by Bob Avey
“Not really,” Elliot said.
Nick shrugged and tossed the knife back into the toolbox. “She’s going through a divorce.” He walked over to a car and started to work on it.
“Whose idea was it?”
“They never did get along,” he muttered from beneath the hood of the car.
“What’s his name?” Elliot asked.
Nick worked in silence for a moment, allowing no sounds except for the dull clatter of tools against greasy metal then he came out from under the hood, holding what looked to be the severed head of Medusa. “I guess you remember Anthony Davenport?”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Elliot said. The thought of Carmen being with Davenport put a knot in his stomach. Davenport wasn’t one of the rich kids, but he wanted to be, hanging with them at school, pretending to be a socialite.
Elliot thought about asking Nick how he’d managed to collect the paraphernalia decorating his office—and more importantly why—but he didn’t. After all, how much worse was Nick’s fixation with the past than his running away from it?
“There’s something else you need to know,” Nick said, his face growing serious. “I mean about Carmen.”
Nick’s actions told Elliot he was building up to something. Nick didn’t drop bombshells. He dragged them in and placed them beside you. “What is it, Nick?”
He shook his head. “Somebody’s coming.”
Nick laid the part on the workbench and wiped his hands with a rag. Seconds later, a man came walking into the shop. As Nick went over to greet the customer, Elliot pulled the knife from the toolbox and began to examine it. It was high quality, about ten inches long, with a smooth black handle, though it looked as if it’d be more at home in some gourmet chef’s kitchen than in the garage. Suddenly Elliot got the feeling he was being watched, and when he looked up the man was staring at him. At least it seemed that way. Sunglasses covered the man’s eyes. His hair was swept back, like Elvis in his early days, except it was blonde instead of black. He wore a jacket, fastened at the waist and zippered part way, leaving a V-shaped opening through which showed his chest covered by a white T-shirt. Elliot tossed the knife back into the toolbox and started toward Nick, but before he got there the man turned and walked away. “Who was that?” Elliot asked.
Nick shrugged. “He wanted directions to the peach orchard. I get that all the time around here.”
“Peaches are out of season.”
“Yeah, I know. They got other things out there, though.”
As Elliot looked up, he saw the squatty silhouette of Charlie Johnson blocking the light from the doorway. “I noticed Maggie Caldwell’s truck outside,” he said. “She doesn’t get out much.”
“Running a little rough,” Nick said. “Told her I’d have a look at it.”
Johnson walked around the garage, surveying the premises and stopping when he came to the toolbox. His expression said he saw the knife. He smiled. “Hello, Kenny.”
Elliot nodded.
“Sorry I came down on you so hard earlier. Hope you understand.” Smiling, he walked toward the exit. “I’ll leave you boys to your reminiscing. By the way, Kenny, Carmen asked about you.”
Nick waited until Charlie Johnson was gone then turned to Elliot. “You and Carmen belong together. That’s never changed.”
Elliot thought about Nick’s words. He guessed the thought of things being the way they were made sense to him. “I’m not so sure, Nick.”
“I guess it’s too bad about their marriage then.”
“I never figured Anthony Davenport as her type,” Elliot said.
“You got that right.”
Questioning Nick about Carmen’s husband didn’t feel right, but Elliot continued anyway. “What kind of guy did he turn out to be?”
“He didn’t deserve Carmen, that’s for sure.”
“Come on, Nick.”
“He was going out on her.”
“How do you know that?”
“I saw him a couple of times with a woman, and it wasn’t Carmen.”
“Could’ve been a friend.”
Nick shrugged. “She didn’t look like a friend.”
“How did she look?”
Nick paused and averted his eyes as if he thought his answer might come across as less than sane. “Like Marcia, only all grown up.”
Nick’s answer caught Elliot off guard, but it got him to thinking about the case again. Marcia Barnes had more than fit the profile of the killer’s victims. She epitomized it. “Speaking of Marcia,” Elliot said, “did she ever mention that she thought someone was watching her?”
Nick pulled a grease rag from his pocket and wiped his hands. “Not that I recall. Why?”
