The basement was dry and clean. The furnace in the corner kept the room nice and toasty. Christopher didn’t think the nice man would ever come here. It would be the first place the hissing lady would look. But he wanted it to be ready for him just in case. And the truth was, Christopher was scared without him. He didn’t want to stay up all night by himself.
Christopher walked with the big glass of milk and the cookies and sandwich over to the sofa. He remembered when he used to leave out cookies for Santa Claus. Christopher’s mother made delicious peanut butter blossoms with a Hershey’s Kiss right in the middle of each one. The heat from the cookie melted the Kiss just a little bit. She would kiss his cheeks and ask, “Where are my kisses?” And he would laugh, and then Christopher gathered the cookies on a plate with a nice glass of milk and left them under the tree for Santa.
He suddenly remembered waking up really early one Christmas. It was still dark out. And even though his mother warned him not to leave bed or else Santa would know he was being naughty, Christopher couldn’t help himself. He had asked Santa for a Bad Cat stuffed animal, and he just had to know if Santa brought it. Christopher tiptoed down the hallway of their railroad apartment and peeked his head into their living room.
That’s when he saw his father.
Eating the cookies and drinking the milk.
Christopher’s father put down Santa’s snack, then went to the closet. He grabbed a big, white pillowcase hidden behind ordinary bedsheets. Then, he pulled a bunch of wrapped presents out of the case and put them under the tree. The last was a nice big present, wrapped in Bad Cat paper. Christopher’s father then went to the kitchen, where he finished the cookies. One by one in silence. Then, Christopher went back down the hallway and went to sleep.
The next morning, Christopher chose that big present with the Bad Cat wrapping paper as his very first gift.
“What do you think it is, Christopher?” his mother asked.
“I don’t know,” he said quietly.
Christopher opened the gift wrap and saw his beloved Bad Cat stuffed animal.
“Isn’t that a nice present from Santa?” his father asked.
Christopher nodded dutifully even though he knew his father was the only person who put presents under the tree. Christopher went to church later that day and heard the other kids excited for the presents that Santa brought them that morning. Christopher didn’t have the heart to blow it for the other kids. He never told anyone that Santa was an imaginary friend. He just pretended for the rest of the day and smiled when his mother took a picture of his father in front of that old Christmas tree. The picture that rested in the silver frame on his bookshelf upstairs. That was the last year his father was there at Christmas. His father died in the bathtub a week later. And when the next Christmas came around, his mother made the cookies with the Hershey’s Kiss in the middle. She said, “Where are my kisses?” as she put them under the tree. And the next morning, the cookies and milk were gone, replaced by presents. Christopher didn’t have a father anymore. But he still had Santa Claus.
Christopher set down the milk and cookies on the side table and went to the old suitcase. He opened it up and looked at the old clothes, which still smelled a little like tobacco smoke. His father had a favorite sweater that was warm but not scratchy. He also had a pair of smooth cotton slacks that he’d owned for so long, they were as soft as pajamas. Christopher took the outfit, an old sleeping bag, and a pillow, and laid them on the sofa. Then, without making a sound, he tried to think as loud as he could for the nice man to hear him.
I don’t know if it’s safe for you to hide here. And I know I can’t talk to you out loud because she might be listening. But I hope you can hear me thinking. I got you some food because you must be hungry from eating that dog food all the time. I will pretend I forgot it here in case she’s watching. And I’ll leave you a sleeping bag so you can rest on the couch.
Christopher laid out his father’s old clothes.
These are my dad’s clothes. I don’t know if they’ll fit you, but I know that your clothes are covered in blood and dirt. So, I hope you can fit in them and be more comfortable. Oh, and one last thing…
Christopher reached into his pocket and pulled out all the aspirin he had.
I always have a headache now, so I take these all the time. They also make my fever stop a little. But I saw how much she hurt you, so I want you to have them to take away your pain. I’ll get more tomorrow. I know you need to heal so you and David can get the key and escape.
