“Happy to do it. Thanks for having me on.”
Kasey leans in with the microphone and begins. “Detective Holt, the last time we spoke we discussed the investigation into the missing child, Margo Combs, and you revealed to our broadcast audience in a Channel 4 exclusive that the Harper Pass Police Office had determined John Watson’s death was a homicide, not the result of an animal attack as was initially reported. Can you give us an update on these two investigations? And also, is there anything else you’d like to share with our viewers today?”
“Let me start with your second question first. I do have some additional information I’d like to share with your viewers. At approximately 12:45 this afternoon, Brady Palmer was apprehended in connection with the murder of John Watson. He’s being held without bail at the Harper Pass Police Office.”
HOLY CRAP! Did he just say that? Yes! She manages to collect herself for a follow-up question.
“The same Brady Palmer that killed Misty Owens?”
“That was a different circumstance, I think. But yes, the same one. Next of kin notifications have already been made, so I think I can also share with your viewers that Brady Palmer’s also being held in connection with another suspected homicide. Regrettably, that of a young boy, Cam Givers.”
“Oh, that’s terrible,” Kasey feigns concern, before asking, “And how was the boy killed?”
“Out of respect for the family, and this still being an active investigation, I don’t think it’s appropriate to reveal that at this time.”
“No problem, Detective. Do you have a motive in these murders?”
“We do, but because this is an active criminal investigation, I’m not at liberty to share what those are.”
“Let me circle back if I may, Detective, to my first question. Do you have any updates on the Margo Combs missing persons investigation?”
“At this time, we still haven’t been able to locate Margo Combs. However, Brady Palmer will also be questioned about her disappearance. As well as the recent disappearances of both Seth Rogers and Shane Rogers.”
“Are you saying there’s two more missing kids, Detective?” I can’t believe this. He’s opening up like a book. Surely the network will recognize my talent. Drawing out these details he’s working so hard to keep close to the vest. She gives herself a mental pat on the back and an encouraging voice calls out from deep within her—Keep it up, Kasey!
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. So please, if you’re watching this right now and you’ve seen Seth or Shane Rogers, give us a call at the Harper Pass Police Office immediately. My men and I are working diligently to find them, but we could also use your help.”
“Just stunning.” A smile climbs Kasey’s lips before she re-centers her focus. “Detective Holt, do you think these new disappearances could be related to the Margo Combs disappearance or even to the murders?” Shit. Speculative question. No way he answers. Nothing candid anyway.
“Actually, we do have concerns that they might be related. Which brings up another good point. We’re searching for an accomplice suspect in the murders of John Watson and Cam Givers, Myron Thompson. If you see this suspect, please do not approach him, as we believe he’s likely armed and dangerous. Please call the Harper Pass Police Office.”
Kasey takes a moment and breaks character. “Detective Holt, this is being prerecorded for the six o’clock news. We’ll cut it to add pictures of the missing boys and Myron Thompson for our viewers. Really put our audience to work for you.” Her eyes gleam like a used car salesperson. “You’re doing great. But let’s get back to it.”
“Detective Holt, aren’t you concerned that there’s a suspected killer on the loose? What can you tell us to reassure the community that they’re safe tonight?”
Detective Holt leans into the microphone to deliver a strong message.
“To Myron Thompson, if you’re watching this right now, turn yourself in. We know who you are, and we’re going to find you. If you turn yourself in, I personally guarantee you will be unharmed, given a chance to answer the allegations and a fair trial. Should it come to it, we will use all force necessary to protect our community.”
“Detective Holt, until Myron Thompson turns himself in, as you suggest, or is captured, what are your plans to protect our community?”
“Starting tonight, 8 p.m., I’m implementing a curfew which will remain in effect until 6 a.m. tomorrow. This is to ensure the safety of the public, so please comply with this temporary inconvenience. Tomorrow, we will reevaluate the curfew and make a determination moving forward.”
“You heard it here first, folks. Please obey the curfew order that begins at eight o’clock this evening. Detective Holt, I want to thank you for giving this interview and being so candid with our audience. You are truly a fine example of a public servant, and everyone in Harper Pass should be proud to have you protecting us.” Kasey bastes on the praise thick as viscous paint, an outward projection of the professional glee simmering inside her.
