by Brian Hodge
“Which must be where I come in.” I laughed softly, feeling a pleasant rush of triumph. The tiniest of victories, this was, but better than nothing. “I think I can fit that into my schedule today.”
“Either way it turns out, let me know. Okay?”
“Sure, anything. And listen. Um, remind me that I owe you a drink or something. Sometime.”
A beat of silence, maybe two seconds, and they seemed to last hours. “You better pay up, then. I have an awesome memory for such things.” And if it’s possible to hear someone smile over the phone, she smiled.
The library at Andrews was of little help. I found the same book that Shelly had, but no more. This time, the librarian was at least more informed. He knew of several other books by Crighton, although Andrews didn’t stock them. He suggested that I try down at Champaign-Urbana on the University of Illinois campus. Theirs was the largest library in this part of the state, and if anybody south of Chicago would have these books, the U of I would.
So I took an unexpected road trip that morning. The U of I undergrad library’s card catalog was better than three times the size of Andrews’. Pen and paper in hand, I dug into the drawer and ignored the throng around me, clad in their running shoes and hooded sweats and backpacks.
The first listing was the Williamson County book, and I didn’t even bother jotting down its location. More books followed, and these I did log. One covered the American labor movement. Another examined political scandals from the founding days of the nation through Watergate. Another dealt with the role of the railroad in shaping American history. There were others, but the title with the most recent publication date, 1979, stuck out like the proverbial sore thumb.
Iceland, 874 to 1066: The Age of the Norsemen.
No way on earth would I believe that the man had merely been trying to broaden his horizons in his old age. I circled it as the title with the most recent publication date, and went off down seemingly endless aisles of books, scrap of paper in hand and trying to get a grip on the nervous/giddy/terrified shaking that was starting to seize me.
Up through the fifties, no author bio was given. The railroad book, published in 1965, gave his home as Indianapolis, where he was on the faculty of Purdue University. The same with the scandals book, out in 1976, and my heart started to sink. That was a long way from home.
But I had one book left, the one that didn’t fit his pattern. The last book. The one that seemed to cap off his life’s work.
I found it in the European history section, and held my breath as I flipped through to the end. And I eased it out when I read his bio’s final sentence. He hadn’t exactly been under my nose the whole time, but he was a lot closer to home than the unfamiliar territory of Indianapolis.
Vikings, I thought for the ten millionth time. It just makes no sense.
I took several moments and thumbed through the book, flipping past text and drawings and Western European maps and photos of land and water and numerous items unearthed by archaeologists. And none of it could I connect with what had been working its way into my life these past few months. A quick scan through the book’s index and table of contents didn’t even give me a place to start.
And so I replaced the book on the shelf. And prayed that the man who wrote it was still alive.
“I found him.”
The faint long-distance humming was the only thing I heard for a long while. Once or twice, the faint sound of Shelly drawing a shaky breath.
“Where is he?” she finally asked.
“He’s a retired college professor now. Lives in Belleville.” This was a town in western Illinois, not too far east of St. Louis. “Of course, the bio’s a few years old, but…” I left the thought incomplete. Unspoken, it somehow seemed less imposing.
“When are you going to get over to try and see him?”
“Thanksgiving break is coming up in a few days. I couldn’t ask for a better time.”
She made a small sound of agreement. And was silent. I wanted to see her eyes, her face. Something to give me a clue as to what she was thinking. I couldn’t come right out and ask. Too little time had passed between us.
I was sitting on the floor of my room, alone since Greg had gone down to eat and I wasn’t hungry. My knees were drawn up to my chest, and with one arm I hugged them even closer. Give me a little more time and I might just keel over into a fetal ball. Outside, beyond the window, day was surrendering to night, the moment of inevitable conquest frozen in the guise of a blue-rose sky. I’ve always found it the most supremely dismal time of day.
