by S. D. Perry
Jamie nodded. “Oh, yeah. Sadie Truman’s dead. And Annie Thomas.”
Bob felt his stomach go hollow. “Annie?”
Jamie nodded again, added something equally insane. “Rick did it.”
Bob was still trying to absorb the news when the door to the restaurant opened. John Hanover stepped out, his expression bleak, his shoulders hunched. He wore a shirt that was too big on him, someone else’s—he held a plastic bag in one hand, with what looked like his suit jacket stuffed inside—and he blinked and squinted, as though surprised at the time of day, or the people, or both. He looked terrible.
Bob excused himself from Jamie and went to him. John seemed lost and was entirely willing to let himself be led away from the group. Bob steered him toward the street with a hand on his arm—realizing, as they walked, that John smelled of blood.
More gossip, more whispering as they passed through the watchers, the hushed voices pointing John out as one of the customers, as a witness, as a doctor. John seemed oblivious, his expression blank and dazed.
The shadows were getting long, the evening starting to chill. Bob was about to ask John what he needed—a ride home, a drink, a willing ear—when John spoke, his voice soft and strained.
“Annie’s dead,” he said. “I ran into the kitchen when he started yelling, but it was already too late.”
“Who did it, John?” Bob asked. “Was it Rick?” He was more concerned for his friend than for getting the scoop—but he was still wanted the story, he couldn’t deny it in spite of the small measure of guilt that went with the admission. No matter that he was the only reporter on the scene, or that the fluff-filled Press was every two weeks; he’d worked as a journalist for most of his adult life. Wanting to know the five Ws became habit after a while.
John nodded, gazing out at the street. “She was trying to help the kid, I think. I’m not sure, but that’s what I think. Rick said leave him alone, that was what I heard, and we ran in and she was already down. Annie.”
John turned his haunted gaze to Bob but didn’t seem to see him. “I should have gone with her,” he said. “I wanted to.”
Bob was fitting the pieces together. “Annie went to talk to Rick, and he—stabbed her?”
John kept talking. “We—it was our first real date. And the waitress said he was acting—she said she was scared of him, and Annie told me that she could handle it. Talking to Rick, I mean. And I let her go.”
“You couldn’t have known,” Bob said.
John nodded, but his expression made it clear that he begged to differ. Bob thought about pushing the point, then let it slide. John would come to his own conclusions.
“You said she was trying to help the kid,” Bob said. “What kid?”
“Josh,” John said. “The waitress said his name was Josh, he worked at the deli. He was sleeping with Sadie, apparently. So, Rick chopped her up. Sadie…and he castrated Josh, but he was still alive, and I think Annie was just trying to, to—”
John’s face crumpled. He turned away from Bob, his jaw working, a low, strangled sound issuing from his throat. Bob waited it out, debating whether to lay a hand on his shoulder, to offer what limited comfort he could; he wanted to help but reflexively resisted the idea of intruding on another man’s grief. Before he could decide, John managed to pull himself back together. He took a deep, shuddery breath and turned to face Bob again, wiping at his eyes with the heels of his hands. Bob could see dark-red rinds of blood beneath John’s fingernails.
Probably Annie’s Bob thought, and felt cold.
“What a fucking nightmare,” John said. He looked and sounded miserable, but the expression of blankness, of shock was finally gone. “Rick Truman had a psychotic break. Or maybe he was always borderline, and finding out about his wife was a stressor, I don’t know. Maybe he invented the whole thing. He killed Sadie, though, in the kitchen. And he was torturing her supposed lover to death when Annie walked in.”
“Christ.”
John nodded, his expression turning. He looked physically ill for a moment, and when he spoke again, his voice was throaty and quavering.
“There were—he was putting them in the food,” he said. “Annie found a fingernail in the bisque.”
Bob felt ill himself—but as before, he also felt guiltily energized by the news. Horrible, horrible of course…but Jesus, what a story! And on the tail of Ed Billings’s killing spree. The modern media machine was about to descend on little Port Isley, God help them all.