“Thank you, Kasey, for allowing me to speak to your viewers. And I want them to know that the Harper Pass Police Office will not rest until all suspects have been apprehended and brought to justice.”
“Thank you, Detective Holt. And thank you, folks, for tuning in. We’ll keep you posted on this story as it develops. This is Kasey Norton, and this has been a Channel Four exclusive,” Kasey concludes, even though the words this is the best moment of my life scream for release. She motions for Norman to cut the tape.
Detective Holt lifts a brow at her. “So that’s it then?”
“I gotta say, Detective Holt, I had some serious reservations about sitting on that story. But you really are a man of your word.”
“So you’ll call off the tail, then?”
A flood of color rushes into Kasey’s cheeks. She collects herself before speaking. “How did you know?”
“It’s my job to notice things. And I’ve seen that beige sedan one too many times.”
Her eyes drift to the pavement. “Needed an insurance policy. Sorry.”
A subtle smirk gathers on the corners of Holt’s lips. Yeah, right. You hired him before we even made our deal. “No offense taken, but you’ll call him off, then?”
“Yes. I’ll call off the P.I.” Detective Holt nods, flashes a pleasant smile and turns to walk away. Kasey’s words catch him after a few steps. “And Detective Holt.” He stops and turns. “Thank you for the interview. And thank you for being so candid.”
“Hard work should be rewarded. It was your story. You earned the right to break it,” Detective Holt lauds.
A big smile tugs on the corners of her lips, her pride to effervescent to suppress. Detective Holt walks away, confident his appearance of candor will work to suppress Kasey’s natural urge to go behind him and start digging. And no way she doesn’t call off that tail. He served her everything she wanted and more on a silver platter. She’ll come back to eat for sure but on his terms and not hers. With the Pavlovian seeds planted, she’ll fight her own journalistic instinct for another small taste of what he’s just delivered. Why hunt when you can be fed? The conditioning is complete.
Chapter 54
Harbinger
AFTER A LONG, traumatic day, Robby curls into the cushy comfort of his bed. Thoughts like bullets whiz through his mind, most traveling at indecipherable speeds. They’re fragmented pieces to the same puzzle, firing in opposite directions. But occasionally two pieces collide to form a coherent thought—one in particular burrows into his cortex and takes root. And from that tiniest of seedlings emerges, can we really beat this thing? As he ruminates on the scenarios, he realizes the probability of failure far exceeds their chance of success. Visions of tragic endings assail his mind. He shivers off a tremor, tries to quarantine his fear, and attempts to redirect his thoughts to anything else. But the stubborn question persists. Trying to beat this thing without Brady’s help diminishes their odds, but the six o’clock news confirmed this as reality. Multiple counts of
murder and no bail. They’re on their own.
The plan rehearses itself in his head. Despite some minor tweaks, the boys all finished in agreement. Meet at dawn. Bring the paintball guns with the ad hoc ammunition injected full of Professor Wadlow’s mysterious formula. Take a huge leap of faith on that working. Make the trip to Davis Quarry and draw this thing out. Beyond that, the planning borders on speculation—more of a hope than a plan—and with each hope its corresponding fear. Hope that drawing this thing out proves to make them more powerful against it and not easier targets. Hope to get a bunch of clean shots off at this thing whilst not wasting their precious ammo. And hope that shooting this thing allows them to kill it and not enrage it. That’s a lot of hoping.
Robby pulls the covers over himself, determined to drown his troubling thoughts in the sleepy deep. He tosses and turns in his bed, his tethered sheets trailing his movements, wrapping around him, snugging him tighter with each reposition. His eyes grow heavy, eyelids shutting tight as a coffin lid. A light, hovering sensation settles into his body, and he begins to drift. The clamoring voices inside his own head grow more distant—muted. And a moment later he slips into nothingness.
“Robby.” A young girl’s voice beckons from the darkness. The word passes into his mind, faintly detectable, as he shuttered most of his synapses for the evening. But from somewhere deep, an initial spark, like the first electrical impulse of a computer reboot, fires. And from that spark—cognition.