“She told me several times. And once when we were at Murphy’s Point we both saw someone looking through the car window.”
“So what are you trying to say?”
“Maybe Marcia was right.”
Nick was silent for a moment. He seemed to be processing the information. “Johnnie used to tell stories like that. Sometimes I think he half believed them; something about a dog-man that roamed the Point, preying on unfortunate lovers.”
“Teenagers in parked cars,” Elliot said. “They called him the Sandman.”
Nick gave Elliot a strange look then shook his head. “All small towns have stories like that. Besides, my dad told me the same story was going around when he was a kid.”
Elliot thought it over. Nick had a good point. The tale did have an urban legend flavor. Some versions even had the villain with the features of a dog. “I guess you’re right. I wonder how stories like that get started?”
Nick stuffed the rag back into his pocket. “I guess kids in boring little towns have to create excitement somehow.”
Elliot looked at his watch. “Hey, I need to be going. I’ve got work to do.”
“Are you coming back?”
Elliot thought about the autographed football he’d found in the back room of Johnson’s house and another piece of the puzzle dropped into place. “Do you remember the kid we used to see at the games, the one nobody knew?”
Nick thought for a moment. “Never saw him at school or anything, and you couldn’t get close to him or he’d run away?”
“That’s the one. Any idea what happened to him?”
“Not really. Whatever made you think about him?”
“Just curious,” Elliot said, handing Nick a business card. “I’ll see you around, okay?”
Nick examined the card. “You’re a cop?”
“That’s me.”
Nick shook his head. “You never cease to amaze me, Kenny.”
Elliot paused, looking through the open garage door. “My mom wasn’t all bad,” he said. Nick gave him a curious look.
“What we were talking about earlier,” Elliot said. “I guess she got to feeling bad about it. Anyway, a few days later I found a picture of some guy, all framed and everything, sitting on the dresser beside my bed. It was even signed with an inscription. I knew it wasn’t my father, just some old photo she’d found, but it was the thought that counted…knowing she cared enough to do that, go to all that trouble.”
“What did it say?”
Lost in the moment, Elliot looked at Nick, unsure of what he was asking.
“The inscription?”
Elliot nodded. “It said love. Love, Papa Terrance.”
Nick smiled. “Hey, before you go I’ve got something I need to say.” He paused, looking for the right words. “I never told you I was sorry.”
“Sorry for what?”
“For taking you to Latham’s house that night. That’s part of it anyway. I didn’t know the booze was going to be there, but I shouldn’t have taken you, just the same.”
Flashes of the bloody crime scene went through Elliot’s head. Nick was talking about the party they’d gone to after the game. Johnnie had lost the game, but that wasn’t the problem. Marcia Barnes was the reason their voices had risen to the point of attract
ing attention, and the reason Elliot had taken Johnnie down. The silent staring faces of the shocked fans watching him walk off the field was something Elliot would never forget, but it was the hurt look in Johnnie’s eyes that still haunted his dreams. Nick had pulled him off Johnnie and persuaded Elliot to go to Latham’s house to cool off and forget about things. It was also the night Johnnie and Marcia were killed. “Don’t go blaming yourself for something you didn’t do, Nick. None of it was your fault.”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I just keep thinking that maybe none of this would’ve happened if I’d just left well enough alone.”
Elliot wondered if there was any truth to Nick’s words. “Don’t be silly,” he said. He gestured to Maggie Caldwell’s truck, the one Charlie had inquired about. “Where’s Maggie living these days?”
“Same place she always did,” Nick said.
Maggie Caldwell’s place didn’t look much better than the falling-down structure where Elliot had lived, but the grass was mowed. Taking care of Maggie’s lawn had been one of his summer jobs. Her property sat at the intersection of two country roads, and the windows on the side that would get the most traffic were covered with tar paper to keep car lights from shining through. The house was situated next to the property line and the road. The driveway, which was nothing more than beaten-down earth, led to a large metal building that served as a garage and storage area. Maggie’s place looked the same as it had nine years ago, when Elliot had last seen it.
