“Don’t leave me hanging, Owen. Tell me if you had any luck at today’s auction.”
Owen shook his head. “Not really. Too many people.”
“Where’d you go?”
“The Turner estate sale.”
Lance had been smiling as he enjoyed the grape drink, but he frowned at that answer.
“One doesn’t hear that name tossed around much in Flat Knob, Owen. But there was a time when the Turners practically owned this county. I suppose there would still be enough old folk left in town to remember the kind of wealth and influence the Turners once held. Not surprising then that a good crowd would show looking for something special. You find anything worth your time?”
“I didn’t come back empty-handed,” Owen replied, “but there still didn’t seem to be any big ticket items. You say the Turners used to really be something in Flat Knob?”
Lance nodded. “You name the racket, and the Turners once ran it. Booze. Girls. Drugs. The Turners left a mark, and let me tell you, even the Altamont family didn’t want to do anything that might challenge the Turners’ territory.”
“You’re kidding,” Owen chuckled. “You telling me that a family from Flat Knob intimidated one of the city’s most prominent crime families?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. I knew what I was doing when I parked my trailer on this spot to get some space from the old crew. The crime families never witnessed the Turners do anything specifically to threaten them. There were just rumors, and superstitions. Those old crime families were always superstitious.”
Owen thought of that auction wagon topped with boxes filled with strange charms. He thought of that dark skull that had first so attracted him.
“What kinds of superstitions?”
Lance shrugged. “I don’t really know. I’ve never been very interested in magic shows. There was talk the Turners practiced Voodoo. That they spoke to dead people. That they made bones rattle. Before you ask, I don’t even know what that means. But the Turners, at least to the Altamont family, were boogiemen enough to keep the crime families out of Flat Knob.”
Owen no longer regretted that he had failed to bring that dark skull home from auction. He never thought himself a very tough or brave man, and he didn’t want anything leering at him that was ever enough to keep the mob out of Flat Knob.
Owen wondered how much Lance might have known about Chandler Raymond.
“Mr. Raymond was at the sale.”
Lance winked. “Of course he was. Chandler Raymond and Homer Turner go way back. Real bad blood there. They always despised one another.”
“Why?”
Lance chuckled. “You have to forgive me. I forget that, like myself, you’re not native to Flat Knob. What do you know about Chandler Raymond? Tell me so I know how to start.”
“I know he used to own the big plastics plant outside of town. I know just about everyone in Flat Knob had family working that plant when it was running steady. I hear people say a lot of nasty things about Mr. Raymond for letting the community down when the plant closed its lines and padlocked its doors.”
Lance took a gulp of drink, and his tongue was stained purple as it shaped his words. “The men who ran the mob in my time were many things. But foremost, they were businessmen. I was just muscle, and I’m not going to claim to know much when it comes to running a business. But I overheard plenty enough talk to know there are a million ways the numbers can go red, that there are countless things out of our control that can ruin anyone’s enterprise. You would think that Chandler Raymond would’ve been a smart enough businessman to realize that. Seeing how he started that plastics plant and all. But you’ll never guess what he thought ruined that plant.”
“The labor union?”
Lance chuckled. “Flat Knob didn’t even have a labor union back then. And don’t forget, the Turners kept the mob out of town. Unions had nothing to do with that plant closing its doors.”
“I don’t know what could’ve closed the plant down. I’m just an English teacher.”
“Chandler Raymond believed Homer Turner had cursed him.”
Owen just stared for a moment. “A curse? In Flat Knob?”
Lance refilled both of their glasses. “See what simple sugar water can get you? Chandler Raymond, for some reason dating back before I ever stepped foot in Flat Knob, claimed Homer Turner was at fault each time the quarterly earning reports showed a loss. Chandler blamed Homer every time another client slipped through the company’s hands. Chandler blamed Homer for everything.”
“That’s crazy. You’d think there would’ve been someone at the plant to make Mr. Raymond recognize how nuts he must’ve sounded.”
Lance rolled his eyes. “Think of the students filing into your classroom each school day. Do you really think there would’ve been anyone in Flat Knob who was wise and brave enough to show Chandler Raymond the errors of his ways?”
“Yeah, I see you’re point.”
Lance leaned forward in his chair. “Let me tell you what’s really crazy. Ever since the day they locked the plastic plant’s doors, Chandler Raymond has stood each night across the street and stared into the front window of Homer Turner’s home.”
Owen’s eyes widened. “That’s just creepy.”
“I think so too,” Lance replied, “but Homer never complained. People doubt he even ever asked Chandler to go away. It was as if the two of them were just sharing in their hatred for one another. It was like there was something invisible being shared between the two of them.”
“You have any idea what that might have been?”
Lance chuckled. “Not me. Remember, I was only muscle back in the day.”