Robby’s eyes shoot open and the thick, murky blackness washes into them. His fingers sprint for the knob on the bedside lamp. The audible breathing in his room sends his heart into a frantic scamper. He senses something terrible shares the heavy pitch with him. A burst of light reveals a young girl standing at the foot of his bed. Robby gasps and retreats into his headboard, drawing his legs in tight. A mess of dangling hair shrouds her face.
“We must go to her.” The familiarity of the voice rattles in his skull. She raises her head as slow as a salvaged ship lifting from the seabed. It’s Margo, or at least an empty shell of her, her eyes distant, trance-like. But a moment later, a faint glimmer passes through them and her gaze sharpens. In the millisecond that it takes for Robby to blink and clear his wide eyes, a new consciousness checks into Margo’s vacant eyes, one that’s much more deliberative, cognizant.
Wake up! Wake up! Robby pinches his forearm, and the skin blanches, before his natural color races in to fill the void. Shit! It’s real. That hurt. Doesn’t feel like a dream. I can think. There’s pain. But it can’t be real.
Margo steps forward, her motions contrived, robotic. Transfixed, Robby’s blood swarms, panic setting in, binding his body tight. Bones cast in concrete, his eyes fasten to Margo’s pale face, her eyes sunken and circled with dark rings. Her fierce, unwavering gaze cuts through him as if she’s searching inside Robby’s head for something, checking each little dark compartment—trying to unearth the secrets he’s hidden inside.
“Tell me, Robby, why have you not gone to her?” An uncharacteristic smile slides into place on her lips, one that drips of malicious intent.
“This is a dream. It’s a dream,” Robby mutters.
As Margo approaches, Robby delivers a brisk slap to his cheek. The resulting sharp and sudden pain startles him. Oh shit! It’s real! It’s really real! Oh my God! Robby locks his arms around his knees, interlocked fingers turning white from the immense pressure in a futile attempt to minimize his exposure. His rapid breathing becomes frenzied and unmeasured. Margo’s smile widens.
“What do you want from me?”
“What I’ve always wanted. What is due.” The underlying satisfaction in her voice tugs at the corners of her mouth, and her smile deepens.
“Leave me alone!” Robby screams, but Margo glides forward, undeterred.
Robby hopes his mother heard his scream, but all the times he snuck out undetected pokes holes in that ballooning hope. She’s not going to wake up. No way she wakes up. Probably thinks it’s the TV show she fell asleep to. If she heard it at all. Scream again. SCREAM AGAIN!
Despite his best efforts, he can’t muster another. Hot tears glaze his flush cheeks with moisture, and his body trembles. Margo cocks her head, attentive to the sight of his tears. Her skin begins shriveling, moving in on itself, leaving cavernous spaces in her cheeks and pronouncing the curvature of the bones in her fingers. Robby’s eyes are shrieking. He presses his weight against the headboard as Margo leans in.
Inches from his face, Margo’s mouth opens into an unnatural, yawning gape, and from the dark reaches of her throat, slithers out a forked tongue. Robby clenches his teeth tight and winces as it unwinds. The hot tongue contacts his cheek and traces his damp tear line before a slow reel returns it into its mouth. It smacks its mouth several times, dispersing the tears for closer inspection on its palate. Its eyes pulse a gleam of recognition, and it stares at Robby with heightened interest, wearing a wicked, gratified smile as it hovers above him.
A putrid-gray hue overtakes what remains of Margo’s youthful complexion, a sign of the active transformation occurring. Robby clamps his eyelids shut, unable to watch how he dies. He waits for the inevitable.
“Vernon Davis,” the thing whispers into Robby’s ear, but his flustered mind doesn’t register the words. Instead, he recognizes a change in its voice, a full departure from Margo’s. Its hot breath glances against his face. It can take his life from him at any moment. What’s it waiting for? Robby forces his eyes open, a small sliver at first. The thing no longer resembles Margo at all. Though still changing, Robby can already detect the underpinnings of Samantha Mellinger’s facial features rounding into form.
“Vernon…Davis,” it repeats, the name registering this time as his great grandfather. Robby begins to rise from the headboard, but its strong, cold hand presses on his chest, pinning him against the hard wood. The sunray pattern carved into the wood pinches into the skin of his back.
