“I’ve got the book I said I’d bring by, son.”
Joey gulped. His two upper teeth protruded. “I’m ready.”
The old man led the way into the kitchen, where Mike was fixing breakfast. “I’ve marked several pages of older truck styles. Maybe you’ll recognize the one.”
“Hi, Sheriff,” Mike said, taking a bite of toast.
McFaron tipped his hat. “Your brother here may be our best ticket to finding Julie quick.”
Mike shot a meaningful look at Joey, who shrugged and sat down at the table, his lower lip sticking out.
The sheriff placed the book on the table and opened it to a page marked with a torn piece of paper. “Here are some classic trucks of the fifties. Take a close look.”
The boy peered at each view of the models. The front grilles were hard to see clearly from a side angle. It was the rusted bumper he kept seeing in his mind, but these pictures were all of shiny new trucks.
“See any trucks the same color? You mentioned it might be gray before.”
“I’m not sure. These all look so new. This one was real old. It didn’t have any chrome on it. There wasn’t anything shiny about it.”
“Take your time.”
The sheriff turned to another marked page of older models. Joey ducked his head lower, examining the grillwork, but none matched.
After ten more minutes, the sheriff said, “I’ll leave you with the book. If you see one that rings a bell, give my office a call right away.”
“You bet I will, Sheriff,” Joey said.
“By the way, you mentioned yesterday in the diner that you saw polka dots? Across the man’s chest?” McFaron wiped his finger across his chest, indicating the area the boy had mentioned.
Joey swallowed hard enough for the sheriff to hear. “Yeah, he was tucking something in the back bed.” The boy’s voice dropped so low it was hard to hear. “Could it have been blood, Sheriff?”
“You said the man was wearing a dirty garage mechanic’s coverall, right?”
“It was real dirty. With dark blotches, I think.”
Elmer rested his hand gently on Joey’s shoulder.
“You think you already know who it might be?” Joey looked hopeful.
“No, son. But what you can describe is definitely helpful.” McFaron made a move to stand.
The boy’s head sank. “I’m sorry, Sheriff.” He looked up at Elmer. “Do you think I could do better if I was hypnotized? I read about it in science class.” He turned to the sheriff. “It can bring things back that you’ve forgotten.”
McFaron smiled. “You’ve been a lot of help already, Joey. We’ll hold off on the hypnotist for now.”
The sound of a car pulling up caught their attention. Mike led a state trooper through the entry. Another man with him was holding a large pad of paper and supplies.
“Hi there, Sheriff,” the trooper said, holding his hat in one hand. “This here is Floyd Walters, the state police artist. Your dispatcher said it would be all right to drive him over. Said you might be here.”
McFaron looked at Joey. “You ready to describe that man you saw to Mr. Walters?”
“No problem, Sheriff. I couldn’t forget that creep’s face if I tried.”
Walters opened the sketch pad next to a window in the living room for better light, then asked Joey to sit beside him.
“Nice seeing you, Sheriff,” Mike said from the landing. “Gran, I’m off to work now.”
How much the older boy’s attitude reminded McFaron of his own quiet way and serious manner growing up. McFaron’s father had been like that, too. Carrying the weight of living inside him. It was an art not to show much, to keep it all in, one his father had nearly perfected till his heart gave out. Was that McFaron’s fate, too, to be a silent, brave hero until his body couldn’t take it anymore? Night after night falling asleep on the couch at home with his boots on—the holding pattern he’d mastered since returning to Crosshaven to become sheriff. Waiting for something more in life.
“Your boy has the best evidence yet,” said McFaron to Elmer. “If we get a good description of the man out early, we’ll nab him. You can be sure of that.”
Walters asked Joey to close his eyes and picture himself on his bicycle. He knew young minds often imagined things better with eyes closed.
Joey described approaching the truck, seeing the man’s stony stare. The artist asked him to freeze the exact moment he was opposite the vehicle. Was the man’s head above or below the cab roof? In shadow or light? Was he clean shaven or scruffy? Hair scraggly or cut short? Did his hairline come down his forehead or was he balding? The police artist worked as Joey answered. Afterward, he had the boy sit next to him while he made further refinements to the suspect’s face.
