Shannon shrugged. “I’m only nine. I don’t know where anything is.”
“Not even the high school?” asked the man. “I bet you know where that is.”
Shannon grinned. “Oh sure, it’s right around the corner, silly.”
The man chuckled. “See, babe? I told you we were close.”
A tinkling laugh drifted out of the car. “That you did, my love.”
“Well, thank you, Miss…” The man looked at her with that certain expression, the one teachers used when you were supposed to answer for them.
“Shannon. My name’s Shannon.”
“Well, Miss Shannon, I’ve got a crisp dollar bill for you for your trouble.”
Shannon smiled. “A whole dollar?”
“Yep.” The man beamed at her and pulled a dollar bill out of his front pocket. It didn’t look very crisp, but a crumpled dollar bill bought just as much candy as a crisp one. Shannon dropped her jump rope and ran to get her dollar.
No one heard her scream when the man grabbed her and shoved her in the trunk.
16
It took sixty-minutes to drive to Rochester, and it almost bored Jim to sleep. The country was scenic enough, but he wasn’t looking at the scenery. The thought of Benny in the hands of a notorious spree killer whirled around in his head. It was like a low voltage electric charge, interrupting his thoughts, keeping him from focusing on anything.
The psychiatric unit at Strong Memorial looked just like Jim thought a psychiatric hospital should. Built from imposing red brick, it looked like something straight out of a horror movie. Jim parked and walked around to the main entrance. Doc Hauser was waiting out front. He was going to get Jim in to talk to Toby.
“Howdy, Jim. Sorry to hear about your boys.”
“Thanks.”
“Have they made a diagnosis on little Billy yet?”
Jim shook his head.
“They will, don’t you fret,” said the old doctor.
“To be honest, I’m more worried about Benny. Johnny’s receiving care, at least. Who knows where Benny is…”
Doc Hauser patted him on the back. “Well, that’s why we’re here.” He glanced at the main entrance of the psychiatric center. “Listen, Jim. Toby might not be able to help. He’s suffering from hysterical catatonia—the result of his ordeal—and may not talk to us. He may not even acknowledge us.”
Jim nodded. “Greshin told me.”
“I don’t want you to get your hopes up.”
“Fair enough, Doctor. Let’s go see what happens, okay?”
Hauser ushered him inside, and after a minute and a half of arguing with the attendant at the front desk, they sat in an eight by eight visitation room. It was cold, and the metal chairs and table didn’t help. “Now, we wait,” said Hauser. “One thing, Jim. Don’t tell Toby your son is missing. It might be psychologically harmful to him to think about his own abduction so soon.”
“Okay,” Jim murmured.
Twenty minutes later, a big orderly wheeled Toby Burton into the room. He stared straight forward, uninterested in where he was going, or who wanted to visit him.
“Well, hello again, Toby,” said Doc Hauser in moderate tones. “I’ve brought someone to chat with you.” He patted Jim on the shoulder. “Do you remember Mr. Cartwright?”
Toby didn’t move, didn’t bat an eyelash, didn’t even seem to draw breath.
“Mr. Cartwright is Benny’s father. Do you remember Benny?” He waited a moment, and when Toby didn’t respond, Hauser sighed. “I’m afraid it’s not much use, Jim.”
Jim leaned forward and put his hand on the table where Toby’s gaze rested. “Toby,” he said. “What happened to you? Who kidnapped you?”
The boy didn’t move or speak.
“Toby, can you help Mr. Cartwright?”
“Benny’s your friend, Toby. He rode around looking for you when you disappeared. He asked your mother where you were and went over to the bicycle man’s house. Benny tried to help you, asked about you, and he took a big risk to do it.”
Toby sat as still as a statue.
“Damn it, Toby! Benny’s missing, maybe because he cared enough about you to go looking for you. Billy’s sick, unconscious. He had a seizure the day Benny disappeared.”
Hauser put his hand on Jim’s shoulder. “That’s enough, now, Jim.”
“Benny cared enough to go looking for you when he thought you needed his help. Now he needs your help.”
Toby leaned his head to the side, and his gaze drifted into the corner.
