The Knowing Box Set EXTENDED EDITION: Exclusive New Material

by Ninie Hammon

  “Red mud?”

  “Yeah, how’d you know that?”

  “You grow up around here?”

  “No, I’m from Louisville.” He gestured to the other boy. “But he did.”

  Jack turned to the other boy.

  “Know anywhere around here where there’s red mud?”

  The boy shrugged.

  “Mollie might have seen the man,” the blond boy said. “She’s the only checker nobody’s talked to yet. She was on the register when the car was in the lot, but her shift doesn’t start until one o’clock.”

  That was half an hour’s wait.

  After he apologized to the store manager, Jack spent that time talking to the other checkers, who’d been answering questions all morning. None had anything substantial to add. One thought he’d seen a man with a big tattoo on his arm, but...maybe not.

  He asked everyone if they were native to the area and did they know where there was red mud, and the butcher said Turner’s Bluff on the riverbank had red mud. He grew up around there, and his mother used to get mad if he tracked it into the house.

  Mollie came in late, harried, but the manager gave her a nod, and she cooperated. Yes, she had seen a man with a dragon tattoo on his arm. He came through the line with a Hispanic man who was cheery, cutting up a little, had tossed a package of Mentos into the order as she was ringing it up, and the other guy gave him a dirty look.

  “How did he pay?” Jack was praying for “credit card.”

  “Cash.”

  Sitting in his car a few minutes later, Jack tallied up what he’d learned. He’d narrowed the search area down to somewhere within a twenty-mile radius of this parking lot, probably in the northern part of the county along the river because the mud was red there. He looked at his watch——roughly six hours until sundown.

  He couldn’t help thinking about Crocker’s angels. Where was Andi’s angel when Andi needed her? Coffee break, maybe? He banged his fist on the steering wheel in frustration so hard that three Hispanic children running past his car into the store looked his way.

  A phrase from their conversation drifted into his head and hung on a nail there.

  “Mi madre’s…”

  My mother’s. Andi had heard the Hispanic man say they should have eaten his mother’s tacos.

  But what if what he really said was …

  He punched the button and spoke to Siri in his iPhone.

  “Find a restaurant called Mi Madre,” he told her.

  “There is no restaurant called Mi Madre near you,” she said, and his heart sank. “I was only able to find Mi Madre’s Tacos.”

  “I love you, Siri!”

  “I bet you say that to all your Apple products.”

  CHAPTER 38

  2011

  Most of the time, Becca didn’t know how much of what was real to her was something other people could see or hear or smell or feel, too.

  Oh, sure, it was probably a safe bet the average person couldn’t see the slithering maggot with its face buried in an ugly woman’s neck. Or the darkness that sometimes slid down the sky like paint running down a wall until the clouds stood out against an utter blackness, snowballs on tar. Other things, though—the cry of lost children on the wind or the ever-present underlying stench, like a rat had died under the porch—was that reality for other people?

  Every once in a while, though, Becca experienced the world the same way everyone else did. She came up out of the darkness of her own soul like a swimmer breaking the surface into the sunlight, gasping for breath, sucking in great lungfuls of clean air.

  That had happened to her the moment she stepped down off the railing of the Purple People Bridge. One last glimpse of the Cat in the Hat hat in the river before it vanished, and suddenly it’d felt like a bucket of cold water had been dumped on her head. Then the whole world was bright and beautiful and clear.

  That kind of clarity never lasted more than a few minutes, but this time, for the first time in—she had no idea how long—the clarity had remained for hours. All afternoon yesterday. And last night, she’d hardly slept a wink in that little alcove she’d found in the corner of an alley. She didn’t want to close her eyes and miss a single second of the calm clarity of her mind. No lurking black shapes, no sickening dread, no terror only barely held at bay. She’d been able to think—not just for a few minutes, but for hours. She sorted out a lot things during those lucid hours, untangled so many knots. She’d decided to go back to Theresa’s—and it was a good thing she’d shown up there when she did.