In the kitchen McFaron and Elmer sipped coffee, McFaron occasionally glancing into the living room, where he could see Walters’s arm moving behind his pad. The sheriff itched to see how the sketch was coming along. Finally, unable to resist any longer, he walked into the room and peered over the artist’s shoulder. Walters was busily working on the mouth, a pencil and eraser held in the same hand. Blurry strokes from erasure marks narrowed the width of the man’s head, and a prominent nose emerged between two narrow-set eyes.
Back at the kitchen table, the sheriff raised his eyebrows. “He’s got a ways to go, I guess.” The drawing didn’t look like anyone he’d ever seen.
“Joey’s an alert child,” Elmer said. “Quick, sensitive, and he has good recall. But like any boy, his mind can conjure up all kinds of evil things.”
“The boy’s comments are consistent.” McFaron flashed on the blood on the sidewalk. “A good police sketch ought to get a reaction.”
He could hardly wait to send it out over the police fax to the state police post. It would circulate throughout Indiana and the rest of the country’s law enforcement agencies immediately.
“His chin,” the two men heard Joey say. The boy feathered his own between forefinger and thumb. “It came down more.”
The artist manipulated the pencil lead, deftly exchanging it with the eraser, polishing the drawing until Joey said, in a voice that brought McFaron and Elmer to their feet, “That’s him, all right! That’s the man!”
David quietly shook in his mother’s Taurus on the ride over, the way his old dog Pepper had on that last ride to the vet’s when he was twelve. Pepper had known. Staring up at him from his lap, trembling uncontrollably, she had known. He’d held the old dog the whole way, absorbing her shakes. And now it was his turn, with no one to absorb his.
Hilda Claremont parked the car by the door of the Wilksboro Clinic and they went inside.
“We’ve got a two p.m. appointment,” she said, leaning over the receptionist’s desk. “Dr. Walstein’s expecting us.”
Hilda patted her son’s arm and bent her face nearer his. “I’ll be coming in for the beginning part. The doctor said I could.” She searched his face for confirmation. “The doctor needs to know. It’s to help you, David.”
He took a seat, unable to answer her, already in surrender mode. His eyes caught the curious looks of an elderly couple sitting in the waiting room.
“Dr. Walstein said yes to my coming in. You know I have your best interests at heart.”
Why won’t she let it go?
“Your father and I only want what’s best,” she said.
“OK, OK, please drop it.”
But David knew his parents weren’t to blame for the fact that here he was a grown man sitting with his mother in this depressing place waiting for a useless psychiatrist. The incident a few nights ago, followed by the one yesterday morning, had forced their hands. Early yesterday he had blacked out while riding his father’s favorite 1953 Ford tractor and had driven it straight into a ditch. Thrown clear, he’d been saved from serious injury. The tractor had gone upside down, though, snapping off the seat and severely bending the steering shaft. It was the last straw. His father could spend the rest of his golden years going to fa
rm auctions looking for a decent ’53 steering shaft. David had come to in the weeds and had seen his father standing motionless on a nearby embankment, staring as if his whole life had gone down into that ditch. In the old man’s gaze David could see that he had given up. While his mother fussed over David, rubbing her hot hands over his head and soaking wet back, David watched his father slowly pace back to the house without so much as a word. Shutting David out was the worst possible chastisement.
Why couldn’t he hack life on the farm? Make his father proud? Carry on the Claremont name and tradition? It wasn’t his fault and yet it was.
“Mrs. Claremont? David?” Dr. Walstein’s shiny tasseled loafers were pressed close together. “Please come in.”
“Thank you for seeing me, Doctor,” Hilda said, “and on such short notice.” The old couple, their heads turning in unison, stared as David, his mother, and the doctor walked out of the room.
The doctor escorted them into his office. Walstein retreated behind his desk and gestured for them to sit in two high-backed leather chairs.
