“Well, I didn’t,” she snapped, and felt a hollow satisfaction when he drew back, hurt. She took a deep breath. “I know it sounds obvious,” she said in more even tones. “But it just never, ever occurred to me that anyone would think he was responsible. And then afterward, after he committed—” But that would have only reinforced their suspicions, she realized as she said it.
“People thought it was because of the guilt,” John said, almost to himself.
“It was.” Charlie felt anger welling up inside her, the dam about to burst, and she held it back, biting off words in short, sharp bursts. “Of course he felt guilt, it was his restaurant. His life’s work, his creations, and it was all turned into a massacre. Don’t you think that’s enough?” Her voice sounded vicious, even to her own ears. Apologize, she thought, but she ignored it.
People thought he did it. He wouldn’t, he couldn’t. But if he had, how would she even have known? I knew him, she thought fiercely. But did she? She loved him, trusted him, with the blind devotion of a seven-year-old girl, even now. She understood him with the knowing and not-knowing that comes of being a child. When you focus on your parent as if they are the center of the earth, that thing on which your survival depends, and only later do you realize their flaws, their scars, and their weaknesses.
Charlie had never had the dawning moments of realization, as she grew older, that her father was only human; she had never had the chance. To her he was still mythic, still larger than life, still the man who could deactivate the monsters. He was also the man who made them. How well did she really know him?
The rage was gone, ebbed back to wherever it rose from, and she was empty of it, her insides dry and vacant. She closed her eyes and put a hand to her forehead.
“I’m sorry,” she said, and John touched her shoulder for a brief moment.
“Don’t be,” he said. Charlie put her hands over her face. She did not feel like crying, but she didn’t want him to see her face. She was thinking of things that were too new, too awful, to think in front of someone else. How would I have known if he did?
“Charlie?” John cleared his throat, and repeated her name. “Charlie, you know he didn’t do it, right? Mr. Burke said they knew who did and they had to let him go. He got away with it. Remember?”
Charlie didn’t move, but something like hope stirred inside her.
“It wasn’t him,” John said again, and she looked up.
“Right. Right, of course it wasn’t,” she whispered. “Of course it wasn’t him,” she said at a normal pitch.
“Of course not,” he echoed. She nodded, bobbing her head up and down like she was gathering momentum.
“I want to go back to the house one more time,” she said. “I want you to come with me.”
“Of course,” he said. She nodded again, then turned her face back up to the sky.
Chapter Eight
“Charlie!” Someone was at the door, knocking loud enough to rattle the old hinges. Charlie roused slowly, her eyes sticky with sleep, but this time at least she knew where she was. She had left the window open, and now the air coming in had a fresh, heavy smell: it was the scent of coming rain, mossy and rich. She got up and looked out the window, inhaling deeply. Unlike most of the world, the woods outside looked almost the same in the morning as they had in the dark. Charlie and John had gone back to bed soon after they finished talking. John had looked at her like there was more that he wanted to say, but she had pretended not to notice. She was grateful to him for being there, for giving her what she needed without having to ask, because she would never have asked.
“Charlie!” The banging came again, and she gave in.
“I’m up, Marla,” she shouted back.
“Charlie!” Now Jason was joining in the game, knocking and rattling, and Charlie groaned, and went to the door.
“I said I’m up,” she said, mock-glaring out at them.
“Charlie!” Jason shouted again, and this time Marla shushed him. He grinned up at Charlie and she laughed and shook her head.
“Believe me, I’m awake,” she said. Marla was fully dressed, her hair a little damp from the shower, and her eyes were bright and alert. “Are you always like this?” Charlie said, her grumpiness only half-invented.
“Like what?”
“Chipper at six in the morning,” she said, and rolled her eyes at Jason, who copied her, happy to be included.
Marla smiled brightly. “It’s eight! Come on, there’s been talk of breakfast.”
“Has there been talk of coffee?”
She followed Marla and Jason down the stairs to the kitchen, where she found Lamar and John already seated around a high, modern-looking wood table. Carlton’s father was at the stove, making pancakes.