  “Is that it—is that why the clarity came now?” she heard her own voice ask out loud, speaking words into the interior of Theresa’s car that smelled of the oil the old woman used on her hair mixed with the pine scent of the little green tree dangling from the rearview mirror.

  There was no answer, of course. There was just the fact of it, and right now that was enough. Becca rolled down the window and rested her elbow in the opening, felt warm wind tousle her hair. For this time, for right now, she was real, normal. Sure, she was driving into the mouth of a crocodile who would clamp his teeth shut and never let her go. But she refused to allow her mind to go there. If Becca had learned anything in all these years on the run, it was to enjoy the good when it came along, drink fully from that cup, because it could—it would—at any minute get snatched out of your hands.

  Trees lined the narrow, winding roads leading back into Caverna County, casting shadows of black lace across the pavement. She smelled pine and cedar, wildflowers and rich, black dirt, and looked with wonder at a beauty she’d taken for granted as a child—green forests and mountains painted in oils on the bright blue sky, still shiny and wet. How had she not noticed this as a little girl; why had she not longed for it with a bone-deep ache all these years since?

  The house where she had lived as a little girl with her father and mother appeared around a bend, with oak and maple trees in the front yard and a rose trellis beside the front porch. It was the house where her mother died. And after that, they’d moved into the big house, the mansion where Becca had been locked in the broom closet for punishment. Or for sport. Where she never saw the hand coming that slapped her and knocked her off her feet. The house where her father always left the bedside lamp on so he could see.

  She pulled up in the gravel driveway and sat for a moment, gathering herself, conjured Andi’s face before her to give her the courage to get out of the car. When she was halfway up the sidewalk, her father stepped out the front door, holding a .22-caliber rifle in the crook of his arm with the offhanded ease of a man who’d shot his first squirrel at five. His lips twisted in the half smirk that said you’d lost and he’d won.

  “Well, would you look at this, my own baby girl, come home to her Papa where she belongs.”

  She’d forgotten how hoarse and gravelly her father's voice was, like wind-driven sand scouring stone or the whispery, brittle click of cockroaches when you turned on a light.

  "What happened to you?" He looked her up and down. "You used to be a pretty little thing. You're so ugly now you'd make a train take a dirt road."

  “Where’s Andi?” Becca said, her own voice remarkably level and strong. “What have you done with her?”

  “Why I don’t believe I know anybody by the name of Andi.”

  “Let her go. That was the deal. Trade her for me. Well, I’m here. Are you going to keep your end of the bargain?”

  She had him there, and she knew it.

  “You gotten real pushy since you been gone,” he said. “That ain’t an attractive trait in a woman, you know. But we’ll see to that now you’re here to stay.”

  The menace in his words was unmistakable, and it occurred to Becca for the first time to wonder if he was going to kill her outright. Oh, eventually he would—he’d accidentally hit her too hard in a rage or maybe beat her to death on purpose. But perhaps he intended to do it right now. Shove that .22 up against her temple and pull the trigger.

  As she watched her f
ather slide a cell phone out of his pocket and heard him speak into it, Becca felt the real world begin to warp, change, leaving her standing on a tiny island in the middle of black water swirling toward a drain. The bright sunlight shifted down like someone was using a dimmer switch. Smells vanished, the sense of calm and clarity slid slowly away. She was naked and vulnerable now, trapped on the island while she heard the footsteps of the monster trudging toward her.

  She whimpered, hunched her shoulders from the blow she could feel was coming. Then she dropped to her knees to make herself small, curled up in a ball in the dirt. Closer and closer he came, and she began to scream, to shriek and wail in unadulterated terror.

  A small part of her registered the genuine shock on her father’s face as he stuck the phone back into the pocket of his overalls, and that part celebrated for the briefest of moments. Then Becca Hawkins was gone.

