The Drayton Chronicles

by Bertauski, Tony

  Drayton put Parker in the cab, told him to go home. To wait until further word.

  Why wasn’t he involved? His specialty was investigation. It was crime.

  Crime.

  The word tumbled through him, settled in the pit of his stomach along with Drayton’s words. Missing. Looking. Now, crime.

  He took a deep breath. His chest popped.

  The mid-afternoon sun cast shadows across the street, falling over the parked cars. Further down was a black Suburban. It sat alone and still.

  The next door neighbor opened her door. She stared at Parker. He didn’t bother with a good afternoon. Instead, he turned and swam up the steps. The front door clanged behind him like metal bars. He even thought he heard the tumble of a lock.

  He was going to wait inside his house. He’d wait until he heard from the kid.

  About his family.

  XVII

  There were no backseats in the Suburban.

  Daryl was sweating, but avoided shifting around to get comfortable. Otherwise, the truck would shake. The target had been standing on the steps damn near twenty minutes. Just staring.

  When he finally went inside, Daryl opened his phone.

  He heard, “Yeah.”

  “Butchie, you were right.”

  “He’s at the house?”

  “Just walked in.”

  There was a deep sigh on the other end. Daryl could hear Butchie rubbing his chin. Then, “Stay put. I’m going to find out what’s going on.”

  “10-4.”

  Daryl checked the camera. Checked his watch.

  This was going to be twenty-four hours surveillance.

  Overtime.

  XVIII

  Moments after Parker went inside, Drayton stepped around the corner.

  He stopped outside the house, just below the window to the left of the steps. He stood there, patiently. And he would stay there. He needed to be close to Parker. In order to carry out Andrew Drummond’s request, he needed to remain near him.

  The neighbor would not see him.

  Nor would surveillance in the black Suburban.

  He would convince them not to.

  Until he brought the events to a close.

  XIX

  Morning slants of sunlight crept across the bed. Striped Parker’s face.

  He rolled over. Reaching out, feeling the cool sheets next to him.

  He let his fingers walk up the pillow while he bit into his. There was an indention, like she had laid her head. But the pocket was cool. Maybe he elbowed it in the night.

  He sat up. Rubbed his face. Tried not to think.

  Tried not to think.

  Impossible when thoughts were that heavy. They settled like rocks on the bottom of an aquarium. They came in a steady pour. Filling Parker’s head.

  He reached for cigarettes. The flame quivered.

  He finished it with continuous drags. Only got up to throw the burning butt in the trash. Caught sight of the framed photo on the dresser and picked it up. He twisted the wedding ring around his finger, the flesh beneath red and worn. The gold was dense and tight. He wouldn’t take it off. He would never take it off.

  The bedroom felt so small. He tossed the photo down, sought the space of the front room. Passed the girls’ bedroom on the way. He didn’t look inside. Instead, he reached back without turning his head, pulled the door shut. He didn’t want to look in there, not yet. Not until he heard some good news. But he couldn’t help catching sight of the pink bed sheets.

  He ignored the coffee machine. Walked past the bottle of scotch on the counter from the night before, the lid sitting next to it. He sank into an oversized chair, the cushions breathing air as they swallowed him down. He stared at the blank high-def TV. That’s what he did the night before. He stared at it. It was after midnight when he went to the bathroom. He must’ve fallen in the bed.

  He was going to sit there awhile longer. Wait to hear something.

  If he hadn’t heard anything by lunch, he’d go get the bottle. The thoughts would be pouring by then. He’d need something help fight them back.

  He lit a cigarette.

  Flicked the ashes on the floor.

  XX

  Drayton appeared like a statue. Below the window.

  People walked by him without a glance.

  The neighbor got her newspaper without a word.

  Drayton, the ancient, remained motionless. Sleepless. And vigilant.

  Inside the house, he felt the undoing of Parker Samson’s mind.

  XXI

  Day 3.

  Three bottles of scotch. Two empty. One halfway there.

  The liquor store delivered. Along with cigarettes.

  Parker was in the chair that morning. He stopped going to the bedroom. Only went through it to relieve himself. It felt so small. The sheets, so cold. The photos were face down on the dresser because on day 2 he sat with the family photo and shined the glass with his thumb. Something the size of a tennis ball swelled in his throat. He couldn’t breathe until he looked away. From his wife. Children. So he turned the photo over.

  He nodded off in the chair. But he mostly sat there.

  A pile of cigarette ash near his foot.

  A car door closed.

  Parker hauled himself up, split the blinds with two fingers and spied the street below. Just a neighbor.

  He watched her all the way up her steps. Watched her fiddle with her keys. Go inside.

  When everything was still, he sat back down. Got up only to fill his glass.

  XXII

  Pathetic.

  The skin hung off his cheeks like a hound dog. Whiskers scratched against the back of his hand when he wiped his lips.

  A week ago, he was a man.

  With a family.

  Why didn’t he go out and find them? Why was he waiting for someone to tell him what had happened?

  He didn’t know.

  A never ending movie rolled in his head, displaying every possible scenario of what went wrong. Were his girls raped? Strangled?

