The blood on Teddy’s shoulder spread down his back. That Yankees shirt was a goner.
Strode’s final thought was, So am I.
13
Strode awoke to President Richard Nixon discussing progress in peace negotiations. Even in a daze, he didn’t buy it. He knew the kids wouldn’t either.
His eyes felt heavy. Holding them open long enough to see where the hell he was felt like Jimmying a safe open with a nail file.
“Hey, man. Can you hear me?”
Strode was hit with a strong odor of whiskey, nicotine, and sweat.
Burklow.
“Hey, man. It’s Jack.”
Strode wondered if Burklow had said his first name in their day together. Maybe Finch had said it. Burklow seemed to say it in a way that made his first name sound nearly foreign to him too.
Little flicks of water hit Strode’s face, and he realized how much he was sweating. Maybe he was the one who smelled like body odor.
The coolness of the water was enough to help him divide his eyelids. Sure enough, Burklow stood over him with a cigar hanging out of his mouth as though he’d come to visit a friend whose wife had just delivered twins instead of a bat-shit-crazy officer from out of town.
Strode smiled. He was glad to see Burklow.
“Wha—”
Pain choked Strode and pushed him to a foam pillow. He wondered if he was in a panic-induced trip.
Strode tried again, “Wha—”
Burklow put his finger to his lips. “Shh. Doc says it shouldn’t cause permanent damage, but you shouldn’t push it.”
Strode brought his hands to his throat.
There was a thick layer of gauze with a cotton puff at the center. He could only imagine the pain killers pumping through him. He turned to Burklow, hoping he would continue to explain. Strode was still trying to piece together what had happened.
Burklow smiled his shit-eating grin. “You gave us a good scare. I thought you were heading to the grand salvage yard in the sky. But doc was able to get you all closed up again. Finch will be in soon.”
Strode started to sit up and immediately regretted it. He felt as though someone had opened the top of his head and filled it with a gallon of water. As he adjusted, it sloshed back and forth and made each of his movements feel as choppy as a sea storm.
“Whoa. I didn’t say you could run a marathon.”
Burklow stepped closer to the bed, carrying his array of scents along, and pushed Strode to the bed.
“Here. I think I can find the right button.”
Burklow readjusted his cigar, scratched his head, and pressed the button shaped like a downhill. Strode’s legs sank lower, and his back straightened. He felt like he was being carted away on a utility dolly. “Hmm. No that’s not right.”
Burklow paused to exhale the cigar smoke. He pressed the one at the top of the panel shaped like an “L.” Strode’s feet elevated, and his abdomen folded in.
Strode could see Burklow and the room better. The wall was an irritating bright-blue color that made his head feel even more atmospheric. A small cut-out window in the door reminded him of the slots correctional officers used to pass stale crackers and lard-loaded chili to inmates. And one of the lights above him flickered, not entirely, but just a single row of the three rod-shaped bulbs. It was enough to make fuzzy green and purple dots leap across the artless walls.
Strode wiggled his fingers and felt a tug in his wrist where they nestled the IV needle.
“Bu—”
A harsh weight squashed Strode’s thought.
What the fuck?
Strode lifted one hand and stretched his fingers out. He watched them shake as though electricity was pumping through his veins.
He noticed a shadow outside the square window. Strode pointed to it and then waved forward.
“Settle down, Strode. Finch will be in in a minute. She’s talking to the doctor.”
Strode nodded. He was certain his panic was taking over his eyes. He probably looked like Vincent Price before he fell into his boiling vat of molten wax.
The thick, steel, prison-like door to his room opened. Finch came in with a tall man who wore his glasses at the bridge of his nose. He looked above the square frames and said, “Without speaking, giving me a thumbs-up or down. I need you to answer a few questions. Okay?”
Finch nodded, concern smeared across his furrowed eyebrows and tucked lip.
The confusion was making him anxious. Underneath the blanket, he curled all of his toes as hard as he could.
The doctor pulled up a round-topped swivel chair with no back to Strode’s side. He pulled a pen from his pocket, put it in his mouth, and pulled it free from the cap. He tucked the cap on the end of the pen.
Strode flexed his toes up as far as they’d go.
“Okay, can you confirm for me, is your name Leonard Allen Strode?”
Finch and Burklow turned to one another. Strode wondered if they thought Leonard was weird, or if they had just expected something simpler like Ron or Barry.
Finch gave Strode a thumbs-up, with an encouraging nod that reminded him to be present. But the more he sat through Burklow fixing his damn chair and the doctor’s question, the more impatient he became.
Strode returned Finch’s thumbs-up, and the doctor said, “Good. Good. And were you born on the twenty-ninth of September in nineteen forty-eight?”
Strode gave a thumbs-up.
“You were born in Indianapolis, Indiana. Correct?”
Strode gave a thumbs-up.
“Okay. Good. Something harder now. Is George McGovern our president?”
Strode gave a thumbs down.
Come on, man.
The doctor asked a few more no-brainer questions and Strode proved his head wasn’t full of goo.
“Okay. So, I think we got pretty lucky today here, Leonard.”
Strode cringed, and Finch smiled, shaking her head like saying, Let it go.
