’t and I didn’t. Besides, Teddy, she wouldn’t tell anybody our secret. She crossed her heart . . .”
“Jamie, Jamie! When are you going to learn that you can’t trust anybody except me? You told Dr. Kelso things and Dr. Applebaum. You said it was okay, that you trusted them—well, Kelso, anyway—and then they went and blabbed to Barbara and Tom. Be careful, Jamie. Be very, very careful.”
Dr. Galnicoff’s answering machine explained that he would be off enjoying a well-deserved rest in the north of Scotland until July 17th, and that he would appreciate it if callers did not leave their names and numbers at the sound of the beep, but simply called back after his return. There were a couple of other psych profs at the college who might be helpful, Sandy knew, but Mike Galnicoff was the only one with whom she could really feel comfortable discussing a case as bizarre as Jamie’s.
Next, she phoned Allan.
“Hi,” she said in a little voice.
“Well,” he replied in that slightly overblown manner he adopted when he wanted to make a show of his indignance, “I thought I’d been kissed off permanently when you shoved me out the door the other day.”
“For a doctoral candidate in experimental psych you sure have a way of misreading the signs,” she shot back. Then, more conciliatory, “I had things on my mind, Allan, and I didn’t really want to
talk about them then. I know I was bitchy. I’m sorry.”
“Apology accepted,” he said, “and case closed. So, how’s it going down there? You and the kid getting along all right?”
Okay, Sandy, this is why you called in the first place, now what are you going to say, how are you going to phrase it? Yes, Allan, we’re getting along fine, but we have this problem because he wants to introduce me to some friends of his who live in a hole out in the woods? Yes, Allan, except for the fact that he’s stark, raving mad?
“Actually,” she eventually said, “something’s just come up that sort of worries me. I called Mike, but he’s away for another three weeks. I’d really like to talk to you about it, Allan. I know child psych isn’t your field, but I’d just like to kick it around with you and see what you think.”
There was a short silence on the other end of the phone. Finally, he said, “Well?”
“It’s too complicated on the phone, Allan. Can . . . can you come over?”
“If it’s as serious as you’re making it sound, not by what you say but by the way you’re not saying it—there, now who were you accusing of misreading signs?—then I’ll come,” he said. “But if it can keep till the weekend, I’d appreciate it. Actually, when you called I was just packing an overnight bag. Remember I was telling you about needing to see those new chimp films? Well, I got a call from Dr. Bleir’s secretary up in Madison, and I’m booked into the screening room for eight thirty A.M. tomorrow. But if it’s really important, I’ll cancel. I mean that, sweetheart, I’m not just fishing.”
She wanted to say, “Cancel,” but she just couldn’t justify it. For one thing, those films were vital to Allan’s nearly-completed thesis. And for another, Jamie had given her no reason to be afraid of him; in fact, he’d been nothing other than loving and trusting. As she pondered her impressions of him more, she began to think that maybe she had just been overreacting. Maybe she still believed Barbara Benjamin’s incredible “confession” more than she’d thought.
“No,” she said, “it’s not urgent. The weekend will be fine.”
“Tell you what,” Allan replied, with a certain amount of relief, “I should be back in town about seven or eight tomorrow night, depending on how long my meeting with Dr. Bleir lasts in the afternoon. I’ll grab a bottle of good wine, and we’ll talk about whatever’s bothering you.
“And,” he added, dropping his voice the way he always did when he was telegraphing his sexual desire, something she always found, for lack of a better description, cute, “if that doesn’t help I know a sure cure for female neuroses.”
Well, she thought, that isn’t a bad idea at all.
“You’re a disgusting man, Allan Dressen, and some day God will strike you impotent.”
“Probably,” he laughed. “I just hope it isn’t before tomorrow night.”
C H A P T E R
13
For the first time in days, Teddy seemed to be in a good mood. Even Jamie, who’d been having some second thoughts about the “Miss Livingstone Project,” especially since Sandy’s arrival, was getting excited about it once again. He was particularly pleased with himself because the “note” looked so slick and professional, as neat as anything he’d ever seen on TV. He held up the page for Teddy’s approval, and the little button eyes seemed to dance. “Only a few more words, Teddy,” Jamie said, putting down the page and flipping through Newsweek for an “instructed” and a “harm.” He already had the other words put aside, and the pasted-down note would ultimately end with, “If you do as instructed, she will come to no harm.”
Jamie found what he was looking for on page 37, in a two-column story about the President ordering the State Department to look into some dumb crisis in the Far East. He laid his steel-edged ruler above and below the words and cut precisely with the X-acto knife. Using the sharp point, he lifted the words off the magazine page and onto the narrow ribbon of glue he’d spread on the note. He filled in the final sentence, put down the knife, and started to remove the rubber gloves he’d borrowed from the kitchen.
