by Jerry eBooks
“Shut up.”
“No, tell me. I really want to know. She had everyone else fooled, but I bet she was a real slut in bed, wasn’t she? Was that it?” She was enjoying this. Getting louder. “Did she suck your cock the way I used to, Bobby? Did she fuck you the way I used to? Come on, don’t be shy. Tell us.”
“Stop it. Just stop it. The only thing we ever did was kiss. And talk. It wasn’t the way you said it was. I swear it.”
“You were going to leave me,” she said, and it wasn’t a question.
“I loved her, Kerri. Damn it, I didn’t mean for it to happen, but I fell in love with her. Can’t you understand—”
“Love!” she spat. “What the hell do you know about love? You fell in love with me after only a month. Remember that, loverboy? Calling me day and night. Writing me all those letters. You remember that?”
Bobby hung his head. Said nothing.
“Hell, I should have killed you right along with her,” she hissed.
There was a long stretch of silence then, maybe three or four minutes. Bobby stared at the ground; Kerri stared at Bobby; I stared at Kerri. No one spoke. No one moved. And then:
“You know, it was a lot easier than I thought it would be,” she said. “Killing her, I mean.”
“Stop it,” Bobby said.
“No, really. It was a snap.”
“Stop it!”
“I mean all I did was push her down and squeeze the trigger. Didn’t even aim. Just pointed and shot her right in the goddamn head.”
“STOP IT!”
“And the blood. Jesus, it was—”
Bobby lost it then.
He let out a scream that wasn’t quite human and dove over Amanda’s corpse. He crashed onto Kerri’s chest and then fell hard to the ground and rolled into the shadows. There was the unmistakable sound of flesh striking flesh, but I couldn’t tell whom was hitting whom. Then I saw it—a glint of metal in the moonlight. The gun. Laying in the dirt. I dove toward it. And then we were all fighting for it. Rolling. Scratching. Kicking. Punching.
A finger gouged my eye.
Kerri screamed in my ear.
Someone pulled my hair.
I felt a hand grab me between the legs and squeeze.
A wave of nausea hit and my vision went spotty . . .
A gunshot roared in the night.
Then another.
Two sharp cracks.
I rolled free, onto my back, and felt something hot and sticky running down my arm.
High above us, a barn owl screeched and took flight from the treetops and I watched as it flew across the face of the moon . . .
TEN
I was the only survivor. I suppose I should tell you that right up front. This story doesn’t have a happy ending. At least, not in the traditional sense.
They took me to Parkton General Hospital with a bullet wound to the shoulder. A clean wound, the doctor called it. No muscle or nerve damage. He said I was very lucky. Nonetheless, Janice cried so hard I thought they were going to have to admit her into the next bed. That afternoon, her mother drove down to stay with the kids, and Janice and I spent Halloween night watching Twilight Zone reruns on the hospital television. After three days, the doctors sent me home.
In deference to the families, Sheriff Cain tried to keep the story out of the press, but he should have known better. It was the biggest news story in the history of Sparta, and it even made the newspapers as far up north as Boston. There was a rumor floating around town for a couple of weeks that one of those tabloid television programs was coming down to do a story. But they never did show up, and I (and a whole bunch of other folks) were grateful for that.
Predictably, the out-of-town newspapers and television people went hot and heavy on the love triangle aspect. The headlines ranged from SEX-CRAZED CHEERLEADER GOES ON RAMPAGE to TEENAGE LUST LEADS TO BETRAYAL AND MURDER. They used yearbook photos and maps of Sparta and one channel even used videotapes that had turned up missing two weeks earlier from the high school.
For a couple of weeks—right up until around Thanksgiving—it was a real mess. Reporters all over the place, asking questions, badgering folks for comments. Curious strangers running loose around the town. People calling the house at all hours. Knocking on the front door. Taking pictures. They even had to block the entrance to the parking lot behind the old post office. And when that didn’t keep the reporters and the sightseers out, they had to string up a barbwire fence, for God’s sake. Seems like a waste of money to me, though. I heard they’re planning to start construction in a month or two on the brand new shopping plaza. I also heard Wal-Mart is moving in, so at least that’s something.
