* * * *
Dillon's buddies Jake and Chuy came to see him, Chuy hanging by the door—Dillon could see people more clearly now. They were pretty embarrassed, they didn't know what to say. So then, Dillon was a really big deal; they couldn't stay away. “You saw they got something going alongside the freeway?” Jake said. “Right where it happened? Flowers. Teddy bears. ‘Course nobody can stop and stand there."
"Kind of thrown over,” Chuy said. “Probably put it out at night. Real early morning."
"Yeah?” Dillon answered, even though his face hurt to talk. “See it on TV, or in person?"
"Oh, we went on over there,” Jake said.
Dillon saw a Game Boy in Jake's pocket, but Jake didn't mention it, obviously because Dillon couldn't move. Jake asked him how the food was.
"What food?” Dillon raised his arm with the IV in it.
The one thing they wanted him to talk about was the girl: They thought that aspect of it was really hot. They kept mentioning details about it to each other. A nurse stuck her head in, checked Dillon's chart. “No unauthorized visitors. Out, out!"
As they were leaving Chuy said, “Hey, you heard about the anti-vigil they got going now? Right outside here."
"Yeah,” Jake said. “Three girls all Gothed up—you know, black clothes and the black lipstick, and the eyes. Big signs: ‘Free Dillon.’”
"One had a skull and crossbones on it,” Chuy said.
"Send them on up,” Dillon said.
* * * *
Dillon's mother made her evening run. “Yes, I've been up here night and day,” she said into her cell phone; he heard her.
"I understand the mother really got cranked up today,” she said to Dillon, flipping channels to try all the different ten P.M. L.A. news. “Just can't let it die down normally."
They'd changed his position, and now Dillon couldn't quite see the TV screen. But he heard it, all right. “In fact, the victim's mother is convinced that Dillon Karchner's actions were deliberate, and she's lined up several motorists she claims will give sworn statements to that effect."
"This man is guilty of the murders of my daughter and my grandchild,” a woman's voice said. “I demand he be arrested and tried for committing a double homicide."
When the news changed, Dillon saw his mother standing in the center of the floor as if waiting.
"There was a kid in the car?” he said.
"She was eight months pregnant,” his mother said. She rushed over to the bed and clutched Dillon's free wrist. “Don't you worry about it; don't even think about it. Just a real unlucky day all around. Certainly it was a tragedy, and yes, the woman lost her daughter. And I very nearly lost you. But if she doesn't quit spouting off, I'm going to sue her ass for libel."
Dillon felt his anger rise. It didn't have to be like this. “What really happened,” he said, moving his bruised and swollen mouth carefully, “she—came on to me."
"What?” His mother was electrified, but trying to look calm.
"She did it all. Licking her lips. She'd like, laugh, and hang herself out the window. Showing off the goodies. Asking for it. She was hot."
"You're kidding!” His mother's smile is pinched in a little now.
"I wish I could remember the rest of it,” Dillon said. “Any of the accident."
"No, you don't,” his mother said. “Everybody here knows not to talk about it."
"Why's that?"
"Because we want you to get well, as fast as possible. Put it all behind you. Forget about it."
Dillon breathed till he calmed down some. “Now, you tell me what happened,” he said.
She did the thirty-second job he expected. One of those nasty rear-enders, she said: truck driver's doing. No way Dillon could've foreseen it. She kissed the side of his head goodnight and went away.
* * * *
When he was alone and it got quiet, Dillon pulled up his mental pictures of Babygirl again. He tried to bring back all the pieces, every moment just as it had happened. The row of stuffed toys along the rear window for Daddy's Babygirl. Peeking at him in her mirror, begging and teasing. It was a terrible night, Dillon's breathing was labored and wheezy—he decided he'd ask his favorite spook to help him if she showed up. But she never appeared.
In the almost-dark a thing hit Dillon's harness softly and fell on his naked chest, where it lay, itchy, the rest of the night. It had hard points that scratched his chest, especially when he started to sweat, but he couldn't manage to joggle it off, or reach it to move it away. And it smelled bad, too, sort of rotten.
