The Complete John Wayne Cleaver Series: I Am Not a Serial Killer, Mr. Monster, I Don't Want to Kill You, Devil's Only Friend, Over Your Dead Body, Nothing Left to Lose

by Dan Wells

  “I just hope she doesn’t tell anyone about us,” I said.

  “She’ll tell Becky,” said Brooke. “A story like this is too good not to tell.”

  “Who’s Becky?”

  “Her roommate,” said Brooke. “Weren’t you listening?”

  I watched the car drive away. “None of it really applied to me.”

  “That was the longest conversation I’ve had in two years,” said Brooke. She stood silent for a moment, then started walking toward the freeway. “Let’s go.”

  I followed, studying the map. Two more cars, give or take, and we’d be there.

  15

  We arrived in Dillon around noon the next day. A Wednesday. Just four days after we’d left, and three days since Derek was chopped into pieces.

  The city was nearly silent and it was crawling with cops.

  Our latest driver dropped us off at the same gas station where we’d bought our meager lunch the day we left. Brooke and I went straight to the restroom and locked ourselves inside, pulling out our cleanest clothes and washing our hair in the sink. I turned to the corner while she changed, counting off my number sequence and trying not to think about her skin, and then she did the same for me—though without, I assumed, the suppressed urge to flay me. Dark thoughts about Brooke had become so common and ignoring them had become such second nature, it was almost backwards at this point—my number sequence had become so firmly associated with thoughts of sex and violence that counting it off almost made it worse. One, one, two, three, five, eight, thirteen, twenty-one …

  I needed a new coping strategy. My rules were like a lifeline for all three of us.

  As quickly as we could, before the gas station clerk started asking questions, we repacked our bags and walked back out, looking for all the world like two normal teenagers with their dog. We walked down Main Street, looking at the store fronts and houses. With one or two exceptions—a man in a delivery van, a woman in a tow truck—the streets were empty. The children who would have been out playing were all inside, watching TV or, just as often, watching us through the cracks in the blinds. We could see them all through the town, little faces peeking out through the windows, wondering who would be next. And older faces behind them, looking out sternly, wondering which member of their community was a vicious killer.

  We turned off Main Street and walked the block to Beck Street, keeping to the shade as we passed the rows of well-kept houses and neatly mown lawns. The streets were wide, probably a holdover from the days when frontier settlers used wagons with full teams of horses. The asphalt was old and crosshatched with lines of tar, the decades of wear and repair covering the streets in a kind of black, sticky lace. The sidewalks were dotted here and there with new slabs to replace older ones that had buckled over time.

  We reached Ms. Glassman’s house, but as Brooke started toward the porch, I put a hand on her arm. “Who are you?”

  “Still Brooke.”

  “You’re better with people than I am—”

  “You’re great with people.”

  “—and I need you to handle this, okay? I don’t know how to ask a stranger to stay in her house.” I stammered, searching for words. “I-I don’t even know where to start.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Brooke, putting her hand on mine. I relished the touch, counting slowly to five, then pulled my hand away. She walked to the door, and Boy Dog and I followed.

  Ms. Glassman opened the door with a frown of confusion. “Yes? Is there something I can … Marci!” Her eyes lit up with recognition. I’d forgotten we’d given her that name. “And David! I didn’t expect to see you again! What brings you back to Dillon?” Her face fell immediately. “Oh, please tell me you’ve already heard the news; I couldn’t bear to be the one to give it to you.”

  “We saw it on the TV,” said Brooke, and she surprised me by opening her arms and stepping forward for a hug. Ms. Glassman hugged her back, cooing softly. “We met Derek the night we were here—I guess that would have been two days before he died. We hung out with him and his friends and I can’t help but think that … that maybe if we’d stayed a few days longer he would have been somewhere else, or doing something else, and maybe he wouldn’t have—”

  “You stop that talk right now,” said Ms. Glassman, stepping back and looking Brooke in the eyes. “It’s not your fault, and don’t think for one minute that it is.”

