Forgive Me, Alex (10 page)

Lou Pratt loved to fish. He found it thrilling to stand on the bank of the Fox River in the hopes of hooking a big carp or, if he was lucky, a catfish. They were about all that survived the squalid waters of the Fox. Carp were horrid, despicable fish that made for poor eating, but he was more than happy to fry up a catfish. Never mind that they scavenged for their existence in the same sludge and sewer runoff. Catfish were eating fish and that's all there was to it—the gospel according to Lou Pratt.

Sunday meant a few competitors along the banks of the river, which was fine with Lou; he enjoyed the conversation that accompanied the competition. Light pressure tugged at the fishing line. A smart one, he thought, but not smart enough for an old pro like Lou. With a short, rapid flick of the wrists, he set the hook and worked his catch toward the shore.

He whistled through his smile. "Well, salt my gravy! Ain't you the pretty one?"

Tangled around the catfish was a determined weed. Lou dragged it through the water to a small tributary that ran beside the old carnival grounds on the west side of town, several yards below the dam. It offered fewer obstacles, both above and beneath the water. He gripped the catfish in his right hand and, immersing it in the water, used his left hand to untangle and release the stubborn weed, and unhooked the fish.

He held his prize high for inspection. "I do believe you'll make a fine dinner tonight. Maybe I'll add a few of your friends to the freezer. I
am
feeling lucky and that's for sure. Then I'll—"

He gasped and jumped from the water, and instantly forgot about the catfish that just got away. He riveted his concentration on the horrifying sight before him, and, as it came into focus, he could hold his breakfast no longer. He turned and ran up the path a few yards, where he vomited into a bush off to one side. He heaved and shivered for a minute.

When he was able to control himself, the horror notwithstanding, he returned to the water and gradually focused again on the tragedy.

"God have mercy."

He leapt up the shallow bank and darted toward the main lot. His stomach churned yet again, though it must be empty. He put it out of his mind. He had to reach the payphone across the street.

***

Chief Bill Radlon responded to the call. His small force, with the help of a couple county sheriff's deputies, still searched for a missing ten-year-old boy. Uneasiness crawled like ants up his spine. There must have been another explanation for Lou Pratt's hysteria. It couldn't have been Alex Hooper, who'd last been seen awaiting his father and a pizza at his home on the north ridge, high above the Fox River valley.

He admonished himself for jumping to conclusions. He'd know soon enough. Doc Wenthal, semi-retired, former County Coroner and still an occasional consultant, was on his way to the river to help with the preliminaries.

The chief pulled into the empty lot that sat idle most of the year, the most notable exception being during the Founders' Day Carnival. At the end of the lot, a man waved his arms in frantic gestures, as though it were necessary to hurry in order to save the dead body.

He pulled to a stop alongside the man and got out of his car.

At the back of a long unused and ignored piece of farmland, north of the gravel pits and east of Crystal Lake, stood a dilapidated, nearly ancient farm shed. Mitchell Norton happened upon it accidentally one day while doing some impromptu hiking around the gravel pits, as he attempted to gather his courage and join some kids who swam in the lake there.

It struck him as a satisfactory place to escape from the world, something he did often.

***

Now conscious, Alex Hooper lay gagged and bound to a wooden workbench against the north wall. He stared at the ceiling and nervously watched the meaty, motionless spider suspended in its web a few feet above him. Tears slithered down his cheeks as he attempted to make no noise at all.

He knew the faint sounds that emanated from his right must be from the terrible man who'd hit him and brought him here, yet he couldn't force himself to turn his head and look. He chose the safer route, remaining perfectly still and quiet, as if doing so might make him invisible. When he'd been younger and monsters had lurked under his bed at night, this had been a most effective strategy.

Help me, Tony! Come and save me! Dad, I'm so scared!

***

Mitchell sat on a dusty chair in the corner of the shed, stared at the boy across from him, and agonized over how to proceed. He dreaded his next move. The demon was in charge here, and he knew all too well what the Reaper wanted. Yet he sat frozen, unable to bring himself to action, hunched over in his armchair with elbows on knees and head in hands. He massaged his temples and growled in frustration at the pain that so distracted him.

He glanced at the boy, who trembled uncontrollably, and again groaned as the demon returned in a swirling, dizzying montage. He taunted him and showed him new wickedness, the sight of which at once terrified and compelled him. Inevitably, he threatened Mitchell with unimaginable punishment should he disobey.