“Jim,” whispered Doc Hauser, “this isn’t helping anyone. The boy’s too traumatized and telling him these things won’t help. Come on, now. You’ve asked him your questions. As he gets better, he might give you the answers to your questions.”
“No!” snapped Jim. “Benny needs help now.”
“Buh-buh-benny?” muttered Toby, sounding like the word was the hardest thing he’d ever said.
“That’s right, Toby,” said Jim. “Benny needs you.”
Toby’s eyes drifted away from the corner but didn’t quite reach Jim’s. “Huh-huh.”
“What’s that Toby?”
A tear rolled down the boy’s cheek, and his chest hitched.
“Okay, Jim, that’s enough now.”
Toby screamed. It was a scream of pure terror, pure agony.
“Toby, who took you? Where were you kept?”
Toby’s chest heaved like he was running, and his eyes grew frantic.
“This interview is over, Mr. Cartwright,” snapped Dr. Hauser. “I told you—”
“Benny’s in the woods!” Toby shouted, his voice sounding like so many rusted hinges. “The king! The king has him in the glade with the Tree! The king!”
“Who is the king,” demanded Jim, shrugging off Hauser’s hand. “Toby, who is it?”
“Huh-huh. He will make him run! He’s going to…skull-smashers! He’s got him in the dark heart of the forest… No! Benny, no!”
The orderly came barging through the door and cast a disapproving look at Doc Hauser. “Now, what’s all this yelling?”
Jim pushed himself away from the table and tried to rush around to Toby’s side, but the orderly put up one meaty hand and sent Jim sprawling into the corner. “You done enough, mister!”
“The woods! The woods!” screeched Toby.
“Thousand Acre Wood?” asked Jim.
“Watch out… Watch out for… Huh-huh. Watch out! Get to him before the dogs do! Get to the clearing! Get Benny away!”
The orderly snapped the brakes off the wheelchair and spun Toby out of the room without looking back. He kicked the door to the small room shut.
“No!” yelled Jim. “No! He’s telling me where my kidnapped son is! Bring him back!”
Dr. Hauser cleared his throat and stood. “Next time you need my help, Cartwright, just remember this scene.” Hauser turned and walked out the door.
Jim slouched in the corner and cried. He couldn’t stop himself.
17
“Hey, Fatty! Where are you going?”
Bob ducked his ample chin to his chest and quickened his pace. His Husky jeans swished with each step, the inevitable result of his thighs rubbing together. He stared at his Earth shoes and pressed his lips together into a tight line.
“What’s the matter, Fatty? Cat got your tongue?”
The guy following him, cat-calling him, was none other than Dennis the Menace, the fifth-grade bully. Bob didn’t know why Dennis liked to make fun of him, just that he did it every time he saw Bob.
“Home,” Bob muttered.
“What was that, Fatty? I couldn’t understand you with my dick in your mouth.”
Bob didn’t know what that meant, but he knew it was bad. Dennis was the typical bully, not very bright—he’d failed second, third and fifth grades—but gifted at culling the weak out of the herd. And he was loose with his fists. Bob still had bruises from last Friday, and he didn’t want anymore.
“I’m going h
ome,” he repeated, louder this time.
“Aw, is da diddle bay-bee going home to tell his mommy?”
“No! I’m…I’m just going home,” he finished. Lame! he chastised himself.
“Aw, Fatty, did I touch a nerve?”
Bob shook his head without raising his eyes. He kept walking, speeding up a bit. Why are there never any teachers around after school?
“Fatty, you’re hurting my feelings—ignoring me, walking away when I’m talking to you.”
“Suh-sorry. Got to get home.”
The fist came out of nowhere, and when it glanced off the back of his head, tears sprang to his eyes. “Ow, Dennis! Just leave me alone why don’t you!”
“That’s not very nice of you, Fatty.”
Bob groaned when he recognized the change in Dennis’ voice. He’d been playing around up until then, but no more. He was out for blood.
“Listen, Dennis, I-I’m suh-sorry, okay? I don’t want to fight with you.”
Dennis laughed, and it was his nastiest, meanest laugh. “My but, you’re just a big ole pussy, aren’t you? But don’t worry, Fatty. You don’t have to.” Head still down, Bob only saw the older kid’s Pumas edge into his vision in front of him.