“You know,” I said slowly, “you could do a lot better than me in trying to figure all this out for yourself. Some days it feels like … I don’t know. Like if one more thing goes wrong, my head’s going to split open and I’m never going to get back up again.”
It sounded stupid to me, in immediate retrospect, and I wished I could reel it back in like a fish. But, for better or for worse, it was out. And whatever she thought of me probably wasn’t too exalted to begin with.
“You sell yourself short a lot of the time, you know that?” she said “Whatever this is you’re living with, I think you’re holding up well. For what that’s worth.”
And this time, it was my turn to wonder if she could hear someone smile over the phone.
Chapter 32
Letter from Aaron, dated Friday, November 21:
Chris,
Greetings from the home front. I guess I’m doing okay, but I think I’m starting to screw up royally at school. I just can’t concentrate anymore. The other day, Monday, we had an American history test and I choked on it, couldn’t do a thing. We got them back today, and guess what. My very first D. And a note from the teacher asking what happened to me. I don’t know what to say if she asks in person.
You know, we never really talked after that last Friday you were home, but I wasn’t in the mood for it. Now I know what you had to go through over the summer. Mornings are the worst, when you wake up and remember that it wasn’t a bad dream, it was real. It’s been a month now, and sometimes the phone rings and I still expect it to be Bobby. Or I’ll be in the parking lot before school and someone will drive by in a car that looks like his and I’ll think, “Oh, there’s Bobby, about time.” Crazy, huh? I can see now just how gutsy you were over the summer. I could do a lot worse for a brother, you know?
There’s another opinion of yours I’m finally starting to respect. I can see why you never liked Hurdles. I first got hooked up with him out of need, then thought, “Well, maybe he’s not so bad after all, just so long as you give him a chance and put up with a few of his more obnoxious traits.” At least he seemed like a loyal friend, which I respected, and you know he can’t afford to risk honking off the few he’s got.
But he’s different now, and he scares me. It’s like the outer Hurdles is showing through to the underneath, and it’s really awful in there. You have more insight into people than I do, probably because you spend more time around them. Is this why you never liked him?
I’ll tell you something that happened. Last night Hurdles and Mitch and I went out for a while, and we hooked up with Sue and Mary. We’re still bugged over what happened to Bobby. It’s like we pretend it didn’t happen, and everybody knows everybody else is pretending. But Hurdles is business as usual. He was even telling dead-baby jokes. Talk about lousy timing. Hurdles was driving, and he made Mary sit up front with him, alone. So he drove us up to Tri-Lakes. Honest, Chris, I tried to talk him into going someplace else, like a nice quiet cemetery or something. But he just laughed and called me a pussy. That place draws him like a magnet anymore. So he stopped up there and put his arm around Mary and when he tried to kiss her she tried to pull away and it really pissed him off. He grabbed her and we heard something rip, and she’s screaming and he’s grabbing. It was awful. Mitch kind of likes her now, and he and I grabbed Hurdles and tried to calm him down, but to be honest I just wanted to jump out and run away and never see him again. When we grabbed hi
s arms I thought he was going to kill us for sure, but then he just laughed and said, “What’s the matter with all of you? Can’t you take a fucking joke?” Mitch and I both laughed, or tried to, and said, “Oh sure, Chuck. Sure we can take a joke.”
Nothing much else happened. About an hour later Sue and Mary finally talked Hurdles into taking them back to their car. I bet they never want to see us again. That asshole. Funny thing, though. Later on Hurdles seemed really upset over doing that. He almost started crying. What a flake.
I haven’t done anything with him since. He called tonight but I had Dad tell him I wasn’t here. Here it is Friday night and I don’t have to work and I still don’t want to leave the house.
Sorry to unload all this on you. Must make your day, huh? But I have to tell someone, and I feel better just getting it all down on paper.
Anyway, I guess I’ll see you next weekend for Thanksgiving. Uncle James will be here. Aren’t we the lucky ones for that, huh? Oops, I shouldn’t have told you this. Maybe now you’ll cancel out on us.