  “I know,” said Brooke, “I know, but it’s just … But I suppose it’s been even harder on the rest of you.”

  “If it’s anyone’s fault it’s mine,” said Ms. Glassman, “for not dragging that family back to church when they stopped going.”

  “Was there a church event the night he was killed?” I asked.

  Ms. Glassman looked at me oddly, as if surprised by the question. “The church is a help and a protection. If they’d had the Holy Spirit in their home this never would have happened.”

  “We thought it would be nice to come back for the funeral,” said Brooke. “We’re just drifting anyway, walking the land before we go back to college. Do you know when it’s going to be?”

  “Monday,” said Ms. Glassman, “if the police are done with it by then. Luke says they will be.”

  “Luke,” I said, remembering the name. She’d said it before … one of her relatives?

  “We don’t have a lot of money,” said Brooke. “Is there a … really cheap motel in town?”

  Ms. Glassman shook her head. “The Stay-Thru, but it’s terrible—they charge too much for the garbage you get, and if they charged less it’d only be worse. There’s a bed-and-breakfast, of course, but that’s ridiculous, and I’m sure we can find you a place to stay. I’d offer you the spare bedroom here but Luke’s in it, naturally, so that’s out. Maybe Ingrid.”

  “Luke is your brother,” I said. “He left right before we got here on Sunday.”

  “Good memory,” said Ms. Glassman with a smile, turning to close and lock her door. “He came in for his birthday, since we’re the only two left in the family, but now he’s back, of course.”

  “He was a friend of Derek’s family?” asked Brooke.

  “Only in passing,” said Ms. Glassman, walking toward the street and beckoning us to follow. “He’s here for the investigation. He’s with the state police.”

  I glanced at Brooke, and followed behind as she caught up to Ms. Glassman and made idle chatter. We didn’t go far—the town was too small to have a “far”—though the eerie, empty streets made the walk seem longer than it was. I felt like the whole town was watching us through their windows and was glad we were with a known member of the community. Marci’s point about how going to church would help us to be accepted into their community, instead of being outsiders, was comforting; I could only hope it turned out to be true.

  And what about the church itself? Was Ms. Glassman’s comment about protection just typical religious faith or something more? We didn’t know what Attina did, or how; what if it was something like Yashodh and his cult? Was Derek’s family punished for leaving the community? Did that mean the Withered we were looking for was the pastor?

  This was nothing but idle speculation. I had no evidence, just vague, paranoid theories. There was a Withered demon somewhere in the shadows of this town, but only in one of them. The rest of the shadows were empty.

  I hoped.

  I recognized Ingrid’s car in the driveway of an old, single-story house, but Ms. Glassman led us past it to the next house, and as we got closer I could see that the figure on the neighbor’s porch was Ingrid herself. She banged on the door and called out in a voice that was thin but loud.

  “Come out, Beth, you can’t hide in there forever!”

  “Scared?” asked Ms. Glassman, climbing the steps to the porch.

  “She’s dotty,” said Ingrid, and glanced over her shoulder at Ms. Glassman. “I can’t get her to—oh my, it’s you two. Welcome back.”

  “David and Marci were friends of Derek,” said Ms. Glassman. Ingrid nod
ded, as if she had only just now recognized us, and I wondered if she’d forgotten our names until Ms. Glassman mentioned them. Which would mean Ms. Glassman knew she’d forgotten and had reminded her smoothly and subtly. How long had they known each other to have such an established understanding? More and more every minute, I was getting the impression that no one ever moved out of this town, and no one ever moved in. Nothing had changed in Dillon in decades.

  Someone inside the house muttered, though I couldn’t hear it well enough to understand the words.

  “She says she not coming out,” said Ingrid. “Fool of a woman.” She turned toward the door and raised her voice again. “You have to come out, there’s a town meeting.”

  “Stay inside where it’s safe!” said the voice.

  “Beth’s a little excitable,” said Ms. Glassman. She walked up to stand next to Ingrid and shouted at the door. “We’re in charge of the refreshments, Beth. Did you make brownies like I asked you to?”

