Point Hollow

by Rio Youers

  Perhaps now it will leave me in peace.

  While his parents cry into news cameras, and the police search dumpsters and ditches in Lafayette, NJ, Ethan Mitchell sits alone inside the mountain, waiting to die. Correction: not alone; he has all those bones to keep him company. A schoolyard of skeletons.

  I imagine him screaming in the darkness.

  “Oh my God,” Bobby whispered. The final sentence burned in his mind, and it occurred to him that Ethan Mitchell might still be alive. Courtney Bryce, too. They were inside the mountain. Abraham’s Faith. If they found water, they could stay alive for a long time. Weeks, maybe.

  —sits alone in the mountain, waiting to die—

  Bobby’s stomach turned in slow loops and he clenched his fists and screwed them into his eyes as if he could make this all go away. He had forgotten about the heat and the fact that he was trespassing. He had forgotten, almost, who he was. His world had become a thin skin of dust on an implausible surface. One good puff of wind and it would all blow away.

  —imagine him screaming—

  “Help me,” he said, but his words had a distant quality. A fading radio signal. A voice behind a solid wall. “Please, God, help—”

  His breath snagged in his throat. He thought he’d heard a sound from the kitchen. Something creaking. He turned in the chair and looked down the hallway.

  Nothing.

  He breathed again and turned back to the monitor. Enough of the real world returned for him to know that he had to take this information to the police. I need a copy of this document, he thought. I can print it. No . . . e-mail it, and I’ll print it at home. There’ll be an IP address attached to the e-mail—proof that it was sent from Oliver’s computer.

  Bobby knew that a printed Word document and an IP address couldn’t be used as conclusive evidence, but it might be enough for the police to hammer a confession out of Oliver, and to find out where on Abraham’s Faith he had taken the children.

  And maybe—hopefully—save them.

  Bobby wiped his eyes again, his heart sounding like a steel drum rolling downhill. He clicked on the Safari icon in the dock, so adrift in the moment—the terrible reality—that he had no sense of Oliver creeping into the hallway behind him. This detachment did not last; Oliver’s reflection ghosted across the monitor. Bobby had time for realization to crash down like a burning, shrieking passenger plane, and for his heart to knock woefully against his ribcage, and then his world—already broken—blew apart, a thousand pieces, all hurting.

  ———

  Oliver’s mind was a white field where thoughts grew like pale flowers, all fragile, and all shaken to the roots by his fury. He considered nothing. No consequences or repercussions. His focus was raw and brutal, centred only on the intruder.

  He leapt with a vicious hiss, springing from his heels and knocking Bobby’s considerable bulk out of the chair. They went to ground, limbs entwined, Oliver naked, Bobby wearing only his post office shorts (his Mets cap had popped off his head like a bottle cap). Oily with mud and sweat, they tangled and clawed, kicked and rolled. Bobby got to one knee but Oliver pulled him down and they slammed into the edge of the desk so hard that the lamp toppled over. Its bulb shattered and made a glass puddle between the two computers. Oliver gnashed his teeth and tried to work Bobby into a headlock, break his fucking neck. Bobby lowed like a wounded cow, flailed his arms, and arched his back so that his belly rolled. He was not strong, nor was he vicious, but he had a weight advantage of one hundred and twenty pounds. His belly rippled and bucked Oliver off like a fearsome wave pitching an uncertain vessel. Oliver thumped down between the bookcase and desk, face to the floor and ass in the air. Several titles spilled from their shelves and a box of rewritable DVDs bounced off the small of his back.

  Bobby scrambled to his feet, slipped to one knee, and crashed into the filing cabinet. He picked himself up as Oliver edged from between the case and desk. Bobby grabbed the chair and threw it at him. It wasn’t a clean shot—didn’t hurt Oliver—but it knocked him backward and Bobby was gone, lumbering out of the study, puffing down the hallway with his belly bouncing ahead of him. Oliver pushed away the chair, sprang to his feet, and followed, leaving bloody/muddy footprints on the study floor and across the pages of books that had fallen and lay open. He charged down the hallway and his mind was still a vast white field and all he wanted to do was catch the fat fucking animal that had invaded his territory. Catch it and tear it to pieces. Bathe in its blood like a warlord. His anger was so loud that he couldn’t hear the mountain. He felt it, though. A burning hand on his soul.