“What happened to Rick?” Bob asked.
“After he killed Annie, he went into some kind of catatonic state, just dropped the knife and laid down,” John said. “Somebody called the police. I tried to help Annie, me and this woman, but I—there was nothing we could do.”
He shook his head as if to clear it. “One of the other diners used to be a PA or something; he helped the kid. Might have saved him, I don’t know, he was in pretty bad shape. The EMTs showed up, they took the kid—Josh—and Rick away. Vincent and a couple of his people went with Rick. I don’t know if they Mirandized him or not, I didn’t really catch that part—I was talking to someone when they took him out…”
He stopped talking, as though he’d run out of words, and Bob could see that the reality of it all was still hitting him. He could see it in the dark anguish of John’s gaze, wet and confused. He decided that he would get anything else he needed from some other source.
And this week’s edition is already run, anyway, that selfish part reminded him. He told it to go fuck itself.
“Do you need to stay here?” Bob asked. “To talk to the police?”
John shook his head. “I already talked to Vincent. I told him I needed a shower. He said I could come down to the station after…or he’d send someone to get my statement, I don’t…I don’t remember…”
“Come on, I’ll drive you home,” Bob said.
John took a shaking breath, then nodded. Bob patted his arm and motioned in the direction of his truck; they started walking, the evening’s first stars springing up far above.
Bob wondered when the reality of the situation would hit him—he’d known Rick and Sadie since his first day in Port Isley and had been half in love with Officer Annie, in a pleasantly hopeless way—and decided that he’d really rather not be sober for the awareness, when it came. He’d have to hope that reality would be kind in its generally dreadful timing.
Either that, or I can go on a bender until the autumn rains hit, until it’s too late to care as much. He knew better, knew that grief didn’t work that way…but strangely, the thought gave him some small comfort.
Tommy had finally found the bat handler and was trying decide whether to round up some people to run an instance to find another Hanzo sword when he got a whisper from Jeff. Private, not in the line of chat.
nother guy went craZ & kild wife, it said. dwntwn. rick trueman, ownd la poison.
When? Tommy typed, as quickly as he could.
2nite, 2-3 hrs ago.
Tommy started to ask how he’d found out about it but hadn’t finished when the next message came.
kild her, put her N soup, no shit. she was screwing ths guy & he chopt off guys dick 2 & did kill a cop.
No way, Tommy sent.
4real. Can U get out? Im going dwn.
Tommy automatically glanced toward his bedroom door, cracked open. He could hear clattering in the kitchen downstairs as his mom and Aunt Karen cleaned up from dinner and had their drinks of whatever. There were two older couples in the house, too, probably already in bed. They went to bed crazy early. It was almost ten thirty, which was usually when his mom expected him to brush his teeth and get settled, at least in the summer. He could stay up later if he had a good enough reason, a show he really wanted to watch or a quest he needed a few extra minutes on, but no way she’d let him leave the house at this hour, for any reason.
I could go anyway, he thought, and was guiltily thrilled by the idea, one he never would have had even, like, a year ago. Leave a note on t
he desk, saying he ran over to Jeff’s for a book or something, then out the front door. They’d never know. Port Isley was so small, and Aunt Karen only lived halfway up the hill; ten minutes to get downtown, tops. It was enticing…but only a little. He might get back before his mom realized how long he’d been gone, but she’d definitely find the note before he made it home. And she’d be super PO’d if he left without telling her.
And it’d be wrong, he thought, but the thought didn’t carry the same weight it once had, when he’d been younger. That realization was somehow more alarming than anything else.
Another moment’s pause, and he tapped out, can’t, doors blockd, his heart thumping. There was no way Jeff could find out he was lying. No way he could think of, anyway.
pussy, Jeff said, as if he’d intuited the lie, and then L8R, and he was gone, presumably off to see what he could of the new killings. They’d been up to the place in Kehoe Park a couple of times, seen the flowers and stuff, but Tommy had felt uncomfortable about it. Not like Jeff, or Jeff’s friends. They’d made a lot of jokes about ghosts, and about fucking. They said fuck a lot, way more than his friends at home. And they’d made a big deal of riding their bikes over the spot where the body was supposed to have been. Tommy hadn’t told his mom about any of that—and he decided he didn’t want to be the one to tell her about Le Poisson, either. If Jeff was right, it was just too creepy.