Christopher took the old plastic bag out of his pocket. He put it right above the sweater where the head should have been, then covered it with a pillow. Just in case. Christopher walked to the basement stairs, but before he climbed, he turned back to the little recovery bed he made for the nice man. He looked at the cookies and milk left for his real-life Santa Claus. His real imaginary friend.
Chapter 51
Something had changed. The sheriff could feel it. He had been in the Mission Street Woods since early that afternoon. He had walked the crime scene for the hundredth time when out of nowhere, it felt like the woods woke up around him. Rodents who had been hiding in holes suddenly made digging sounds. The birds flew off the branches as if someone had shot a gun that only they could hear. The temperature instantly dropped to below freezing. It felt like someone had left a window open and a draft was running through the world.
If David Olson was buried alive, then who buried him?
Because it wasn’t the trees.
The sheriff shook off the uneasy feeling and went back to his work. He walked up and down the footpath, looking for clues. Of course, the case was fifty years old, so he knew he wouldn’t find a fresh scene. No sign of abduction. No hole in the ground. No trapdoor. But maybe he would find something else. An idea. An insight. Some reasonable explanation that would allow the sheriff to put David Olson to rest in his own mind the way that Ambrose had put him to rest that morning.
But nothing came.
Except that uneasy feeling.
The sheriff passed the spot where David’s body was found. He looked at the torn earth and remembered standing next to Ambrose and Kate Reese at David’s funeral. It was only that morning, and yet it felt like it happened two years ago. Father Tom gave a beautiful eulogy. Ambrose insisted on carrying his little brother’s casket. The sheriff had to give the old man credit. He couldn’t think of a lot of men who could have been a pallbearer on two arthritic knees.
When they reached the cemetery, they walked the casket over to the grave. As Father Tom spoke, the sheriff looked out over the cemetery. He could barely hear the words “love” and “forgiveness” and “peace.” He could only think about the thousands of headstones with generations of families lying side by side. Husbands. Wives. Mothers. Fathers. Daughters. Sons. The sheriff thought about all those families. All those Christmas dinners and presents and memories. And then, he had the strangest thought.
God is a murderer.
The sheriff had no idea where it came from. There was no menace to it. No malice. Nothing sacrilegious. It was just a thought that drifted there quietly like the clouds that had gathered above the cemetery. One cloud was shaped like a hand. Another like a hammer. And one looked like a man with a long beard.
God is a murderer.
The sheriff had arrested murderers before. Some begged that they were innocent or cursed him or screamed that it was all a misunderstanding. Some just sat there, still as statues, calm and sometimes covered in their victim’s blood. They were the truly frightening ones. Except of course the worst of them. The one woman who killed her own daughter. The girl with the painted nails. Not with a knife or a gun. But with neglect.
If God were arrested for murder, what would the people do with Him?
The sheriff looked out over the graves and thought about the girl with the painted nails. Hers was the last funeral he had attended before David Olson’s. The sheriff was the only person at the girl’s funeral other than
the priest. The sheriff couldn’t bear to have the girl laid to rest in the plain pine casket that the city provided. So, he cashed out some of his savings and bought her the best he could afford on an honest cop’s salary. When the funeral was over, he drove home and sat in his apartment. He wanted to pick up the phone and call his mother, but she had passed years ago. He wanted to take his father out for a drink, but his father was gone, too, along with his aunt, who died right after his high school graduation. The sheriff was an only child. He was the only one in his family left alive.
God had taken the rest.
If God were arrested for murder, would people ask for the death penalty?
