Chalk Man

by Tony Faggioli

  “That his friend took Charlie.”

  Klink joined them and stood at the foot of the bed. “What friend?”

  “Charlie’s mom’s boyfriend. I don’t know his name.” He glanced uncomfortably to the ceiling, then back to Parker. “I guess he was mean to Charlie’s mom sometimes.”

  “How do you know that?” Klink asked.

  “I heard Charlie speaking to the substitute teacher one day after he got upset in class. He started crying and she called him to her desk. But I sit up front so I could hear.”

  Parker, now composed again, returned to the conversation. “What’d he tell her?”

  “That his mom was freaking out. That her boyfriend wasn’t acting like himself. Like he was on drugs or something.”

  “Acting like . . . how?”

  “He was, like, speaking weird sometimes . . . not with words or something. And drawing weird things.”

  Klink crossed his arms. “Drawing? What’d he draw?”

  Joey raised his hand off the bed a little, then wiped at the creases in his blanket. It was obvious that he didn’t want to answer.

  Adult frustration began to fill the room. Parker had a feeling he knew exactly what Joey meant about Alex Roland acting weird, but he couldn’t give up that fact. Not yet. Perhaps not ever. How could he? Was he supposed to tell Klink he was working this case with his dead partner? How would that go over? Based on Lieutenant Sparks’ hardline stance on the legend of The Hotel Clarke was there any doubt of how she’d handle finding out that one of the detectives in her department was engaging in supernatural forensics? Nope. That’d punch Parker’s ticket out of the squad room, and most likely out of the department, permanently.

  The silence of the room was not giving Joey an out, so he pushed on. “Charlie said they were, like, demons and monsters or something. Faces of them and stuff. And that he liked to talk to him and his mom about them. How they had power and could come to life.”

  “What could?”

  “The drawings.” Joey suddenly became distraught. “Anyway . . . anyway . . . then Charlie told the teacher that his mom’s boyfriend was hitting her and stuff . . . until she kicked him out of the house. But that at night or whatever, he kept trying to come back and break in.”

  Parker couldn’t help but think that this whole thing was getting darker by the minute. He was never good at lying to himself, so when the thought came of how it might be nicer to go back to the simpler days of wearing a blue uniform and dealing with breaking up house parties, he actually felt himself give a little internal nod.

  “Is that all, Joey?” Klink asked.

  Joey nodded, then quickly shook his head. “No. Wait. There’s one more thing.”

  Ms. Herrera swallowed hard, as if she’d heard enough. Parker noticed that she was clutching the gold crucifix that was hanging from her neck and that her fingers were trembling slightly. Still, she encouraged her son to go on. “What’s that, honey?”

  “After Charlie went missing?”

  Klink gave him a nod of encouragement. “Yeah?”

  “A rumor went around school . . . some kid, I don’t know who, started it . . . they said that Charlie told them one day that he woke up, in the middle of the night, and the boyfriend was just standing there, staring at him through the window.”

  The room went quiet again before Joey finished. “The next morning, Joey told one of his Xbox friends, some guy who said he was in special forces or something, that the boyfriend was just never going to go away.”

  Parker sighed. The infamous WillowWalker10. Who poor Charlie had no idea was the very same man who was tormenting him and his mother.

  “What happened?”

  “The guy told Charlie not to worry. That he’d take care of the boyfriend. That he’d help. But now all the kids are saying maybe he was a liar.”

  Napoleon was back. You beginning to see where this is headed, Parker?

  Parker didn’t entirely, but he nodded anyway, as he didn’t want to miss what came next.

  “So that’s the rumor on the playground?”

  “Yeah. That the boyfriend came and got Charlie to . . .” Joey stopped cold.

  “To what?”

  Joey shook his head, then mumbled, “To kill him or something.”

  Just like the Mayan princesses’ son . . . Napoleon whispered.

  Parker felt his soul catch a chill.

  He’s trying to repeat the ritual of vengeance. Kill the boy. Destroy the mother who would not be your lover.