Just for the record, in case you’ve been on the moon and haven’t heard, here’s the story exactly as they reported it (some were racier than others, but all the reports essentially said the same thing): a seventeen-year-old cheerleader from a small town in North Carolina kills her classmate in a jealous rage and convinces her unfaithful boyfriend to dispose of the body. Then, after overhearing the drunken and remorseful boyfriend confess to a teacher at a high school dance, the girl kidnaps them both at gunpoint and forces them to drive to the woods where the body is hidden. Once there, she shoots the boyfriend to death, wounds the teacher, and finally is killed herself in a struggle for the gun. The shaken English instructor is the only witness and he’s not talking to the press. His only statement, issued through the local sheriff’s department: “A tragedy. Plan and simple. A dark night for this town. A night best forgotten . . .”
And that’s pretty much it, the story I told the police after they rushed me to the hospital—all summed up, nice and neat.
They called it self-defense. A clear-cut case.
The police and the lawyers agreed. Without question.
Even Kerri Johnson’s mother and father took the time to send over a card to the house. They scribbled inside that they’d heard at the church that I was having problems coming to grips with what had happened. Reassured me that I was not to blame for their daughter’s death. That it had been “self-defense,” and that she had brought it upon herself through “unholy actions.” The bottom had been signed LOVE, RICH & TERRY. Like a Christmas card.
You know, self-defense is a nifty little concept when you really stop and think about it. It can mean an awful lot of things to an awful lot of people.
Truth is, if I do just that, if I stop and think about it long enough, I can almost bring myself to believe in it. Just like all the others.
But then the dreams come.
And I see only truth . . .
* *
My shoulder is bleeding pretty badly, but strangely enough, it doesn’t hurt. Not even a twinge of discomfort. I’m standing in the shadows with the gun in my hand. I’m not sure how the gun got there, only that at some point during the struggle I’d rolled onto my back and there it was.
Bobby is behind me, face-down in the brush, dead or dying from a point-black shot to the back of his head. And there, laying at my feet, is Kerri. Smiling up at me.
I stand there for a long time, staring down at her. At her smirk. At her eyes.
And, once again, I think of Janice and my children. I think of this town I call my home. I think of my school and the kids I have taught there. Finally, I think of Amanda Hathaway and, from the corner of my eye, I glimpse her body.
I look back to Kerri—in one night, this girl has taken away so much from me.
And still she lays there smiling. Unhurt. Unremorseful.
I take a step forward and raise the gun. Her smirk turns into a sneer.
One step closer.
And I pull the trigger.
Kerri jerks once on the ground and immediately starts groaning.
It’s an ugly sound and I want it to stop.
I kneel down next to her and look into her eyes . . . and see nothing. Nothing worth saving.
So I pull the trigger once more . . .
* *
It’s summer now and Spart
a is a magical place once again. The grass is thick and green. The hills are alive and sparkling with nature’s touch. Every day the sun seems to shine a little brighter.
Just yesterday, the four of us went on a late morning picnic down to Hanson’s Creek. There was no one else there and, for a time, it felt like we were the only ones living and breathing in the entire world. Josh caught three catfish and a sunnie before he got tired and took a nap on a stretched-out blanket in the shade. We took off the baby’s shoes and dipped her tiny feet in the cool, bubbling water and marveled at the smiles it brought about. After lunch, Janice picked a bouquet of fresh flowers and they now decorate our dining room table.
For the longest time, I sat in the sunshine and watched my family. And thanked God for blessing me with so much.
Janice smiles more often now and she says I do the same. She thinks I’m finally leaving the bad memories behind, and I have to agree with her.
Still, sometimes my sleep is troubled and I find myself dreaming of that terrible night back in October.