He was having trouble breathing now, too, his face swollen and his chest, it was puffed out against his belly. He dragged the air in and out through his mouth and heard himself, noisy as an old dog. He was going to suffocate.
"Babygirl?” he called softly. “Hey! How about some help here?” But nothing happened. And then after a while, when he looked up again, she was there, a little too far toward the head of the bed for him to see her well. She just stood there looking down on him for a minute. Babygirl, sure enough, but older, tired-faced, with hollows and dark around the eyes, and he knew she was not going to do him any good.
* * * *
Next morning when the nurse came in she picked up the scratchy thing and then showed it to him. It was a little stuffed polar bear, its plushy feet and lower half blackened and stiff, and Dillon knew exactly where it came from: He remembered it perfectly, sitting in Babygirl's rear window between the bluebird and the buffalo.
"Pretty sick joke your buddies played on you, huh,” the nurse said. “Now you see why we have to have these restrictions."
And something more. When she looked at Dillon's IV, her face turned grim. “What's with this?” she muttered. She felt his face and his feet and legs, and did something to the IV rig. He heard her arguing with someone in the hall, and she came back several times to check him. Already Dillon felt his breathing eased. Now he was sure of his green ghost's intention toward him. He would have to be on guard.
Next night, Dillon accepted sleep early, to be ready for Babygirl's visit. In the quiet dark he woke and tried to keep watching for the familiar shadow in the doorway. A square of light appeared in the wall directly opposite and Dillon shifted, confused. It was about two feet across, looking out on a grassy hillside where Babygirl was playing, barefoot. She's little, maybe kindergarten size, but he knows her instantly. She's smiling at him, coming toward him step ... step ... step, pretending to creep up on him, with both hands out in front as if she's offering him something, only her hands are empty. And she's smiling.
Now she's older, maybe middle-school size, bigger and always closer. And the smile. Blond hair totally straight and hanging. She holds it up on one side like a curtain to show him her gold hoop earring.
Now the square is spreading, Babygirl's so close and coming straight at him, but barely smiling—she's got something in mind. Dillon tries to back away, he doesn't want her to touch him, It's poison, It'll burn, and she's whispering, “Dillon? Dillon?” The damn harness holds him locked tight. He strains against it—And she's gone; no Babygirl. Only the car window with all the grubby little animals stuck in red-black tar. And the whisper: “Dillon? Dillon?” Moving rightward along the window, a big face, Babygirl's face smeared with blood. Her eyes are closed and she's smiling, she keeps whispering, “Dillon? Dillon?” even though her mouth is closed. Dillon jerks away, lunging backward, and splits it open, rips it all out, lets loose the torrent of lava—
The alarm sounds in the nurse's station, she's there in two minutes: It's Code Blue. What a bloody mess. The tired old baby-face in the borrowed green scrubs doesn't see any of it. Bone-tired, carrying the black plastic projector, already around the corner of the corridor and into the elevator, descending with her eyes closed. Praying for the dead and the living.
(c)2008 by Jean Femling
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Fiction: THE WICKERN BOYS by Stephen Ross
Art by Laurie Harden
* * * *
2006 Department of First Stories author Stephen Ross makes his second appearance in EQMM this month. His “day job” as an IT programmer and technical writer also in-volves editing and contributing to his company's magazine, and he sometimes freelances as a newspaper columnist. But writing is not Mr. Ross's only interest. The New Zealand resident also composes songs and plays the piano.
The knife-edge of winter was a pleasant time during which to travel by rail. Autumn's dying breath could be observed from the warmth of the train carriage, and the moment savored with a sip from a flask of hot tea.
Inspector Quayle drained the mug. It wasn't that he enjoyed the yearly demise of the English countryside, but rather, he welcomed the sense of coziness it ushered in—a warm fire, a comfortable armchair, and a damn good book. And were it not for the fact the country was at war, he would have enjoyed it a whole lot more.