The sheriff left Ambrose and Kate after the funeral and drove straight to the Mission Street Woods. The answer to David was in here. He was sure of it. He parked his cruiser and walked past the bulldozers of the Collins Construction Company. The judge (aka Mr. Collins’ golfing buddy of the last thirty years) had given the Collins Construction Company “temporary” permission to begin working again so long as they didn’t disturb the crime scene. The “temporary” permission lasted just long enough to put the Collins team back on schedule. Lucky them. The security guard told the sheriff that since the blizzard ended, they had cleared off a huge section of trees. Most of the trees would be gone by Christmas.
If David Olson was buried alive, then who buried him?
Because it wasn’t the trees.
The security guard explained that all of the bulldozing had torn up a lot of fresh earth. And the crew kept finding strange things buried out there. They found an old hacksaw, the kind the Amish still used. They found old hammers and rusty nails. A bunch of broken shovels, one of them with the shaft burnt. Tools going back to the 17th century, when England gave the entire state of Pennsylvania to William Penn to settle a debt.
At least a hundred years before men ever thought to mine coal.
The sheriff looked at the collection of old tools. Saws, hammers, and shovels. And that’s when he started to have an idea. He could feel it. An itch forming in his mind. As good as a back scratch.
What were these tools for?
The sheriff moved the questions around his brain. There was an answer here.
Were the tools for building?
The sheriff walked down the narrow path.
Or were the tools for burying?
The sheriff reached the clearing.
Or were the tools for murdering?
The clearing was still. Almost as if the wind was holding its breath. The sheriff looked up. And there it was. The tree house. Resting on the old tree.
If David Olson was buried alive, then who buried him?
Because it wasn’t the trees.
The sheriff approached the tree. He looked up. The sunlight poured through the clouds above, making the frost on the branches glow with golden light. Instantly the thought came to him. As clear as the sun.
If God were arrested for murder, the people would ask for the death penalty.
The sheriff stared up at the tree house. The wind returned, moving through his hair like a whisper.
But the people could never kill God, so they killed His Son Jesus instead.
Some deer started to walk toward the sheriff.
Did Jesus die for our sins?
Or did He die for His Father’s?
He held this thought like a smoker cradling his last match.
The people didn’t put Jesus to death as a martyr.
They put Him to death as an accomplice.
He could feel the answer on the tip of his tongue.
Jesus forgave us for killing Him.
His Father never did.
The sheriff stopped. He knew that in one second, he would see how it was all connected. David Olson. The old tools. The Mission Street Woods. The clearing. The clouds. All wrapped together like the tree roots around David Olson’s skeleton. One more second and he would know how David Olson really died.
And that’s when he heard the sound of a baby crying.
Coming from inside the tree house.
Chapter 52
Hello?” the sheriff shouted. “This is the Mill Grove Sheriff’s Department.”
The sheriff waited to hear if anyone in the tree house would acknowledge him. There was no answer. Only the sound of the baby crying.
The sheriff drew his gun and walked toward the tree house. He called into his radio for backup, but he got nothing but static. Maybe he was too far in the middle of the woods. Maybe it was the thick clouds.
Or maybe it was something else.
The sheriff reached the tree. He looked down and saw footprints that belonged to a child. They were fresh prints. It looked like someone was just here. The sheriff touched the tree. It didn’t feel like bark. It felt like…like a baby’s soft skin.
The baby was inside the tree house. Crying.
“Who’s up there?!” he demanded.
There was no response. Just wind. Like hissing. The crying reached a fever pitch. Did someone abandon their baby out here? He’d seen worse. The sheriff looked up at the ladder of the tree house. Little 2x4s nailed into the tree. The sheriff holstered his gun and put his hands and feet on the ladder. He climbed a few steps. The baby was screaming.
Ambrose was at home with his girlfriend.
They heard a baby crying.
Someone left a baby carriage on the porch.
There was no baby.
The sheriff stopped. All of his training screamed at him to keep climbing that ladder to help that baby. But his instincts told him to stop. He felt like a dog reacting to an invisible whistle. That’s what the baby cries were. They were a dog whistle. A dinner bell. An ambush.
He knew this was wrong.
There was something evil here.