  ———

  Dark spots swarmed in front of Bobby’s eyes. His heart lurched painfully. He pulled in a shuddering breath and for a terrible moment his interior lights shut down and there was only darkness. He gave his left tit a firm wallop and the pain subsided. He gasped and blinked—heard Oliver howling in the study behind him (mad, naked Oliver, his body painted with bright reds and yellows, and what the fuck was all that about?) and stumbled along the hallway. Thoughts crisscrossed his mind. Need to get home. Need my meds. Need the police. His heart throbbed and he felt himself sinking into darkness again. NEED TO GET OUT OF HERE. And that was the thought—the only thing that mattered. Get out of here, get to safety. Then, and only then, could he begin to worry about (the children, oh my God the children) everything else.

  Bobby reached the entranceway and veered toward the kitchen and living room, simply because that was the way he had come in. He then remembered, in a moment of blessedly clear thought that he’d left his bicycle out front, leaning against the garage door. He bumbled left instead of right, threw open the front door, and dared a glance down the hallway. He saw Oliver burst from his study and start toward him, flapping his arms and cawing.

  He’s completely insane. Jesus.

  Bobby threw himself outside as if the house were on fire. He careened across the driveway, toward his bicycle. Oliver was close behind. Bobby heard the front door crash open, followed by his birdlike calls:

  “RAWWWR-RAWWWWWR!”

  The bright day faded. It sagged, like his legs. Bobby moaned and held on, tears streaming from his eyes. His heart kicked like something in a cage and he thought he was going to lose it. The sight of Oliver—flapping his arms, streaking across the driveway—kept him moving. He reached his bike, grabbed the handlebars, and pushed. The world sagged again. Bobby wobbled but didn’t go down. He threw his right leg over the crossbar and jumped on the seat, getting a moving start—a feat of athleticism he should never have been capable of. But fear impelled him. It was a whip.

  “RAWWWR-RAWWWR!”

  Right foot on the pedal . . . left foot, and he pushed, gasping hot air as everything swam between bright and grey and his poor heart screamed. Oliver chased hard. Bobby felt one hand claw at his shoulder. It grabbed nothing but sweat.

  “RAWWWWWR!”

  Bobby pushed harder and pulled away from him, his head over the handlebars, pedaling with everything in his soul, onto Sanctuary Road, not slowing.

  ———

  Oliver stopped running. His rage gave way to fear. Bobby Alexander had been in his house, on his computer, had read his journal. He knew everything. Everything. The mask was off. Shattered. If Oliver didn’t stop him, the whole town—the whole world—would see the monster beneath.

  Stop him.

  His head throbbed and his body ached. He cried out, watching Bobby’s broad back get smaller as he pedaled away. Think. Jesus Christ, THINK! The mountain thundered and crowded his mind with images like thorns and saw blades. He had to stop Bobby before he reached town. It was the only way through this shitstorm. Silence him and reassemble the mask.

  Oliver reeled and looked at the mountain. THINK! He could get in his truck and chase the fat son of a whore down, catch up to him in no time and smoke him like roadkill. But there would be enquiries, questions, damage to the t
ruck. Not good.

  THINK!

  “His heart,” Oliver whispered, and Bobby’s scar flashed in his mind. That thick pink zipper between his man-tits. “Heart ain’t up to much.” It was already banging double-time, no doubt, and in this heat, under duress, it wouldn’t take much to make it pop like a balloon.

  Oliver’s upper lip curled. Perfect. It would look like an accident. Stupid fat man has a heart attack while cycling in torrid conditions. Oliver would hardly have to touch him. Simply scare him to death.

  The mountain roared.

  Oliver ran.

  Sanctuary Road was half a mile long, intersecting Tall Pine Way, where Bobby would hang a left and roll for a couple of miles until he hit Main Street. He was no Lance Armstrong, but fear would make him pedal faster than the average bear, and Tall Pine Way was mostly downhill. Oliver figured that, even in this heat, Bobby would make it to Sheriff Tansy’s office in less than twenty minutes. He also figured that, cutting a diagonal through the woods southwest of his land, he’d intercept Bobby on Tall Pine Way about a mile outside town.