“What would you like to discuss then, Mrs. Claremont?” He glanced down at his watch.
Hilda addressed her son. “In the bathroom the other night…” Her voice sounded pinched. “You say you don’t remember, but I don’t know how that’s possible. You were talking loud enough to wake the dead. It was nearly two a.m. You scared me out of bed, David. Thank goodness your father’s too deaf to wake.”
“And what did he say, Mrs. Claremont?” The doctor sat lightly, bridging his hands over his elbows.
David felt both sets of eyes bearing down on him. Why is she doing this?
“You practically bellowed at me when I called to you.” The woman’s powdered forehead crinkled indignantly down the middle. “As if I were the one to blame.”
Her crinkle line deepened. “‘Over my dead body,’ you said, like you meant it.”
David sighed. “I was walking in my sleep. I was only having a bad dream.”
“You weren’t asleep at all. You looked me straight in the eye and said, ‘But, Mother, I don’t have to go. I don’t have to pee anymore!’ I never heard such a thing.”
Hilda’s hands frantically polished the knurled ends of her chair arms.
“I don’t remember. I can’t.” David stroked the top of his head. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“Soiling yourself, the sheets, soaking the floor all wet, too? You deliberately missed the toilet, David. You missed on purpose.” Hilda held a clenched fist to her mouth. “You’re a grown man, not an eight-year-old. And you’ve no right to speak to me that way. No right.”
The doctor leaned back in his chair, tapping his toe. “Is there anything you’d like to say, David?”
Keep a cool head, David told himself. But the deck was stacked against him. His father’s tractor lay ruined, his mother’s bed linen was soiled, and he’d disgraced himself in front of her.
“How are you feeling today?” Walstein asked him.
David made tentative eye contact. “Fine. I guess.”
“Yes, fine now,” Hilda carped. “But you weren’t at all fine the other night.” Flustered, she leaned closer to him over the chair arm. “Accusing me of saying no woman would marry a man who always wet his bed,” she said, her tone acerbic. “I’ve never said such a thing in my life. Never heard such a thing!”
The doctor drummed his fingers on the desk. “OK then. I do think it’s very important that we keep things in perspective. David and I have only just begun the process. Sometimes things may seem a lot worse than they really are, once they are exposed in the clear light of day.”
David buried a fist in his lap, squeezing it tightly. How could he explain the demon inside that was devouring him, eating up the good David and replacing him with a monster? Walstein wouldn’t believe him. His mother wouldn’t understand. He didn’t understand himself. Were his visions, his blackouts, portents of worse things to come, horrifying acts that hadn’t yet happened because he wasn’t quite crazy enough to pull them off?
He looked at Hilda, tears building in his eyes. “I’m sorry. I meant nothing by it. Honest, I didn’t. I…I don’t know what got into me.”
“And the other morning?” Hilda withdrew something from her purse. David could feel another accusation building. His head began to pound.
“You left the house at the crack of dawn?” Hilda looked directly at Dr. Walstein as she spoke. “I asked you where you were going. When I poked my head out the bedroom door, I heard you distinctly say, ‘On an errand.’” Hilda thumbed a ripped ticket stub and handed it to the psychiatrist.
“I did, yes.” David’s hands were tremulous.
Hilda stood, accosting David full-on while looking directly at Dr. Walstein. “Then why does he buy a bus ticket to Chicago? I found it in your jeans pocket, David. What were you doing in Chicago?”
“I…I went to the museum. An exhibit there. I wanted to see it. Is that such a crime?”
“Don’t raise your voice to me!”
“I didn’t raise—”
“Why did you lie?” Hilda wailed. “Why say to me that you’re running an errand and then go sneaking off to Chicago? It’s not like you, David.”
David’s leg began to wiggle violently. “My interest in carving. I…I can’t explain it.” He turned his palms up quickly and then rubbed them across the tops of his thighs. “I’m sorry.”
