Skin (Night Fall ™)

by Richard Reece

  Mom wouldn’t be able to handle this. I went as quietly as I could to the kitchen and got a plastic trash bag, some spray cleaner, and paper towels. After I put Toby in the bag, I cleaned the blood off the step. Then I carried everything to the backyard. In a corner, there’s a small shed where we keep yard stuff. I got a shovel and tried not to make any noise while I dug Toby’s grave.

  After I buried him, I covered the fresh earth with leaves. I didn’t know the words to say, but it seemed like it was important to say something. “Toby was a good cat,” I whispered to the sky, “a good pet. We loved him. I don’t know where he is right now, but please watch over him.”

  I put the shovel away and returned the other stuff to the kitchen. I washed my hands and went to my room. I lay in the dark for a couple of hours with a sad, sick feeling. Around six I could hear Mom in the bathroom, so I got up and made some coffee and toast.

  “Why thanks, Nick,” she said. “That’s really thoughtful! You’re up early.” Then she looked at me closely for a second. “You know,” she said, “I think your skin may be getting a little better.” She looked some more, then shrugged. “Maybe not. I don’t know. You look different.”

  The sheriff’s office called two times that morning. Both times I waited, then deleted the message. Tara showed up at one. I wanted to tell her about Toby and the calls from the Sheriff, but all I said was that I’d had some bad dreams.

  The Cloister of the Sisters of the Holy Blood is on a hill about a half hour’s drive from Bridgewater. We drove through an iron gate into a huge, rolling park with ponds and groves of trees.

  “This estate belonged to Hiram Noble,” Tara said. “He was a railroad president in the late 1800s. His widow was Catholic, and when she died in the 1920s, she willed the property to the sisters.”

  The cloister itself looked like what it had been, according to Tara: a sprawling, three-story stone mansion. We left the car by a sign that said “Visitors’ Parking” and buzzed in at the front door.

  An old woman wearing a white apron over a long black dress let us in. The front hall was tiled with dark green and white marble in a diamond pattern. A huge oak staircase rose in front of us, and colorful light spilled through a stained-glass window on the landing. Long hallways extended on either side of us.

  The woman led us down the hall to the right. We went past portraits of nuns and priests, past a giant statue of Jesus hanging on the cross, and into a small, wood-paneled room. On one wall was a window about chest high. Instead of glass, it was covered with metal grating. By the window were several chairs where Tara and I were directed to sit.

  “It’s called a grille,” Tara whispered. “Sister will speak with us from the other side.”

  A few minutes later, a light went on behind the grating. A veiled figure sat down on the other side. After my eyes got used to the grille, I could see through it pretty well. The nun looked much younger than she actually had to be. There were no lines in her face, and her expression was calm.

  “Hello, I’m Sister Marie.”

  Tara was introducing us when I remembered my manners. Since my face got bad, I’d worn a baseball cap with the brim down whenever I went out. But now I took it off and looked at the woman who used to be Amy Plasse.

  I could hear her gasp. “I’m sorry—” I started.

  “No, I’m sorry, Nick,” she said. “You just reminded me of someone I knew once.”

  14

  Luke Todd?” Tara asked. “It’s actually Luke that we wanted to ask you about.”

  Sister Marie didn’t say anything. She just sat quietly, looking as if she were examining something far away. Finally Tara went on. “I know it was a long time ago. It may be hard to remember . . . .”

  “No,” Sister Marie said finally. “It’s not difficult. I’ve thought of Luke almost every day of my life since then.”

  “We wonder,” Tara said, “if Nick might be going through some of the same stuff Luke did, all those years ago. Father Remy Moreau showed us Luke’s diary, and there are some strange similarities.”

  “Tell me about it, Nick,” the nun said. I told her about my skin, the woods, the dreams—and the face I’d seen in the well.

  “Luke called the face—or the person behind the face—Al,” Sister Marie said. “If Al has set his sights on you, you need God’s help very badly.”