I don’t know about you, but I’m needing a vacation in the worst way. Take care, bro.
See you then,
Aaron
Chapter 33
In the interim between the time school finally began seeming like a refuge of safety and when everything began to spiral toward its terrible finale, an all too familiar scenario began to repeat itself. I wasn’t present to witness it, and neither was anyone else, but there’s little doubt left as to what happened. And now that I can look back and understand the entire Tri-Lakes situation in the worst kind of detail, I can easily imagine. I can’t presume to know every nuance of what happened that night, but oh yes, I can imagine…
Mitch Gainer didn’t normally take girls out on Sundays, but it somehow seemed like the thing to do this weekend. Mary Harlow had shied away from him since last Thursday, but the blame fell squarely on someone else: Hurdles. Fat slob, he’d almost ruined their relationship before it even got started. And coming on the heels of Bobby’s death, it had enough strikes going against it already.
He checked himself in the rearview mirror. The moustache was starting to fill in a little more. Probably time to cut Hurdles off for good. Even if he didn’t yet look old enough to get served at the liquor store windows, it would probably be best if they phased Hurdles out. He was getting to be bad news.
Mitch drove on to Mary’s house, parking at the curb and quickstepping up the walk to her front door. A car that had been following from a fair distance back passed by, paused, and sped on. A familiar car that Mitch failed to notice.
And you’re only allowed one fatal mistake.
They went to a movie, that perfect option when you’re just getting to know each other, and welcome the opportunity to be able to spend two hours in each other’s company without having to say a word. Mary wasn’t hungry afterward, and he suggested they go up to Tri-Lakes. Just for a little while.
“I don’t know, Mitch,” she said, her pouty face turning to him. “After Hurdles the other night, I can’t go back there.”
“Come on,” he said, grinning. “Nothing’s wrong with the place. Just Hurdles and his hormones.”
“Well…” she said, thinking it over and looking so cute it made him ache. “Okay. But I have to be home early tonight. I get home past ten-thirty and my dad’ll absolutely kill me.”
He assured her that she would be home on time, plenty of time, and she scooted closer across the seat. Mitch made the drive north and wheeled back in. They sat in the car, talking, barely aware of the gradual chill seeping in. Their breath fogged the windows; beads of moisture traced jagged slashes down the glass where it condensed.
Mitch held her close and they kissed tentatively. His heart was hammering. Kind of funny, because somehow Aaron had gotten the idea he was a pretty big make-out artist. If that’s what Aaron wanted to think, fine. Mitch wouldn’t set him straight.
“How do you feel now?” he asked. “Better?”
“Mmmmm.” She snuggled closer to him. “Don’t ever leave me.”
He shook his head vigorously, bumping her lip. “Huh uh, never.”
Her mouth sought his, brushed against it. “After Bobby … if I lost you … I don’t know what I’d do.” Her hand fell into his lap, where it slowly began to explore.
Mitch’s breath quickened, and he thought surely he was going to explode. This was too much to handle all at once. Much too much.
Wait a minute. The car … it felt like it had just shifted, settling toward the right. The angle was all wrong now, all of a sudden.
Mary pulled back from him, her perpetually pouting face creased with worry. “What’s wrong?”
“Didn’t you feel that? The car?”
She looked more confused than ever. “Mitch, what’s wrong?”
He ignored her question, instead wiping furiously at the windows. His hand came away wet and cold and he then peered out. Couldn’t see anything but the pond, the grove, the usual things.
“Mitch.” Mary’s voice had grown more urgent.
A faint sound caught his ear, a far-off hiss. Like the sound…
Like the sound of a tire going flat in about four seconds.
The car settled again.
Mitch scowled out the window, felt the anger swell within. Because somebody was out there screwing with his tires. Two flats already, and just one spare. He was in for a long walk, unless, of course, he just happened to accidentally pound the hell out of somebody and borrow his car. And I can do it, too. He already weighed one hundred and seventy, and none of it was fat. He smacked a fist into his palm.