“It smells like rain,” Charlie said, and Lamar nodded.
“There’s a thunderstorm coming,” he said. “It was on the news earlier, he told us.” He jerked a thumb at Clay.
“It’s a big one!” Clay exclaimed in response.
“We’re supposed to leave today,” Jason said.
“We’ll see,” Marla said.
“Charlie!” Clay cried, not taking his eyes off his work. “One, two, or three?”
“Two,” Charlie said. “Thanks. Is there coffee?”
“Help yourself, mugs in the cupboard,” Clay said, gesturing to a full pot on the counter. Charlie helped herself, waving off offers of milk, cream, half-and-half, sugar, or fake sugar.
“Thanks,” she said quietly, and settled herself beside Lamar, meeting John’s eyes briefly. “Did Carlton come in?”
Lamar shook his head, a tight jerk to the side.
“He hasn’t turned up, yet,” Clay said. “Probably isn’t awake yet, wherever he is.” He placed a full plate in front of Charlie, who dug in, not realizing how hungry she was until she was already chewing. She was about to ask where Carlton was likely to be, when Jessica appeared, yawning, her clothes unrumpled, unlike Charlie’s.
“You’re late,” Marla said, teasing, and Jessica stretched elaborately.
“I don’t get out of bed until the pancakes are ready,” she said, and with impeccable timing Clay slapped one onto a plate, fresh off the pan.
“Well, you were just in time,” he said. Suddenly, his expression changed, wavering somehow between apprehension and relief. Charlie turned in her seat. There was a woman standing behind her, dressed in a grey skirt suit, her blonde hair shellacked against her head as if she were a plastic toy.
“Are we a waffle house now?” She said. She looked around the kitchen briefly.
“Pancakes,” Jessica corrected, but no one responded.
“Betty!” Clay cried. “You remember the boys, and this is Charlie, Jessica, and Marla. And Jason.” He pointed to each in turn, and Carlton’s mother gave each of them a nod, like she was tallying them up.
“Clay, I have to be in court in an hour.”
“Betty’s the D.A. for the county,” Clay went on, as if he had not heard her. “I catch the crooks, she puts ‘em back out on the streets!”
“Yes, our family is a full-service operation,” she said dryly, pouring herself coffee and settling down at the table beside Jessica. “Speaking of which, where’s our young felon-to-be?” Clay hesitated.
“Another one of his pranks,” he said. “He’ll be back home later, I’m sure.” Their eyes met, and something private passed between them. Betty broke away with a laugh that sounded a little forced.
“Oh, lord, what is it this time?” There was a moment’s pause. In the morning light, the story sounded insane, and Charlie had no idea where to begin. With a nervous clearing of his throat, Lamar started to explain.
“We, uh—we went up to the mall construction site, to go see what was left of Freddy Fazbear’s.”
At the name, Betty’s head jerked up, and she gave a quick nod.
“Go on,” she said, her voice suddenly cold and clipped.
Lamar explained, awkwardly, and Marla and Jason jumped in with d
etails. After a few minutes, Carlton’s mother had a messy version of the truth. As she listened, her face hardened until it looked like plaster; she was a statue of herself. She shook her head as they finished, small rapid movements, and Charlie thought she looked as if she were not just trying to deny what they were saying, but to shake the knowledge entirely from her mind.
“You have to go get him, Clay, right now,” she demanded. “Send someone! How could you wait all night?”
She set her coffee on the table more forcefully than she should have, spilling a little, then went to the phone and started dialing.
“Who are you calling?” Clay said, alarmed.
“The police,” she snapped.
“I am the police!”
“Then why are you here, instead of finding my son?”
Clay opened and closed his mouth helplessly for a moment before finding his bearings.
“Betty, it’s just another joke, what is all this? Remember the frogs?”
She set the phone back on its hook, and turned to face him, her eyes smoldering. Charlie could suddenly see her standing righteous before a jury, wreaking the wrath of the law.
“Clay.” Her voice was low and steady, a dangerous calm. “How could you not wake me up? How could you not tell me this?”