And in these dreams, I see their faces.
Amanda Hathaway, eyes closed forever.
Bobby Wilcox, weeping and afraid.
And Kerri Johnson . . . smiling at me with the eyes of a monster.
I don’t dream as often now, and I’m thankful for that. One day I hope to stop completely. One day I hope to forget.
But in the meantime, I’m still father and husband and teacher. I’ve also become a celebrity of sorts around here—albeit a reluctant one. And I still go out and drive some nights. Just not very often now; maybe once or twice a month. Janice still understands, but she worries about me.
I worry about her, too.
I worry about a lot of things.
On the afternoon of Halloween in 1974, a pair of large, beefy hands used the blade of a pocket knife to unseal several purple-striped 21-inch-long straws filled with sweet and sour powdered candy that contained no nutritional value whatsoever. The powder originally had been sold as a drink mix called Frutola in the 1930s, until it was discovered that children were eating it straight out of the container. It was repackaged in straws and sold as a candy called Pixy Stix.
The thick fingers delicately peeled back the heat-sealed paper at one end of each straw, then tipped them, one at a time, over a bowl and poured out some of the colorful powder. A pungent mix of aromas—grape, cherry, orange, lemon, and lime—rose from the bowl.
The hands picked up and opened a plastic sandwich bag containing white powder and poured the powder into a second bowl. As the left hand held the open end of one of the straws over the bowl, the right hand picked up the open pocket knife again and scooped the blade into the white powder. Moving carefully and steadily, the right hand dumped the powder from the blade into the straw, scooping the knife into the powder a few times for each of the Pixy Stix.
Once unsealed, the paper at the ends of the straws could not be resealed. The left hand held one of the straws as the thumb and forefinger of the right hand pinched the paper together at the end. The left hand closed thumb and finger on the end and held the paper in place while the right picked up a gray desk stapler and crunched the paper with it. The fingers worked to fold the stapled paper over and make it stay flat.
The hands stapled each of the straws. They dumped the candy powder into the toilet and flushed it away, and dumped the white powder back into the plastic bag. Then they gathered up the Pixy Stix and put them away until that night.
* * * *
Halloween was a gray and drizzly day in El Reno, Oklahoma, a suburb of Oklahoma City. As the day darkened, nine-year-old Julia Murray knocked on the door of her next-door neighbor, eight-year-old Todd Strauss. The Strausses had moved into the complex earlier that year, and now Julia and Todd were good friends. But she knew that someday they would marry and have a house of their own, where she would cook Todd’s favorite foods, like pizza and French fries and macaroni and cheese. For now, they lived with their parents next door to each other and played together often.
The door was opened by Todd’s father. He was a big, fleshy man who spoke in a soft, almost feminine voice that always struck Julia as odd compared to his big, lumpy, overweight body. His homely face brightened with a warm smile. Julia assumed Mr. Strauss had just gotten home from work because he still wore the white coat he wore at his job.
“I brought something for Todd,” Julia said. “Can I give it to him?”
“He and his sister are putting on their costumes right now,” Mr. Strauss said.
Julia handed him a photograph. It was a school picture of her, and on the back she had written “I love you.”
“Can Todd go trick-or-treating with me?” she said.
“I’m sorry, honey, but we’re going with my friend Jack and his kids. We’re heading over there for dinner, then we’ll go trick-or-treating.”
“Oh. Okay. Tell him I said hello.”
“I will. I’m sure he’ll like the picture. You have a happy Halloween, now.”
As he closed the door, Julia turned and went back home.
She would never see Todd Strauss again.
* * * *
Todd dressed up as a pirate with a black cloth patch over one eye, and his six-year-old sister Lisa was a princess with a tiara made of Christmas garland and pipe cleaners. Their costumes were homemade because Mom said they didn’t have money for store-bought costumes, but that did not dampen their excitement. The weather would require them to wear raincoats, anyway, and they were much more interested in the candy they would be bringing home that night.
