The Unearthed: Book One, The Eddie McCloskey Series (5 page)

Bill
y
couldn’t believe it was happening two days in a row. Nobody else got it this bad. Ryan Kenner had it out for him.

“Did you wet the bed again?”

Billy didn’t know what Kenner was talking about.

“Did you watch The Lion King and get scaredy-wheredy?”

Billy still didn’t follow.

Kenner pushed him. “Maybe your folks are tired of you sleeping in the bed with them.”

Then Billy put it together.

Kenner knew his parents had called those ghost people for help.

Shit.

He tried to put some steel in his voice, like Jason Statham. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

Kenner was unimpressed. “Did you tell Mommy and Daddy about yesterday?”

“No.”

This time Kenner gave him a good shove. Billy wasn’t ready for it. He went reeling ass-first into the dirt.

Even worse, a crowd was forming. Everybody staring at him. Yesterday didn’t even compare to this, because of the added public humiliation.

“Then why’d I get called into the principal’s office this morning?”

“I didn’t say anything.” Billy couldn’t believe Mom had called the school.

“Get up, you little shit,” Kenner said.

Billy stayed put. Maybe Kenner would just leave him alone.

Kenner took his eyes off Billy to address the crowd. “You see? He’s a little fucking pussy that runs home to tell his parents when he gets hurt playing a game.”

Billy felt the eyes of the school on him. Cell phones snapped pictures. This would be all over MySpace before the final bell.

He wondered where the hell the three teacher aides were. Their only job was to make sure nothing happened during recess.

His eyes betrayed him. They welled with tears.

Kenner taunted him, playing to the crowd. Every insult stung like the crack of a whip. Time slowed down. Everybody laughed at him. He heard Kenner’s voice as if he were coming from very far away.

This wasn’t going to end. Even if it did today, even if the teacher aides intervened, this wasn’t going to stop.

He got angry. He’d never been this angry before in his life. His chest was on fire. It was all so unfair. What had he ever done to deserve this?

He wished he had brought the knife. He wished he could kill Kenner. He realized that It was right, right about a lot of things. He could have used the knife to scare the shit out of Kenner, and if Kenner had been dumb enough to come after him, and if something happened to him, oh well. It wouldn’t be Billy’s fault. He was only protecting himself.

He wanted to knife all those sons of bitches in the crowd, too. All those motherfuckers. All those assholes laughing at him. They wouldn’t be laughing if they were in his position.

Billy fine-tuned his focus till he shut out the crowd and could only see Kenner. He forgot he was at school.

Kenner was still addressing the crowd, continually turning so as to take everyone in. The other kids had formed a tight circle around them.

The laughter echoed.

Kenner gave Billy his back and raised his arms triumphantly, coaxing every last cheer out of the crowd. Billy couldn’t even hear what he was saying. Couldn’t even hear himself think.

But he could still feel.

He had nothing left to lose. He already looked a coward.

Kenner still had his back to him.

This was his only chance.

He sprang up. The only way to win was through surprise.

He kicked Kenner as hard as he could in the lower back. Kenner shot forward, tripped on something, and face-planted in the dirt. He grabbed where Billy had kicked him and yelled in pain.

Billy didn’t stop there. A stunned silence fell over the crowd. Nobody had ever put Kenner down before.

So Billy kept kicking. Harder and harder. Kenner writhed under him, tried to roll away, but Billy’s foot was relentless. Even when he hit Kenner awkwardly, feeling pain explode in his big toe, he kept kicking. Five times. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. He got up to eleven when he felt hands clamp down on him.

As he was pulled away, he watched Kenner writhe on the ground, crying and begging for help.

Billy smiled.

* * * *

Tim was almost to Doris Dilworth’s house.

Mrs. Dilworth had lived in town her whole life. Her parents had lived in town their whole lives. She knew everything about everybody. She referred to her guests as “callers.” She had never touched a computer in her life, and yet she knew more about local affairs than everybody else, except for the police and the Mayor.

And even the Mayor was questionable.

By most accounts, she was in her eighties, though she had deftly avoided answering the question for several decades.

Hers was an old two story colonial in the older section of the same development the Rossellis lived in. The driveway was short and ran along the side of her house.

Tim parked his car next to Moira’s coupe.

Mrs. Dilworth was waiting for him by the front door. She was a tiny woman with short, curly gray hair done up, and her trademark owl’s eyes glasses. She had on a long skirt and a white blouse under a grey sweater even though it was seventy degrees outside.

“Timothy, dear. How are you?”              

Tim had to bend over for a hug. “Hi, Mrs. D.”

“Moira is already here.”

Tim followed her into the house, which was poorly lit. It was a miracle she got around without killing herself by tripping over one of her many pieces of furniture. Her walls were covered with black and white photos and old still-lifes.

They went into the parlor. Moira was sitting on a long sofa.

“How are you feeling today?” Mrs. Dilworth said.

“Don’t ask.” He settled on the sofa beside Moira. He was still hung over. Even after all the aspirin and extra H20 he’d taken throughout the day.

Getting old.

Tim placed his recorder on the coffee table. There was a plate of crackers and cheese next to a jug of iced tea. He poured himself a glass.

Mrs. Dilworth took her time sitting across from them in the high-backed armchair. Sitting down looked painful for her.

“I must say I’m flattered,” Mrs. Dilworth said. “Moira tells me you’ve come to me first.”

“Start with the expert.”

She chuckled. “So how is the insurance industry treating you?”

“It treats me okay.”

“That’s something. It treats most people badly.”

Tim laughed.

