by Rick Hautala
But was all of this happening simply because he couldn’t bring himself to admit—out loud—to someone else—that he, not his brother, had been responsible for Ray Saunders’s injury? Could an entire life be soured so badly because of one stupid mistake, one foolish accident?
No, it wasn’t an accident! I tackled him on purpose, but I did it so he’d leave Mikie alone. I never wanted Ray to get hurt … not that badly! I was just trying to help my younger brother, and look what it did! It put him into a mental hospital for thirty years!
He whimpered softly as the sour taste of regret gushed up into his throat from his stomach.
And—Christ—look at what it’s done to Ray’s life! Just ask him how much he’s enjoyed being trapped in a wheelchair for thirty years! His whole life! Look how bitter and resentful it’s made him!
But thoughts of Brian kept returning to haunt Edward. He realized that his son was now the same age he had been when he committed the deed that had shadowed his and so many other lives over the past thirty years. What he had done had also ruined his, Mikie’s, Rays, and his mother’s life, and his first wife’s life, and … maybe even—Please, God, no!—maybe it had even poisoned his son’s life. And now that he had a chance to make things better, what was he doing to patch things up between them?
Not a damned thing!
“Christ!” he whispered, clenching his teeth and punching the mattress in frustration.
He realized that Brian must have heard him and Dianne fighting. He was probably lying awake in bed, feeling lost and alone, worrying about his own safety. Why wouldn’t he—in a house where both adults seemed to be so out of control?
Huffing with pent-up frustration, Edward eased himself out of bed and tiptoed down the dark hallway to Brian’s bedroom—what used to be his own bedroom. The door was closed. He paused outside, his hand resting lightly on the doorknob and shivered wildly, more than half-convinced that, if he opened the door and looked inside now, he would see—not Brian, but himself, a thirteen-year-old boy huddled in bed, clutching the bed covers to his chin and totally consumed by the guilt and fear that what he had done to Ray Saunders would eventually be found out.
So why take the chance of disturbing him? Edward thought. Maybe it was best just to let him sleep.
Almost against his will, his fingers tightened on the doorknob and turned it. The hinges creaked, setting his nerves on edge as the door swung slowly open. He leaned his head into the room, watching as his vision vibrated in the thick darkness. After a moment or two, he saw the mounded lump on the bed over by the far wall. He sighed with relief, noticing that the furniture arrangement was different than it had been back when he was growing up in this house. For one thing, there was only one bed. Michael’s had been taken away a week or so after he had first been admitted to the mental hospital.
And now where the hell is Michael?
There hadn’t been any more news since he had first received notification from the hospital that his brother had disappeared. Nearly every day, he made a phone call to the hospital and to the local and state police in Massachusetts, but they so far had turned up nothing. The authorities had reassured him that they were doing everything possible, but to Edward, it didn’t seem like whole hell of a lot.
For now, as much as he hated it, he had to accept the fact that his younger brother was listed as “officially missing” and there was a missing persons report put out on the wires for him. For a while, he had more than half-expected that Mikie—somehow—would show up at the house, but there hadn’t been any sign of him. Besides, how could someone who’s retarded and who didn’t have any money or car make the three-hour trip from Danvers to Summerfield, Maine? He sure as hell couldn’t have walked that far. Edward knew he had to accept the cold, hollow truth that his brother, probably upset at the news of his mother’s death, had wandered off and died … somewhere.
What the hell! Just another life I’ve ruined by what I’ve done … and haven’t done!
Edward took one step into the room, straining forward to listen, but he couldn’t make out the steady rhythm of his son’s breathing above the pulse whooshing in his ears.
Is he faking it? Edward wondered.
He knew from having been that age himself that even if Brian was still wide awake, even if he was scared out of his mind and needed someone to talk to, he would feign sleeping. The next move, Edward thought, would be for Brian to roll over in bed and smack his lips. Poised and silent, he waited for that to happen, but the lump on the bed remained motionless where it was.
Finally he concluded that, even if Brian had awakened while he and Dianne were fighting and shouting at each other, he must have drifted back off to sleep by now.
“G’night, Bri,” he whispered. “Sleep well.”
Edward eased back out of the room and closed the door behind him, determined not to disturb Brian right now. In the morning, he promised himself he’d have a serious heart-to-heart talk with his son. Yawning behind his hand, he shuffled down the hall and climbed back into bed. After another half hour or so of staring at the ceiling, he finally drifted off to sleep just as the sky was brightening with dawn.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Losing It
The room was bright with morning sunlight, and warm, sweet-smelling breeze was waiting in through the open window. Dianne opened her eyelids slowly, letting the light shatter into hundreds of dazzling, yellow swirls as she tried to assess how she felt.
Not all that well, she concluded.
Every muscle and joint in her body was stiff, and there was a dull throb of pain centered behind her eyes, keeping time with her pulse. Her right hand—the one she had punched Edward with last night—felt bruised, possibly sprained.
