by John Gault
“They’ll have to be punished,” Teddy said.
Jamie turned slowly, and a strange, far-off little smile crossed his lips, though his blue eyes were icy and hard. “Yes,” he said slowly, “they’ll have to be punished.” He realized—was able to realize, despite everything—that while he had spoken, the voice was not his. It was Teddy’s, or very much like Teddy’s. Something was happening here, but he didn’t understand what. All he did know was that it didn’t scare him the way it probably should have. He looked in the mirror to check, once again, that he was still Jamie Benjamin, aged twelve. Yes, yes he was. And what’s more, he liked the new smile too.
“I’ll kill them now,” he said in a manner no different than if he had said, “I have to go to the bathroom.”
“Careful, Jamie,” Teddy said. “We have to be very careful. Now think, Jamie. If you try to kill them now, you might fail. He’s big, that Allan, and Sandy’s young and strong.”
Jamie nodded, but his eyes showed he was not fully convinced. “Yes,” he said finally, “we have to plan, don’t we? Like we did for Miss Livingstone.”
“That’s right, Jamie. Just like that. And we know a very good way, don’t we?”
Jamie had to think for a few seconds, but Teddy didn’t prompt him. “Yes,” he said, the strange smile growing, “we really do, don’t we?”
“But first, Jamie, there are two things.”
“Yes, Teddy,” he said, lying down on the bed once again so that their faces were no more than a foot apart, “what are they?”
“First, I’d like to suggest that we still make all our plans together, like we did for Miss Livingstone. I do have a certain amount of experience in these things.”
Jamie nodded.
“And second, you really have to watch your voice. Right now you sound too much like me, like the voice on the tape.”
Jamie’s smile broadened even further. “Great, Teddy, just great!” Then, “How was that, partner?”
“Perfect, Jamie. Just perfect.”
Oh Christ, Allan berated himself, I’ve done it again. Even before his vision was clear enough to read the watch he’d fumbled off the night table beside him, he knew, from the intensity of the sunlight in the room, that it was late—after eight, maybe closer to nine. He took no consolation from the fact that Sandy was still sleeping contentedly beside him. He’d promised not to fall asleep, and he had done it anyway; they’d fallen asleep together. But his immediate problem was not working up an apology or an explanation or even an escape attempt; he had to pee something fierce. And the kid, Jamie, just had to be up by now. Yes, Allan’s watch confirmed, it was just a few minutes shy of nine o’clock. Gritting his teeth against the pain and strain of his overloaded bladder, he listened for sounds of activity in the house. Although he wasn’t quite oriented in this strange bed in this strange room in this strange home, he guessed the noises were coming from the kitchen. Yes, the clack of crockery on crockery was unmistakable. The kid was up and, apparently, he was making breakfast.
He slid out of bed, leaving Sandy blissfully undisturbed. If he was going to get shit—and he was—he preferred it on an empty bladder and, preferably, after at least two cups of coffee. He pulled on his underwear, retrieved the rest of his clothes from the floor, where he’d shucked them the night before, and left the room on tiptoes, pulling the door closed behind him. He listened briefly, then, satisfied that Sandy’s breathing was unchanged, he searched out and found the bathroom.
He emerged a few minutes later fully dressed, much relieved, and with enough of a plan to buoy up his spirits at least slightly. Sometimes the direct approach was best, and he could only hope that this was one of those times.
“Hi, Jamie,” he said, trying his best to sound offhanded and casual as he walked into the kitchen. “You couldn’t spare a cup of coffee, could you?”
“Hi, Allan,” the boy said. Either the kid was a great actor, or he was happy to see him—and not the least bit surprised by his being there. Given what he knew about Jamie—Sandy’s perceptions—the second choice did not make one whole lot of sense. For that reason, it troubled him. But maybe, just maybe, Sandy had been exaggerating a little, as she did, he reflected, from time to time. Or maybe Jamie was just different with men, since there were no sexual tensions. Yeh, Allan thought, that’s possible. But isn’t he going to ask me what I’m doing here?