  “No one’s going to the meeting,” called Beth. “We have to stay in our homes and lock the doors! Do you want get sliced up?”

  “She’s worse every year,” said Ingrid. “I don’t know how much longer she can stay in this place alone, and that boy of hers certainly isn’t going out of his way to check in on her. It’s going to be us that puts her in a home, you know.”

  Ms. Glassman sighed and banged on the door again, though she didn’t yell anything. She listened for a moment, then looked at Ingrid. “These two came back for the funeral. I’d put them up but Luke’s at home. Can they stay with you?”

  “Of course, of course,” said Ingrid. “See what you can do with Beth, I need to pick up my banana bread anyway.” She walked down the stairs, smiled at Brooke and me, and waved us toward the house. “Come on!”

  I stared at Brooke, who grinned impishly. We fell into step behind Ingrid, crossing the lawn between houses. I whispered in Brooke’s ear. “How on earth…?”

  “Nice people do nice things for nice people,” Brooke whispered back.

  “They don’t know us.”

  “They think they do.”

  “That’s not enough to invite strangers to stay in your home.”

  Brooke laughed under her breath. “Are you complaining?”

  “I’m wondering how these people went so long without being murdered by a serial killer.”

  “This town is so small it makes Clayton look like Gotham City,” said Brooke. “They know each other, they trust each other, and they always see the good in people.”

  “And look where that got Derek,” I said.

  “Yeah,” said Brooke. “The only violent crime in at least fifty years. Theirs is truly a dangerous mindset.”

  Ingrid climbed the steps and opened her front door with a flourish. “Come in! I’m sorry it’s such a mess, but I’ve been baking all morning for this town meeting.”

  The house smelled like fresh bread and warm cookies. “Don’t worry,” I said, “this is perfect. And thank you so much. We can … pay you with chores or something? Would that be okay? We don’t have lot of money—”

  “Obviously you’re going to work,” said Ingrid with a sly grin. “What am I, the US government? Room and board, though I’m afraid I’m a strict vegetarian, so there’s no meat on the table.”

  “So am I,” I said. “I told you this was perfect.”

  “The room’s back here,” said Ingrid, and she led us down the short hall to a trio of doors; the one in the middle turned out to be a linen closet, from which Ingrid pulled some clean sheets and towels. She opened the door on the left to reveal a guest room decorated in soft pink and lace; a queen-size bed sat in the middle of the room, covered with a pink comforter so thick and frilly I felt like I’d been miniaturized and stuck in a doll house. Pictures of cats and lighthouses filled the room like the world’s most adorable fungal growth. I felt like turning around and running away. Brooke’s face broke into a wide smile and she covered her mouth with her hand to hide the laughter already bubbling up to the surface.

  “Oh yes,” she said, with just a hint of a giggle in the back of her throat. “This is perfect.”

  “You can leave your things in here,” said Ingrid. “And I’ll ask you to keep the dog off the comforter—we can make him a bed with some of my old picnic blankets later tonight. For now, though, can you help me carry these things to the meeting? Consider it your first day’s rent.”

  “Of course,” said Brooke, and she set her backpack in a white wooden rocking chair. She pointed at the throw pillows decorating the head of the bed. “Honey, do you want the puppy side or the kitty side?”

  “The puppy,” I said, dropping my backpack on the hardwood floor. She’d have the pink fluffy bed to herself, and I’d sleep on the floor with Boy Dog, blocking the door. Just like always.

  We followed Ingrid back to the kitchen and gathered up trays full of baked goods—sliced banana bread and zucchini bread, plates of frosted sugar cookies, pans full of sheet cakes and brownies and bar cookies packed with chocolate chips.

  “This would have taken a dozen trips on my own,” said Ingrid. “But now that I’ve got my own indentured servants, this whole process just got easier.” We balanced the trays and pans and plates carefully and walked out to load them in the car. Other neighbors were emerging from their houses, furtively, like groundhogs looking for their shadows, but one by one they began streaming up the road, on foot and by car. Even Beth was opening her door, as if spurred on by the actions of her neighbors, though from the looks of it she had yet to step outside. We sat in Ingrid’s car, holding the more precarious dishes in our laps, and she drove to the church.

