Grim Harvest

by Patrick C. Greene

Whatever the connection to Pan and/or Saturn, Matilda harbored no illusions. Her work changed lives for the worse. But her clients were adults with free will. She was only an intermediary, bearing no responsibility for how her services were used.

  Then the letter had arrived.

  It lay in her mailbox atop bills, junk mail and a gardening magazine. She had felt only a second of innocent curiosity before the sender’s name jabbed into her mind like a poison-tipped needle. The deceptively childish script had said Nico Rizzoli, but her mind’s eye flashed the catchier moniker assigned by the newspapers: Nico The Knife.

  The Sampson Correctional Institution return address was below, in the same innocuous script. It could have been a child’s valentine.

  Like Matilda, the Mid-Atlantic Fireheads Motorcycle Club understood well the way of doing things in a less than widely-accepted manner to reap quick benefit. And they paid well for it.

  In retrospect, she wished she had written incorrect address—better yet deceased—and put the envelope back, or just burned it without responding.

  But her curiosity was strong—not to mention the scent of money. She had begun a correspondence with the biker, ignoring all the warning signals. Soon she was recommending, and then sending books to Rizzoli, always surprised that the Department of Corrections, in its ignorance, would allow a dangerous criminal access to such powerful information. It was a matter of religious freedom, after all, and to them, a silly recreation. Hence, Rizzoli had been able to hide his scheme in plain sight, until it was time to entrust it to his man on the outside, Pipsqueak.

  Then it had all snowballed far beyond Matilda’s ability to reconcile—or control.

  The sun was gone. The moon, only a sliver.

  * * * *

  Just before bed time was best for arguments.

  Stella felt some guilt for making use of this stratagem. It seemed manipulative. But this was crucial, and she needed to use every advantage she could.

  There he stood at the sink, in his striped flannel pajamas, brushing his teeth and gargling, tired from a long day at work and hours in the basement with his chemistry set. At least he seemed satisfied with the lasagna she had made him.

  “I want to talk about something,” said she.

  “Yuh?” He spat, then brushed some more.

  “It doesn’t look good for Abe to adopt Candace.”

  “Crap. That’s a shame.” At least his concern was genuine.

  “I think we should consider it.” She wished she had skipped the “I think” part. It seemed indecisive.

  Bernard turned his whole body to face her. He seemed less like a head of household than a great big twelve-year-old in his pajamas with toothpaste at the corner of his mouth. “I don’t see how we could swing that. No.”

  His “no” was a strong counterweight to the pajamas.

  “We could manage it easily, Bernard. Abe is getting better and I‘ll be able to return to work with the county.” She took a hand towel and wiped his mouth, a mother tending to a child. Mothers knew best. “She’s old enough she wouldn’t be any trouble.”

  “No trouble? No trouble!?” Bernard took the towel away and dropped it on the sink. “She grew up in a family of weirdos. Whom…her brother…killed. I’m sorry to be insensitive, but that’s a lifetime of ‘trouble.’”

  He had a good point.

  “We could do it, Bernard. And it would be so rewarding!”

  She realized how paltry this sounded when he returned to his brushing with a scoff.

  “If we’re ever going to be parents, we’ll have to start soon, you know. And this way, all the diapering and late feeding is already over!”

  “I thought you said you were okay with not having children.”

  “When I thought we never could. Under these circumstances, I think we would be favored to—”

  “Everett Geelens.” Bernard interrupted. “The Trick or Treat Terror. Estimated lifetime body count of over one hundred men, women and children. Conjecture is, his environment contributed heavily to him becoming a serial killer.” Bernard spat in the sink, rinsed and took a drink of water. “His environment. The same as—”

  “I know, Bernard. I know. But this environment would be diff—”

  “No.” He held up his hand in her face. “Period.” He bumped past her and went directly to bed without his usual twenty-five minutes of reading.

  * * * *

  When Burt Darnell, manager of Darnell Hunt and Tackle, left work after 6 p.m.—midnight dark this time of year—his attention was drawn to the far end of his lot by a deep rumbling rhythm that made him uneasy. He and his evening stocker Jordie were further spooked by the portentous sight of an antique hearse parked beyond the streetlights emitting doomy music.