“Betty! You were asleep, it’s just Carlton being Carlton. I didn’t want to disturb you.”
“Did you think I would be less disturbed when I woke up and found him missing?”
“I thought he would be back by now,” Clay protested.
“This is different,” she said with finality. “It’s Freddy’s.”
“I don’t understand Freddy’s? I know what happened there, what happened to those kids,” he retorted. “I don’t understand? For goodness’ sake, Betty, I saw Michael’s blood, streaked across the floor where he was dragged from—” he stopped, realizing too late that he was surrounded by the teenagers. He looked around at them, near panic, but his wife had not noticed, or, Charlie thought, she just did not care.
“Well, you didn’t see him,” Betty snapped. “Do you remember what you told Carlton? Be tough? Be brave, little soldier? So he was brave, he was a little soldier for you. He was shattered, Clay, he had lost his best friend, had Michael snatched away right in front of him. Let me tell you something, Chief, that boy has thought about Michael every single day of his life for the last ten years. I have seen him stage jokes so elaborate they deserve to be mounted as performance art pieces, but there is no way on earth that Carlton would desecrate Michael’s memory by making Freddy’s a joke. Call someone, right now.”
Clay looked slightly shocked, but he gathered himself quickly and left the room. Charlie heard a door slam shut behind him. Betty looked around at the teenagers, breathing hard as if she had been running.
“Everything is going to be fine,” she said tightly. “If he is trapped in there, we will get him out. What do you kids have planned for the day?” The question was inane, as if they were all going to hang out at the park, or go to a movie while Carlton might be in danger.
“We were supposed to leave today,” Marla said.
“Obviously we won’t,” Lamar said hastily, but Betty did not seem to be listening to them.
“I’ll have to call in to work,” she said distractedly, and went to the phone to make the call. Charlie looked at John, who jumped to the rescue.
“We were going to go to the library,” he said. “We had some things we wanted to investigate—research!” He blushed faintly when he said it, and Charlie knew why. It was absurd to be talking like this, about cases, and disappearances, and murder. But Marla was nodding.
“Yeah, we’ll all go,” she said, and Charlie’s heart sank. There was no reason she couldn’t just tell them all that she wanted to go back to her old house, just her and John. No one would be hurt. But that wasn’t the problem—even sharing the knowledge felt too much like exposure. Carlton’s mother hung up the phone, done with her call.
“I hate this,” she announced to the room in general, her careful, controlled voice almost shaking. “I hate this!” Charlie and the others jumped in unison, startled by the sudden outburst. “And now, like always, I get to sit here by myself hoping and praying that everyone will be ok.”
Charlie looked at Marla, who shrugged, helpless. Lamar cleared his throat nervously. “I think we’ll stick around for another day,” he said. There was a pause, then Marla and Jessica jumped in to help.
“Yeah traffic is crazy out there,” Jessica said, high-pitched and forced.
“Yeah, and also because of the storm, and it’s not like we’re going to have fun knowing he’s missing,” Marla said.
“I guess you’re stuck with us.” Jessica flashed an anxious smile at Carlton’s mother, who did not seem to register it.
“Come on,” John said, before anyone else could speak, and he and Charlie hurried out of the house and got in the car.
Charlie heaved a sigh of relief as she started the engine.
“That was awful,” she said.
“Yeah.” He gave her a worried look. “What do you think? About Carlton?” Charlie didn’t answer until she was safely backed out of the driveway.
“I think his mom is right,” she said, pulling into gear. “I think last night we all let ourselves believe what we wanted to believe.”
Officer Dunn pulled to a stop in the mall parking lot, responding to Chief Burke’s order to return. In the light of day it was just an abandoned construction site, an ugly blemish on the flat desert landscape. You can’t tell from looking if it’s being built up, or torn down, Dunn thought. Can’t tell creation from destruction at a distance. He liked the phrase, and turned it over in his head for a moment, staring at the place. On impulse, he radioed dispatch.
“Hey Norah,” he said.
