Malice (9 page)

Avery’s strange behavior after the session still bothered him, however. Why did he whisk Lysander out without so much as a good-bye? “Hey kid, you just had a fantasy so vivid you thought you were about to be burned at the stake, but if you don’t mind, pull up your socks and get out.”

Outside, Lysander heard the muffled sound of a car door slamming. He raised himself up on one elbow and gazed out the bay window that framed his bed, happy for the opportunity to shake off that jittery feeling in the pit of his belly. Across a vacant lot was Reverend Small’s house, a two-story job that looked more expensive than he could afford on a monk’s salary. Through a screen of trees and brush was the good ol’ reverend. He had a dog with him, German shepherd. The animal was down on its haunches, its paws dug into the manicured lawn, and the reverend was wrenching at the leash, struggling to get the animal in the house. He let out a length at the tail end of the leash and struck the dog with it. The animal yelped and Lysander flinched, wishing at that moment he had a video camera with him. The reverend turned and started walking, the leash over his shoulder, looking like an ancient Egyptian slave, tasked with moving an enormous slab of limestone. Skid marks began to appear in the grass as the shepherd was dragged along. A minute later, the animal was inside. Bit late for a trip to the SPCA, Lysander thought, settling back into bed. Millingham was the strangest place he’d ever been, and for a moment he debated telling someone. But who would believe him? Back in Hayward he had seen other pillars of the community do a lot worse than smack a dog, and he had certainly learned his lesson about what truths adults were willing to entertain. With great reluctance, Lysander let it go, and fell into a restless sleep.

Timp, timp, timp, timp
.

Samantha flicked on the lamp by her nightstand: a twisted skeletal hand that rose up from a grave, its bony fingers gripping the bulb. Against the far wall, two large candles burned, their flame’s unwavering in the stillness of the room. She could have sworn she heard a sound. Sam rested her head on the pillow and tried to relax. All this McMurphy stuff was getting to her.

Timp, timp, timp
.

She sat bolt upright. Someone or something was tapping at her window.

“Whoever you are, get the hell out of here!” she screamed. “I’ve got a gun! I’ll blow your head off!”

Timp, timp, timp
.

She eyed the curtains for a while and then slowly swung her legs over the bed and backed away toward the bedroom door—her eyes glued to the velvet curtains.

The window. Had she remembered to lock it? Had she even remembered to close it properly? Her hand groped blindly around her for some protection. Finally it clasped around a thin wooden cane.

Timp, timp, timp, timp
.

The noise was stronger now. Angrier. Something was pushing against the glass. Trying to get in. A thought popped out at her: It was McMurphy. She wanted to turn and run, but invisible hands were holding her tight.

Fear? No, not fear. Something else. A morbid curiosity, maybe.

She forced herself toward the window.

Timp, timp, timp.

Yank the curtain open
, she told herself, the way you yank the shower curtain late at night checking for serial killers. But instead her feet turned and brought her back to her bedroom door. She fumbled with the knob, turning it frantically, forgetting that she had locked it. She looked up and saw the bolt.

Behind her, a sliding noise. The window was being opened.

She had always thought she would react bravely to danger. But now that it was happening, she realized she had been wrong. Her body was a tight ball of fear. She felt trapped. A rustling sound started behind her. Gathering every ounce of willpower, she turned her head. Something was in the room with her. It had slid in through the window and was fumbling behind the curtain now.

Her nose wrinkled, struck by the foul, pungent odor.

A corpse
.

She could taste it in her mouth. A breeze from the open window blew the candles out, leaving her in gloomy darkness. A thin glow came from a streetlight outside.

The velvet curtains parted, revealing a dark silhouette. Samantha screamed and the figure backed away fearfully, banging its head on the window.

“Samantha?”

She paused, uncertain. She knew that voice …

“Who—”

“Keep your voice down,” the voice whispered. “You trying to get me killed?”

She reached over and flicked the light on.

Derek stood there. His hair looked like he hadn’t combed it in days.

“Jesus, Derek, I thought you were someone else.” Her chest was heaving up and down.

“Shit, you reek.”

Derek frowned. “Where exactly do you expect me to shower?”

“We’re gonna have to clean you up. I’m gonna be sick if you stay like that.”

Samantha relit the candles and burned incense while Derek smelled at his armpits self-consciously. He sat on her bed, wearing a funny expression.

“The last time you had a look like that,” she said, “you were heading off to juvie for three months.”

“I’m leaving, Sam. Came by to tell you.”

Samantha’s face filled with surprise and dismay. “Leaving?”

“I can’t live in that house anymore, they know I was there, and plus,” Derek went on, “I’m tired of living off of cold cuts.”

Samantha tried to smile. Could she really blame him? Cooped up in that house was no way for anyone to live.

“Where you gonna go?”

“South. Florida. Maybe California. Gonna sniff out some work as a mechanic till I have enough cash to open my own place.” Derek rubbed his hands together, trying to shake the feeling that he was deluding himself. Sometimes, talking about a plan made it sound less foolhardy. Sometimes talking was all some people ever did. This was no pipe dream, he reminded himself for the zillionth time.

Samantha’s face grew warm. “Why didn’t you say anything before?”

“What would it have changed? I have to go. If the cops wanna come after me, fine, but I’d be willing to bet I can outrun ‘em.”

The smile on Derek’s face waned, and it filled Samantha with despair.

“Who knows? Maybe I’ll be back someday, riding into town on a custom-made chopper.”

Derek turned to leave and then stopped, remembering something. “When you see Lysander, tell him to watch out for Chad’s left hook.” Derek threw a clenched fist into the air. “He always starts with a fake from his right. Always.” He winked.