  Then Jordie recognized it as the Haunted Hollow Hearse, official vehicle of local punk rock outfit The Chalk Outlines—currently disbanded—and better known these days for their aborted show atop the theatre marquee during the infamous Pumpkin Parade massacre, when Dennis had taken an unintended stage dive off the marquee roof after a flying whiskey bottle had conked him a good one.

  Knowing who it was mostly reassured Burt, except that he couldn’t think of any good reason for the hearse to be parked at his store in the darkest sector of the lot. Add the notoriety of typical musician behavior, the stigma of the tragedy, and well…one could see where he might get the urge to call the sheriff.

  En route to the station to sign out and head home for dinner, Chief Deputy Hudson Lott heard the call and answered before anyone else could. “I’m about a block away,” he white lied. “I’ll take it.”

  Friendship and duty know no set schedule. This was both.

  As Hudson pulled into the otherwise deserted lot, he swallowed the permanent knot of dread that grew from a perpetual fear that Dennis would one day follow his father Jerome on a shortcut into the Great Wide Open. He recalled the sight of Dennis in a pool of his own blood after the fall from the stage; recalled how empty and sick he felt, thinking the tragedy of the young man’s life had finally come to a climax, as inevitable as it always seemed.

  If he were to find Dennis dead now, in another pool of blood—or vomit—it would change his life, his career, his everything, forever. But it would be best for him to bear that burden. It was an albatross he would wear dutifully.

  He did not flash the lights or hit the siren, as he eased up nose to nose with the modified ’70 Caddy hearse. He hoped he could determine Dennis’s state in increments, rather than in widescreen 3D at the driver side window.

  Hudson got out and walked to the hearse. From the hearse’s speakers, Black Sabbath’s “Falling Off the Edge Of The World” faded away and restarted. Hudson recognized it from the Outlines’ rehearsals. Something about its emotional spectrum always got Dennis’s juices flowing.

  The front was empty.

  A clutter of dark clothes and pale tattooed skin filled the back seat. It was Dennis all right. His black sneakers, his black jeans, his naked torso curled in fetal position. Hudson watched his ribs for movement and was relieved to see a slight rise and fall.

  He tapped the window once with the flashlight, but he’d roused enough drunks to know that wouldn’t do it.

  The door was unlocked, as he’d expected it would be, in keeping with Dennis’s self-destructive tendencies. On some level, the rocker would welcome a murderous prowler.

  Hudson took Dennis’s wrist and pulled him up, careful to protect his head. As the empty Diamante bottle—same brand as the one that KO’d him a year ago—clinked onto the concrete, Dennis stirred. Hudson took him in a hug, as he had many times after the elder Barcroft’s passing, and lifted him to stand, alarmed at how light and thin he was.

  “Come on, son,” Hudson patted his cheek. “Wake up now.”

  Dennis fluttered his eyes to half-mast and propped himself against the hearse, dim recogn
ition coming to his reddened eyes. “Hey man …”

  “Glad you’re not driving,” Hudson said. “Thanks for that.”

  Dennis gave a sloppy salute.

  “I’ll take you home. Have someone bring you your car in the morning.”

  “Dude,” Dennis clamped his eyes shut and exhaled a noisy breath. “I can’t go home.”

  “Why not?”

  “I can’t let Ma and Stuart see me like this.”

  “Then why’d you get like this?”

  Dennis didn’t answer, and he didn’t need to. He had some damn good reasons.

  “How about we go get some coffee then?”

  “Coffee then…” Dennis agreed.

  Hudson helped his friend to the patrol car and called in to have dispatch phone his wife Leticia and ask her to prepare an extra dinner plate.

  Chapter 5

  Frailty

  Candace had been distantly aware of little Emera coming to her side and gently shaking her, patting her cheek, whispering that it was “time to giddup” throughout an epoch of slumber. She was grateful for these rest stops on the winding miles of nightmare road she trod like a death march, during which Everett had come and gone in her head as he pleased.