He could not.

He raised his head, stood and approached the bench, until the boy lay beneath him. Although the boy kept his head still, he rolled his eyes right and focused on him.

Mitchell spoke in a flat voice, without emotion, controlled by forces outside his power. "You've been trying to avoid me, I know, but I am the deliverer. You cannot hide from me."

***

The man blurred through a murky puddle of tears, yet Alex remained quiet, and still but for his shaking, which he was helpless to prevent. Above him stood something different from what he'd seen before. The same face watched him, the same man, but his eyes blazed like something out of those cheap, Saturday night horror movies that he and Tony loved. Though he'd never seen it in real life, he recognized the unmistakable glare of insanity.

I have to keep quiet. If I concentrate, I can disappear. I can do it.

"Tell me, son," the man continued, "are you worthy to stand in the light? Have you been a good boy? Or might you burn in the terrible fires? Do you know that I am the judge and the jury?"

Alex didn't understand. In his terror, he barely heard the words.

"I have never seen the light, but I'm told it's a place of warmth, peace and joy. However, I
have
seen the flames of despair, torture and agony, and I know most of us will end up there. My hosts have shown me these things, for I am the chosen, the dispatcher to the new world."

The wicked man stalked to a table at the edge of his sight, and opened a small duffel bag. He pulled out a knife that could double as a machete, carried it over to the bench, and held it high.

Alex groaned and emptied his bladder as he searched desperately for some sign of rescue. Fear overwhelmed him, but also profound sadness, for he knew he would soon leave Tony and his dad behind. He felt sorry for them, somehow knowing that they'd suffer the pain long after it had passed for him. A mature resignation steeled him against the horror, an understanding well beyond his years—an acceptance.

I'm sorry, Tony. I'll miss you. And you too, Dad.

His mind flashed to the many joyous experiences of his life. Tony, ever-present in those images, taught him to play baseball and basketball and football, playing catch or shooting hoops with him for hours on end. Those were his happiest moments. He loved his father too, despite his prolonged absences and distant manner. Most of all, Tony was his family and his rock, and he would miss him more than anyone.

What would happen to Tony when he was gone? Tony would be devastated, and he felt terribly sad for his big brother—a grown-up way to think, under the circumstances. Although he didn't understand the genesis of these thoughts, they pleased him.

The memories of his mother had been fading recently, but she now came to him and spoke in her soft way, with a voice pure as starlight. Her loving face shone and exuded warmth, like a soft blanket that covered him and protected him from the monster. She positively glowed, shrouded in unimaginable light.

The bad man interrupted Alex's vision. "If you see the light, be joyful that I have delivered you. If you see the fire, then know that we shall meet again, and together we shall dance the long death through the eternal flames, for those I have chosen as my own."

The mean man held up the knife for one final inspection. Alex clenched his eyes shut. He wanted to see only the happy memories. He prayed to a God in whom he trusted despite the severe punishment he faced. He didn't understand, but calm enveloped him, and again a warm light embraced him, so comforting that he forgot the threat he faced in this terrible place.

Although a mere flash in his mind, it felt to Alex like a long escape.

He relived every happy experience of his short life, more numerous than he'd realized. Aware of his memories as never before, he rejoiced as his mind opened up in ways unimaginable. His mother, laughing and loving, doted over the baby Alex as if he were the only important thing in the entire world. His big brother bragged to all his friends about his baby brother.

Searing heat and a brief explosion of pain ripped through him, but it vanished a moment after it began.

In that flash, Alex's heart and mind knew only the miracle of joy, only the light and warmth that remained. A gentle presence assured him everything would be okay. He didn't understand, but he knew he was home.

Where are we going, Mommy?

***

"Fuck!" Mitchell's anger rocketed. "Don't die on me, you little shit!"

He'd botched it. Where were the torture, agony and misery? He'd thrust the knife in too deeply and in the wrong location. The boy had died instantly—no wild screams, no painful grimaces, nothing!

"Fuck a rubber duck, what have I done?"

He puckered in fear and awaited the wrath of the demon.

In that instant, the old Mitchell Norton returned. He stood over the boy's blood-soaked body, clutched a blood-soaked knife, and imagined his own blood-soaked punishment.