  Alive?

  Whenever his eyes swelled, he took another swallow. Whatever shred of manhood remained, he intended on keeping it. By not crying. He would be strong. He would hold down the fort until they returned.

  But the house was getting smaller.

  The air, thicker.

  XXIII

  Day 5.

  There was a smell. Kind of like bad liver.

  Parker was chewing on a block of cheese when the phone rang. He picked it up. His voice spurt through a curtain of phlegm. He cleared his throat, tried again.

  “Hello.”

  The other end of the line hissed.

  “Drayton? Is that you?”

  Ssssssssssssssss.

  A hundred thoughts forced their way into his throat. The sound he made resembled something from a native tribal council. The medicine man in a trance.

  He snapped the phone closed. Dropped it on his lap.

  Not until he reached for the cigarettes did he realize the phone wasn’t there. He put it on his lap when he was done. But now he couldn’t find it.

  It would come back.

  XXIV

  It was night when he heard the voice.

  The blinds were closed. Curtains drawn.

  He was slumped in the chair, cracker crumbs scattered on his shirt. He was in a pained dream. One where he was being chased. He was running. The ground hurt his feet.

  Daddy?

  His eyes snapped open. Red and waxy. Sunken.

  He looked around.

  The radio was off. TV, too.

  He remained still for a full minute. When he reached for a cigarette, he heard it, again. The lighter trembled from his hand. He let out a moan. Covered his mouth to keep from vomiting. He stayed pickled and numb with quarts of liquor, but now he began to burble, frothing noxious fumes poisoning his skin. Swelling in his throat.

  He reached for the lighter, his fingers suddenly struck with Parkinson’s disease, flicking
it further away. Sobriety was dangerously close. The images of his family — Sandy, Jessie, Shelly — were beginning to clarify in the mind fog. He had blotted them out. Not to forget them, but to dull the pain.

  He was dangerously close to admitting he couldn’t handle it.

  He couldn’t experience the pain of loss. Couldn’t imagine his life without them.

  And the thought of their suffering.

  Unbearable.

  He was a coward. Trying to survive a nightmare.

  When he lit the cigarette, the voice came again.

  “No.” He shook his head. “No, no, no, no, no.”

  His head went back and forth, the flame dancing.

  He tried not to look, through the smoke, at the girls’ room.

  XXV

  In the house. Day 7.

  A shell of a man hunched over a bed. Clutching the pink sheets with images of Hannah Montana. His face was buried in a salt-soaked stain spreading out from his eyes. From his nose.

  His sobs could be heard next door.

  XXVI

  Drayton moved. For the first time in seven days.

  XXVII

  Early, day 8. A knock at the door.

  Parker ignored it.

  He had ignored the voices. The phone ringing. He knew his thoughts had escaped his head, were haunting him from the outside. Now they were knocking.

  But the thuds on the red door continued to echo.

  They ached inside Parker’s skull.

  He winched himself upright. Flinching after another round of knocking.

  He bounced off a wall and propped himself on the backside of the door. There was a face in the peephole. He pushed his puffy eye closer and it was still there. Parker opened the door.

  There was a man. In uniform.

  “Mr. Samson?” His nostrils flared. The stench was rancid. “Parker Samson?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m officer Stanley Farnsworth.”

  An awkward silence.

  “Can I come in?”

  “Are they dead?”

  Officer Farnsworth looked over Parker’s shoulder in hopes someone would help. “Could we discuss this in a more appropriate—”

  “Did you find them? Why haven’t you called?”

  Parker’s voice tilted up at the end, squeaking out the last syllable. He fisted his lips, afraid he’d puke his emotions in the officer’s face.

  “I’d really like to sit down and discuss it.”

  “Just tell me. Please.”

  “Mr. Samson—”

  “No. No, goddamnit. Just tell me. I don’t want to discuss the details, just tell me.

  “Sir, I’d rather—”

  Parker grabbed handfuls of uniform. “Please, tell me they’re alive.”

  “You need to let go, Mr. Samson.”

  “Please… please.” Parker attempted to shake him, but his arms were weak. He managed to barely move him. “Please.”

  Officer Farnsworth gently took Parker’s hands and pulled them off. He didn’t resist. He bowed his head. Gloom, as dark as tar, as deep as a mine shaft, pushed through the veil of denial. He dropped on his knees. His chin bounced on his chest.

  “I’m sorry for your loss.” Officer Farnsworth’s hand squeezed Parker’s shoulder. “We did everything we could.”

  Parker wrapped his hands around the officer’s arm to keep from falling sideways. He couldn’t hold back the weeping.

  It took him.

  Swallowed him.

  Destroyed him.

  XXVIII

  Cynthia Birkenstalk stepped out to fetch the newspaper off the front step. Among the sounds of traffic, there was a man wailing. She hadn’t seen her new neighbor in quite some time. Not really at all since she saw him the one time. Now she heard someone over there crying. It was none of her business. After all, what goes on in other people’s lives was their business, even if they were out on their front porch crying. So she bent over and retrieved the newspaper.

  But curiosity got the best of her.