Pussy, he told himself, but then put it out of his mind, returning to his game. It was too late to start a new quest, even a short one, but he could do some mining, get some money that way. Or maybe work up his fishing skill. He concentrated on the busywork, telling himself that it didn’t matter that he’d seriously considered leaving his room, leaving the safety of his family for the wide, dark summer outside, where things were happening.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Amanda waited around the pier for three days, morning to night, telling herself she was just avoiding Peter, but mostly wanting to see Eric again…and for three days, she’d sat and smoked and picked apart their too-brief conversation from the Klatch, remembering that smile of his. Having no close girlfriends to talk with—she’d been kind of tight with this one girl all through junior high, but she had moved two years ago and they’d lost touch—Amanda had spent those long, idling hours reading and posing on one of the park benches, her sunglasses perched on the bridge of her nose, a cigarette always burning so she could do the French inhale thing that looked really cool. She’d told Devon about meeting Eric, of course, but had quickly grown bored with his graphically sexual innuendos and relentless teasing. It was weird, but ever since the picnic, things had been a little strained between them. Like he was disappointed or something but was trying not to show it. Trying too hard, maybe.
She hadn’t told Devon—hadn’t told anyone—about what had happened with Peter, with him hitting on her. She knew Devon, knew he’d push her to go to the cops or Willie T at the high school to get Peter busted. Which he deserved, totally, but she couldn’t bring herself to admit that she couldn’t handle things herself. Plus, she thought her mom would kick Peter out on his ass if she told…but maybe not. Lately, Grace had been really into Peter, God only knew why. Amanda didn’t want to think about it. She’d just keep away from him, make sure they were never alone together. In a few more months, she and Devon would have their own apartment and real lives in the city, and her mother never needed to know that anything had almost happened. Which it hadn’t.
Amanda found out about the murders at Le Poisson on Wednesday night, when her mom came home from work with the news. She’d called Devon immediately, and they’d agreed to meet early on Thursday, which sort of messed up her plans of hanging around the pier all day, but she was starting to think that the mysterious Eric hadn’t been as cool as he’d seemed, initially. She was interested, but she wasn’t going to wait by the phone, so to speak, even if she didn’t have anything better to do. The murders, at least, were a distraction.
She and Devon exchanged details on the walk down the hill Thursday morning, what little they’d heard and overheard. Annie Thomas and Sadie Truman, dead. And Josh Waites, alive but mutilated. He’d worked at Truman’s deli and had been totally hot; she and Devon had both thought he was slamming. If the rumors were true, Rick Truman had cut off Josh’s dick and served it to his dinner customers, along with most of his wife’s guts.
Even before they got to the bottom of the hill, they could see the news vans lining up on Bayside and overdressed reporter types wandering around, setting up shots, tapping on laptops while camera guys moved equipment around. Devon pointed out a man who just had to be Tim Bishop off channel five, talking on a cell phone with a scowl on his icky-tan face. They had to wait in line at the Klatch forever for some guy to buy like ten lattes, and the woman after him ordered six more, both of them all wired up with phone gear and carrying iPads. A well-dressed, overly made-up woman with a notepad approached them outside after they got their coffee, a determined smile on her face, and Devon said, “…because she was a paparazzi whore,” kind of loud before she even opened her mouth, which made Amanda almost snort coffee out her nose. The woman kept right on walking. It was funny, but also surreal and unpleasant, seeing all the reporters and cameras around, knowing why they were there.