They drove over to Jack Carmichael’s house in Warr Acres. The Carmichael family had invited them over for a roast beef dinner with homemade apple pie.
“You’re still wearing your white coat,” Jack said.
David Strauss chuckled and said, “It’s my costume!” He was an optician and made glasses for Oklahoma City Optical.
They gathered around the dining table for dinner. The Carmichael children, nine-year-old Brian, and 11-year-old Amy, already wore their store-bought costumes—Brian was Batman and Amy was a witch—and were eager to finish eating so they could go out.
“Don’t eat so fast,” their mother, Audrey, told them. “You’ll make yourselves sick before the candy can do it for you.”
After dinner, Jack went to the front door to check the weather. “It’s raining,” he said. “Not too hard, but enough.”
Amy sighed. “I don’t want to walk in the rain at night.”
“We don’t have any choice if we’re going to go,” her father said.
Amy reluctantly decided to skip trick-or-treating that night in favor of staying dry and warm.
David and Jack got flashlights and everyone put on their raincoats.
The weather kept a lot of people indoors and there weren’t as many trick-or-treaters as usual. They had agreed earlier that Jack would follow along on the sidewalk while David escorted the children from door to door.
The streetlights sent the shadows of tree branches over the ground like giant, skeletal hands reaching through the night. Occasional clusters of trick-or-treaters ran along the sidewalks—ghosts and monsters and hobos and clowns.
After hitting several houses on Girvan Drive, they went to Deschutes Drive as it began to rain harder.
Jack said, “Hey, David, maybe we should head back.”
“Yeah, it’s getting pretty wet,” David said.
“Just a few more houses,” Todd pleaded.
“Okay, okay,” David said, “a few more. Let’s go.” With a boyish smile, he shrugged helplessly at Jack and took the children to another door.
Jack followed along on the sidewalk, watching as David had a hard time keeping up with the children, who ran to the next house as soon as they had their candy.
They approached a house with light glowing behind the drapes in the windows but the porch was dark. With the porch light off, Jack expected them to go on to the next house, but the children hurried onto the dark porc
h, which was partially obscured by a vine-covered wall, and David joined them.
Brian, Lisa, and Todd didn’t wait long for an answer. They rushed down the steps and Jack followed along as they went to the next house. But David stayed behind.
Jack turned and looked at the dark porch, wondering what he was doing. He heard the children say, “Trick or treat!” at the next house. A moment later, David came down the steps.
“You’ve got some awfully generous neighbors,” he said to Jack as he trailed the children to the next house. “Look what they’re giving out.” He waved some long tubes clutched in his hand. “Pixy Stix,” he said. “The giant ones.” By the time he caught up with the children, they had already gotten their candy and were on their way to another house.
In the next few minutes, the drizzle became a downpour and they headed back to the Carmichael house.
“Not very good trick-or-treat weather,” David said to his wife Rebecca as they entered the house.
“What’s this?” she said, nodding at the five Pixy Stix in David’s hand.
“Oh, somebody took a while coming to the door. The kids had moved on and I was about to follow them when he stuck a hairy arm out the door and gave me these. Who wants Pixy Stix?”
He handed them out to the children with one left over. When he gave one to Amy, he smiled and said, “So you won’t be empty-handed on Halloween.”
“We should get home,” Rebecca said. “School tomorrow.”
David agreed. As they were getting ready to leave, the doorbell rang. David was nearest the door and said, “I’ll get it.” He opened it to find a group of trick-or-treaters. There was a bowl of candy on a table beside the door and David picked it up, saying, “We’ve got M&Ms and Snickers and bubble gum. And I’ve got a giant Pixy Stix here, who wants it?”
A chorus of pleas rose from the group that was made up of a soldier, a mummy, a princess, and a cowboy.
David recognized the cowboy from church. “Jeffrey Putnam!” he said with a grin. “Here, take it. Tell your parents I said hello. See you in church Sunday.”