“You were in your carotid sinus. It’s a reflex of the carotid artery.”
Strode raised his thick eyebrows and shook his head.
Meaning?
“Your throat will be sore for a few days, but we stabilized your blood pressure. There doesn’t appear to be further bleeding on the brain. Some rest and resting your voice for the next week should help.”
“Tha—”
The doctor wagged his off-putting, long finger at Strode.
Strode smiled and hoped it hid how bad he wanted to hit the guy.
“Thank you, doctor,” Finch said.
* * *
Finch and Burklow laid it all out for Teddy. Burklow went first.
“When Finch came to find me, I was already wandering through the woods. She heard me yelling for the kid.”
Teddy.
“I got a message radioed in that said the Byers boy was missing. He rode his bike home from a friend’s house yesterday and never made it,” Burklow continued.
Byers?
Finch leaned into Strode. “The kid you found, that was the Byers boy, Marlene’s little brother. He had some bleeding on his brain, but he was able to pull through. It’ll be a long recovery, physically and mentally, but he should be okay.”
Burklow wasn’t calling for Teddy.
Strode began to wonder if the part about Teddy had been real at all.
But Finch put a hand on Strode’s. “And the other boy, the one I—”
Burklow finished for her, “The other kid she shot.”
Strode opened his mouth, and his partners both hushed him like crotchety librarians.
He needed to know where Teddy was; how much of what he saw was real. Was he even alive? Though she had only known Strode for a few days, Finch was already becoming incredibly in sync with his thoughts.
“You didn’t imagine it, Strode. He’s alive. He was in the woods.”
Bu
rklow pointed to the top of Strode’s head. He raised his hand and cringed upon contact. There was an ultra-tender wound up there.
Then he remembered right as Burklow said it, “And the Blackwood kid damn near crushed your skull with a rock. Finch says he was winding up for the next pitch when she shot him.”
Finch exhaled. Strode knew, no matter if that kid had killed him, Finch would always be sorry she shot him.
Her eyes were still as she said, “And then, Strode, you just got up. Your head was bleeding, but you kept going. The doctor said your adrenaline probably gave you more juice than even you thought you had.”
Strode pointed to his throat.
Finch shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know. We were going to ask you. Could a kid do something like that?”
The light above no longer flickered.
Instead, it was as though there was a drain beneath him, and it was slowly emptying its illumination.
Strode remembered the golden eyes—how they seemed faded.
Whatever tried to rip out Strode’s throat was too weak to do it. So, it nicked at him instead. That was why there was so much blood at the Blackwoods. Whatever had taken Arthur Blackwood’s life that day at the Starling house had tried to do the same to him.
And Teddy tried to lure him to it.
Strode scribbled a signature in the air, and Finch hurried for a pen and paper.
TEDDY TOLD ME HE NEEDED HELP.
Strode turned the paper to Finch. She read it, her eyes widened, and she said, “It was him. What called Marlene, a girl ready for a night out to the woods. What called Derek Russell and wouldn’t let him ignore it. What called Nate Williamson.”
Burklow tugged his pants up and was trying to keep up.
Strode drew a cluster of trees and then a house sitting outside of it, and put “SUBDIVISION.” He drew a bike going through the woods and pointed to Burklow.
Finch turned to her mentor. “You said only the neighborhood kids went through the far entrance near the housing subdivision. Byers must’ve taken that path home and then Teddy—”
Burklow followed. “And then Teddy called him away too.”
Strode gave the most inappropriate response to putting together the pieces of a multi-murder case—a thumbs-up.
Teddy had lured Marlene Byers, Derek Russell, and Nate Williamson. Russell had even logged it. Teddy had told them he needed help, just as he did him. And people responded to the poor boy in the woods.
The pain medicine was playing tug of war with Strode’s ability to stay awake. He had questions. He wanted to talk to the Byers kid, though he probably couldn’t. He wanted to get in a car and start tracking Teddy.
Strode closed his eyes and shook his head in disbelief. He was right. There was more to this case. But Strode was learning that being right wasn’t always a rewarding thing, despite what marriage taught him. Being right burned a lot more than his pride.
Teddy, the missing boy from Indiana, was the cause of the disappearances here and God knows where else.
Before the Grade-A pain meds carried Strode into a restless night of nightmares and cold sweats, he tried to summarize the key point of their day, of their finding: Those people didn’t just disappear. Teddy Blackwood was a murderer. A vile, merciless killer.
Part 3
The Maple Street Massacre
1
Teddy fell against a tree, and sweat dripped from his hairline. The air felt thin and bent on building in his lungs without exiting.
The shadow’s golden eyes stood above him.
We have to keep moving, Teddy.
Teddy’s head felt like an air balloon floating into the sky.
People are searching the woods. They’ll find us.
Teddy knew the shadow was right. The cop got away. And that stupid woman who shot him. They would, without question, spill the beans about the lost boy from Indiana in the woods.
Teddy kicked his feet into the mud, but he couldn’t lift his body. He groaned in pain. “It hurts so bad.”
The shadow’s hand stretched from its flat figure to a three-dimensional shape, reaching for Teddy. It was as though its complete form was conveniently tucked under a veil until needed.