As Elliot opened the gate and walked through, he noticed something rather odd in the yard. Blowing in the breeze, like a nostalgic monument to an all but bygone era of suburban life, were blue denim jeans on a clothesline. Blue jeans were not the type of thing Maggie would wear, but he’d often seen them hanging there.
Elliot closed the gate and realized he was in trouble. He’d made a mistake. Maggie had always kept a dog, and the present one sped toward Elliot, slowing as he neared, but not stopping. Inches away, the dog edged closer, a deep growl coming from his throat. His tongue slipped between his bared teeth like a wet serpent. Options of what to do next ran through Elliot’s head. He came up with the only solution. He had nowhere to go, and if he turned and ran the confidence afforded the dog by that action would be Elliot’s undoing. So he did the only thing he could. He held his ground. Elliot offered the back of his hand to the dog, showing he was friendly, but just as he did the door to the cabin flew open and an old lady, brandishing a baseball bat, came charging out, screaming like a siren. It was Maggie Caldwell.
Elliot visualized Maggie striking him with the bat, cackling like a demented hen over a fresh lay of eggs as the life drooled out of him. She took a swipe, but Elliot jumped to his right, catching the bat near the end of the swing. Keeping his grip, he wrestled it from her and tossed the weapon into the yard. A spew of obscenities followed, causing the dog to gain both anger and confidence. “Maggie,” Elliot said. “It’s me, Kenny.”
She studied Elliot, a grin spreading across her wrinkled face, then she turned to the dog and yelled, “Shut your trap, you old mongrel.”
The dog obeyed, dropping his tail between his legs and disappearing behind the house. He had no doubt tasted the wrath of Maggie’s bat.
Maggie snorted. “Thought you looked familiar.” She turned and walked into the house, stopping after a few feet to turn back and say, “You coming in, or not?”
Elliot followed her through the door. Although he’d seen Maggie’s house numerous times, he had never been inside of it until now. The furniture was old and worn, and what looked like sheaves of weeds and clumps of garlic hung from the ceiling.
Maggie went into the kitchen, and when she returned she carried a cup of something, which she handed to Elliot. “Thought you might be hungry.”
As Elliot took the cup, thoughts of bat wings and eyes of newt gave his stomach a turn. Like a fool, he asked, “What is it?”
She puffed on a cigarette, the old kind without a filter. “What is it?” she mocked, the cigarette following the movement of her lips as if it were surgically attached. “It’s chicken soup. Take more than that to cure what ails you, though.”
Elliot took a sip. It was good, and he was hungry. “What do you mean?”
With nicotine-yellowed fingers, she pointed to her head. “Something in here burns you. That’s what brought you to Maggie, digging up old bones.”
Elliot smiled. “I came to visit, see how you’re doing. I also wanted to thank you for looking in on Mom and me the way you did. It meant a lot to me, and to her.” Elliot paused. Maggie’s statement had piqued his curiosity. “What did you mean by digging up old bones?”
She laughed. “Don’t know. Might not mean anything.” She squinted, her eyes a hazy brown that looked to be curtained with dingy cellophane. “Might mean everything. Maybe I’m just a nutty old hag.” She laughed again, half wheezing. “I suspect you want to know about your unfortunate friends. Everybody needs to know what Maggie knows, but nobody listens.”
“I’m listening,” Elliot said.
She sat on the couch, patting the adjacent cushion. Elliot sat beside her. She took his hand, the haze lifting briefly from her eyes. “I saw his lights come through the window, so I went to see who it was. He had a young rider with him that night. Something was up, I knew that much, so I followed, sneaking through the meadow beside the road. It wasn’t easy, but I stayed with it. I watched him go, saw what he did.”
“What did you see, Maggie?”
“Just down from the orchard where the creek runs through, there’s a hollow lined with scrub oaks.”
Elliot nodded. “Who was it?”
“You go there and you look, and keep looking, ’cause it’s there.” She laughed. “He was a rebel, he roamed but he couldn’t score. He couldn’t do it but his sister could.” She paused and picked up a framed photograph from the table beside the couch. Showing it to Elliot, she said, “My Bobby’s a fine boy, isn’t he? Be coming home soon.”