  “Sister,” Tara asked, “why do you think Luke killed himself?”

  The nun laughed, but in a sad, knowing way. “Oh, to save the world,” she said. “To save me.” There was an awkward silence until Sister Marie continued. “Let me tell you a little about Luke,” she said. “Did you know he had lost his brother in the war?”

  “Brian?” Tara asked.

  “Yes. Sometimes I almost wonder if the war that killed Brian killed Luke too. He worshipped his older brother. And after his death, Luke was determined to be a hero just like him. Not in a conceited way, but in a soldierly way. No matter what happened he would protect the weak. All by himself.”

  “He loved you, Sister,” Tara said. “His diary was full of—”

  “Oh, I know,” the nun interrupted. “And I loved him. Still do. But sometimes—God forgive me—I’m so angry. I would have done anything for him. Anything. And he left me out. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wondered if things would have turned out differently if he’d just shared what he was feeling with me.”

  She turned to me. “Nick, if Luke can teach you anything, it’s this: Don’t go it alone. God loves you, but he uses people to show that love. If anyone loves you, let them in. Let them help you. Don’t go it alone! You’re not strong enough, and there’s no shame in that.”

  Tara put her arm across my shoulders. “Sister,” she said, “I know Luke didn’t talk to you in the last days of his life.”

  “The last time I saw him was in the clearing, by the circle of stones. I went there hoping he might appear. It was our place. But when he did come, he startled me. I screamed. He ran. I kept calling to him, ‘Come back! Please!’ But he didn’t stop.

  “That was the last time I saw him alive. But it wasn’t the last I heard from him. Can you wait a minute?”

  We both nodded and she left. She came back a few minutes later holding a folded paper. “The day he died, Luke mailed me a letter,” she said. “When I read it, I’m afraid I cursed him. I had wanted his trust, his love—not a suicide note. It’s taken a lot of prayer, but I know now that he was trying to do what he thought his hero brother would have done. Sometimes it still hurts, though. Funny, a teenage crush forty years ago, and yet . . . .”

  We waited. “I’ll read you what he wrote,” Sister Marie said. She put on a pair of glasses. “He starts by talking about us. I’ll skip that, if you don’t mind.” A deep breath.

  “‘Amy, I expect most people would consider me a nut case. But I know you will believe me when I say that this stuff is supernatural. Something—Al or whatever—but something evil, wants to enter this world. And our place in the woods is some kind of gateway. I think, way back, something bad happened there. I don’t think Al will stop, even if he fails with me. There’s another world, Amy. Pray to God that it doesn’t get into ours!’”

  One more time, Sister Marie spoke directly to me: “Nick, I believe Luke is in heaven, despite the manner of his death. If you pray, speak to him. He will help you if he can.”

  We thanked Sister Marie. On the drive back to Bridgewater, I thought about prayer. I wanted to ask for help, but I wasn’t sure I knew how. The way home took us right through Baytown, where there was a traffic jam. Apparently some accident or emergency; we heard sirens everywhere.

  When we got back to my street, I spotted Mom’s car in the drive. She was home early for some reason. “Tara, drop me off here,” I said, a block and a half away.

  She pulled over, then leaned across the seat and hugged me. “Come to the library tomorrow,” she said. “And remember what Sister said. We’re in this together.”

  I walked to my house. When I
opened the door, Mom came hurrying out of the kitchen. Her eyes were red and full of fear. “Nick!” she cried. “Why is the sheriff looking for you?”

  15

  Calm down, Mom, I’ll tell you what I know. Let’s go to the kitchen.” Something about the kitchen. It’s a safe place. “Mom, do you remember the fight at school?”

  “Of course.”

  “The kid who punched me was attacked by someone on Saturday. He’s in the hospital. I’m pretty sure the sheriff is checking on people who knew the kid, especially people who might have had a problem with him.” For Stenson, I thought, that’s a long list.

  “I got called at work,” Mom said like it was my fault. “I had to punch out early.”