  “I . . . really hope he’s not a kid killer,” Joey said in the scared voice of a child. He began to cry gently. His mother sat on the edge of the bed and took him into her arms. Then, looking at Klink and Parker, she said, “I think that’s enough. I’m sorry. But . . . please.”

  They both nodded in unison before Klink said, “Absolutely.” Then, with firmness, he said, “Joey?”

  Joey De La Cruz looked up at them through a gap between his mother’s forearm and chest.

  “You did a good thing here today, young man. You may have really helped us. Thanks for being brave.”

  They were words of affirmation and praise, probably not the likes of which Joey heard often from the male figures in his young life, and the way Joey’s eyes drank them up like wine nearly broke Parker’s heart.

  As they left the hospital room and made their way to the elevator, Klink fell in step next to Parker. “Well?”

  Be careful, Parker, Napoleon said softly from behind them.

  Parker wanted to tell Klink that The Hotel Clarke was child’s play. A few ghosts and a demon wandering the halls was nothing in the higher order of evil. That demons don’t need to be drawn on papers or chalkboards or windows. That, in real life, every day, demons are to your right and to your left. Waiting. Distracting. Discouraging. Tempting. And God help you if you notice them. God help you if you wake up one day and realize that you don’t have to be a religious person to see that the world is a fallen place, a conquered land. That each day? You’re behind enemy lines in a war that has been going on for thousands of years. That, in truth, it was good not to know this because knowing it meant living each day with a little dose of terror in your heart.

  Instead? He sighed and simply said, “I dunno, Klink.”

  “Well. I think I do.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah. I think the kids at that elementary school already solved the damned case. A killer has Charlie? We already suspected that, sure. He’s wounded one cop and killed another. But a child killer? There’s nothing in Alex Roland’s file that lends itself to that.”

  Parker was stuck. Technically, Klink was right. Roland probably wasn’t a child killer. But Chalk Man was. And there was no way to tell Klink that even if Roland wasn’t fully possessed by Chalk Man, he could, at least, be influenced by him.

  Parker’s reply was mostly to buy time. “Well, that Roland kidnapped the boy to get back at Charlie’s mom was always on the table.”

  “Yeah. But to kill him over it?”

  Parker raised his eyebrows and nodded as he punched the elevator button.

  Klink looked at Parker coyly. “And what’d ya make about all the monsters and demons talk?”

  Parker’s throat went tight. Shrugging, he gave the most honest answer he could, considering the circumstances. “I think we all deal with them, from time to time.”

  As they got on the elevator, Parker noticed Klink’s smirk was insincere. He was rattled. Still, he tried. “Yeah . . . but not real, man. C’mon.”

  Again, Parker shrugged. “Go tell that to Ms. Herrera De La Cruz. I mean, did you see how hard she was clutching that crucifix?”

  Klink did not reply. Not during the entire elevator ride down nor during their walk through the lobby and out to the parking lot. When he finally did speak again, his voice was flat, as if maybe he were remembering the freakishly strong girl in the hallway at The Hotel Clarke who tossed around three grown men like Lego pieces. “I’ll drive.”

  Chap
ter 25

  The hunt for Alex Roland was in full swing by the time Parker went home that night. The rest of the day had been spent organizing statements, doing paperwork, and crossing the “t”s and dotting the “i”s required to keep thing moving smoothly.

  Now, all twenty-six stations of the Los Angeles Police Department were on full notice, as were the twenty-three Sheriff Department stations in Los Angeles County. The FBI was also involved, even though there was no evidence that the kidnapping had crossed state lines, because they could make exceptions in any given case if the alleged victim was of “tender years.” That was the actual legal term. Little Charlie Henson, he of the superhero pillowcase and Xbox handle that said he wanted to be Captain America’s sidekick, was nothing if not of “tender years.” In addition, an APB was issued statewide and out across Washington, Arizona and Nevada, where it was thought Alex Roland could most likely try to flee. The local news stations had picked up the story and were cycling it through each news hour.