“No,” Teddy cautioned. “Put it in the envelope first. No fingerprints, remember. They can take prints off anything.” Jamie complied. The envelope was already addressed with “miss” and “living” and “stone” perfectly spaced. He reached into the bottom drawer of the big old wooden desk that served as his projects table as well as for homework, and hauled out a hardly used Uher cassette recorder that somebody had given Tom Benjamin years before. There was a fresh tape already inserted in place, and the power level of the batteries was still sufficiently high.
Jamie pushed the record button and held the mike in front of Teddy. “Testing . . . Testing . . . one, two, three, four . . .” the bear said, making his deep voice sound even more authoritative. “Okay, Jamie, let’s play it back.” They were both satisfied, so Jamie cleaned the tape. It wouldn’t do to have “Okay, Jamie” turn up on it.
“Ready?” Jamie asked.
“Teddy’s ready,” the bear replied, chuckling at his own joke. Jamie pushed the button again and Teddy cleared his throat. “Good evening, Miss Livingstone,” he began. “As you can see from our note, we are very dangerous men . . .”
When he finished, Jamie fished the cassette out of the recorder and, just to be sure there were no prints, wiped it clean with a spit-moistened Kleenex tissue. He slipped it into the standard sized envelope with the note and sealed the flap. Then he dropped the envelope into a Baggie and twist-tied the top; when that was done, he left the room, carrying the tape recorder in one hand and the Newsweek in the other. The recorder went back in his father’s desk in the study and the magazine into the garbage, shoved down out of sight along one side of the bag. How terribly easy it had all been, Jamie thought. If the kidnappers on TV were as smart as he and Teddy, they’d never get caught.
And he didn’t even mind all that much that he was sexually excited by it all and by the anticipation of what would come of it. Hot images of Miss Livingstone, naked and alone, fearful and helpless, ebbed and flowed before his mind’s eye. He was giving the orders, he and Teddy, and she was pleading with them. Anything, she’d do anything, but please don’t hurt the girl . . .
“Jamie?” The images evaporated, although the erection remained, and his throat felt so thick that he could not even croak a reply.
“Jamie, is that you? I thought you were in bed.” Sandy, pulling a robe over her nightie as she came out of the guest room, her room, was cutting off his path as well as his thoughts. “Why, you’re still dressed,” she said. “Don’t you know how late it is?”
“Oh, I was . . . uh . . . I was thirsty, so I . . . uh . . . went down to the kitchen for a glass of milk. I . . . uh . . .”
“Well get undressed and get into bed, Jamie. And go to sleep.” He could not tell what it was, but he knew there was something wrong. She seemed angry with him, even more angry than she’d been earlier in the day when she’d caught him watching her sleep. And she seemed, well, scared. Maybe, he figured, she thought I was a burglar or something.
“And just what were you doing before that, before you went down for milk, if that’s what you were doing?” she demanded, the edge still on her voice.
“Nothing. I was . . .” Think fast, Jamie. “I was just drawing pictures. Of the trogs. Wait, I’ll show you.” He rushed into his room, grabbed a pile of week-old drawings from the top drawer of his desk, and ran back out into the hall before she could follow him in. “See,” he said, shoving the pencil sketches into her less-than-willing hands. “This is what they look like. Please like them, Sandy.”
She flipped through quickly, without stopping to study any one page, then handed them back without saying a word. Jamie said “Well?” with his face, but he didn’t get much of an answer, at least not the one he was expecting.
“You draw well, Jamie,” she said.
“But what do you think about the trogs, Sandy?”
“I think they look horrible,” she said flatly.
He fe
lt tears in his eyes. What’s going on, he asked himself, what’s the matter, doesn’t she like me any more? What did I do to her?
Sandy saw, and her own expression changed. He could see tears in her eyes now too, but at least there was a smile to go with them. She reached out and touched him lightly on the arm, and he felt good all over—not sexy good, he didn’t think, but happy good. Just good.
“I’m sorry, Jamie,” she said. “I was thinking about something that was making me really unhappy and I just went and took it out on you. That wasn’t fair, and I’m sorry.”
Jamie didn’t know what to say. A few people had said they were sorry to him before, but it was usually like an “excuse me.” They didn’t really mean it, they only said it because they were people who said things without thinking about it. But this was the first real apology anybody’d ever made, where he was right and they were wrong and they said so.
“Oh that’s okay, Sandy,” he said gallantly, as though he’d spent a lifetime rehearsing for this very moment. “I don’t mind, honest. I mean, everybody has their troubles.”
“Thank you, Jamie.” She put the ends of two fingers to her lips, made a kissing sound, and touched the fingers to his forehead. He felt his face get very red, and he knew that she could see it too, even in the fairly dim light of the hallway. It wasn’t that he wanted to lose this moment, but he just didn’t know what more he could do with it.
Then the answer came, from somewhere out of the blue, and he broke the spell. “Sandy,” he asked urgently, “my friends, the trogs, what do you think they eat?”