  He blistered through the woods, snapping aside branches and leaping fallen trees, assuming the circles once again, drawing on wild strength and speed. Birds started from his path in sprays of colour. He hooted and cawed at them, holding his line, over rocks and through a tangle of huckleberry. Faster. His body burning, arms pumping at his sides. He stepped on something hard and sharp and felt it pierce his foot, but didn’t care, didn’t stop. His mind was bruised with the image of Bobby invading his privacy—reading his JOURNAL—and he used this to fuel him. No pain. No fatigue. Nothing else mattered. Only Bobby. He had to stop him. Had to make him pay.

  Faster.

  Oliver approached Tall Pine Way, weaving between trees on a diagonal. He instinctively silenced his approach to the road, controlling his breathing and dodging branches to avoid snapping them and alerting Bobby to his presence. He scouted the road between the trees, and there—a glimpse of something heavy and pink. Oliver grinned. He had calculated to perfection. He would break from the woods directly in front of Bobby—would roar and rage. A feral, mannish thing. Bobby didn’t stand a chance. His sad, blubbery heart was down to its last few beats.

  Fifty feet away . . . forty . . . thirty . . . several long, animal-like paces, and Oliver leapt from the woods (in his mind he was part gazelle, part lion), onto the narrow shoulder and then into the road. Bobby shrieked and jerked the handlebars. The bicycle went from under him and he hit the ground hard. Oliver heard his jaw shatter. He saw glistening flecks of spit and teeth burst from his mouth. The bicycle settled in the middle of the road, rear wheel spinning, front wheel turned sideways. Bobby rolled brokenly from his belly to his back. Broad leaves of skin had been scuffed from his body. His eyes whirled in mystified circles and then Oliver stepped toward him and his shadow was every cloud.

  ———

  Bobby drifted through nothingness. Unknowing. Unfeeling. When he opened his eyes—however long later—the pain hit him, bringing everything else with it. His heart shuddered irregularly. He started to cry.

  The children, who’s going to—

  The pain was everywhere but in his chest it was deep. A metallic, crippling pressure against his ribcage, as if the laws of gravity were applied differently there. He clutched and gasped, eyes blinking, willing his heart into sync with his body. Blood spattered from his mouth in tiny geysers. He felt two—maybe three—of his teeth floating in the well beneath his tongue.

  “What were you thinking, Bobby?” Oliver asked. Except it wasn’t Oliver. This creature was only partly human, dressed in wild paints, threads of saliva hanging from his jaw. Any shade of Oliver was hidden deep. The slipped mask had exposed a sick individual.

  Tell . . . police, Bobby thought, unable to speak, even struggling to form words in his mind. He sank again. The bright day collapsed and greyness moved in. It droned and enveloped him.

  “You’re dying, Bobby.” The voice drifted to him from the other side of the greyness. “You should have left me alone.”

  Dying.

  Maybe. Probably. But he felt the tears running from his eyes and this was enough to make him hold on. He didn’t want to die like this, whimpering in Oliver’s shadow.

  “No one can help you now.”

  Besides, he couldn’t die. The children . . .

  —imagine him screaming—

  He had to help the children.

  “Die,” Oliver willed gently, but Bobby clawed at the greyness and opened his eyes. He saw trees, blue sky . . .

  “Gee . . . boo guy,” he said, trying to articulate what he was seeing. A loose tooth spilled over his lower lip and landed in the road with a tiny click. “Gee . . . boo guy.” He blinked and tears made patterns on his round face.

  Oliver stood over him, not touching him.

  “Die,” he said softly.

  Bobby shook his head. His jaw throbbed and blood ran from his mouth.

  “Die.”

  Children, Bobby thought, and tried to get up. His hurting body would not respond. He groaned and tried again—managed to sit halfway up, and then flopped heavily to the road. The pressure on his chest increased. His heart knocked, and every uncertain beat brought a fresh wave of pain.

  No . . . Jesus no . . . please . . .

  His left arm started to tingle.