  “Why?”

  “I told the sheriff I’d meet him here, with you. He’ll be here in half an hour.”

  “All right,” I said, but my mind was racing. It doesn’t matter how innocent you are. If the police are after you, part of you feels guilty. Maybe it was also because of the calls I’d erased.

  Fifteen minutes later there was a knock at the door. I tried to prepare myself. But it was just Emma.

  “Oh, Nicholas!” she wailed. “Have you heard?”

  My confused look was answer enough.

  “Father Remy! His house burned down last night! He died in the fire!”

  Emma was sobbing. I didn’t know what to do. I hugged her a little. “I’m sorry,” I said. But sorrow, to tell the truth, wasn’t my first emotion. It was more like panic. What in the world was going on here?

  Emma wasn’t gone five minutes when the sheriff’s car pulled up. Sheriff Brady was with a younger man in uniform, his deputy.

  “You’re Nick?” the sheriff asked. I nodded. Mom invited them both into the living room, and we all sat down.

  “Nick, you know John Stenson? You’ve heard about what happened?”

  “On TV, yes, sir.”

  He pulled a little notepad from his jacket. “A couple of people we talked to—Mr. Blackstreet and a student named Steven Furman?—said you and John Stenson fought last week.”

  “Nick was protecting another boy,” Mom said, but the sheriff ignored her.

  “Mr. Blackstreet said you’d both been suspended. He also said he thought you were trouble.”

  I waited for an actual question.

  “Where were you on Friday night?”

  “I was here at home, sleeping.” If you could call it sleep, I thought.

  “Did you have any contact with John Stenson after the incident at school?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Sometime on Friday night or early Saturday morning, Mr. Stenson was assaulted.” The sheriff watched me carefully as he spoke. “He was hit repeatedly on the face and head with a heavy, sharp object. We haven’t found a weapon. However, doctors say his wounds are consistent with someone who was beaten with a rock or a brick.” The sheriff paused, still staring at me intently.

  “Mr. Stenson is in a coma. He may have brain damage.” I bit my tongue. Why did I keep thinking of wisecracks? This was serious.

  “Can I look at your hands, Nick?”

  I wasn’t sure what my rights were. Wasn’t I supposed to ask for a lawyer or something? I waited a second, but I didn’t want to seem guilty, so I held them out. The sheriff took my right hand and looked closer.

  “How did you get this scrape on your palm?”

  I wasn’t about to tell anyone about my dream and the struggle by the well. “I don’t remember,” I said. “Maybe in the fight at school?”

  “Roll your sleeves up, son.”

  My arms still had angry scratches from wrists to elbows. The sheriff looked at Mom. “Ma’am, do you mind if we look around the house? We don’t have a warrant, so you can say no. But we’ll be careful not to mess the place up.”

  Mom looked at me. I was about to shrug when I remembered the bloody clothes in my closet. I shook my head.

  “I’m sorry,” Mom told the sheriff.

  He wasn’t pleased. “Have it your way. But we will get a warrant to search this place. And don’t think about going anywhere or getting rid of any evidence, son. We’ll be watching you.”

  At last, the sheriff and the deputy were gone, at least for now. But Mom was hysterical. “What’s going on, Nick?” she cried.

  “Mom,” I pleaded. “I didn’t do anything.” I sounded just like every perp on every crime show on TV. What I said was true. But when Mom asked where Toby was, I lied and said I didn’t know.

  That evening after Mom turned in, I called Tara. I told her what had happened.

  “OK, Nick,” she said. “I don’t think scratches on your arms are enough reason for them to get a search warrant. But they’ll be keeping an eye on you until they get more. So just leave everything the way it is. I’m checking out some new information. I’ll call you in the morning.”

  Late that night, I buried the laundry bag and its contents near Toby. Somehow I’d find a way to explain Toby’s disappearance to Mom. But right now I had too much other stuff to figure out.

  16

  Around noon the next day, Tara called. “Can you come to the library this afternoon? Around four? I want you to meet someone.”