Quayle lit a cigarette. He was a slim man with a slight moustache. There had to be better things to occupy his time than investigating the disappearance of an elderly schoolmaster-cum-tutor from a country estate in the West Midlands. It wasn't as if London was without its share of missing persons—Herr Hitler was seeing to that on a nightly basis.
The word had come from on high. The schoolmaster was an elderly man by the name of Peter Black. Black was tutor to the two Wickern boys at Mallbright, and the boys’ father, Lord Wickern, was a senior official at the ministry of defense with the ear of the prime minister. Black had vanished, seemingly without trace, and Lord Wickern wanted it "looked into and taken care of."
The journey was three hours by rail out of Paddington Station. Mallbright was nestled in among the rolling hills and vales north of the Cotswolds. It had been the seat of the Wickern family since the time of Cromwell.
The Mallbright groundsman collected Quayle from the local train station in the late afternoon, and from there it was a forty-minute ride by horse and open carriage.
The groundsman went by the name of Standish. He was a gruff old man of few words. Easily in his eighties, wiry with a grizzled jaw, he had the appearance of someone who'd been left out in the rain for a year. And fifteen minutes into the carriage ride, he finally spoke. He leant back in the driver's seat and asked a question over his shoulder: “Is it just you, then?"
"What were you expecting?” Quayle asked. He was seated directly behind the old man.
"The master said there were coppers coming. Is it only you?"
"Yes. Finding a missing schoolmaster is hardly a priority at this point in the kingdom's history."
The groundsman nodded appreciatively. He snapped his whip at the horses.
Quayle adjusted his scarf. It was bitterly cold. “Aside from the Wickern boys, who lives at Mallbright at the moment?"
* * * *
"There's Mrs. Chalmers, the housekeeper. There's young Margaret, the housemaid. There's Joseph, the stable lad. And then there's me—I look after the grounds and tend to things."
"And the schoolmaster would have made five?"
"Aye, a staff of five. In ordinary times, we be forty-two of us, but not since the war come.” He shook his head. “They've all gone now—some into factories, some into uniform."
The final approach to Mallbright was along a sweeping drive leading to a building that reminded Quayle rather of the British Museum—three floors of austere gray architecture and a facade the length of his entire neighborhood back in Shepherd's Bush.
"How often does Lord Wickern come up from London?"
"We've not seen the master in a year."
As the horses brought the carriage closer to the house, Standish glanced back over his shoulder. “This is what we're fighting for,” he rasped.
"Your master's house?"
"England."
Mrs. Chalmers, the housekeeper, was a strong-minded Irishwoman who walked with the clip of a woman thirty years her junior. She was dressed in drab colors and her hair was tied back into a severe bun. Quayle trailed along behind her.
"The schoolmaster's been gone for nearly two weeks,” Mrs. Chalmers reported. “One day he was here, the next day he was not."
The interior of the house—if such a word suited—was labyrinthine. Hallways and passages led to even more hallways and passages, with staircases leading up and down seemingly around every turn. And every inch of it was devoid of life. It was like touring a mausoleum.
"This must be a difficult place to keep clean,” Quayle observed. His voice actually echoed.
The Irishwoman glanced back at him. There was weariness in her brow. “Most of the rooms have been shut up since the war's come. The south wing has been closed down entirely—ever since Lady Wickern died.” She crossed herself. “God rest her soul."
"The boys’ mother?"
She nodded. “Lady Wickern was returning from New York in the first months of the war. A German U-boat sank her ship in the middle of the night. All lives were lost."
* * * *
The destination of Mrs. Chalmers’ march was the schoolmaster's bedroom. It was a small, tidy room. There was a bed, a bookshelf, and a writing desk with a view of the grounds to the west of the house.
She drew back the curtain. “Like I said. One day the schoolmaster was here, the next day he was not."
"What do you think happened to him?” Quayle asked.
She looked doubtful. “Were it not for his shoes, I wouldn't have troubled Lord Wickern. I would have assumed the man had just up and left in the night."
"His shoes?"
"Black has four pairs of shoes, and if you look in his closet, you will find four pairs of shoes."