Bob saw it coming this time, but it didn’t make any difference. Dennis’ fist sank into Bob’s gut, driving the wind out of him. He fell to one knee, dropping his books.
“Aw, did da diddle bay-bee fall down and get a boo-boo? Here, let me help you, Fatty.” Dennis held a hand in front of Bob’s face.
Bob ignored it, gasping like a beached fish. He didn’t want to get up, he wanted to catch his breath and keep himself from puking.
Dennis waved the hand in front of him. “Come on, Fatty. I ain’t got all day.”
Reluctantly, Bob grasped the older boy’s hand. Dennis pulled hard, yanking him off the ground. At the apex of his trajectory, Dennis punched him again, and this time, Bob did puke…all over Dennis’ fancy Puma Clydes.
“Oh, you fat fuck!” yelled Dennis. “These are suede! How am I gonna get your puke out of suede?” Bob lay where he’d fallen, curled around his belly, gasping for breath, eyes full of tears, cheek in the dirt. “This is so gross, Fatty!”
Bob waited. Anything he said at this point would extend the beating.
Dennis bent down and grabbed one of his books, scattering the pile. Papers—drawings, mostly—flew in the wind. “Aw, does da diddle bay-bee like to draw? Is da diddle bay-bee an artist?” Dennis grabbed one of the pictures—one of Bob’s car drawings—and used it to sling puke off his shoes and across Bob’s jeans. “Have your puke back, Fatty,” he yelled gleefully. “You’re lucky I don’t make you eat it, but frankly, Fatty, you make me sick enough as it is.” He wadded up the drawing and threw it side-arm.
As Dennis walked away, Bob reached for the closest of the drawings, pulling them close to his chest. Of course, no one came to help him. No one cared about the fat boy.
Sniffling, and furiously wiping tears from his cheeks, Bob grabbed his books and stood. Dennis had taken off, of course. Not that Bob would have done anything if he was still around, but his absence made it easier to tell himself things would have been different if the bully had stuck around.
He walked away from the school, head down, puke drying on his jeans, thighs swishing together. I hate that fucking sound! he screamed inside his head.
When he got home, he was going to have a triple-decker baloney and cheese with lots of Miracle Whip and two Ring Dings. Or a Ring Ding and a Ho Ho. He turned down Neibolt Street, wanting to get off the main drag. He lived across town on Mill Lane, but Dennis was always hanging out in the center of town. The last thing he wanted was another beating.
He paid no attention to the low rumble of the muscle car until it passed him and cut in front of him. A skinny guy sprang out of the driver’s door. “Hey, kid,” he said.
Bob didn’t answer, cutting his eyes away instead.
“What happened to you? You been to the wars and back, or what?”
Bob angled away from the man, heading for the other side of the street.
“No reason to be rude, kid. I didn’t beat you up.”
Bob shrugged and kept walking. He didn’t feel like talking to anyone, let alone some weird guy in a Buick.
“Oh, for Chrissake, kid.”
Bob flinched and shrugged away when the man’s hand fell on his shoulder.
“Look, kid, you remind me of my little brother, okay? He was always getting picked on. I can’t help him no more, but maybe I can help you. Let me buy you a milkshake, and then I’ll teach you how to deal with bullies. Deal?”
Bob glanced at him sideways. The guy looked okay. “A large milkshake?” he murmured.
“What? Oh, sure, kid. Large it is.”
When the guy's hand came to rest on his shoulder again, Bob didn’t duck away. Instead, he let the man turn him and guide him toward the white and black Skylark. As they got closer, something started thumping rhythmically in the trunk.
The man caught him staring at the trunk and laughed. “Don’t worry, Big Bob. It’s just a raccoon.”
That doesn’t even make sense, Bob thought. And only Mommy calls me Big Bob. He turned to walk away, but it was already too late. Far too late.
18
Matt sighed through his nose but tried to keep his exasperation from showing. Nothing like a cross-jurisdictional search party to destroy the serenity of nature. On top of having the State Troopers involved, he had police officers from Cottonwood Vale, Genosgwa, and Victorville, and deputies from Kanowa County Sheriff’s Department. Adding to the hullabaloo were civilian volunteers from all over the county.