“Lock it after I’m out,” he said to Mary, who leaned toward him as he opened the door.
“But Mitch, don’t you smell that awful smell?” she cried, but he didn’t understand her because he’d slammed the door shut again.
He stood outside the car under a night sky like black crystal, feeling a cold wind knife through his clothes. He was half aware of Mary yelling something inside the car, but he didn’t have time to listen to her. He had to deal with someone else first.
Mitch walked to the left front fender. Nothing so far. But then the wind changed directions and he caught a faceful of some foul smell, like old sweat and filth, and worse. He crossed the front of the car to the other fender.
Something flashed down below and a quasar of pain exploded through his right knee. He heard Mary scream as he pitched in the direction of the blow. Something had broken inside, no doubt of that, and when he landed heavily on the asphalt he saw a tire stem sitting beside his flattened tire. Cut cleanly through with a knife.
He never knew pain could be so intense, so fucking concentrated. Mitch gritted his teeth and tried not to scream.
Rough hands latched onto him and rolled him onto his back. He still couldn’t see the face yet, because the moon was silhouetting the bastard, who was moving too fast anyway. But he saw the business end of the crowbar go up in the air again, hang motionless before the moon like some terrible shepherd’s crook, and come back down.
His other knee split like a matchstick, and as it bounced limply into the air from the impact, he swore it was bending the wrong way. The screaming was in stereo now: Mary’s, and his own as well.
Still a chance, if the guy got close enough. Mitch had very strong arms. One good punch might turn it all around.
But whoever it was was every bit as strong, if not more so. And after each of Mitch’s arms had been stretched out at forty-five-degree angles to the car and stamped on with a sound like snapping cordwood, he knew there was no way out of this. His mind still raced, lucid despite the agony, or maybe because of it, but he couldn’t move. His head rolled limply on the asphalt, and spittle leaked from the corners of his mouth.
Those rough hands grabbed him again and hauled him up into a sitting position, propping him against the dead front tire with its rubber folding into the asphalt. Mitch’s head banged into the fender, stars sparkling across his field of vision. He h
eard the ignition grind once, briefly. She’s gonna drive off and let me fall over.
But then Mitch heard glass shatter as the crowbar took out a side window. Mary’s screaming immediately grew louder, and the huge shape at his right was hugging close to the car, reaching through, and he heard cloth tear. She was screaming, kicking, thrashing, a frantic blur … and it did no good to stop her from being dragged through the shattered window, drawing traces of blood on the remaining shards in an obscene parody of the birth process.
Mitch couldn’t understand a word she was saying, if indeed she was saying anything at all now, but he watched their progress until they reached a spot fifteen feet ahead of him. Mitch lifted his arm feebly; the lower half hung at a terrible angle nature had never intended, and something grated within. He let it fall back to the ground with a moan.
He saw that powerful arm flash again as it connected with Mary’s face with a horrid wet smack, and she buckled to the ground. Still conscious, though. She was whimpering, crying, and then her clothing was ripped away and tossed aside in rags.
The figure hunched over her straightened up, looking like the worst nightmare he’d ever had, and then some. He looked directly at Mitch and pointed a finger.
“You watch,” Hurdles said, though he no longer spoke with his own voice. In fact, it didn’t even look like his face. While Hurdles’s features were still there, it was as if some kind of overlay covered them, like a translucent mask. “You watch. Because I’m gonna do everything … I … like.”
He brought some ropes out of the shadows, and then some pegs, and quickly staked Mary out facedown in the grass, her limbs spread-eagle. His own clothing came off then, but the cold didn’t seem to bother him in the least. Hurdles produced a knife, and Mitch noticed with horror bordering on insanity that he had an erection, as well. Mitch tried his very best to scream, scream his lungs out, and couldn’t. It only came out as a harsh and anemic rasp.