He sought desperately to make amends. Although the boy was dead, perhaps Mitchell could still please the demon with his next act. Then he could feed his new friend, the Beast.

That might satisfy the Reaper.

The chief pulled a photo of Alex Hooper from a file on the front passenger seat, and shuffled around back to grab hip-waders and rubber gloves from the trunk of the cruiser. His "witness" could barely catch his breath as he introduced himself.

Lou Pratt led him down a path toward the river, explaining as they walked the events that had transpired. When he came to the part about spotting the boy, he stopped and turned. "God in Heaven, Chief, it's sure an awful sight."

Usually is
, the chief thought, and nodded as they continued down the path to the small tributary. The smell of fresh vomit assaulted him, and he spotted the unpleasant source. Lou walked past it without a glance or a word, probably embarrassed by it.

No need,
Chief Radlon thought.
Nothing wrong with being human during—especially during—inhuman events.

Lou stopped before the water's edge and pointed toward the spot.

The chief looked but couldn't see anything through the sunlight reflecting off the surface. He squinted, focused, concentrated on the shallow depths....

The body came into view.

Doc Wenthal called out at that precise instant, and startled him such that he nearly jumped out of his shoes. He took minor satisfaction in noting that Lou had also leapt at the intrusion; at least he wasn't the only one on a razor's edge. He
was
supposed to be the professional, however.

He called back and waited a few seconds until the doctor arrived. "Over here, Doc." His eyes never left the submerged body.

Doc slid by Lou with a polite nod and stood next to the chief. "What do we have, Bill?" He strained his eyes to see through the glare and into the water.

Chief Radlon pointed to the spot. "Take a look."

"Dear God, he was only a child."

The chief grabbed a nearby stick and used it to scare away the fish that picked at the body. When he turned back, Lou looked blue around the gills too. He hoped the poor guy wasn't about to pass out. He had enough to deal with.

He slid into his hip-waders and put on the rubber gloves before entering the water. Lou clutched his stomach again, as if he would puke at any moment, but his eyes never wavered. It always happened that way; people were drawn to the most gruesome sights.

"Careful, Bill," Doc said. "We don't want to upset any evidence that might be found, so be gentle when moving it to the shore."

The chief nodded reflexively and bent over the body, which he noted might have remained undiscovered were the water deeper. He looked at it for several seconds, gathered his will, and grasped the small corpse under the arms to drag it carefully to the shore.

"Sonuvabitch!"

Lou and Doc soon understood the reason for his anger. They grimaced as the corpse's arms—severed at the elbows—bobbed like buoys in the muck. Bill struggled to carry it through the thick mud, and finally managed to lift the body onto dry ground.

"Ah shit."

The boy's legs, severed two inches above the knees, trailed skin and tissue. His left eye was gone, a deep gouge left in its place. Muscle and bone peeked from holes in the skin. The chief noticed, despite his wish never to look upon this body again, that the one remaining eye, though filmed over, appeared oddly content. Perhaps his imagination worked on him, a kind of wishful thinking.

He prayed the boy hadn't been required to endure the damage inflicted upon him.

Doc put on latex gloves and knelt over the body. A full examination would wait until the victim was in the morgue, but the mutilations clearly intrigued Doc. He ran his hand over the end of one of the severed legs, and sighed. He looked up and shook his head.

The chief understood. The fish in the Fox River could not do that to a body—not in twenty-four hours. Some rotten bastard had chopped off the boy's limbs.

Difficult days lay ahead for his sleepy little town.

Lou watched with ashen face and hugged himself, shaking noticeably. The chief regretted allowing the man to observe this. Civilians were not so immune to such horror.

 "Did somebody do that to the boy? Did a
person
cut him into pieces?" Lou fidgeted and nearly hopped. "Dear God, that's what happened, isn't it?"

"Now listen, Mr. Pratt," the chief said, "I don't want the whole town in a panic over something we don't yet know enough about. We need time to get this investigation moving, and to examine the forensic evidence, before we jump to any conclusions. In the meantime, I'll ask you say
nothing
about this to
anyone
. Do you understand?"

Lou hung his head in sorrow and whispered, "Yes, I understand. But this is Algonquin, for God's sake, not Chicago. This sort of thing isn't supposed to happen here."

The chief ignored him and pulled the picture from his shirt pocket. He studied it for a few seconds and compared it to the mutilated corpse.

"Damn it."