He stared with growing relief as the boy took a flowered mug from the set of six that hung under the counter beside the sink, unplugged the percolator, and poured the steaming coffee. “Cream and sugar?” he asked politely.
“No, thanks,” Allan managed. “Black is fine. It . . . uh . . . smells too good to dilute.”
“Thank you, Allan,” Jamie beamed. “Do you want some breakfast?”
“Uh . . . no thanks.” What the hell was this? What do you mean, Dressen? Why do you have to be so goddamned suspicious? The kid’s being nice—no, more than nice—and you’re looking at him like he’s some new lab rat. For Christ’s sake, give him a break. Do you know what you’re doing? You’re committing the unpardonable sin of transference, and you ought to be ashamed of yourself.
He sat down, lifted the mug, and took a little sip. “Great coffee,” he said. Jamie shrugged and smiled shyly.
“I guess,” Allan began, discovering that the little speech he’d prepared had been suddenly forgotten, “that . . . uh . . . you know I stayed here last night. I . . . we . . . I fell asleep. I’d been driving all day, or working, and I guess it just got to me. I must have passed out. I . . . hope you don’t mind, Jamie. I hope that you won’t have to tell your parents and get Sandy in trouble. I mean, God knows, I’m in enough trouble with her right now.”
Jamie listened attentively to the explanation, and his bemused expression (or would have passed for bemused in an adult) never changed.
“Oh, don’t worry Allan,” he replied very earnestly, “I wouldn’t think of getting Sandy in trouble. Or you, either. We’re friends, aren’t we? Sandy and I have lots of secrets that nobody else knows; we have lots of secrets.” He stopped for a few seconds, and Allan could see that the boy was apparently wrestling with something. Then he came to a decision. “We have one secret that I’ll tell you, Allan. I know I should ask her first, but I’m sure it’ll be okay.” He glanced at the ceiling. “Maybe we should wake her and ask her.”
No, Allan thought. But why not?
“She’s pretty beat, Jamie. Maybe we should let her sleep. Why don’t we go out for a walk or something, and we can talk and you can tell me your secret. Isn’t there a donut shop or something in this neighborhood?”
“Sure. That’s a great idea, Allan. But first I want to show you something—it’s like part of my secret—if that’s okay?”
“Fine by me,” Allan said, downing the last of the coffee. “Now if I can just remember where I put my sneakers . . .” While he was searching, Jamie washed and dried the cup and hung it back in its place. In his head he whistled his nameless, happy little Reverend Morley tune.
For some reason, one which he had no intention of questioning, David had wakened in the best of all possible moods. And it had stayed with him. Even now, as he pushed the ancient hand mower along the boulevard in front of the house, it was still there. What a great sound, he smiled to himself. Isn’t it too bad that you hardly hear it any more, that people pollute the air with gas fumes or overload the electrical system instead of getting out there with the old hand mower and enjoying themselves? There must be whole generations of men now who have never felt this pleasure and never will.
He was still congratulating himself on the discovery of this new truth when he saw the cruiser turn the corner and head in his direction. Helen was behind the wheel, he could see that, and he gave her a big smile and a wave. But she didn’t wave back and she wasn’t smiling. She stopped beside him, and her face said: there’s trouble. David went over and crouched down, so that their faces were level. “I’m almost afraid to ask,” he said.
&
nbsp; “I’m sorry, David,” she said. “I know you’re off today, but something happened last night over at the Livingstone place, and . . .”
The Livingstone place? Margaret?
“Oh Christ,” he said, “is she okay? Was anybody hurt? What do you mean, Helen, what?”
“David? Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot. You’ve still . . . oh, never mind that.” She told him rapidly what had taken place and what evidence there was to go on. After she finished, David, who hadn’t moved, demanded that she tell him again, but more slowly, step by ugly step. She did, and then explained, “She asked for you this morning, David. At first I thought it was because she didn’t trust a woman cop, but then I remembered that you and she used to be friends, used to go together. I called a few minutes ago, but there was no answer—I guess you were out here cutting the grass and didn’t hear the phone—so I took a chance and drove over.”
