by Peter Ponzo
his lower lip.
"And you say they both went to Miss Fenton's house?"
"Yup, both."
I got up.
"But they ain't there now."
I sat down.
"They's next door, eatin'." Clem pulled his pipe from his jeans and began sucking it.
"I'll just pop by, next door, and see them," I says.
Just as I got to the door, Clem says "Wanna hear 'bout Jonah and Joshua?" This guy could drive anyone mad. Sometimes he talks a blue streak. Other times, just a word, teasing. I walked back and sat down. Clem just grinned and sucked his pipe. "Found 'em at the house, they did."
"Who found who?" I says.
"Found whom," Clem says, grinning.
"Yeah, yeah ... whom," I says.
"Jonah, Joshua. Found the young buck and his boyfriend at the house, Connie's house." He leans back, grins. "Knocks 'em cold. But they come round and now they's eatin' next door."
I got up, waited to see if Clem would say anything else, then looked out the window. It was dark and the rain had started again, but the burger shop was lit up like a neon Christmas tree with stringers from post to post.
"Thanks Clem," I says. "Anything else?"
"Nope. That's it."
So I left and went next door.
Connie Fenton
"You're mean. You didn't have to hurt him."
They were sitting side-by-side and they were both staring at me. They had carried me to their truck, drove me to this cabin and all the while they had said nothing. I've never been here before, but I knew that Papa and my brothers used it when they went hunting for grouse. They'd stay away for days and I'd be left alone. It wasn't fair. I could handle a rifle as well as anyone and hunting would have been exciting, exhilarating.
Jonah reached out and touched my hand. He was very sweet - and concerned.
"I'm okay, really," I said. "Clem let me live in his house and I worked at Jim's Lunch. I'm okay."
"The letters," Jonah said.
"Yes, I got several letters. They scared me and I ran away, but I've been fine. He won't find me here."
"The priest," Jonah said.
"Yes, Father Pollicciano," I said.
Joshua slid from his chair and knelt by my side. He ran his hand over my knee and I could tell he was about to cry. I placed my hands on his head and pulled him to my breast - and he did cry, softly and quietly.
"The priest is dead," said Jonah.
I gasped.
"You are safe ... now," said Jonah.
"Dear, dear Jonah," I said and reached out for him. He came and placed his head upon my knee.
"My world is whole again," I whispered, and they knelt before me and I kissed them both.
Pink
"Great Lord of the World, Breath of Life, the evil scribe is no more. His body has been dismantled; his soul cast aside.
Ian Woolner
When I sat at the table and said who I was, Cleaver went white and the Bullas girl was about to jump up and run. I grabbed her shoulder.
"Hold on, sweetheart. You're not going anywhere."
Then I sat and they stared.
"Got a few questions to ask," I says. "First off, why'd you break into the police files?" I looked straight at Rita Bullas and she went red in the cheek.
"I ... uh, we ..." she started.
"It was my idea," Cleaver says. "I was looking for the bastard who got Connie ... Miss Fenton. Rita had my job at the mill, I asked her, pleaded with her -"
"Bullshit!" Rita says. "It was my idea. We needed to know what the fuck you guys was doin', so I pulled your files."
"Then you know that the murdered girl ...," I left the sentence open, to see just what they did know.
"Was Leah Farrel," says Cleaver. "And Connie's alive."
"Oh?" I says, trying not to appear surprised. "Have you seen her?"
"He screwed the bitch!" shouts Rita, and I could see the proprietor heading our way.
"Keep it down," he says.
"It's okay," I says. "I'm Ian Woolner, Haversville police."
That makes Rita jump up again, but I pull her back to the table.
"When?" I says. "Today?"
"Well ... uh," Cleaver mumbles.
"Yeah, today!" shouts Rita.
Just then the front door opens and in walks Clem Broden.
"A call, for you," he says. "My place." Then he walks to the table and pats Rita on the head. "Hi sonny," he says, and Rita jumps up again and heads for the door.
"What! When did it happen? I talked to him just this morning."
Chuck seemed almost pleased to tell me, as though I was somehow responsible or maybe should have known it would happen or maybe I was neglecting my job by driving to Dunnborne.
"Well, he's dead as a doornail," Chuck says. "His housekeeper, a Mrs. Walker, she found him and phoned. I'm there now, at Saint Teresa's."
"Cause of death?" I ask.
"Hit good with a blunt instrument, then chewed up."