The roar of a crowd floated from the back of the mobile home. Lance held up a hand for some quiet and strained his ears towards the noise. An announcer’s voice warbled, and Lance slapped his knees, spilling a little of the purple drink onto the white carpet. Lance didn’t seem to mind.
“Henders has just driven in two with a triple to the opposite field.”
Owen read the exclamation as a cue that the conversation was at end. “I’ll leave you to your ballgame.”
“You come by any time you need help finishing your grape drink.” Lance winked.
Owen spent what remained of his night sipping at the remains of the grape drink that he spiked with gin. He may have first felt disappointed for not bringing that dark skull home. But after his conversation with Lance, Owen felt relieved he had not carried the vile, grinning thing back to his trailer. Instead, he had wisely carried something back as innocent as a camera. Owen slept very well that night as rain pattered atop his trailer. He slept well through peaceful dreams that by the morning he had forgotten.
* * * * *
Chapter 4 – Lurking in the Darkroom
“I’m not serving it, asshole.”
Owen sighed when Roy Robison stood and kicked his desk upon receiving another detention during English class. Owen vowed every day that he would not let any student, especially Roy Robison, touch a nerve. The challenge didn’t feel any easier after the ten years he had taught at the consolidated, county school.
“That’s your choice, Mr. Robison.” Owen reminded himself to keep his voice down. The rest of the class was watching to see whose sway would rule the classroom for another week, and Owen didn’t want to give Roy any more power by showing any signs of temper. “You’re aware of the consequences should you fail to serve the detention.”
Roy laughed. “I’m not worried about any consequences. No one’s going to do anything after my grandmother shows up in Principal Sherman’s office. She knows how you’re always picking on me. She’s got the money for an attorney, if that’s going to be what it takes to get you to show me a little respect.”
Owen felt the chalk snap in his hand as his fingers tensed. Roy was right. Principal Sherman would send Roy straight back into his classroom if Owen chased him to the front office. Principal Sherman always relented before the ire of any parent or grandp
arent. In the end, Principal Sherman would call Owen into the office and suggest that Owen rewrite his classroom’s poster of rules in different colors. He would suggest that Owen shape the letters to those rules with a little glue and glitter. Principal Sherman would point to some gimmick technique that Owen might have employed to encourage Roy Robison to be better behaved. In the end, Principal Sherman would find the means to set the fault upon Owen’s shoulders. Owen realized Roy Robison owned the situation no matter how he proceeded, and so he knew that Roy Robison, in truth, controlled his classroom.
Owen carefully set the pieces of chalk onto his podium, hoping Roy didn’t notice how he had managed to again worm beneath his English teacher’s skin.
“Why don’t we try to bargain, Roy. Just apologize to Lauren. Say you’re sorry for what you called her.”
“I didn’t say anything!” Roy snarled.
“Come on, Roy.”
But Roy’s eyes burned in glee. “No. You come on, Mr. Masters. Maybe you’re the one who needs to take a vocabulary quiz this week. Isn’t that what you call a girl who kisses other girls? Isn’t that what you call a girl who…”
Owen saw Lauren cry out of the corner of his eye. He heard her sob.
“Get the hell out of my classroom.”
Roy’s smile stretched across his face. The rest of the class held their breaths. Mr. Masters’ face was very red. Both of his hands were clenched.
“I’m not going to tell you another time, Roy.”
And then, Roy Robison touched Owen’s nerve like never before. Roy raised his fist and stomped towards Mr. Masters. Owen didn’t realize what he was doing until he had almost met Roy in the middle of the aisle. He had not realized until it was nearly too late how he was prepared to strike Roy down, to show Roy who the true alpha male was in that classroom, to teach Roy that a loud bluff was sometimes answered with fury and pain.
Roy wavered.
But when Owen didn’t strike, Roy knew he had again won the classroom.
“Go to hell, Mr. Masters!” Roy picked up an empty desk and tossed it against the wall.
“Get out!” Owen growled.
Roy laughed. “Where you want me to go?”
“I don’t care.” Owen felt the heat on his forehead. “Just get out of my classroom.”
Roy strutted out of the class and slammed the door closed behind him. The students stared at Mr. Masters. Some of the boys snickered as their teacher paused to regain his bearings. Outside the classroom windows, Roy’s truck grumbled to life. In a second, the truck growled and sped off.
The period bell saved Owen. It blared, and the students sprinted out of the room. Only Lauren Saxon remained at her desk, wiping the tears from her eyes as she gathered her textbooks.
“I’m sorry, Lauren.”
Lauren trembled. “You shouldn’t have said anything when you overheard him. You should’ve just let it go. What difference did you think giving Roy a detention was going to make?”
“I don’t know.”
Owen sat behind his desk after Lauren sighed out of his room. He had given that detention to save his own pride, not to help Lauren. Owen realized he had given that detention out of spite, to so cowardly punish Flat Knob and that consolidated, county high school for showing such little respect for all that Owen held dear.