  Her ballooning bladder, desert-dry tongue and a vague sense of urgency forced her to sit up. She vaguely remembered the ordeal of the sleeping pills, of the Dietrichs insisting she take them, then checking her mouth to make sure she’d swallowed them.

  Emera wasn’t around now, and that raised a sludgy, helpless panic somewhere beyond the sedative’s reach. If only the rest of her could shake it off.

  A weak call for the little girl found its way out of her. Before Candace could make herself fall out of bed the Dietrichs were there.

  “There we are,” said the Mrs. “Bet you’re thirsty.” She held the glass to Candace’s lips and carefully tipped it.

  “So glad you got some rest,” said Mr. Dietrich, patting her on the shoulder. Their familiar smiles did not waver. At the window, the sun-dotted shadows of the big maple in the backyard told Candace it was at least noon.

  Mrs. Dietrich stroked her hair and answered the question Candace struggled to ask. “Emera is fine. She’s in our room while we tend to you.”

  Candace gulped more water and received more praise for it. “Don’t worry. You’ll be back to normal in half an hour or so,” said Mr. Dietrich.

  “We should talk about what happened in the TV room,” Mrs. Dietrich said. Her husband shut his eyes and set his jaw in a caricature of concern.

  “Okay,” Candace managed. She remembered too well, having swum amid nightmare versions of the incident over the last few hours.

  “We know you want to be near Emera. And she needs you, no doubt about that,” Mrs. Dietrich said. “We’re just afraid your case worker won’t understand if she hears that you went after Radley with a knife.”

  Not to mention Emera being picked on by Radley and Rebecca, while you two were off doing who-knows-what, Candace thought. Right?

  Mr. Dietrich put his big hand on Candace’s. “We just want our little family to stay together and get along. Emera’s making progress coming out of her shell, thanks to you. We wouldn’t want her falling behind again. Understand?”

  “Whud ’bout Radley and Rebecca?” Candace slurred.

  “Don’t worry, Sweetie.” Mrs. Dietrich said. “They are being dealt with.”

  “The main thing is, we want everyone to get along,” Mr. Dietrich finished. “And we need you to try.”

  “Oh…kay.” Candace yearned to go find Emera and make sure she was all right. Because she wasn’t about to trust these two half-present adults.

  When they left, Candace shuffled to the bathroom. She splashed cold water on her face and then went to her journal and ongoing letter to Stuart.

  “They were supposed to be giving me one sleep pill every night! But they didn’t give me ANY till last night after the fight with Radley and Rebecca! And then they gave me TWO! But I saw the bottle, Stuart. It was almost empty!”

  * * * *

  Afterwards, the Dietrichs called all the kids together to the scene of the incident for a catch-all reprimand and some customized punishments.

  “No Saturday phone calls for a while,” Mrs. Dietrich told Candace. “You can use the free time to reflect on how to get along with …”

  Candace didn’t need to hear the rest. Instead she focused on her surreal recall of the incident, of just being along for the ride when her legs tromped to the kitchen and her hand took the boning knife. She never wanted to feel that way again; out of control and fated to draw blood.

  But the terror on their faces, when they all saw the knife…

  “I’m sorry everyone,” she said, as Mrs. Dietrich wound down her lecture. The Dietrichs never forced apologies, but Candace was sorry and did need to express it. “I hope I didn’t scare you guys too much.”

  She furtively made eye contact with her housemates. Their expressions ranged from confusion to…nothing. Remorse and personal responsibility were already long lost for most of them.

  Then she glanced at Radley and found him smirking. Beside him, Rebecca pointed and expelled a “Ha!”

  “Rebecca, dammit!” Mr. Dietrich grabbed her elbow and hauled her off to her room.

  Candace had wanted to mend the rift, but she was alone.

  She wondered, was this why God made killers, like her brother?

  She chased away the black thought and waited to be dismissed.

  * * * *

  “Okay, Bernard.” Hudson nodded vigorously, perhaps believing he was convincing the man on the other end of the call that he was deeply interested in what he had to say. “Hopefully, I’ll get a minute to drop by and see what you’ve come up with th—”

  DeShaun tittered, Leticia shook her head, and Dennis mouthed “W-T-F?” as Bernard’s interrupting voice needled out around Hudson’s ear.