“I can’t believe it’s been three years since the incident,” Mrs. Dilworth said. “Nasty business altogether. Not too many people liked Mr. Moriarty.”

“His name was John, right?” Tim asked. Mrs. Dilworth would volunteer a lot of information. The key was to guide her.

“Yes. He was a loner. And a drinker, to boot. He was college-educated and intelligent. He was a CPA and worked at one of those large firms in the city.”

Small world. Jackie Rosselli was also a CPA who used to work in the city.

Mrs. Dilworth said, “Working at the prestigious firm carried with it many responsibilities. Not the least of which was the great number of hours and weekends. He worked a lot, and drank more.”

Every now and then Mrs. Dilworth would add her stock phrase: “From what I’ve heard.”

Tim and Moira were both taking notes.

“I’m afraid my memory isn’t what it used to be. You’ll want to talk to the police too about this,” Mrs. Dilworth said.

“Planned on it. You know me and Charlie Waite go way back.”

“Oh, that’s right.” She acted like she’d forgotten but Tim knew better. “I like Charlie. He’s a good man. Such a shame about his knee. He was a great basketball player and could have been a star in college.”

“Charlie was deadly from outside. He never missed. Maybe not NBA-material but he could have played in Europe easily.”

After a beat, Moira said, “What was Mrs. Moriarty like?”

“I spoke to her on a handful of occasions. Her children were playing outside and wandered over here. She seemed a quiet type, very aloof. I used to say she wasn’t really participating.”

“In what?”

“Life.”

“What was her name again?” Moira asked.

“Siobhan, spelled the Irish way. Her children loved my yard, especially Eamon. They were over during the day.”

“During the school year?” Moira asked.

Tim let Moira roll with the questions.

Mrs. Dilworth said, “Mr. Moriarty was displeased with the school system. And his boys were acting out. About a year before the incident, Siobhan began home-schooling them.”

Moira
hmm-hmmed
. “So they’d come over during the day?”

Mrs. Dilworth nodded. “I think the younger one, Eamon, came over to get away from his older brother William.”

“To get away from?” Tim asked. Starting to get somewhere.

“Eamon was scared of him.”

“Why do you say that?” Moira asked.

“Because I’m a nosy old woman who has spent most of her life observing people.” She winked at Moira. “I never saw William strike Eamon but it was pretty clear to me what was going on. William was always chasing Eamon around. William claimed they were just playing tag but there was a desperation in Eamon to get away from his brother that went beyond a harmless game. And there was a sadistic glee in the way William chased him. He was much faster than Eamon. He’d matured physically, whereas Eamon was still a boy.”

Tim said, “Mrs. Moriarty favored William.”

“You are a brother,” Mrs. Dilworth said.

“It fits,” Tim said. “If William was bullying Eamon, Eamon would have gone to his parents. Obviously nothing came of that. Dad was always working, so it had to be Mom turning a blind eye. She was probably doing that because she liked William more. So Eamon ran to a stranger’s yard when he was in trouble.”

Mrs. Dilworth smiled. “I tried to speak to Siobhan about her boys. Rather a delicate situation, as you can imagine. She asked pointedly if I had ever seen William do anything. Of course I hadn’t. William knew better than to hit his brother publicly. Siobhan just said that her boys were good friends and liked to roughhouse. And that William could never hurt anyone. She always said he was too sweet. If I heard her once I heard her a hundred times. William’s too sweet. Plus Eamon was always going off.”

“What do you mean?”

“Siobhan came over to ask if I had seen him, several times.”

“Like he had run away?” Moira asked.

“Yes. One time he disappeared over night and came home the next day.” Mrs. Dilworth sipped her iced tea. “I always felt Siobhan wanted a confidant. But I never pried.”

“Did you ever talk to the boys?”

“Just hi and bye, really. I told them they could play in my yard whenever they wanted.”

“Anything else about Mrs. Moriarty you can think of?” Tim asked.

“There was a rumor …” She lowered her voice like they were talking in public. “... that she was having an affair.”

Count on Mrs. D to get you the good stuff. “Did Mr. Moriarty know about it?”

“I don’t know. The rumor had it she’d been seeing someone off and on for quite some time.”

“Did the police know about this?”

“They must have. I never knew the name of the gentleman. But I do recall hearing he was some kind of artist.”

“Did he live in town?” Tim asked.

“I don’t know,” Mrs. Dilworth said.

Tim shook out his hand. He’d already taken several pages of notes. “When was the last time you saw any of them?”

Mrs. Dilworth gulped. “The day of. I saw Eamon. He told me he was playing hide and seek with William. I told him he could hide in my yard but not to stay too late because his mother would worry. And he said ‘Mommy doesn’t care. She’s probably out running her daily errands anyway.’”

“Daily errands?” Tim asked.

Mrs. Dilworth shrugged. “I never asked him about it. That’s not too uncommon for a housewife.”

“Makes sense,” Tim said. Or maybe she was busy hiking the Appalachian Trail.

“The police think I might have been the last one to see him alive,” she said grimly.

“How awful,” Tim said.

Mrs. Dilworth sat in silence for a moment.

“Is there anything else you can think of?” Tim asked.

“You should also talk to Evan Ronan.”

“The writer?” Moira asked.

“Yes. Nice man.”

“Are you friendly with him?”

“Oh yes, we’re good friends. He always brings me free signed copies of his books. Have you ever met him?” she asked.

“He was ahead of us both in school,” Tim said. “But I’ve seen him around town.”

“For a time, he was writing a non-fiction account of the evening in question. But I think he’s halted that work. He’s frequently stricken with writer’s block. But he amassed quite a lot of information. If you’d like, I can call and set up a meeting for you.”