She sighed, feeling the warm buildup of tears in her eyes. Ever since she was a little girl, she had always enjoyed the sensation of waking up, of feeling fresh and ready to face the challenge of a new day; but over the past few months, she had come to dread each new day. After what had happened last night, she was so filled with worry and regret that she was even afraid to open her mouth because she feared all that would come out would be one long, trailing scream. She lost track of time just lying there, listening to the rapid flutter of her pulse in her ears and trying her best to will it to slow down.
Please, dear God, just let it slow down!
She couldn’t believe it when, after drifting in and out of wakefulness, she rolled over and looked at the alarm clock. It was already past eleven o’clock. Uttering a low groan, she kicked aside the bed covers and leaped out of bed. As soon as she was on her feet, a wave of dizziness crashed over her, and she had to sit back down on the bed until the heavy pounding in her head gradually subsided.
“Just take it easy … take it easy,” she cautioned herself, rubbing her forehead with both hands and slowly rolling her neck from side to side. There was no need to hurry, she told herself. There was nothing planned for today—nowhere to go.
As soon as she felt even marginally better, she rose from the bed again—slowly, this time, and took a few hesitant steps forward as she approached the bedroom door. Although she felt an undeniable urge to hurry, she kept reminding herself that she didn’t have to be getting up. Edward wasn’t in bed, and she didn’t expect to find him downstairs; he no doubt had left hours ago for the construction site.
And I’ll bet he’s not even thinking about me, much less caring about how I feel!
She tried to stop herself from thinking it but couldn’t; the thought was there almost automatically, and what bothered her even more was the red rush of anger that filled her the instant she thought about Edward.
Yeah, and what about Brian? Halfway down the hall, she paused outside his bedroom, staring blankly at the closed door. Then, sniffing with disgust, she went downstairs.
Why even concern myself with Brian? she thought.
Although over the past few days he hadn’t been as openly hostile with her as he had been in the past, she suspected his opinion of
her hadn’t improved. As far as she could see, he was just biding his time until he flew back to Phoenix next week to be home in time to start school.
And good riddance, she thought with only a slight twinge of guilt.
The truth was, they hadn’t connected at all throughout the summer, and the prospect of having him return next summer, although far in the future, was already gnawing at her nerves. She admitted that she might not have made as much of an effort to get to know him as she might have, but—Christ!—what did he expect, considering everything she’d had to deal with this summer?
Sweat broke out on her forehead, and her legs felt weak as she walked into the kitchen. An empty cereal bowl and juice glass in the sink, a half-filled carafe of coffee, and a crumpled newspaper and a few crumbs on the table were the last evidence of Edward’s breakfast. On the table was a note that read:
HAD TO GET SOME WORK DONE TODAY—SEE YOU TONIGHT.
XOXOXOXO … ME!
COME OUT TO THE HOUSE SITE AND SEE ME IF YOU WANT TO TALK OR ANYTHING.
LOVE YAH!!!
“Yeah, sure,” Dianne said. She crumpled up the note and tossed it into the wastebasket.
Her emotions were all twisted up inside her, and she wanted just to sit down and cry it all out, but she knew that it wouldn’t do any good. Her problems were too big and too deep to put behind her that easily. Choking back her feelings, she grimly set about preparing herself a breakfast of fried eggs, bacon, and toast—something that should have given her pleasure after all those months of not being able to eat real food; but when she sat down to eat, everything tasted flat and colorless. She considered calling to Brian, to see if he wanted something, but she honestly didn’t care if he was still in bed or if he’d gone off to work with his father. Over the summer, she had gotten into the habit of ignoring him, and she decided not to let anyone intrude on her privacy.
But as she was eating and then while she was washing the dishes, other, darker thoughts intruded. These thoughts disturbed her because, no matter how much she tried to rationalize them away, they didn’t erase what had happened last night. She couldn’t believe that she had actually attacked Edward, and it scared her to consider how furious she had felt-so mad at him she honestly thought she could have killed him … that she would have, if she’d had either the strength or some kind of weapon.
And maybe he deserves to die … for what he did to me!
The thought registered in her brain as clearly as if someone in the room had spoken it. Her eyes were wide with fear as she glanced around the kitchen, suddenly terrified by the thought that this sunny, quaint room was lust an illusion and that lurking just beneath it was a whole different world—a world that was dark and sick with corruption … a world of shadows that sucked all the energy from the living and used it to fuel a dark, hidden hatred … a hatred that churned inside her every time she even thought about her husband or stepson.
Maybe both of them—Edward and Brian—even me! We all deserve to die-e-e-e!
The voice whispered in her mind, drawing out the last word until it faded away.
“No-o-o-o-o.”
The word began as a slow, grating whisper that built up to a long, agonized cry as she gripped the edge of the sink and stared blankly out at the morning. She covered her face with her hands and pressed hard against her eyes as a surge of terror swept her away.
“Oh my God! Oh my God! … I’m losing my mind!”
The sound of hammering, like rapid gunfire that broke the early morning stillness, was interspersed by the winding grind of a power saw and the clatter of cut-off pieces of wood falling onto the plywood decking. The morning had started out cool, but it had gotten hot and muggy fast. Within an hour of starting work, Edward was sweating furiously as he set about framing up the interior living room walls of the house. He tried not to think how much he was behind schedule and how hard-pressed he was going to be to get the shell of the house finished before cold weather set in.
