Teddy (The Pit)

by John Gault

  She and Jamie arrived in the kitchen almost simultaneously. Sandy was carrying dirty laundry, en route to the basement, and he had a jarful of bugs in his hand, obviously headed in the same direction. “Hi,” he said cheerily, “did you have a good sleep?”

  “You bet I did,” she replied, feeling very much in tune with his mood of the moment. “And you?”

  “Great. Just great. But I had to get up because I had to find some bugs and stuff for my toads and snakes. I was real quiet. I didn’t want to wake you.”

  “Thank you, Jamie,” she said. “Listen, if you’re going down to the basement, would you drop this in the laundry hamper for me. Then, after you’ve fed your pets, come on back up quick, because I’ve got some wonderful news for you.”

  He took the bundle and brushed her hand—deliberately, she knew; but today she didn’t really mind. After he had disappeared down the stairs, she crossed to the opposite counter, where the percolator stood. That’s funny, she thought, it’s almost full of coffee. She smelled it and sort of thought it seemed fresh. She was almost sure she’d cleaned it yesterday. Oh well, she concluded, I guess I couldn’t have.

  David stalked around Margaret Livingstone’s bedroom in impatient little circles while Margaret, slumped in a big, overstuffed easy chair, stared blankly and lit a series of cigarettes. After a couple of drags of each one she’d hold it out in disgust, make a sour face, and jam it out. Then, after a few minutes, she’d light another and repeat the process.

  Sergeant Norm Fleischer, almost a little too small and a little too scholarly-looking to be taken for a cop, came into the room carrying three Baggies, one with the note, one with the envelope, and one with the tape cassette.

  “Well?” David said, calling a momentary halt to his pacing. Margaret crushed another cigarette and glanced up with what David thought was little more than mild curiosity.

  “Not a thing,” Fleischer said, pushing his glasses back up his nose where they belonged but rarely stayed, “not even a partial. And, needless to say, the tape and the stationery are as common as the proverbial table salt . . .”

  “But you’re going to run a check, aren’t you?” David interrupted. “The stationery shops, the supply houses?”

  Fleischer looked from him to Margaret and back to him. As always, the sergeant’s face was expressionless, “No, David,” he said evenly, “I’m not. We both know how bloody useless that is.” Then, to Margaret, “Ms. Livingstone, I know how terrible this has been for you, how degrading. And I know how much it’s upset your niece. And I’m sorry. But the truth is—and David will confirm this, when he calms down a bit—that the chances of finding this guy are just about nonexistent. He hasn’t done it before, not that we know of, anyway, so we don’t even have a pattern to go on. And he doesn’t appear to have made any mistakes. And—no offence—but neither you or your niece has been able to help us much . . .”

  David interrupted again. “Margaret,” he said, crouching in front of her so she had to look him in the face if not in the eye, “are you sure you can’t think of anyone? Somebody at the library who looked at you funny? A stranger hanging around there, maybe? Has Abergail ever had men stopping her on the street? Any strange cars driving slowly past the house? Anything?”

  She looked at Fleischer, whose patience seemed to be endless, and then down at her own hands. But not at David. “There’s only one person in this town who . . . who really bothers me, scares me. But I won’t even tell you his name, because . . . because he couldn’t have done it.”

  David put his hands on her shoulders and squeezed, harder than he’d meant to. “Who? Tell us, Margaret. How do you know he didn’t do it?”

  “Because,” she said, looking him in the eye for the first time that morning, “he’s only twelve years old.”

  Teddy was very pleased.

  “You did good, Jamie, you really did good. And Allan was still alive when you left him, eh, and conscious? Very good. Tell me though, Jamie, honestly, do you feel sorry at all, do you feel even a little bit guilty?”

  Jamie smiled and shook his head.

  “Very good,” Teddy repeated. “Now, do you think you’d like to do it again?” Jamie looked puzzled. Did Teddy mean to Sandy? No, no way. They had agreed on that. Sandy was the girl he loved, really loved, and now, with that Allan asshole out of the way, he’d have her.