They walked toward the old middle school, back up the hill and west. During the summer, town kids used to gather on the school’s playground, passing time under the giant wooden play structure in the heat of the day. A lot of kids still did, over at the new school—but the old site, right by Kehoe, was where the stoners hung out now, pretty much year-round. The vast basement was mostly open to the air, half-filled with broken chunks of concrete, but it was partially covered and mostly empty at one corner, creating a shady cave that could hold a dozen kids comfortably…if you didn’t mind perching on a pile of rocks, inhaling the mold smell along with your drugs. Amanda got high there every now and again—seemed like there was always someone with a soda can pipe and time to kill hanging out in the basement—but she didn’t like to linger. Too dirty and spidery.
It was still early—well, almost eleven, but early for going to the middle school—but there were already six or seven people sitting in the basement’s cool shade, most gathered around Cam Trent and her boyfriend, Greg. Cam’s mother was on the PD, and Cam was therefore a total pothead and slutbag, but she also knew everything about everything that went on in town.
“Hey,” Devon said, as they climbed down the carefully placed slabs of broken concrete that made up the stairs. They shuffled past the piles of rubble at the basement’s entry, joining the group. There were a couple of candles burning in the corner, as usual, fighting with the thickest of the darkness, although you could mostly see by sunlight filtering in.
“Oh, look, the hag and her fag,” Cam said.
“Yeah, sorry we’re late, we were both fucking your dad,” Devon said, and got a few laughs. Missy and Keith were there, and they made room. There were a few grease monkeys hanging out, and two of them took off, one of them muttering darkly, glaring at Devon as they exited. Most of the car guys hated Devon because he was gay, and because he was always making jokes about crankshafts and pumping pistons, shit like that. No great loss.
Greg was loading a fat bowl, which made the rounds while Cam recounted what she’d heard—nothing they didn’t already know, except that Rick Truman was locked in a psych ward for observation. Amanda wasn’t planning to smoke—she hadn’t had any more weird dreams or anything, and she wasn’t hip on inviting any—but when the pipe came to her, she gave a big internal shrug and lit up, unable to resist. It had been, like, two weeks. And that whole conversation with Bob Sayers had put things in perspective; something had happened to her, for real, but it was like that story about his brother. Onetime deal.
They settled in, listening as theories about the town’s sudden bloodlust were introduced. Keith put out the idea that Mr. Billings and Rick Truman were buddies who’d made some kind of psycho suicide pact, only R
ick had chickened at the last minute. Cam said she’d read this stuff on the net about how this one murder in Scotland set off like five more in a month, a few years back. Devon told the story about all those kids in Japan or somewhere who’d committed suicide by jumping into a volcano back in the thirties. Like, a couple/three hundred of them, over a period of months. Liz Shannon, who was a total hippie flake, went on about the moon being in Scorpio or some such shit for a few minutes, but she was an idiot, just a voice droning in the dim, nasty basement. It was cool and quiet, and Amanda’s coffee was just the right temperature, tepid and creamy and not too sweet, and she lit a cigarette and felt herself relaxing as Liz prattled on. Amanda made a big deal out of not having any close friends, but she felt accepted, mostly. Everyone here knew her mom was an alkie, they knew she listened to weird music and kept a journal and liked to wear safety pins on everything, and no one really gave a shit. Most of them, anyway. That was cool, it was like, like community, they were all connected because they all lived and worked in the same space…
She took a deep breath, realizing how high she was. It had been awhile, and Greg always had awesome shit. His brother dealt.
“Astrology’s a load,” someone said. Greg Taner; he had his arm around Cam and his tone was mostly good-natured. Greg was on the football team, but he wasn’t one of the Dicks. Just kind of a dork. With good pot.
“Didn’t you ever see any of those shows where, like, everyone in a class gets their own private astrology printout, and they go on and on about how true it is, and then the professor tells ’em they have their neighbor’s printout?” Greg asked. “You know what I’m talking about?”
A couple of people laughed, and Liz shook her head. Even in the dim light, Amanda could see that she was blushing. “I got my chart done, and there’s all kinds of stuff in there that’s, like, totally specific.”
Devon chimed in. “Let me guess—you’re loyal and honest, you hate to be uncomfortable, you avoid conflict…”