It was his planning period. Owen would have time to catch a breath before Roy’s next teacher would report him missing, before word of the altercation in Mr. Masters’ classroom would reach the front office, before Principal Sherman would summon Owen to berate him on his lack of classroom control, for letting Roy simply bolt from the parking lot without supervision. In the meantime, Owen hoped to catch a breath, and he set his attention into the grading of a stack of multiple-choice tests.
Owen’s heartbeat had slowed again, and he had finally settled into some busy work, when a knock pounded at his door. The scent of cheap perfume heavily applied told Owen who called on him before he had looked up from the stack of tests.
“Mr. Masters. We got that film developed for you.”
Kelly Day and Jenny Conrad stepped into the classroom. Neither of the girls appeared like their typically flirtatious selves. The girls were among the smartest the county school could offer, and Principal Sherman gave them complete permission to roam the halls, as both girls had completed the coursework for graduation the prior semester. They never failed to flutter to Mr. Masters’ classroom door. They enjoyed the opportunity to batter their eyelashes at the man chained behind the desk, to remind him, with their laughter and their youth, how much more they enjoyed their weekends and their nights compared to those Owen knew.
“Thank you both,” Owen smiled. “Just drop the photos on my podium just inside the door, and I’ll judge how well that old camera I picked up this weekend works.”
The girls hesitated at the door.
Owen raised an eyebrow. “What’s wrong?”
“Could you come to the darkroom with us?” Jenny asked.
Owen shook his head. “You know how Principal Sherman wouldn’t like that.”
“Maybe you could bend the rules for this time,” said Kelly. “We’re just not sure what we’ve developed.”
Owen followed the girls towards the darkroom. He feared his day was about to turn much worse. He shouldn’t have asked the girls to develop that roll of film he had found in the camera. There was no guessing what that old camera’s shutter may have blinked upon. Owen knew nothing of the lifestyle Homer Turner had lived. What if the girls developed an entire film roll of lewd images?
A dozen pages of photo print were drying on a clothesline when Owen followed Jenny and Kelly into the darkroom. Owen didn’t notice when Kelly closed the door behind her, his interest was too focused upon whatever waited for him on those pages of drying paper.
“What is it, girls?”
Kelly frowned. “We don’t really know.”
“We think it might be a face.” Jenny whispered.
Kelly’s eyes darted about the room’s shadow. “It’s just really creepy, Mr. Masters. We thought we better go straight to you so you could see for yourself.”
Little appeared amiss in the first handful of prints Owen scanned. They looked to be snapshots of artwork, black and white photos of canvasses covered in strange, interlocking triangles and spheres, rectangles and arcs. But Owen wouldn’t dismiss the sense that something sinister lurked beneath the photographs’ shadow. The shapes seemed to morph and twist as Owen struggled to pull his gaze away from them. He felt dizzy. Warmth flushed his face. He felt his stomach turn. He worried he might swoon.
“Are you alright, Mr. Masters?” Kelly asked.
Jenny stared at Owen. “We felt sick when we looked at those prints too. But you’re skin’s turned pale. You’re sweating. Maybe you should sit down.”
“You want me to run and get you some water?” Kelly asked.
Owen shook his head. The memory of those shapes didn’t disappear completely, but they dissipated enough to allow Owen’s stomach to settle and for his feet to come squarely back beneath him.
“I’ll be fine. I’m sorry you had to look at those photographs.”
Kelly took a breath. “Those aren’t the photos that really gave us the chills.”
Owen slowly, hesitantly, turned to face the last five prints drying on the line, the prints he knew he had taken while playing with the camera just before he had purchased it at the Turner estate sale. He failed to find anything disturbing in the print on his first glance.
“What’s wrong?” Owen held the photo closer to his face.
He saw it before either of the girls answered. A face leered back at Owen from the large window set in the front of Homer Turner’s home. It was a ghastly and pale face, a face cut with a jagged grin, with a misshapen and swollen scalp, a face that peered from a pair of small, beady eyes. It was an ugly face, and something about it repulsed Owen’s stomach. An electric jolt shot down Owen’s forearms so that the fine hairs of his forearms stood on
end.
Suddenly, before Owen peeked away from the black and white print to ask the girls if they saw that ugly visage too, the face drew back and concealed its features behind the window’s borders. The shadows in any photograph had never looked so dark to Owen as those that remained where a second before the face had been.
Owen gasped, and he nearly stumbled into the shelf of canisters and developer stored upon the back wall.
“You saw it too.” Jenny’s face was white.
Kelly’s entire body trembled. “I swear it winked at me, Mr. Masters. I don’t know how that can be, but I swear it winked at me.”
All three of them jumped at the knock that echoed from the door.
“Mr. Masters? Are you in there? The door’s locked, and I must speak with you.”
“Just give us a second to put the film away.” Owen shouted back at the door. “I’m opening it now.”
Depth of Field Page 2