  “We’re a mile outside town,” Oliver said. His shadow was deep and it covered Bobby’s fluttering eyes like a cold hand. “This is a quiet road. It sees maybe two or three cars an hour. There’s no help for you here.”

  Bobby shuddered. His throat clicked and convulsed as he tried to breathe. He felt the fingertips of his left hand burning.

  “Die, Bobby. Say night-night.”

  Bobby gasped and another broken tooth spilled from his mouth.

  Oliver clapped his hands in front of Bobby’s face. He roared. His breath smelled like wood and leaves. “NIGHT-NIGHT!”

  Bobby went under again. The pain consumed him.

  “Maybe I’ll take you into the woods,” Oliver said.

  Please, God . . . please . . .

  “Cut out your tongue, so you can’t tell anybody what you’ve seen.”

  Bobby tried to breathe but there was no air.

  “And maybe I’ll cut out your eyes, so you won’t be able to look into other people’s business.”

  Bobby emerged from the greyness. He kicked his legs, and the pain—everything—was so terrible that he wanted to die. He thought of Ethan Mitchell and Courtney Bryce. Their faces flowered in his mind and he held on . . .

  “Snip off the tip of that nose,” Oliver said.

  Please . . .

  “Die.”

  Bobby’s heart stopped.

  Everything white. Only pain. Floating on pain.

  “Say night-night.”

  And remarkably, with the children’s faces still in his mind, he actually said it. His larynx throbbed. Blood oozed from his mouth.

  “Nay-nay.”

  “Yes . . . night-night, Bobby Bear.”

  “Obby . . . air.”

  His body clenched, tightening from the middle out. A thunderous sound filled his head. He drifted in pain and his final thought, before he went under for the last time, was that he should have listened to his mother and minded his own affairs. If it ain’t your tail, don’t wag it, she’d say, and that he was apt to—

  ———

  Oliver watched him shudder, watched him die, eyes filled with tears, reflecting blue sky. He stood for a moment, waiting for him to breathe again. But there was nothing. Blood—like his tears—ran. That was all.

  Oliver stepped back, onto the shoulder, and then into the woods. He surveyed the scene. A terrible accident. Bobby had suffered a heart attack while cycling. Sheriff Tansy would have him zipped into a body bag and carted to the morgu
e, and the autopsy would reveal no sign of foul play. No investigation necessary. No questions. No forensic analysis (which would, undoubtedly, reveal traces of Oliver’s blood and sweat on the corpse). Bobby would be in the ground by the end of the week, and Oliver—an upstanding member of the community—would attend the funeral. He’d wear his mask, and kiss Bobby’s grieving mother.

  He started toward home, adrenaline shaking through his body, the mountain rumbling ever on. He needed to clean and dress his wounds (he’d sliced his foot open while running through the woods—a wad of moss had stemmed the bleeding), and then sleep for as long as the mountain would let him.

  He sensed, again, that he was nearing the end. Bobby coming out here was a sign that things were gathering momentum, falling into place. The mountain’s energy was culminating. Something would have to give.

  If I have to kill myself, Oliver thought, I’m taking the whole town with me.

  He walked slowly, and eventually saw his house through the trees. Sunlight glinted on the windows.

  It made him think of Bobby’s eyes.

  Chapter Eleven

  Matthew drove to Bobby’s house only to find no one home. He was a little early, but thought it strange that the house was empty. Mrs. Alexander didn’t drive, and it was unlikely she had gone for a walk in this heat (it was almost six P.M. but the temperature was still in the high eighties). Unlikely, but not impossible. Maybe she was with a neighbour, but where the hell was Bobby?

  Could be in the shower, Matthew thought. He took a seat on the porch and waited. Ten minutes. Fifteen. He rang the doorbell again. If Bobby had been in the shower, he’d be out by now.

  No answer.

  He took his BlackBerry from his pocket and checked the time. 18:08. He frowned, double-checking the arrangement in his head. Six o’clock tonight. Definitely tonight. An hour’s drive to Middletown, TGI Friday’s, and then the eight-fifteen showing of Inception. That was the plan (devised, entirely, by Bobby, who was stoked about going to Friday’s, and almost wetting himself to see Inception). So where was he?