  They watched Hudson peer into his mashed potatoes.

  It took Leticia’s unwavering eye contact to motivate Hudson to cut off the garrulous scientist. “Listen Bernard, we’ve got dinner ready here and a guest. Call you tomorrow, bud!”

  He clicked off without allowing Bernard his customary ten minutes of wind-down conversation. “That man is damn near obsessed.”

  Little Wanda had recently graduated from her high chair to migrating across various laps throughout the course of dinner, sampling from plates along the way. Enchanted by the novelty of a beloved dinner guest, she currently occupied Dennis’s.

  “How’d he get on this kick anyway?” Dennis asked.

  “I gave him a couple samples of Ruth’s poison treats because he was curious about what was in them. Wanted to do tests.”

  “Wanda!” The toddler had just begun to roll her finger in Dennis’s mashed potatoes when Leticia called her down. “Now that is rude!”

  Wanda raised the finger to Dennis’ face, perhaps hoping to convince her mother that her intentions had been good.

  “Thank you, Wanda.” Dennis scraped his finger across Wanda’s and transferred the mash to his mouth. “He a chemist or something?”

  “Chemist, engineer—that dude has more degrees than a thermometer,” DeShaun said.

  Hudson offered his son an approving fist bump.

  “You don’t have to do that,” Leticia said, as Dennis accepted another finger of potatoes from the baby.

  “I want her to stay for a minute.” Dennis gave Wanda a kiss on the head.

  “Feeling any better?” Hudson asked.

  Dennis made an “iffy” gesture. “Thanks for collecting me. Feeding me.”

  “What are we gonna do next?” Hudson asked.

  Dennis just looked at his plate.

  “You need to think about your mama,” Leticia said, bringing a reproachful expression from Hudson. �
�Well, he does!”

  “I know, yeah,” Dennis agreed.

  In the living room, Bravo pawed at the door and whined, as he did every night.

  “He wants to go find Candace,” DeShaun explained.

  “I need to see if we can bring him when we go visit,” Hudson said.

  Taken in by the Lotts after the parade disaster, Bravo had been given all that he never had in his past.

  Patriarch Aloysius Geelens had wanted a big dog to intimidate his increasingly unpredictable son Everett, or even attack the boy, if worse came. But like everyone else, Bravo was made uneasy by Everett. The dog had only ever truly bonded with Candace.

  Here at the Lotts, he had a big garage and the foot of DeShaun’s bed to sleep in, a backyard to roam and the best dog food money could buy. DeShaun and Stuart walked him every day. He often wagged and rubbed against his new housemates to show his love and gratitude. But there was no denying his heart and thoughts were with Candace.

  “I want to talk about that,” DeShaun said quietly, spinning his fork in his gravy.

  “Talk about what?” asked Leticia.

  “Well, we’re worried, Stuart and me.” He glanced at Bravo. “Stuart says her letters make it sound like it’s…just weird over there. Something seems really wrong.”

  He chose not to mention Candace’s obsessive certainty that Everett would somehow return.

  Dennis knocked back the last half of his coffee in one smooth motion. Leticia had the pot up to refill before Dennis had even lowered his cup. “The adoption system is crap,” Dennis said. “Pedro tells horror stories. Or did, anyway, when we were speaking.”

  Wanda waved her chubby hand at the steam rising from Dennis’s coffee.

  “We’re worried about her,” DeShaun said.

  “Because you’re a good friend, baby,” said Leticia.

  “I better get home and check in,” Dennis said, rising to hand off Wanda and don his jacket.

  Bravo perked up, wagging in anticipation, ever hopeful he was about to go find His Little Girl.

  * * * *

  “It’s just for a while,” Mrs. Dietrich explained. “Who knows if you might walk in your sleep given your state? I know you don’t want to be all drugged up every night.” She pulled the Velcro straps reasonably tight, binding Candace to her bed. “And all you’ve been through.”