  ******

  1985

  Motley Crue was replaced by Twisted Sister, growling "We're Not Gonna Take It," after the Bad Kids left the office area. Jack cowered in the “sunroom” behind the cubicle with the wet-penny smell of blood filling his nostrils. The music stopped abruptly but his own heart continued to pound like a drum, each beat rumbling in his ears so loud he couldn’t think. And he had to think! He had to figure out a way to get out of the building. Since he had no idea where the exits were, he decided his only chance to escape was to make it across the atrium to the stairs leading to the second floor and climb down one of the fire escapes he’d seen on the ends of the building when he’d crossed the road.

  He sneaked out of the office and hid behind a marble pedestal holding a statue of somebody he didn’t recognize. As soon as the Bad Kids left the atrium, he bolted across it, running harder than he’d ever run from third base heading for home. He almost made it. Another step or two and he’d have been there. But he suddenly felt himself yanked backward off his feet, and he landed painfully on the tile floor. Jack sat up slowly, his eyes fixed on Cole’s Stuart’s blue shark eyes.

  “What in the world are you doing here, nigger?” Cole asked, surprised and clearly delighted.

  “Visiting my grandma,” he lied.

  Jacob Dumas had returned with an empty gasoline can by this time, as had Ronnie Martin and Roger Willingham. They all stood staring down at Jack, a pack of hungry wolves encircling a rabbit. Then Jacob took a step toward him. “Like I said before, nigger, I’m gonna get me some dark meat.”

  He reached out to grab Jack, but Cole stayed his hand.

  “Think this through,” he said. “Rip him to pieces…or toast him like a marshmallow? Tie him to something and let him burn with the rest of the little piggies.”

  That idea appealed to Jacob.

  Cole reached into the sack at his side and took out a length of chain, then looked around for somewhere to tie Jack. He spotted the dolphin in the fountain and laughed out loud.

  “We’ll tie you up in the fountain, Jack,” he said. “That way maybe your eyeballs won’t melt before you get to see the rescue that’s going to be broadcast live all over the world.”

  The three shoved Jack up next to the dolphin in the fountain, where Walter and Jacob started at his throat and wrapped chain around and around his body so thick he looked like a parody of the damsel in distress chained to the railroad track. Walter fastened two links of the chain together at the bottom with a padlock, snapped it shut and threw away the key.

  “You gonna fry, nigger—sizzling dark meat,” Jacob said.

  With water pouring over his face, Jack watched Cole instruct Ronnie Martin to “go get the old guy.” In a matter of minutes, he’d wheeled an old man in a bed out of the elevator and parked him on the far wall between two of the glass tables holding flower vases. The skinny old man in wet pajamas kept ineffectually trying to get out of the bed until Cole shoved him back hard.

  “Want me to tie you down?” Cole snarled.

  The man settled back on the bed. Cole turned to the other boys with the evil distortion of a smile on his face and a gleam of pure hatred in his eyes.

  “Let’s do this.”

  Roger and Ronnie ran down to the ends of the north and south wings on the ground floor and set fires to the trail of gasoline they’d poured on the floor. Jack could see the red glow behind them. The carpet had soaked up the gas like a wick, and now fire spread quickly and evenly down it. If the floor’d been wood instead, the gasoline would have pooled on it, and the fire might have beat the boys back to the atrium. The other boys climbed the stairs and apparently did the same drill—set fire to a trail of gasoline at the far end of the hallways to burn toward the center.

  “Unlock the front doors, Jake,” Cole said, and Jacob Dumas retrieved a key from his shirt pocket, removed the padlock and tossed it and the chain aside.

  When all six were back together in the atrium, Cole spoke to Jack. “You, nigger, are about the see the making of a hero—if you live that long.”

  Then the Bad Kids wordlessly climbed the stairs to the third floor and disappeared down a hallway leading toward the back of the building.

  Jack could hear old people begin to cry out when they smelled the smoke and felt the heat. But he neither heard nor saw any further sign of the Bad Kids. Where had they gone? They’d set fires between themselves and the fire escapes. They must have some other plan to get out of the building. But Jack had no plan. He wasn’t going to get out at all. Jack Carpenter was going to die here today.