  Meanwhile, Charlie’s father had arrived in town, given them next to nothing to help with the case, and then verbally berated his ex-wife for leaving their son home alone. Two parents, bitterly divorced, was already a recipe for a conflict. But toss in that their only child was now missing? It went as poorly as possible. Charlie’s father had to be physically removed from the house by Murillo and a uniformed officer.

  Shortly thereafter, Charlie’s mother had once again become inconsolable and went into hysterics. This time, though, when they’d tried to encourage her to take some more Xanax, she’d resisted. “Vehemently,” Murillo had said, which was not a word that Parker had ever heard him use before. Regardless, her mama bear instincts were now in full swing, and even though there was little that she could do that was not already being done? She had joined members of a local church that were posting “Be on the lookout” bulletins across the neighborhood and surrounding areas.

  Parker sighed. His therapist had taught him to “four-word” things, in a sort of instant self-assessment of feelings. By doing so, you could acknowledge what you were feeling. So, he did.

  Chaos. Panic. Desperation. Foreboding.

  Each word felt like a brick being pulled from the emotional wall he’d built within himself to properly distance himself from the case.

  In truth, he couldn’t shake the reality that this could be Efren he was looking for. And what then? The boy wasn’t his own nephew, but he might as well have been. They’d grown very close in a short amount of time, with Parker rarely missing a little league game and Efren even being the ring bearer at Parker’s wedding. How excited he’d been, to leave East LA and fly with his mom to Greece. Parker could still remember the day they’d taken Jet Skis out on to the ocean and how it felt to show Efren how to accelerate and time the swells.

  It was as close to parenting that Parker had ever gotten in his life and it was scary. Because some of the swells were large and there was just . . . no way . . . to protect him from them all. He’d done fine though, only getting knocked off once. Still. It felt like a microscopic example of what parenting was: protecting as best you could and not always getting it right.

  And what of this horrible thing that Mr. and Ms. Henson were feeling right now? What did you do when the swell that came over your family took your child completely?

  No. It was too much responsibility. Too scary.

  As he sat on his balcony looking out over his neighborhood, Parker took a long pull on his Rolling Rock. It was rare that Trudy allowed him to have a drink, and usually never when he was in a dark mood, as he was now even after her shoulder massage hadn’t worked. After she’d found him completely disengaged from conversation, she’d reluctantly watched him go to the fridge and grab the bottle, a look of concern on her face. In his lifetime, he’d found that it was a rare woman who knew when to give a man the space he needed, even when that space was probably not good for him. So, instead of a lecture, she’d kissed him on the forehead and left him to be on his own, lovingly adding as she left, “There’s still four bottles in the fridge and I expect all four to be there in the morning when I wake up, okay?”

  He gently nodded and pulled her in for a kiss, her hair tickling his chest, and said goodnight.

  The beer was for the panic. To mute it. One beer was better than a Xanax, any day of the week, and she knew that. Two beers? Four? Nope. That would just lead to depression tomorrow. You picked your cuts and scrapes when moving through the weeds of mental health. Period.

  On his lap was CSI Acosta’s most recent forensic report, which was haunting him, because it showed clearly that there were two sets of footprints that had walked through the field behind the walkway near Charlie’s house. One set belonging to an adult, the other to a child. Now, alone, Parker was having a one-way dialogue with Charlie.

  You WALKED with him, Charlie. You WENT with him. Why?

  No answer.

  Where are you?

  No answer.

  Has he hurt you?

  No answer.

  Why? Why did you go to meet him in that field?

  Silence.

  Parker, feeling a headache coming on, tried pushing it away by pressing down on his eyelids with the fingers of his free hand. It helped. Until he removed his fingers and the pain came back. He sighed. The night air was warm for June. The crickets in the hedges below the balcony were in full song. Above, the dark sky gave witness to stars muted by the lights of the city below. They were barely pinpricks. Hard to believe that when given true darkness to work with? Those same white dots would expand like marshmallows so that in the wide open desert of Afghanistan they often looked so big you were afraid you’d hit your head on them if you stood up.