  “Oh no, Jamie,” Teddy laughed. “I don’t mean her. I mean the others, all the people in this town who have shit on you, fucked you over, for the last year. Let’s see, there’s Abergail, of course. And Freddy and lemon-tits Christina, and that frigging Miss Oliphant. Anybody else?”

  Jamie thought for a moment, then shook his head. “There’s a lot of people who deserve it, a lot of people I’d like to get even with, but there might not be time.”

  “Not time?” Teddy asked.

  “Oh, I forgot to tell you, Teddy. Barbara called and we’re probably going to be leaving for Seattle before next Saturday. And they’re coming back here on Tuesday, so we’ll really have to work fast.”

  “Yes,” Teddy said, quite seriously, “we’d better draw up a schedule.”

  Sandy’s glorious feelings of that morning, about herself and Allan and life in general, were by late afternoon in imminent danger of collapse. The son of a bitch hadn’t come back, and he hadn’t phoned, and three calls to his apartment had resulted in precisely zero. Part of her wanted to kick his ass the moment he set foot again inside the door; but another part—an ever growing one—was worried. It was simply not like him to do this. When Allan promised to do something, he delivered; or he had a very good reason for not delivering.

  Her mother, had she been there, would have been urging Sandy to call the police and the hospitals, but her father, who was not the worrying kind, would have been drawling, “Oh for Christ’s sake, Marge.” Sandy had decided, a long time ago, that she was more like her father than her mother, whether that happened to be objectively true or not. No, dammit, it was much too soon to call the cops or anybody else, not today and maybe not even tomorrow. Allan would turn up, and when he did he better damn well have a good explanation.

  She refocussed her irritation on Jamie. It was nearly suppertime, and they had made a deal: she’d make the hamburgers if he went to the store for the meat. But he hadn’t gone out, in fact, he hadn’t come downstairs. She was tempted, really tempted, to go up there and give him her Number One lecture on responsibility, but then she stopped herself. What you’re doing, Sandy O’Reilly, is blaming the boy because Allan screwed up and got you all frustrated. Leave the kid alone. She went to her purse, dug out her wallet, and stuck it in the big pocket of the peasant dress. Anyway, the walk would probably do her good, work off a little tension.

  Sol Fruitman studied Sandy from the moment of her entry into the store until she was at his counter, asking for a pound of his best ground round. Normally she didn’t mind being stared at—she knew she was young and pretty—but the five-minute walk had done nothing for the anger and worry she still felt over Allan’s disappearance. She did not return Fruitman’s smile and only grunted her “good afternoon” because he had said it first and she’d been brought up to be polite. But Sol Fruitman, she quickly discovered, was a very perceptive man.

  “Young lady,” he said, so kindly that her momentary defensive shell just flaked away, “I know you are thinking that this dirty old man is staring at you and making up ideas in his head.” She blushed. He noted it with a smile and continued his explanation. “It’s not that, although you are a very pretty girl. It is just that—if I am wrong, forgive me—this is your first time in my store?”

  “Yes,” she said, “I’m not from around here. I’m just staying at the Benjamin place for a little while, sort of looking after Jamie.”

  His left eyebrow rose, and he peered down at her a little more intently. “Excuse me for asking, Miss . . . uh . . .”

  “O’Reilly. Sandra O’Reilly. Sandy. Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”


  He waved it away. “No, I was just going to ask if you had already eaten all that hamburger young Jamie bought here yesterday? Four pounds, I believe it was.”

  All what hamburger, her face said.

  “Oh,” Fruitman said, “perhaps I shouldn’t have mentioned it. The boy said it was for a barbecue, but perhaps it was with his friends, eh? That must be it. Of course. That’s just what he said. You must excuse me, Miss O’Reilly, but I am no longer a young man. Sometimes, my mind goes, eh?”

  Sandy wasn’t listening, hadn’t been since the words “four pounds.” Jamie didn’t bring home four pounds of hamburger. He didn’t bring home any hamburger. She wouldn’t have sent him for hamburger in the first place and certainly not four pounds of it. What else had this Mr. Fruitman said? For Jamie’s “friends.” Jamie had no friends, except . . . except . . . oh, shit, those stupid imaginary trolls or trogs or whatever he called them! Christ, had his fantasy gone that far?