“Why didn’t you say so in the first place?” Hilda said, an octave lower. “You came home so late, David. We were so worried about you.”
Walstein clapped his hands. “Well, you’ve certainly given David and me a lot to discuss, Mrs. Claremont.”
Hilda halfheartedly hugged her son about the shoulders. The doctor followed her to the door and closed it behind her.
“By the way, on the phone this morning your father said you came home late several times last week.” Walstein faced David. “Running more errands?”
“It was only a little after dark,” David said. “Not so late.”
“He’s concerned about this erratic behavior, David.” Walstein gazed at him sympathetically. “Talk to me, David. I need to hear it from you. What’s going on? You know what I’m referring to—your visions?”
“I…I can’t.”
“I can’t help unless you’re willing to talk.”
“It won’t change anything,” David said, exasperated. “Nothing stops him from coming.”
“Stops who from coming?”
David focused on the Oriental rug pattern, his eyes racing over and over its zigzag designs.
“Who? You said ‘him.’”
“I don’t know who! Some two-faced bastard.” David scrubbed a hand through his hair. “If I did know, I’d tell you.”
Dr. Walstein was unfazed. “Two-faced? That’s an interesting choice of words. It implies a person who has another side to him.”
A line of sweat traced down David’s temple. He could hardly contain the urge to run. “The visions. It’s what I call him.”
Walstein nodded. “Tell me more about this two-faced bastard.”
David’s face muscles grew taut. “No, I can’t. I haven’t really anything to say. It makes no sense.”
“I can see that he troubles your conscience, David. What else does he do?”
“That’s just the point, Doctor.” David shook his head. “He controls everything. I have no choice. It happens and…and then I’m not trusted. By my father, mother, probably even you.”
“David, the healing process can only begin if we establish trust, if you are willing to speak openly about these matters. You know the difference between right and wrong, between what’s real and what isn’t. You hold the key.”
The doctor leaned forward in his chair. “I can help. I can see that these visions torment you and are triggering your fears.”
Suddenly the ache was looming—phantom pains David had known for much longer than the recurring visions. The uneasiness grew; the ache was advan
cing.
“Something’s bothering you right now,” the doctor said. “I can see that it is. Tell me. Is he hurting you now?”
David fought to keep the ache at bay. “I…I don’t know…”
It raced through him. Closed his eyes for him. Every ounce of David strained to hold on. A sensation of bumping heads nearly collapsed him to the floor. He fought against it with all his strength.
“Come now.” Dr. Walstein removed his jacket, folding it neatly and draping it over his chair. The doctor sat beside David. “What’s happening inside you?”
The muscles in David’s jaw tightened a notch. “I told you. I have trouble seeing things straight sometimes.” He met Walstein’s gaze. “But it’s not me. You have to believe me. I’m not the one doing it.”
“I believe you.”
David nodded, drained. “I…I black out. That’s all I know.” A trickle slid down his cheek. “I’ve done nothing wrong.” He swallowed uncomfortably. “Seeing things isn’t a crime.”
“That’s the second time you’ve mentioned the word ‘crime.’ Do you feel that you’re doing something wrong?”
“No!”
“I think it’s your conscience eating away at you that’s causing these problems,” said Walstein softly. “We need to talk more about that.” A cell phone on the doctor’s desk blotter vibrated. “Tomorrow then. At seven.”
David walked out the clinic door, feeling drained and defeated. The visions had been getting worse. More vivid, more out of control, and now, according to his mother, he, David, was saying things and doing things that he himself could not remember or explain or understand. Seeing his mother patiently waiting for him in the car, he wondered how much longer he could hold it together. Then he had a frightening thought: If they are not visions, but real events, what unspeakable acts might happen next?
CHAPTER TWELVE
Prusik hurried up the steps to the Chicago Museum of Natural History with trepidation. It had been almost five months since she’d embarrassed herself on the podium at the opening night gala celebrating completion of the second floor’s exhibit renovations. She shuddered involuntarily. Embarrassed wasn’t strong enough a word, really. Humiliated was more like it.
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