Samantha’s mouth had tightened into a thin line. Part of her felt like hitting him for running way like a coward.

Derek took her by the shoulders. “You’re my special girl,” he told her and watched as her face hardened. “Always will be, Sam. Stop building walls around yourself, or you’re gonna become a crotchety old lady.” They hugged.

He handed her a flashlight. “Won’t be needing this anymore.” Sam took it and tossed it on the bed. “Oh, and I nearly forgot.” He produced a weathered scrapbook. “Found this at the McMurphy house, up in one of the bedrooms.”

She took it from him carefully, turning over the first few pages. She stopped with a jolt. “Derek!”

“Yeah, it belonged to whatshisface.”

“Which room did you find this in?”

“One of the rooms upstairs. Spooked me right out of my skin.”

She leafed through the pages, her mind returning to the police report.

Upstairs, in one of the bedrooms we found the remains of James McMurphy
.

A picture tumbled from the journal and fell to her feet. She picked it up and studied it. Two men in suits were standing side by side, shaking hands, their faces beaming. Behind them rose Millingham High School, looking new.

As she stared at the faces of the two men, the flesh at the base of her neck began to tingle. In her mind’s eye, an axe came swinging through the air, thudding into the fleshy side of a neck, severing an artery. Blood splashed everywhere. The wound was large, and blood jetted out in a great torrent. Now the man on the left was smiling. He was looking right at her, his eyes burning with hatred. A trick of the light, she thought nervously. She snapped her eyes shut, but when she opened them again, the picture was worse. The man on the right had a shotgun in his mouth, his lips stretched wide around the barrel, his eyes staring blankly. On the left, the other man’s grin had grown wider still, and his arm was now draped over the man with the shotgun: old friends at a Sunday picnic.

“Oh Derek, you gotta see this.”

He took the picture from her. “Yup,” he said, bringing it closer. “The guy on the right looks like James McMurphy. There’s a picture of him at school.”

She snatched the old photograph out of his hands. In it two young men were smiling and shaking hands in front of Millingham High, just as she had seen at first.

“Sam, your hands, they’re trembling.”

She looked down at her hands. They
were
trembling. She went to the door, closed a hand around the knob and shut herself in, only dimly aware that a terrible evil was closing in; born and festering from a time long before she had ever come to the world as Samantha Crow.

Outside, the wind blew up, twirling dead leaves in the air and whipping them against the house, as though they were searching for a way in.

At first Alex thought he had just walked into a funhouse. Old furniture, weird animal bones.

He turned toward the living room, and the odor of decaying flesh hit him like a shot to the gut. He held a sweaty palm up to his nose. His eyes watered. A man in white overalls was taking pictures of something behind the couch. He approached, walking through a small archway that separated the living room from the hallway. A curled hand poking out of a bloodstained yellow sweater came into view. Alex leaned forward and saw the rest of the body. The victim’s arms and legs were spread evenly apart. What struck him was the odd way in which the body was positioned: like a drawing by one of those Italian guys, Leonardo da Vinci.

Alex guessed the body had been dead for over a day now. At least judging by the smell of the blood that had pooled around the man in the shape of a giant bullseye. His head was cocked unnaturally to the side, toward the far wall. A single slipper clung doggedly to the man’s right foot. His yellow cardigan was torn and saturated with blood to the point that it looked more like a satin smoking jacket.

A hand grabbed his shoulder, and Alex jumped. It was Deputy Jeff Anderson, Millingham’s only other and, as he liked to remind Alex, senior deputy.

“Christ, you ever seen anything like this?” Jeff asked, handing Alex a white surgical mask.

“The stiff?”

“No, all the crazy shit this guy’s got. What a collection, eh? Real nut job is what I say. Got here twenty minutes before anyone else and thought I was gonna shit myself. See those bottles up there?”

Alex looked.

“Filled with piss.”

“How you know? You drink some? Who is he anyhow?”

“Full name’s Peter Hume,” Jeff said, adjusting his mask. “Lived here his whole life. Hell, I remember giving that weird bastard a ticket last week.”

“He married?”

“Yeah, wife’s away, though. I’ve questioned some of the neighbors, and they said she left for Mexico more than two weeks ago.”

Alex looked around. “Any sign of forced entry?”

“No. Front door was locked when I got here. Had to kick it down.”

Alex looked back at the door and the collection of splintered wood below it. “So who called it in?” he asked.

“Paperboy came to collect and looked in the window when no one came to the door. Saw our guy lying here in a mess,” Jeff said. “When I came in, I nearly lost that taco salad I ate earlier.”

“And the man’s office?” Alex asked, eyeing the body.

“He left there at six o’clock as always. Kept to himself mostly.” Jeff was quiet for a moment. “Weird thing is, our guy’s been dead for over a day by the looks of it, but there’s no mail in the box. Like someone’s been taking care of the place.”

“That is strange. This look like a hit to you?”

A flicker crossed Jeff’s face, as though he had already pondered the possibility and dismissed it. “Neighbors did mention hearing fights between him and the missus.”

Just then Sheriff Crow came in, wincing at the odor. Jeff handed him a mask and filled him in on the details. Alex left them. This was Jeff’s show now. He went to the front door and examined the lock.

Sheriff Crow said, “Jeff, get on any life insurance policies. See if she’s been loadin’ ‘em up the kazoo, accidental death, you name it. I want to rule out the wife as soon as possible.” Crow paused. “Have you looked for fingerprints yet?”

“I have,” Jeff said proudly. “The major entry points are covered, but I’m sure we’ll find they belong to the Mister and Missus. ‘Course, we’ll only know when we run ‘em. But if you ask me, Sheriff, looks like this sick bastard did himself in in the worst way.”