"Chewed up? Like Leah Farrel?"
"You got it," Chuck says.
By the time I got to the church in Haversville, Chuck had taken fingerprints and photos, questioned Mrs. Walker and several neighbors and made out a report. He was good, but he wasn't getting my job - not soon.
I inspected the body. Chuck was right; it had been badly mauled, yet there was something missing.
"You think it's the same guy who slaughtered the Farrel girl?" I ask Chuck.
"The same," he says. He's sitting in the big red leather chair, leaning back, his legs spread out onto the carpet. I look again at the body, bleeding from every limb, yet every limb is there.
"Let me show you something," I says, and I walk to Pollicciano's body.
"See this?" I point to the body, making a big show of it. "All in one piece."
Chuck leans forward and grins. "So? Look at the scars, the cuts, pieces of flesh cut right off, there, on the floor." He looks pretty smug.
"But all in one piece," I says. "The psychopath who killed Farrel tore the body apart. That's how he operates. Tear the body apart. This body is in one piece."
Chuck snorts. "That's how he operates? You gotta be kidding. One murder, out at Miller's Creek, and you extrapolate to a method of operation? The guy's a nut. Who knows what he'll do next time?"
Chuck is good, but not brilliant.
Rita Bullas
This prick kept pullin' me back to the table like I was some hooker. No way to treat a woman, the jerk. Then he gets this phone call and leaves - and Cleaver and I check out, fast, and drive back to old lady Harris' house. The old dame is worried, but has a big smile when she sees us. She even gives me a hug. What's all this shit? A hug? What am I? Some snot-nosed young kid?
I don't hardly sleep at all, but Cleaver is snorin' and grinnin' from ear to ear - and I know what the bastard is dreamin' about. The dirty shit.
Next mornin' I head off to work, early. Cleaver is still snorin'. I don't leave him my car. Let the bastard walk.
In the afternoon, when Buck Tormin ain't lookin', I try to hook into the Haversville police files, but the buggers have closed up shop, maybe thinkin' I can't get into their mini. Screw 'em. Just watch me. I login to the Dunnborne police computer and remote login to Haversville. I'm in, slick as shit, and there's a new file: Pollicciano. The priest is dead.
When I tell Cleaver that night, he goes white in the chops.
"Jesus Murphy," he says. "The killer will be after Connie next."
I don't see how he figures that. Then he jumps up from the couch and heads up the stairs and out the side door. I follow, two steps at a time, but when I get outside Cleaver is just standin' there, starin'.
"What's up Cleaver?" I says.
He just looks at me, sort of stupid-like. "What do I do now? What can I do now?" he says.
"Forget it," I says. "The police know everythin'. Let 'em handle it. That broad ain't worth ..."
"
Yesterday ... when we were in Dunnborne ... I saw something unusual in Connie's house, something strange, through the window ..."
"She was probably screwin' ..."
"Connie's in danger. I know it!" Then he starts runnin' down the walk and makes a right at the street. He's headin' for the bus stop. Jerk. Doesn't even ask if I'd drive him to Dunnborne. Good thing. I wouldn't.
When he's out of sight I head back down to his rooms in the basement. Then I crack open a beer. Then I watch some TV. Then I think what the hell am I doin' at his place? ... so I drive home and check out my Aunt. She's okay, I guess. By eight o'clock it was dark and I just stare out the window, then I figure maybe I should drive to Dunnborne, just in case ...
Terry Cleaver
The bus seemed to take forever to get to Dunnborne, so I had a long time to think. At first I was thinking of Connie, of pink letters, of the death of Father Pollicciano, of the wierd dance I saw at Connie's house. After awhile I started thinking of Rita. She was pretty angry and I guess I can't blame her. It's not that we were really going together or even that we were boyfriend and girlfriend ... except, I guess we'd become pretty close. Maybe I should explain. But explain what? That I had been taken by storm? Raped? Rubbish! I was a willing mate; it was something I had dreamed about since that first day at Cleaver's Pond. That seemed a long time ago.
When the bus pulled into the parking lot next to the post office, I realized I didn't know what I was doing in Dunnborne. I should have spent the time thinking of my next move.
It was cold and damp and I was freezing and I didn't have a clue what to do next. Somehow I was reluctant to walk to Connie's house and just peek in the window again, so I headed for the hamburger shop next to the Dunnborne Press. It was almost ten o'clock and the place was empty. I ordered a coffee at the counter then sat next to the window,