“Just do it already!” Robby screams in a fit of agony, ready for the torment to end and to take his place with his father. A swirl of blue flashes through its eyes, and it runs the tip of its bony fingers over Robby’s hairline at his temple, delicate as a mother to a newborn. He’s panting, chest heaving, near hyperventilation as it rises.
“Bring your friends home, Robby. To Grief Hollow. And be reunited with your kin.” It hisses as it backs away.
Robby’s face turns to stone—etched horror—as it spider crawls his bedroom wall, exiting through his window and slipping into the night.
Chapter 55
Fork in the Road
A JITTERY ENERGY wafts through the air outside Tee’s house as, one by one, we arrive. In a circle of solemn faces, I contemplate my fears, forced to consider the fickle nature of my own mortality. Robby arrives last. Something seems so different about him today. He casts laggard eyes at the ground, paintball rifle draped over his slumped shoulder. Not the ordinary Robby.
“It came to me last night.” Robby’s voice quavers.
“Oh shit.” A quick flinching shiver passes through Tee’s shoulders.
“It wants us to come to Grief Hollow. Wants me to bring y’all there.”
“Fuck that.” Tee shakes his head vehemently. “We ain’t doin’ shit this thing wants.”
“It’s Samantha Mellinger. It’s her!” Robby’s eyes get misty. “It changed from Margo to her. And it wants us all. It said my great grandpa’s name. Vernon Davis. Oh fuck! How does it know? And it crawled up my wall like a goddamn spider.”
Devin places a comforting hand on Robby’s shoulder. He gazes into Robby’s turbulent eyes—his own eyes a steadying hand on the helm of a storm-tossed ship.
“We’re going to beat this thing, Robby. It could’ve gotten you last night. But it didn’t. It wants us to go to Grief Hollow. Together. So, we don’t. We stick to the plan, try to surprise it in Davis Quarry. Meet it on our terms.” Devin cocks his paintball rifle as he cements his jaw.
“What if it’s a trick? Knows we w
on’t do what it says?” Tee’s eyes dart around the group like a frenzied rabbit as he shuffles his feet. “What if it really wants us to go to Davis Quarry?”
“I don’t think so, Tee. Samantha Mellinger. . . Grief Hollow. . . It adds up. And Davis Quarry, it’s our best shot.” My words even surprise myself. Normally, I’d try to jump on the nearest off-ramp with Tee, but there’s a nagging inevitability about this that’s pressing me forward. This thing’s coming for us as sure as the sun will rise tomorrow. Better to face it together than for it to pick us apart one by one, each torn asunder according to its timing like a roadside vulture deciding which parts of carrion to consume first.
A gleam of surprise passes through Devin’s eyes, which in turn elicits a gloomy frown from Tee as he registers what that means. Robby’s sullen demeanor diminished by Devin’s unwavering confidence. My resolute conviction at a moment when the others expected me to falter. A silent recognition moves through the group like tendrils of invisible smoke from the periphery of a campfire, working its way into everything—hair, skin, every fiber of our being—unseen and all-encompassing. We are one. We face this thing together. We stick to our plans.
Chapter 56
Collecting Needles
ROBBY’S COMPASS IS spinning. It started spinning when we cleared the pine forest. Our progress slows to a crawl. We all clutch our paintball rifles, eyes darting side-to-side like schooling fish. Devin leads the group, slugging forward on the marble-chip, gravel road. As the trajectory of the road slopes more steeply, we measure each step, legs poised to compensate for shifting ground or the unexpected ambush. Before us, a deep, wide hole cut from the earth comes into view, road spiraling around it like a tower staircase. We enter it like a car dropping onto a freeway, ground sloping gradually above our heads, cut with dynamite through solid rock, half-moon shaped drill holes still visible in the scarred face. The road narrows as we gradually descend—to our left, a deep, bluish-green tinted collection pond where teenagers occasionally cliff dive in a display of adolescent swagger to impress their girlfriends, their presence marked by the crushed, faded beer cans that litter the road. And to our right, a jagged rock ledge steers us ever down, winding us toward the bottom.
The Tear Collector Page 29