  He was doing better. He was. Before, whenever he thought of that place, especially with a beer in hand, his mind would be off to the races with flashbacks or rumination. Not so, now. He felt the usual tug in his head to go the past, but it was amazing how the past held so little weight when you had a future to believe in. And he did. Both the one that Trudy offered him, with her love, each day, and with the one that Napoleon offered, which was an eternal sort of love.

  So, it was even easier to get back to the present. To Charlie.

  Parker hadn’t verified his suspicion with Napoleon, but he was guessing that Roland was being influenced somehow by Chalk Man.

  WillowWalker10 was supposed to be your friend. He said he’d help you stop Alex Roland from hurting you and your mom. You had no idea when you went to him that they were one and the same person.

  So, you get to that walkway . . . When you got there . . . you had to realize the truth. Your friend is the monster that’s been hurting your mother, standing right there. Yet? No sign of a fight. No sign of a struggle. We’ve got chalk writings on the walls like the two of you were just having a grand old time. Some sort of race down the walkway and out the cut-through.

  His detective mind pulled up the images of the chalk letters again that had gotten this whole thing started:

  Followwwww

  Meeeeee

  Drawwwww her

  No scratches in the brick or dirt below. No scuffs. No kicks. No blood. No broken nails. No hair. And the last two words? They gave Parker the chills. He paused and took a deep breath as a slight breeze passed over him. In the distance, a car horn gave a quick retort.

  Then he was back at it.

  Why Charlie? Why no evidence of a struggle across that entire field of tall dead grass? There should’ve been. Instead? Two sets of footprints. Just two fellas, taking a stroll to the other end of the field. No attempt to turn on your heels and retreat. We have a beer can with prints. Candy wrappers. Just the two of you, taking a stroll. How? How is that possible?

  Parker remembered his own youth. When you were ten? You weren’t physically strong, but boy were you crazy fast. Ten-year-olds could run like gazelles and most adults, even with the advantage in stride, would have a hard time catching them.

  Did he have you in some sort of iron-clad gri
p, his hand wrapped around your little arm?

  Maybe . . . maybe. But, again, no sign of a struggle. No sign you were being pulled.

  He took another swig of the beer. He felt alone even though he knew that Napoleon was sitting, right there, in the chair next to him, letting him do his human thing to figure things out. Parker wasn’t going to get upset over it. He was beginning to realize that there was an innate . . . need . . . to the process. A need for understanding. That the paradigm had to be formed before it could be actualized. That to try and shortcut the process would be like knocking over dominos in a disorderly way, some of which weren’t even originally on the table, which could only make things worse.

  It was up to him to figure this one tiny, but important, thing out before things could get moving again. That by doing so, it would be important . . . later. For some reason. That he’d realize . . . later.

  He cracked his jaw and yawned. This time, he spoke aloud, but softly, so as to not awaken Trudy. “You left with him and walked out the other end of that field, too. Through the rusty gate and to the street beyond. No scream for help. Nothing.”

  Parker leaned over, put his elbows on his knees and let the beer bottle hang from his right hand as he looked out over the lights of Downtown LA, which were far in the distance.

  Charlie, Charlie, Charlie . . .

  Bucky.

  Too little to be the captain. Too little to be the big hero.

  A realization struck Parker like a thrown brick. “But you could still be a hero,” he whispered. And this was what he was supposed to figure out.

  He dropped his head. It couldn’t be, but Parker knew it was.

  “You sacrificed yourself . . . to protect your mother.”

  Silence filled the balcony like poured water. He felt like he was drowning as his level of realization rose. “You knew that if he took you away that would mean he’d be away from your mom. And you would rather have had him hurt you…than to see him hurt her again.”

  “Oh, God. Charlie. No.”