“You didn’t leave her alone?”
“Uh-uh. Fleischer is there with his fingerprint kit, and Cogan’s out in the backyard, going over it square foot by square foot.”
“Good,” he said, standing and beginning his rapid stride toward the house. “You go ahead back. I’ll get dressed and drive over myself.” Why the hell didn’t she call me last night? Why the hell did she wait? What the fuck is going on in this town, anyway?
Allan tried to convince himself that it was a great morning for a stroll in the woods, though stroll was not exactly the right word. Following Jamie through thick, pathless underbrush, picking through patches of burrs, and trying to avoid impalement on thorns was more like running a gauntlet. But, Jamie kept telling him, the clearing was just a little ways ahead; and besides, how does a twenty-six-year-old man admit to himself that he can’t do everything a twelve-year-old boy can?
He was in the midst of trying to come to terms with that when suddenly he found himself at the edge of a large, grassy field, about the size and shape of a football playing surface. But the surface, rather than being flat, was covered by rounded hummocks of varying sizes. Jamie, who had been five or ten feet in the lead throughout, broke into a run, but Allan didn’t immediately follow suit. There was something about this place that he found, well, foreboding. Despite an eleven-day dry spell, the grass was lush and dark green. It was not even browned at the tips, and the air seemed to be filled with an unusual sweetness that he sort of recognized, but couldn’t quite place.
Jamie had stopped and was waving at him with one hand, pointing with the other hand toward one particular mound, the largest in the field, Allan estimated, which was about thirty yards or so away. “There it is, Allan,” he shouted. “Come on, I’ll show you.”
Ah, Allen thought, the moment of truth. Now how do I handle it?
He walked as slowly as he could toward Jamie, who was now at the side of the mound, leaning over it and speaking words that Allan could not quite make out from the distance. By the time they were side by side he still had no answer to his fundamental question: how do I handle it? The hole was a rough circle, he noted, about three feet in diameter.
“Down there,” Jamie said, pointing. “That’s where my friends are. The trogs.”
“Jamie, I . . .”
“No, Allan, you can’t see from there. You have to get closer.”
Allan tested the footing, and, with some reluctance, took a step closer. All he could see is blackness. Well, what did you expect to see, Dressen, King Kong? “I’m sorry, Jamie,” he said, “but I’m afraid I can’t see a thing.” He hoped the boy wouldn’t take it too badly, that it wouldn’t screw him up to have one of his fantasies blown away.
“Don’t worry, Allan,” Jamie said amiably. “It takes a few minutes to get used to the dark. Besides, you’re not close enough. You sort of have to lean over the hole.” He dropped on his stomach and edged forward to demonstrate. “Don’t be afraid, it’s safe. I do it a lot.” He stood and came around to Allan’s side.
“Just do what I did,” he said. “I’ll hold your feet so there’s no way you can fall. Okay?”
Allan did what he’d seen Jamie do. Jamie held his feet. Yes, there was a little light down there, but all it illuminated was dirt—dirt and nothing else. When he figured he’d done his part, he lifted his head and turned it toward Jamie. “I’m sorry, Jamie, but . . .”
Jamie yanked up violently on his feet. And Allan screamed, he slid, he grabbed for a hold—anything—and there was nothing to grab. Instinctively he turned over in midair and prepared to take the shock with his legs. The left leg twisted under the right and broke with a sickening tearing of muscle and flesh, and then the rest of him struck down, punching the air out of his lungs. He lay there on his back, the shattered leg bent crazily underneath him, staring up at the circle of light and fighting for even the tiniest of breaths. No pain yet, thank God. But soon. Oh my God! Oh Christ! Oh no!
“Jamie!” he rasped. “Jamie, for God’s sake, help me! Get help! Get Sandy!” Far, far above, the silhouette of a familiar head, the blond hair like a thin, bright halo, appeared. “Ja-mie!”
“Good-bye, Allan,” the silhouette said happily. And then it was gone.