  I said sure. I was trying to decide what to do until then when I heard someone at the door. Did the sheriff get a warrant after all? I looked through the curtains in the front room. It wasn’t the police. It was Blackstreet.

  Just the sight of him and my heart started beating in overdrive. I started to feel all prickly along the back of my neck. I went to the door. The assistant principal had his swagger back and a big, evil smile.

  “Hey, Barry.”

  “Why are you here? My mom’s working.”

  “A little defensive, aren’t we?” He stretched. “I was just in the neighborhood. My family owns some property out this way, and I check on it now and then. So I thought I’d stop by on my lunch hour and see how you were enjoying your, ah, vacation.”

  Sure, I thought. The guy’s a jerk. But you’ve met jerks before. Why do you want to kill this one? But the same hatred I’d felt in his office was trying to overcome me. OK, Nick, control yourself.

  “I thought we might have a little chat,” Blackstreet said, “about your attitude.”

  “Attitude, sir?”

  “Cut the crap, Barry. I could see it in my office. You don’t like me. In fact, you hate my guts.”

  He had that right. When he said “my guts,” a picture of me ripping them out flashed into my mind. “I really don’t know what you mean,” I lied, while I imagined his intestines unraveling.

  “Look,” he said, his voice getting darker and that finger jabbing again. “Nobody, especially no kid, gives me a face like you did without paying the price. Maybe you think, now that Stenson’s a vegetable, that your return to Bridgewater High will be a piece of cake.”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Wrong, pal. Your attitude needs some fixing, and I’m going to make sure that happens.”

  I was beginning to understand something. The anger rising inside of me wasn’t exactly mine. It was Al’s. Why did Al hate this guy so much? I didn’t have a clue. But anger is as much physical as mental, and the body channeling Al’s anger was mine. I had never felt so split in two. Part of me was a murderer. Part of me was trying to stop a murder.

  “There it is again,” Blackstreet smirked. “That look. Well, we could just mix it up here, you think? But I guess, for me, that would be what they call a bad career move.”

  For you, I thought—or Al thought—that would be an express ride to hell.

  “Well,” he pretend-sighed, “I don’t want to wear out my welcome. I just wanted to let you know how much I’m looking forward to our next, ah, encounter.”

  Blackstreet turned and headed away. Suddenly I heard a voice, like a growl, coming from my mouth. To this day, I don’t know what I said, but I know what it meant to convey—pure and primal hatred.

  17

  I got to the library at four and
found Tara at the desk. “Hi, Nick! Look, I’ve been online for the last couple of days looking for information about your well. It turns out there’s somebody local who might be able to help.”

  She showed me to a cubicle in back where the staff had their offices. Sitting there was a tall, skinny, older man wearing a bow tie and a tweed jacket. It was my first look at Lester Smythe, PhD.

  When he saw my face, I got the wide-eyed thing. Then he jumped up and extended his hand. “Hello, hello!” he said. “You must be Nick.” His accent was British, or Australian, like that lizard on the car insurance commercials. He introduced himself, complete with initials.

  “Dr. Smythe is a professor of anthropology at Noble College,” Tara said.

  “Anthropology?”

  “The study of old civilizations,” Dr. Smythe informed me. “How people lived in the past, how they got along with each other, what they believed about their existence.”

  “Like, say, the Egyptians?”

  “Yes, like that. Although my own specialty is regional Native American civilization: the history and customs of indiginous people in this area.”

  “Do you know about the stone walls that go all through the woods around here?” I asked. “I’ve always wondered if Indians made them.”

  “Excellent question!” Dr. Smythe exclaimed. “In fact, those walls were built by colonial farmers in the late 1700s to mark their property.”

  “When I was searching, I came across a paper Dr. Smythe published in 2002,” Tara said. “I think it has to do with your well.”

  Dr. Smythe wanted to know exactly where the circle of stones was located. When I told him, his eyes lit up.