  CHAPTER 39

  2011

  Jeff Kendrick pulled his shiny gray Mercedes into the empty driveway in front of Theresa Washington’s house and firmly slammed the door on the self-analysis that’d been playing ring-around-the-rosy in his head all the way from his office in downtown Cincinnati. The truth was simple; why try to dodge it? He knew precisely why he was expending so much extra effort on this case.

  It wasn’t because of Theresa Washington or Daniel—though he was convinced neither had committed the crimes they’d been accused of. He’d come here today for one reason—Emily.

  Emily Burke had sailed into his life on a breeze that smelled of honeysuckle and jasmine, had brought laughter and joy and…love—was it love?—into it for the first time. When she wouldn’t see him after Andi was shot, the emptiness was so oppressive it had threatened to drive him mad.

  Then he got that text, the last one she ever sent, only minutes before she died. He’d texted her right back, but by then she had been murdered. If there was even a miniscule chance that Chapman Whitworth was somehow responsible for her death, then yeah, Jeff would give up his lunch hour to nail him—and all the other hours in the day, too.

  Jeff stepped up on the porch to ring the bell, but the door flew open before he had a chance. Theresa Washington looked at him, smiled broadly and lifted her eyes skyward.

  “Thank you!” she cried to the clouds. Then she smiled at Jeff. “You probably don’t know it, but you’s the answer to my prayer. God sent you here for a reason. Let’s git.”

  She brushed past him, hurried out to his car, got in on the passenger side and closed the door behind her. When he didn’t move, she called out something, then fumbled around for a moment before opening the door and calling out through the crack between it and the car.

  “How you roll down the windows in this thing?” she asked, but didn’t wait for a response. “Don’t just stand there, we got to get going. Way I figure it, she probably ain’t got even an hour’s head start. We can catch her if we hurry.”

  Then she closed the door again and looked expectantly at Jeff.

  He couldn’t help it—he had to strangle a sudden impulse to burst out laughing. Instead, he went to the driver’s side of the car and got in. But he didn’t put the key in the ignition.

  “Who only has an hour’s head start?”

  “Becca.” She gestured at his car keys. “Go on now, start this thing up. You can talk and drive at the same time, can’t you?”

  ******

  Mi Madre’s Tacos was a
battered white building that had no indoor sit-down service. The establishment served tacos and other Mexican food out a window to walk-up customers.

  Si, the cheery Hispanic woman told him, she remembered the man with the tattoo. She grinned at the younger girl beside her, who was making a burrito.

  “Rosa always flirts with his friend, Jorge.”

  “Do you know where Jorge lives, where I can find him?” Jack said, keeping his voice level, the urgency at bay.

  “She doesn’t speak much English,” the older woman said, and translated the question. The younger girl shook her head, then ducked it, embarrassed.

  She knew more.

  “Please, Rosa, this is very important,” Jack said, then picked up the story folks had made up and ran with it. “There’s a little girl who…needs a blood transfusion and…I have to find the man with the tattoo, or she’ll die.”

  Though Rosa still looked reluctant after the older woman translated the question, she said something else in Spanish.

  “She doesn’t know for sure, but she thinks it might be somewhere near Meadeville because he keeps trying to get her to meet him there for a beer. They sell Dos Equis at the Food Mart.”

  Jack sent gravel flying out behind the back tires of his car as he sped away.

  ******

  Crock could feel that niggling itch, a mouse taking a delicate nibble off a piece of cheese in his gut. He had missed something with Bosko. He was sure of it, some tiny detail. He concentrated. Nothing. In frustration, he picked up the Harrelton News-Enterprise on his desk and turned to the crossword puzzle. Sometimes, he came up with his best ideas when he was thinking about something else.

  The puzzle was in the back section beyond the obituaries, across from the movie listings. Crock never got to the puzzle. As soon as he opened to the page, his eye fell on the advertisement for the movie playing at the Dynamo Complex. Harry Potter and the Dealthly Hallows—Part 2. The premiere showing in Harrelton was a performance scheduled for this afternoon.