  “Is there something wrong, Miss O’Reilly?”

  “I beg your pardon? Oh, I’m sorry, I just started thinking about something. No, he didn’t tell me, but I guess I’d better take the ground round anyway. For all we know,” she tried to salvage the situation with a joke, “he’s feeding half the stray dogs in Jericho. He’s . . . uh . . . quite a boy, our Jamie.”

  “Quite a boy,” Sol Fruitman agreed, wrapping the meat carefully and tying it with a string.

  On the way home, Sandy made a decision: she would not ask Jamie about the hamburger; she would not ask Jamie about anything else, if she could help it. She was sick of him, sick of his infantile sexual advances and sick of that cloying cheerful mood he’d been in for the last few days. Tuesday afternoon couldn’t come soon enough.

  Twenty feet below the earth, beyond the sight of any human eye, beyond the range of any human ear, five shadowy figures shared the last of the kill. They ate carefully, and with no sense of urgency, although the filthy, matted fur of their chests and stomachs was wet with blood. All that remained of Allan Dressen was bones, a few apparently unappetizing internal organs, and a gore-drenched head with sightless, terrified eyes staring madly toward the little circle of sky. One of the creatures jabbered, and immediately all five set down what they held and formed a hunched circle. The same creature who had first spoken, jabbered again. One of the others replied, then a third. They rose, gathered up the chewed and broken pieces of Allan Dressen, and disappeared down the tunnels.

  C H A P T E R

  19

  Jamie could see that Sandy was in one of her bad moods. She was banging stuff around in the kitchen and muttering little curses under her breath and answering his questions with terse yesses, nos, and I-don’t-knows. He decided not to ask what the matter was. After nearly a week in close quarters with Sandy, he had come to accept the occasional anger in her, even though he didn’t quite understand what made her that way. Besides, he told himself, if you really love somebody, you have to put up with that some times; that’s what he guessed, anyway.

  They ate their hamburgers and their lettuce-and-tomato salads in silence. She drank coffee and he drank milk. She had made no offer of her famous limeade, and he hadn’t requested any. When they both finished she stood and, without a word, gathered up their plates and glasses and cutlery and put them into the dishwasher. Then she left the kitchen and went directly to her room, closing the door hard behind her. Which was all okay with Jamie, who had been a bit worried earlier in the day about what reason he was going to give her for going out that night. He could have said that he’d been invited to the masquerade party over at Billy Jameson’s house, but he doubted if she’d believe him; she knew he was never invited to parties or anything like that. Teddy hadn’t been able to come up with an excuse either. He’d just said to try playing it by ear; probably Sandy wouldn’t even ask Jamie where he was going, anyway.

  Jamie consulted the kitchen clock. It was only 7:45, which meant at least two more hours of waiting. He needed darkness for this “mission,” as Teddy had called it. As good as the costume they’d decided upon was, it would be much more effective after sundown.

  On his way to his room—he thought Teddy might want to come down to the basement with him while he tried on his outfit—he detoured on tiptoes to Sandy’s door. He could hear her breathing, but he was pretty sure she wasn’t crying. She did sigh a couple of times though, and he was almost ready to knock lightly and ask if he could help. Poor, poor Sandy, how unhappy she seemed sometimes. Still, that was okay, because soon he would make her feel better. That’s what people did who loved one another, they made each other feel better.

  That evening Billy Jameson’s mom and dad created a party that the graduating class of James K. Polk would remember for years. The huge backyard had been strung with Chinese lanterns, and the three punch bowls were real cut glass, as were the little cups. There was even a sixteen-by-sixteen-foot dance floor, borrowed from the local VFW, where Billy’s dad was president. And the music was provided by a five-man local group called Broken Promise, which had developed a following among both the younger people, at high school dances, and their parents as well, when it played the Holiday Inn. And later, about eleven o’clock or so, the man from New York Famous Pizza would arrive with plenty for everybody.