Quayle looked. There were four pairs of polished shoes.
"He was always a fancy dresser,” the housekeeper remarked. “Always well turned out."
Quayle had noted the clothing hanging above the shoes. The schoolmaster evidently knew a good tailor.
"And as best I can see, not one stitch is missing. If he did just up and leave in the night, he did so in bare feet and in his nightshirt."
Quayle took a look under the bed. There was a suitcase. He dragged it out. The suitcase was adorned with numerous luggage labels. He opened it. It was empty.
"Where's his passport?"
The housekeeper didn't know.
On the bedside table was a pair of spectacles and a book: Charles Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities. On the writing desk beneath the window lay a pocket watch and a pipe. There was also a ration book—it was in Black's name. Even just a cursory glance about the room suggested that if the man had just up and left in the night, he had apparently done so empty-handed.
"I will need to speak to the boys."
"They'll be at their lessons in the schoolroom."
"Without a teacher?"
Mrs. Chalmers nodded. “They're very good. Like little gentlemen, they are."
* * * *
The schoolroom was on the floor above the servants’ hall. There was a blackboard at the front, next to which was a desk for the teacher. There was a large globe, several bookcases lined with scholarly tomes, and, facing the blackboard, six student desks—suggesting the room had served many generations of Wickerns.
"You're a policeman, aren't you?” one of the Wickern boys inquired. He didn't look up from his book. His voice sounded like that of a mildly irritated peer of the realm.
Quayle had entered and had been observing from the rear.
The boys were seated at their desks. The boy who had spoken was studying a book on the history of the monarchy. He glanced back over his shoulder to confirm his suspicion. The scar on his cheek announced him as Richard Wickern—he had fallen badly from a tree when he was six.
Quayle crossed the room. “I'm Detective Inspector Quayle.” He walked around and in front of the desks.
The Wickern boys were identical twins. They had matching small faces, curly blond hair, and pale blue eyes. There was only one distinguishing feature that could separate the two of them—Richard's scar.
"
Are you with Scotland Yard?” the other boy, Rawdon Wickern, asked.
"Yes."
Rawdon was preoccupied with tying knots into lengths of twine, reading the instructions from a Boy Scout manual. He was as well spoken as his brother. “Have you come to look for the schoolmaster?"
"Yes, I have."
"May we see your identification?” Richard asked.
Quayle obliged.
Richard took the inspector's badge, and the two boys examined it with forensic interest.
The Wickern boys were dressed alike in tailored outfits. They were children, but with their manner and tone of speaking—daggers dipped in honey—they were like two miniature Edwardian gentlemen.
"Where were you born, Inspector Ian Edward Quayle?” Richard asked.
"London."
"Shouldn't you be fighting in the war?” Rawdon asked.
"I'm too old for that."
"How old are you?"
"Sixty-six."
"We're fourteen. We're twins."
"Did you fight in the Great War?” Richard asked.
Quayle nodded. “I was a sergeant."
Richard passed the identification back. “Have you met our father?"
"No, I haven't."
"Our father works at the War Office."
"He's very important,” Rawdon added.
"So I understand."
Richard leant back in his chair and stared indifferently at the inspector. “We don't know where Black has gone.” His pronunciation of the schoolmaster's name was with such distinctive sharpness, it almost carved the word into two syllables.
* * * *
"What kind of man was he?” Quayle asked. He lit a cigarette.
Young Margaret motioned to speak, but then thought better of it. The housemaid couldn't have been much older than the two boys, a tiny thing with a face of freckles.
The five of them—Quayle, Standish, Mrs. Chalmers, Margaret, and Joseph the stableboy—were seated at the dinner table in the servants’ hall. Supper had been polished off, and coffee was being drunk. The Wickern boys had been fed earlier, upstairs in the dining room, and had been seen off to bed.
Joseph the stableboy had said nothing throughout the supper. He was a peculiar boy of eighteen. His eyes never appeared to focus on anything, and his face seemed to be permanently on the verge of a smile.
EQMM, September-October 2008 Page 30