It was a picture of her son. Elliot’s mother had told him about it. He’d been missing in action in Vietnam and never returned home. Elliot thought about the blue jeans on the clothesline, and suddenly he understood the root of her dementia. Pity waved over him.
Maggie took the nub of a cigarette from her mouth and ground it out in an ashtray. “Small wonder you ended up where you are, hanging around with the likes of Nick Brazleton. You’ve got other troubles, too. You’re in love with that little Mexican girl.”
“You mean Carmen?”
She waved her hand. “You’re a good boy, Kenny. Maggie should’ve took you in, got you out of that mess. Maybe then you wouldn’t be in such a fix.”
Elliot paused a moment. The uncanny clarity at which certain thoughts of Maggie’s would cut through the obvious internal noise had begun to amaze him. “Maggie,” he asked, “do you know anything about the trouble I got into before I left town?”
She leaned forward and whispered. “The boy isn’t right, and he lurches about in the darkness trying to correct it.” After that she got up and left the room. When she returned, she handed Elliot a folded piece of paper. “Your mother was in bad shape that day and I knew it.” Tears formed in her eyes. “We talked, you know. But she must’ve known she was going to be too sick. She wrote that up earlier and gave it to me when I came in.”
Elliot recognized his mother’s handwriting as he slowly unfolded the note and began to read.
~~~
Terrance showed up again last night. I told him not to ever come back, but he won’t listen. He’s mean, Maggie. Way down deep mean. I guess it’s payback for the life I’ve lived that he should be the one to leave me with child. It’s not all bad, though. That nice man Charlie Johnson has taken an interest in Kenny. He comes over a lot. I can tell he likes me. He’s asked me out several times. Can you imagine me going out with a cop? I told him no. He’s looking for companionship, but not the kind I can give him. No sense going down a path I can’t follow. Hope to feel better on y
our next visit. Love, Lizzie.
~~~
Elliot held the note in his hand. People had called his mother Lizzie, though her name was Elizabeth. Her words ran through him like a fever. “What’s this mean, Maggie? What’s she talking about?”
Maggie shook her head. “You stay away from that man, you hear? Don’t want nothing to do with him. He’s dead anyway, just like everybody else.”
“Who’s dead?”
“He stepped over the line, and went messing around with the wrong person, went too far. Now he don’t do nothing but sit in that car of his, only it’s parked in the ravine like I done told you.” She turned away and walked into the other room, saying as she went, “Best you be going now. Maggie needs her rest.”
As Elliot was leaving, he noticed a riding lawn mower next to the shed. He put it away and oiled the noisy hinges on the shed door, then got in his car and drove away. He knew the area Maggie had talked about, so he drove there to check it out. Elliot stopped at the brick house across the street from the property, and after telling the people inside who he was and what he wanted, he learned that the property owner was out of state. But the homeowners didn’t see any problem with his looking around, so he drove up the dirt road across from the house and parked beside the gate to the property.
Elliot walked across the gently sloping meadow until it descended into the hollow. The creek, which didn’t see much water anymore except for an occasional rain, ran the length of the property. Maggie hadn’t been specific about where he should look so Elliot started next to the roadway and made his way along the rocky bottom, walking deeper into the hollow.
Later Elliot paused to check his watch. He’d been slipping and sliding across the rocks for some time. Nearly an hour had passed. He was deep in the woods, and far enough from civilization to be in a good spot to hide something but so far he hadn’t seen anything. Just ahead the ravine disappeared around another bend. Elliot pushed on, but as soon as he rounded the bend he stopped in his tracks. The creek was deep there, the banks being seven or eight feet high, and directly in front of him he saw an obstruction, a large pile of rocks and tree limbs. It looked like a huge beaver dam, except there was no water and Elliot suspected that even if there was, the pile of debris wouldn’t hold it. He began to remove the debris, grabbing whatever piece he could get a grip on. He tore away limbs and moved heavy rocks, pausing a few minutes later to observe what he’d uncovered, what was hidden there. He took a step back and stared at the rusted remains of an automobile. But it was what was inside the vehicle that had his attention. Elliot thought about the note Maggie had shown him and the words of his mother splayed across the page.