  She turned towards the sound, as if she were merely turning to go inside, letting her eyes fall in the direction of the sobbing. As if she couldn’t help it. What she saw made her stall. Her eyes lingered on the odd sight, from where the sobs were coming. It was her neighbor, all right. He was on his knees. Head bowed. Hands clasping the air in front of him. Not in prayer. But as if he was holding something.

  She looked around. There was no one anywhere. Just this pathetic soul bawling on his front steps to an empty street.

  When he began talking, as if someone was there, she went inside.

  It was none of her business, after all.

  XXIX

  Parker sat in the front pew. Alone.

  In the isle were three coffins. The larger one in the middle, flanked by two smaller ones. Their surfaces shined.

  The priest gave a moving eulogy. About family. Closeness. About God’s plan. How we all have our crosses to bear. Like our Lord and Savior. And some other bullshit.

  Parker imagined the priest was looking at him when he said it. But he remained with head bowed, refusing to acknowledge him. He couldn’t risk seeing the coffins. Or the faces of those weeping near him. He barely managed to be there.

  His cheeks were the color of used sandpaper. His eyes buried deep in their sockets. Even if he wanted to lift his head, give the priest a nod, he didn’t have the strength. He barely remembered getting to the front pew.

  The past several days were a wash.

  The arrangements for the beautiful ceremony were all made from home. He was on the phone at all hours of the day — the mortician, the church, and cemetery. Some even called at night. The family called to offer condolences, making arrangements to fly or drive to Charleston. To be there when he needed them most.

  I just can’t believe this is happening. A few of them muttered, breathless, on the phone.

  Parker couldn’t, either.

  Days after Officer Farnsworth delivered the news, the Chief of Police arrived at the house. They sat at the kitchen table. Parker asked how they died, the words stumbling over his lips. The Chief only shook his head. They didn’t suffer, was all he said.

  After which, Parker broke down. Again.

  Now he sat hunched in the pew, his parched cheeks without a tear. There were none left. A man can only cry so much until they’re all gone.

  But it did nothing for the emptiness inside.

  When the priest ended the ceremony, Parker walked briskly down the isle. Head bowed. Eyes down. The organ faded behind him as the doors closed. He stood on the front steps, the white steeple soaring over him. He lit a cigarette with a quivering flame. Then hurried for his car before the procession followed him out.

  He drove to the cemetery alone.

  Parker had parked the rental car far from the burial.

  He could see the white tent. The people gathering.

  He’d driven by ceremonies dozens of times, the line of cars and the people huddled under the canvas tent, heads bowed. Never thought about who was in the there. Not once.

  Now it was his turn.

  He waited. Staring at the clock.

  At 3:00, he got out. Closed the door quietly. Walked softly through the grass, between the headstones, until he neared the tent. He could feel their eyes on him. Could feel the crowd part. He saw the headstones, first. The sight of their names etched in the stone hit him in the stomach with a lead pipe.

  The holes were dug.

  The caskets waiting.

  And, when he stopped just outside the tent, still in the sun, the priest delivered the final procession.

  The wind blew against his hardened face, carried the soft whimpers of family. Parker tried not to look up, but he felt the pain around him. The women were clutching tissues, dabbing at their eyes. Men stood erect, an arm around a woman or hands upon a child’s shoulders. Some were grieving outwardly. Others stoic. But inside, Parker felt the agony twist like serpents. Their pain seeped from them like sweat
, evaporated in the atmosphere and clung to his skin. Weighed on him like a wet suit, absorbing more and more. Heavier. Thicker.

  He could barely manage to carry his own suffering. It wasn’t fair to take on theirs, too. He didn’t have the strength.

  He wasn’t strong enough.

  Parker closed his eyes. Dry sobs shook his chest. He tensed against the others’ suffering, but their pain trickled inside him. Filling him. Weighing on him.

  Breaking him.

  His mouth opened and closed with gummy white strings attached to his lips. Words didn’t come out. He opened his eyes.

  An old lady was weeping.

  A man holding a child. His face tear-tracked.

  A woman wringing her hands.

  All of them, devastated. Bearing the cross of their suffering.

  Parker turned. Hesitated. The first step was the hardest. After that, he was running.

  Between the headstones.

  He couldn’t take it.

  XXX

  Daryl raised the binoculars.

  He waited outside the church for Parker. Followed him to the cemetery. He parked down a road parallel to the one Parker was on, with live oaks in between. Parker appeared to be reluctant, whatever he was doing. But at 3:00, he got out of his car and walked across the cemetery. Between headstones and over graves.

  Daryl shook his head. Bad luck, son.

  Three hundred yards later, he stopped at a headstone. Daryl focused the binoculars. He couldn’t read the inscription, but recognized the two smaller headstones that flanked it. He’d been to that site before. He’d been to that exact funeral.

  He got Butchie on the phone. “You’re not going to believe this shit.”

  He told him.

  Butchie told him to continue surveillance. He would make some calls.

  So Daryl sat with binoculars. Watched his target standing alone. Atop a hill with his head bowed in front of the graves of a woman and her two daughters. The grass around him cleanly cut and manicured.