“Dunn,” she answered crisply. “What’s going on?”
“Back at the mall for another look,” he said.
“Ooh, bring me back a soft pretzel,” she teased, and he laughed, and broke the connection.
As he walked briskly through the mall, Dunn was at least grateful the children were not there this time. As the youngest member of the Hurricane Police Department, Dunn always took care to think of teenagers as children, even though he knew how small the gap between them was. If he could bring them to believe he was a responsible adult, hopefully at some point he would believe it, too.
Dunn flipped on his flashlight as he reached the entrance to the narrow alleyway that led to Freddy Fazbear’s. He swept the beam up and down the walls ahead of him, but the alley was empty of life, and he took a deep breath and went in. Dunn kept to the wall, his shoulder brushing lightly against the rough brick as he tried to avoid the puddles that pooled beneath leaky pipes. The bright beam of his flashlight illuminated the alley almost as well as overhead bulbs, but somehow the light was not comforting; it only made the place look stark and grim, the shelves of tools and rejected paint cans now woeful and exposed. As he moved toward the door to the restaurant something tiny and cold landed on his head, and he startled, swinging his light up like a weapon, and pressing his back against the wall as defense against the threat. Another cold drop of water landed on his cheek and he took deep breaths.
When at last he reached the outer door to the restaurant, the shelf that had blocked it was gone: the chains that had seemed so permanently fixed in place were hanging loose and the door was cracked open slightly. The immense, rusted padlock was lying in the dirt, its shackle hanging open. Dunn kicked it away from the door. He dug his fingers into the gap, prying until he could get a grip on it, then pulled at the door with both hands until it screeched open wide enough for him to enter. He crept down the inner passage with his light held out in front, hugging the wall tight to one side. The air seemed to change as he moved closer to the interior of the restaurant, and Dunn felt a crawling chill, penetrating his uniform and feeding his growing anxiety.
“Don’t freak out, Dunn,” he said out loud, then felt i
nstantly foolish.
He reached the main dining area, and stopped, sweeping the light over each wall in turn. The light seemed dimmer inside, swallowed by the space. The room was empty, but it was just as he remembered from when he was a kid. He had been ten when the tragedies started, eleven when they ended. His birthday party was supposed to be at Freddy’s, but after the first disappearance, his mother had cancelled it, invited his friends to his house, and hired a clown which proved equally terrifying. Smart move, Mom, Dunn thought. The beam played over the little carousel, which he had never ridden, claiming he was too old for it. Just before the beam of light reached the stage, Dunn stopped, and swallowed. The rabbit took him, the kid had said. Dunn shook himself, and played the light across the stage.
The figures were there, just as he remembered, and unlike the carousel, they did not seem diminished in size. They were exactly as he recalled, and for a moment, an almost painful nostalgia swelled in his chest. As he gazed at them, remembering, he noticed that their eyes were all fixed oddly forward, as if they were watching something on the far side of the room. The flashlight trained in front of him, Dunn approached the stage until he was standing only a few feet from it, and he stared up at each of the animals in turn. Bonnie was holding his guitar jauntily, as if he might begin strumming whenever the mood struck him, and Chica and her cupcake seemed to be sharing some arcane secret. Freddy, with his microphone, stared out into the distance unblinking.
Something moved behind him, and Dunn whirled around, his heart racing. The flashlight found nothing, and he swept it nervously from side to side, revealing only empty tables. He glanced back nervously at Bonnie, but the rabbit was still frozen in his own inscrutable reverie.
Dunn took shallow breaths, holding himself completely still, and listened, his senses kicked into high gear with adrenaline. After a moment the noise came again, a shuffling sound, this time coming from off to the right. He swept the light instantly toward it: there was an open doorway, and beyond it, a hall. Crouching down, Dunn made his way down the hall, keeping to the side as though something might come running past. Why am I here alone? He knew the answer. His sergeant hadn’t taken the search seriously—in truth, neither had Dunn. After all, it was just the chief’s son again, making trouble. It’s probably just Carlton, Dunn reminded himself.
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