  It all made Jamie feel a little bit wistful. At school he had been quite aware of the whispered invitations going around, and he couldn’t help but notice the guilty expression on Billy’s face when Jamie would accidentally draw within hearing range. But Jamie was so used to not being asked, not being included, that it hadn’t bothered him that much at the time.

  Now he stood well off to one side, in the most shadowy part of the yard, watching a bejewelled princess and a tattered hobo dancing awkwardly to some song he didn’t recognize but guessed had something to do with disco. A couple of fat kids, dressed as Tweedledum and Tweedledee, Jamie supposed, were laughing stupidly and hitting one another over the head with foam rubber baseball bats. A cowboy was running around trying to lasso a giggling harem girl. Then, by the bowl with the red punch in it, Jamie saw the two people who were his reason for being there. Freddy was dressed like a pirate, with a black eye patch and a leathery kind of vest and red satin trousers ballooning out of turned-down black vinyl boots. Lemon-tits Christina was in a white sequinned ballet costume, complete with satin slippers, and her face was heavy with bright red lipstick and dark green eye shadow. Jamie watched the cowboy race a little too close to them, and he saw Freddy draw his wooden sword and wave it menacingly, bringing the cowboy up short and forcing him to move away. Freddy shouted something after him that Jamie could not quite hear, although it might have been “Avast!” and Christina giggled idiotically and sort of fell against Freddy’s bare chest. Then they both giggled, and Freddy stole a quick kiss. Christina tried to pretend she was mad at him, but she ended up giggling all the more as she punched, just like a girl, at his arm.

  Jamie lifted the rubber skull mask away from his face, letting some air in and some of the dribbling sweat out. This mask and hooded sheet costume wasn’t the most sensible outfit for the first day of summer, but it hid him completely from head to foot. The plan would be sure to fail, he and Teddy had figured, if he were recognized, if some of the other kids were able to say that the last time they’d seen them, Freddy and Christina were leaving the party with Jamie Benjamin.

  With fingers interlocked, the pirate and the ballerina were walking away from the tables now, toward the darkest part of the yard, the part where Jamie stood and observed. He let them pass and then in the spooky voice he had practised—Teddy had said it was perfect—he called after them. “Fred-dee Hoek-straaa.” The buccaneer turned to confront the ghost, and the ballerina took a step closer to her boyfriend and wrapped herself around his arm. The girl looked a little scared, Jamie thought, but as usual Freddy looked ready for a fight.

  “Shove off, ghost!” he snarled, “or I’ll run ya through!”

  Lemon-tits giggled again and looked up at her hero lovingly.
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  “I have a message for you,” the ghost said, still in its mock voice of doom. Freddy lifted his eye patch and studied the skull face more closely, but Jamie was certain that not even his eyes would give him away in this, light.

  “So what are you waiting for?” Freddy demanded. “We don’t have all night.”

  Okay, Jamie thought, here goes. He reached under the folds of the sheet and produced the note. Freddy took it and twisted partly sideways, holding the paper up to catch the faint glow coming from the Chinese lanterns. He read it once, then crumpled it up and threw it to the ground. “Okay,” he said, a mean little smile flickering across his face, “where is the little shithead?”

  Without speaking, Jamie reached down and retrieved the note, stuffed it back under the sheet into his jeans pocket, and began walking away. Freddy’s hand was instantly on his shoulder, jerking him back and holding him on the spot. “Where, I said!” Freddy’s face was red and twitching with malice. Jamie, behind his skull mask, smiled. Slowly he lifted his right arm, extended the hand and then his index finger.

  “Fol-low me, Fred-dee Hoek-straa, fol-low me and meet your doom!” Then he pulled away and began to walk quickly through the yard, out onto the street and toward the nearest entrance to the woods, about ten minutes away, by his earlier calculations. He didn’t have to look back. He knew they were following.

  “Freddy,” he heard Christina whisper, “where are we going? What did it say in that note, Freddy? Where is he taking us?”

  “You won’t believe this,” Freddy replied, “but that little dink Jamie Benjamin wants to fight me. The note said he’s waiting to kick the shit out of me. Oh boy, Chrissie, I can hardly wait!”