  “The town meeting’s here?” asked Brooke.

  “Where else?” asked Ingrid. “It’s the biggest building in town outside of the school, and that doesn’t have air conditioning. Here we go.” She parked, and we carried the treats inside.

  Corey Diamond was leaning against the wall, with Paul beside him, chatting with two girls about the same age.

  Corey looked up as soon as we came in the room, watching us without any obvious emotion. Just like I would, I thought. He tracked us with his eyes as we walked across the room to a table and laid out Ingrid’s treats. The other three teens didn’t seem to notice his distraction.

  “I’m going to head back and help Beth and Sara,” said Ingrid. “You two wait here—go talk to Paul, he’s a great kid. Did you meet him, too?”

  “Briefly,” I said.

  “Great,” said Ingrid. “Back in a jiff.”

  She left, and Brooke and I stood awkwardly for a moment, trying to identify which people might be Corey’s parents. From the corner of my eye I could see him still staring at us.

  “Does he know we know?” asked Brooke.

  “We still don’t know anything for sure,” I said.

  “Should we go talk to him?”

  A hand clapped down on my shoulder, and I jumped a bit before turning and recognizing the pastor. “David and Marci,” he said. “Welcome back. Though I have to admit I never thought I’d see you again.”

  Corey smiled at my startled jump and started walking toward us.

  “We met Derek on Saturday night,” said Brooke. “When we saw him on the news we … well, we didn’t know him well, but he was nice to us. We thought we should come back and pay our respects.”

  “Sweet,” said Corey. “That was really cool of you.”

  “Corey,” said the pastor. “Have you met David and Marci?”

  “Just once,” said Corey, smiling kindly. “The same night Derek was so nice to them.”

  He knew we were lying and he wasn’t exposing us. Why not? What did he stand to gain by covering for us? And why did he think we were here, if he knew our stated reason was false?

  The pastor looked at us again. “I’d like to speak with you later, if I could. I have an office here at the church and I’m here pretty much all day. Will you stop in some time?”

  I tried to keep myself from loo
king suspicious. “What for?”

  “Just a chat,” he said, and smiled again. “Looks like the police are here, I’m going to go get everything set up. You stick with Corey, he’ll show around.” The pastor walked toward the door, where four police officers had just arrived.

  “So,” said Corey. “What do you want me to show you? You’ve already seen the movie theater.”

  What should I say to him? I wasn’t expecting a direct confrontation so soon. We needed him on our side, so we had to be nice. And despite our antagonistic feelings, he’d never actually threatened us, at least not overtly. I was the one who’d done that.

  “I’m sorry about the other night,” I said. “It had been a long, hard day.”

  “Nothing to be sorry about,” said Corey. He was still speaking politely, though his smile was gone. “You pulled a knife on my friend a full two days before he got sliced to ribbons. There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

  He spoke of the death—even joked about—so passively. Like it didn’t bother him at all. Just like I would.

  “We didn’t do it,” said Brooke.

  “Obviously not,” said Corey, and he smiled.

  I stared at him, trying to decipher his thoughts. I was better at reading people now than I used to be, but that wasn’t saying much. He was calm, confident, even teasing us slightly. In complete control of the situation. Was he trying to provoke us, or lord over us the power he wielded? The cops walked past us, so close one brushed my arm with his uniform. One sentence from Corey, and a corroborating testimony from Paul, would make us the prime suspects in a horrific murder. The cops walked by, and Corey said nothing. What was he doing? What did he want?

  “Come over here,” said Corey. “Let me introduce you to my friends.” He started walking back toward Paul and the girls, but Brook and I stood still.

  “What’s going on?” she whispered.

  “No idea.”

  Corey stopped and looked back. “Come on.”

  “Play along for now,” I said. “This is what we came here for.”