The shadow’s hand rested over Teddy’s shoulder, and Teddy could feel the blood clot. He sighed a breath of relief.
“That feels better.”
You’re still hurt. I need more strength to heal you. We have to move.
Teddy dug his sneakers into the mud and used the tree to lift himself. He pushed on his side with the gunshot, and the wound became enraged. Teddy locked his jaw and gasped. “It stings.”
I know.
“I need more, Shadow. It still hurts too much.”
It had been a few hours since they had seen a waving flashlight or heard the shouts of Three Oaks police officers. But they couldn’t be sure they weren’t still out there.
We have to move now.
Teddy nodded and obeyed the shadow. They stayed away from the paths of the woods and wandered through the trees. It was getting dark. Teddy had lost track of time with his injury, but he knew if it was getting dark, they had been in the woods too long. Too long after being found.
Faint hints of the sunset shone between the trees, and within twenty minutes Teddy knew the woods would be dark. Since he had been with the shadow, his only sense of time was through the sun. So, he followed it through the woods, looking up at the sky between the green.
Then, Teddy brought his good hand to his nose, too afraid to raise the other. Something smelled awful.
“Ew, what is that?”
The shadow’s eyes seemed to brighten.
Our lifeline.
“What do you mean? It smells li… uh. It’s just awful.”
The smell reminded Teddy of a time when he was younger in Oakhaven. He woke up forty-five minutes early for school because his mother screamed. Teddy ran to see what was wrong, and she had the back door wide open, standing in her underwear and a Beatles t-shirt, shooing an animal away with a broom. It sprayed this yellowish-green liquid, just missing his mother. The smell lingered for a week.
This was the same smell.
The shadow took the lead, and Teddy followed closely behind.
Your wound is too open, Teddy. Too tender. It could tear, and you could bleed again. I have to save you.
Teddy and the shadow had had many conversations about what the shadow had to do. And he was becoming less and less prone to arguing it or feeling too guilty. He wasn’t sure what the shadow’s plan was with the skunk, but he thought it best just to be appreciative.
Teddy nodded, “I know, Shadow. Thank you.”
They followed the smell, and with each step the shadow came into its fuller form, growing four feet and giving some of the younger trees a run for their money in stature. Its hands emerged from the shadowed veil, and its fingers grew to inhuman lengths. Then, they curved and sharpened into claws.
The smell was stronger, and Teddy pinched his nose. He heard laughing. It sounded like two, maybe three younger guys. One shouted, “And I’m telling you, no matter how many dinners you buy her, or how many romance movies you sit through at the drive-in, Melissa is never going to give it up, man. She keeps her package tightly wrapped up in corduroy slacks and librarian sweaters.”
They laughed.
Teddy could see the guys just on the other side of a brush of trees. The shadow was right. He was still hurt, badly. The light-headedness clung to him and made each step feel like his head was drifting away.
“Yeah, you’re probably right. Maybe I’ll try Annette. Here.” The smaller of the two guys passed what looked like a homemade, fat cigarette to the other.
Teddy watched the burly guy give the other a nudge and said, “Don’t worry, my sweet Danny boy. We won’t let you leave high school a virgin.”
Teddy turned to the shadow. “I can call them
here one at a time. If one hears the other getting hurt, he may be afraid. Won’t that keep you fuller longer?”
The shadow closed its golden eyes and shook its head. No time, Teddy.
The shadow put a skeletal hand to Teddy, as though it was telling a dog to stay. Teddy obeyed.
He watched from behind the tree as the shadow stepped into view. The burly one dropped the rolled “cigarette” to the ground, and just before he could scream the shadow took its claws and tore into the guy’s throat.
When the other tried to run, the shadow slithered across the ground and then rose before him, standing nearly twenty feet tall. He repeated the motion.
Teddy came from behind the tree. The gurgling sound the boys made reminded Teddy of his father. Blood squirted between their fingers as they clutched at their torn throats. Though the shadow’s throat swipe had been much cleaner then.
He lowered himself to the thicker guy, whose eyes were full of terror. Teddy pitied him only for a moment until he heard his friend stop choking on blood. This one had to die too. They couldn’t risk someone else saying that Teddy was still in the woods.
Teddy searched the wooded floor and found a fallen branch. It was thin but sturdy. He snapped it in half and took the jagged end. With his good arm, he shoved it into the guy’s throat. He didn’t raise it to stab again. Instead, Teddy grabbed the end that stuck into the air and twisted it. He turned it round and round as the guy made cut-off choking sounds until he felt it split through that back layer of skin and out the other side of his neck.
Blood spewed across Teddy’s face and into his mouth. It tasted like pennies.
His hand went limp, and the wide eyes froze.
Teddy turned to the shadow. “Does that get us a little more?”
The shadow’s golden eyes closed and opened. It was pleased.
It set its hand on Teddy’s shoulder, and Teddy could feel the heat that was burning the shadow. The heat of hunger. But the beating pain of his wound rested. And Teddy wiped the guy’s blood from his face, moving his injured arm just a little more than he could before.
Take Your Turn, Teddy Page 20