A map of Thousand Acre Wood lay across the hood of Matt’s Fury, a pair of handcuffs weighting down each corner. He and Lieutenant Gregory were bent over the map, looking for any place where someone might hide a boy, and trying to identify the best spots to have dumped a body.
“Chief Greshin, you should hear this,” said Danny.
Matt straightened. Danny stood ten paces away, almost wringing his hands. Three of the civilian volunteers stood behind him. He waved them all over. “What’s up, Danny?”
“Thorndike, here, says they found something. Go ahead, Mr. Thorndike.” Danny put his hand on the old man’s shoulder.
Thorndike cleared his throat. “We took the Hill Pond trail branch, and then when we were walking, this dog-pack began to run parallel to our course. That didn’t seem right, so we tried to follow them.
“The others thought we were bound to get lost pretty quick, but I’ve walked these woods going on seventy years now, and I can get myself out. As we were working our way out, we came across a pile of kid’s things. A jacket, a backpack, things like that. When we went over to the pile, a glade became visible off through the trees. That was strange because of how dark the woods get back in there, and then there was this glade all lit up with sunlight. A huge black tree was in the middle of the glade. Full of cancer, the ugly bastard was. Burls.”
Lieutenant Gregory and Matt exchanged looks. That pile of stuff has to belong to Benny, thought Matt. We’re coming kid, just hold on. “Can you lead us back to the spot, Mr. Thorndike?”
“Ayup. Follow me.” Without waiting for a response, Mr. Thorndike turned and walked away.
“Well, guess we better follow him, Lieutenant Gregory,” said Matt with a wry grin.
“Ayup, Chief Greshin.” Gregory wore a grin to match Matt’s.
“Danny, you stay here in case anyone else reports something. You call me if they do.”
“Yes, sir, Chief.”
Thorndike led the two cops down the trail a bit, darting glances into the woods. “You said you saw a dog pack?” asked Matt.
“I reckon I did.”
“What sort of dog pack?” Matt asked with a mirthful glance at Jonas.
“Well, some of them were straight out of the movies. One of ‘em looked like that one in that devil picture that was out a few years back. The Omen, I think it w
as called.”
“Rottweilers?”
Thorndike grunted. “Scary damn breed, if you ask me. Another one of them looked like a shepherd, but all black.”
“Strange set of dogs to be running around in these woods,” said Jonas.
“I don’t recall ever seeing a Rottweiler or an all-black shepherd in this town,” said Matt.
Thorndike harrumphed. “I’m not in the practice of lying about things. This other one looked like that skinny breed of Rottweiler.”
“Doberman?”
Thorndike hawked and spat. “If I had the names of the breeds, don’t you expect I would have said it outright?” He pointed at a bend in the well-worn path ahead. “That’s where we got back on the path after we saw the pile of things and that damn glade.”
Matt cocked his head to the side. Doesn’t make sense, he thought. Why chase after a pack of dogs?
“There weren’t much sense in us going off after a bunch of feral dogs, and I can’t much explain why I took us off that way, except that I got this quirky sensation—a gut feeling if you want.”
“You had a hunch about the dogs?” asked Jonas.
Thorndike winced. “Doesn’t make sense now,” he muttered, throwing a sideways glance at Matt. “But no sense holding back if it might help. I got the feeling that the dogs had themselves a secret, and I wanted to know what that secret was.”
Matt smiled, trying to make it a reassuring one. “Mr. Thorndike, if you knew how much of police work boils down to gut feelings…”
“Ayup,” said the old man, not sounding convinced. “Nice of you to say. Anyway, we stepped into the forest right here.”
“And you’re sure you remember where the glade is?” asked Jonas.
“Sure as I can be.” Thorndike stepped into the woods before either man could say anything more. They walked for another forty or fifty minutes in silence before Thorndike stopped. “Doesn’t make sense,” he muttered.
“What’s that, Mr. Thorndike?”
The old codger shook his head and turned in a slow circle. “Couldn’t have missed the bastard,” he murmured. “That damn glade was lit up like a hospital. Should’ve seen it by now.”
Matt looked at Jonas and cocked an eyebrow. He cleared his throat. “Are we lost, Mr. Thorndike?”
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