If his deputies had done what the sheriff started to do next, he would have suspended them. But the sheriff was no fool. He started to climb back down the ladder. Away from this tree. Away from these woods. Away from whatever that dog whistle was. And that’s when he heard the voice.
“Daddy.”
The instant he heard the sound, his blood froze.
It was the girl with the painted nails.
“Daddy.”
She sounded exactly like she did that day in the hospital. The day before she died. She touched his hand with her little fingers and smiled with those broken teeth and called him that word.
“Daddy.”
The sheriff climbed. He reached the top of the ladder. He looked through the little window. The tree house was empty. Just little footprints on the wood floor.
“Daddy, help.”
The sheriff heard her voice right behind the tree house door. He pulled out his gun with one hand and reached for the doorknob with the other.
“Daddy, please help me.”
The sheriff threw open the door.
He saw her hiding in the corner.
The girl with the painted nails.
Her teeth weren’t broken. Her little body wasn’t broken. She was an angel. With a key around her neck.
“Hi, Daddy. You never finished the story. Do you want to read to me?” she asked, smiling.
The sheriff smiled, his eyes welling with tears.
“Of course I do, honey,” he said.
“Then, come inside,” she said.
She started to walk toward him. She took her little hand and gently helped him into the tree house.
The door closed behind him.
The sheriff looked around the tree house. It was no longer empty. It looked like her old hospital room. The little girl with the painted nails climbed into the bed. She got under the covers and brought the blanket under her little chin.
“The book is on the nightstand,” she said.
When the sheriff saw the book, he got an uneasy feeling. He remembered that her mother never read to her. She was never allowed to go to school. So, the book of fairy tales that he read to her in the hospital was the only book she ever heard. It was the book he re
ad to her the night she died. She fell asleep before he could finish the last story. She never got to hear the ending.
“I want to know how it ends,” she said. “Start reading from here.”
She pointed to a page. The sheriff cleared his throat and read.
“Grandma, what big eyes you have!”
“All the better to see you with, my dear.”
The girl with the painted nails closed her eyes. When the sheriff finished the story, he realized that she was asleep. She still didn’t get to hear the end of the story. The sheriff touched the hair on her head and smiled. He turned out the light. Then, he watched her rest until he fell asleep in the chair right next to her.
When the sheriff woke up, he had no memory of the tree house looking like her hospital room. No memory of reading that story. He didn’t know why he had fallen asleep in the tree house. The only vague recollection he had was the memory of the girl with the painted nails calling him “Daddy.”
When the sheriff left the tree house, he looked up. The clouds were gone. The day was night. And the moon was a sideways smile. The sheriff felt like he had fallen asleep in the tree house for an hour at most.
But when he looked at his watch, it read 2:17 a.m.
The sheriff walked down the 2x4 ladder, and his boots hit the snowy ground with a crunch like broken bones. He looked around the clearing and saw that the deer were long gone. It was just him and the moonlight. Alone with his thoughts.
Why didn’t I save her?
The sheriff walked back through the Mission Street Woods. He looked at the footpath and saw the years of neglect. Old rusted beer cans. Condoms. Bongs made out of plastic honey bears. Stuffed with the resin of the marijuana kids were growing in their parents’ basements. Along with things that were much worse. Things that make people crazy. People like her. The girl with the painted nails’ mother. Things that made her do terrible things to her daughter.
I should have saved her.
The sheriff shoved his freezing hands in his pockets and moved through the woods. The cold bit at his ears. Worming into his brain. If the neighbor had smelled the apartment one day earlier, he could have saved her. Why didn’t God let him know one day earlier? He could think of a hundred people who deserved to die more than the girl with the painted nails. A thousand. A million. Seven billion. Why did God kill her instead of other people? And then, the answer came to him. Cold and quiet. God didn’t kill her instead of other people. In the end, He kills everyone.
Imaginary Friend Page 29