He reached underneath, as best he could, to assess the damage to his leg. Oh Christ, he felt the mud that he knew had been mixed from his own blood. His probing fingers found the sharp, broken end of his shinbone under the denim of his jeans. He pulled the hand away instantly in fear and disgust. And he realized that, one way or another, he was going to die down here.
Then he heard sounds, far off, and no, he couldn’t be sure if his mind was playing grotesque tricks. The sounds came closer, and he knew he had to be hallucinating. After all, what would a bunch of pigs be doing down here in this hole?
C H A P T E R
18
Sandy drifted slowly, pleasantly into wakefulness. What a grand, wonderful day it must be, she mused, stretching like a cat in the sun, a little reluctant to open her eyes just yet in case the world wasn’t quite as perfect and beautiful as she imagined. Thank you Allan Dressen, thank you for last night—and for being you. The thought made her want to giggle, so she did. You’re never too old to giggle, she assured herself.
She opened her eyes now, and considered the empty side of the bed, last seen containing the fantastic body of the man she decided, for this moment at least, that she loved. Isn’t he just magnificent? she thought, I wonder what time he left? For that matter, I wonder what time it is now?
The clock said it was precisely 10:35, which should have sent her flying out of bed in shame for yet another dereliction of her duty to Jamie Benjamin. But not today. Instead she stepped lightly into the bright patch of sunlight that warmed the gleaming hardwood. Then she stretched again, lifting off her sheer nightie in the process and letting it drift through the sunbeams to the floor. She danced around the room, feeling as free as Isadora, until she found herself face to face with her reflection in the mirror. So she smiled, curtsied, and said, “Good morning, Ms. O’Reilly. It’s good to have you back.”
“Thank you, Ms. O’Reilly,” the mirror said. “It’s good to be back.” With that the real Ms. O’Reilly slipped into her silk robe and danced off down the hall to the bathroom. But she didn’t quite make it. The phone began ringing, and for just a half-second or so it startled her, because it was only the second time in nearly a week that it had rung. How odd, she thought, how odd that nobody ever phones here, and how odd that you can almost forget that such things as telephones exist. She danced past the bathroom and into the master bedroom, where a simple black dial phone sat clanging away on the desk.
“Hello,” she said brightly. “The Benjamin residence. Sandy O’Reilly, at your service.”
“Well,” Barbara Benjamin replied, “you’re certainly in a good mood. Things must be going all right.”
Sandy answered before she thought about it, but later, when she did think about it, she satisfied herself that there was really no other response, anyway. “Wonderful, Mrs. Benjamin—sorry, Barbara—just great.”
; “So . . . Jamie hasn’t given you any trouble?”
Trouble? Well, not really. I mean, he really hasn’t, has he. “Oh no. We’re getting along just fine.
“But how about you two?” Let’s get off the subject. “How’s the house hunting going?”
“That’s why we called,” Barbara said. “We’ve found this great place, just a few miles outside the city. It’s an old farm house, all reconverted and modernized, of course, and authentically furnished. It has a pond and a barn, and twenty acres of land go with it. I can hardly wait to tell Jamie. Is he there?”
Oh shit, Sandy thought.
“Sandy?”
Oh, what the hell, it’s just a little lie. “No, I’m afraid he’s not. He took off about eight o’clock or so. Said he had something important to do.” She was on the verge of saying she didn’t know where he got his energy, but she realized that might be laying it on a bit thick. Barbara then said they’d be back on Tuesday, the only things left to do were to make arrangements with the bank in Seattle for the transfer of the down payment from Jericho and to sign the mortgage papers.
“Do you want me to tell him you called,” Sandy asked, “or do you want to surprise him?”
“Oh tell him,” Barbara said. “Maybe he’ll get used to the idea all that much faster.”
Sandy hung up and began checking the house for Jamie, stopping to make his bed and pick up his yesterday’s clothes along the way. Well, she said to herself finally, at least he didn’t make a liar out of me.
She went back upstairs to the bathroom, decided against a shower—her breasts were still a bit too tender from last night to handle the hard spray—and selected a long, soft cotten peasant dress as her wardrobe for the day. She started to put on a bra, then said to hell with it. And to hell with panties, too.