But Edward tried not to let little things like that bother him as he worked. If he was looking for things to worry about, he had plenty of them waiting for him back at home. What he hoped for was that just for the day—maybe even just for the morning, he could lose himself in his work and forget all about Dianne’s and Brian’s and even his own problems. They would all be there when he got home that evening. Gritting his teeth and focusing on the length of wood in front of him, he positioned and drove in nails as fast as he could. His hammer left half-moon dimples in the soft pine.
He worked until lunchtime, took half an hour to eat the sandwich and finish off the coffee he had brought along, then got right back to work, hammering and sawing away as the afternoon slid by. The sun began to lower in the west, casting long skeletal shadows of the framing studs across the floor. Other than a bit of stiffness in his shoulders from working so hard and fast, he felt pretty damned good; he’d gotten a lot accomplished for one day.
He didn’t notice the first rock when it sailed through the open window space and landed a few feet behind him. His hammering masked the sound of the rock as it clattered across the bare plywood flooring and came to rest beside a stack of two-by-fours. Whistling tunelessly under his breath, he took a few measurements, jotted them down, then went over to the stack of lumber to cut the next several pieces of wood he would need.
The second stone, however, did catch his attention. It came flying from behind him, missing his shoulder by mere inches, and slammed into the stack of wood, leaving a golf ball-sized divot in one of the two-by-fours.
“What the—!” Edward muttered.
He straightened up and looked around, but there was no one there. Moving quickly to the edge of the platform, he looked out at the woods but saw only the dense tangle of trees and brush. Late afternoon shadows stretched out like cat’s claws across the bare earth clearing. He listened for some telltale sound, but his ears were still ringing from the sound of his pounding hammer.
“Ha-llo!” he called out, surprised by the sudden loudness of his own voice.
No reply came from the woods. He scanned the area carefully but saw no one. For a moment, he began to doubt what had happened. Maybe the rock had been there all along, balanced on the stack of wood or something, and it had fallen from the vibrations he’d made while working. He walked over to the stack of lumber, put his hammer down, and picked up the rock. Juggling it back and forth between his hands, he went back to the edge of the house and looked out over the yard again.
“Hey! That wasn’t very funny, you know,” he shouted.
He was slightly surprised by the muffled quality of his voice and attributed it to temporary hearing loss from using the power saw all day without ear protectors. His gaze darted back and forth over the screen of trees, but still he saw no evidence of motion other than the gentle sway of branches in the wind.
It must be either Brian or Dianne, playing a trick on me, he thought.
Cupping one hand to his mouth, he shouted, “Hey! Come on! I can’t waste my time playing games with you. Come out, come out wherever you are!”
Then he held his breath and listened.
The area remained perfectly silent, undisturbed except for a gentle puff of wind that rustled the leaves. The humid air seemed to deaden all sound, but then, just at the edge of hearing, he thought he heard a faint ripple of laughter.
“’S that you, Brian?” he shouted.
The laughter stopped abruptly, leaving the impression that it had never been there at all.
Edward realized he was squeezing the rock too tightly and consciously eased up his grip. None of this was striking him as very funny. Maybe whoever it was—either Brian or Dianne—had thought it would be funny to get his attention by throwing a rock at him, but then must have felt stupid or guilty when they realized how close they had come to actually hitting him.
“Here!” he suddenly shouted. “Maybe you’ll need this!”
He cocked his arm back and threw the rock as hard as he could toward the woods. It ar
ced in the air, then ripped like a bullet through the leaves and landed with a dull thud somewhere deep in the woods. Edward watched and waited a few more seconds, then, brushing his hands on his pants legs, walked back to the stack of lumber and drew out the pieces he needed to cut. After measuring the first piece, he picked up the power saw, marked the two-by-four and braced it into position, and started to cut.
The whine of the saw was deafening. Sawdust spewed into the air like the fake snow inside a glass, water-filled Christmas ornament. Once the blade had cut through, the wood clattered onto the floor. Edward released the trigger, and the saw quickly powered down. He was just turning around to get the next piece of lumber he needed when a sudden, sharp pain slammed into the back of his head. He grunted as a flash of white light exploded across his vision. Staggering forward, he almost fell but then caught himself on the stack of two-by-fours. His ears were ringing wildly as he dropped the saw to the floor and turned around, doubled over in pain. He clasped the back of his head with both hands.
“Jesus fuck!” he shouted.
He shook his head to clear it but was still disoriented. His stomach knotted up when he pulled his hand away and—looked at the wide smear of blood on his palm. On the floor to his left, he saw another rock. It took him a few seconds to realize that someone had just nailed him a good one.
Bright bolts of pain speared through his head as he lurched to the edge of the deck and, without breaking his stride, jumped down to the ground. Picking up the first thing he saw—a scrap two-by-four—he brandished it over his head and charged off into the woods. He could only guess at the direction the rock had come from, but ever since he was a boy, he had known all the branching paths that cut through these woods; if he saw him, he could run down whoever had thrown that stone.
