by Ronald Malfi
Come five thirty, Brandy had already contemplated calling her mother at the diner, twice. Both times, however, she fought off the urge, knowing damn well that the second she had her mother on the phone, Matthew would come bounding through the back door, his knees skinned, his hands grimy, his hair damp with sweat. But at five thirty she could no longer pace around the house deliberating about phoning her mom; she had to get over to the Olson place by six.
She changed into jeans and a long-sleeved, loose-fitting blouse then left a note for Matthew on the kitchen counter, telling him there were leftovers in the fridge and to stay home until their mom got back from work. Then she locked up the house and walked up the road until she reached the grid of manicured streets where the Olsons lived. By the time she got there, the sky was a cool lavender color and a chilly October wind shuttled down from the mountains and bullied the trees.
“We won’t be late, hon,” Mrs. Olson promised as she ushered her husband out the front door.
Their daughter, Tabby Olson, was five. She was a timid little thing with pigtails and she never gave Brandy a hard time, so Brandy didn’t mind babysitting the girl. They watched a Pixar cartoon on DVD and Brandy made popcorn. By the end of the movie, Tabby had fallen asleep on the sofa, her head cocked at an awkward angle, one leg dangling over the sofa cushion. Gently, Brandy slipped her arms around the girl and carried her down the hall to the girl’s bedroom. The walls were the color of Pepto-Bismol and pink stuffed animals kept watch over the room from every available perch.
Brandy rolled the girl into bed. Tabby stirred and her eyes blinked open.
“Go to sleep,” Brandy told her soothingly.
“Can you leave the door open a crack?”
“Yes.”
She shut the light and closed the door only halfway before returning to the living room. Popping the Pixar DVD from the player, she replaced it in its case then surveyed the collection of DVDs on the higher shelves. Most of the movies looked boring—by her own observations, she figured the Olsons to be a relatively boring couple—but she finally selected a film that had a blood-drenched bride on the cover. It looked old and was probably less titillating than the box art promised, but she figured what the hell and dropped the disc into the DVD player.
Before the opening credits had ended, Tabby Olson appeared in the living room doorway clutching a tattered panda bear to her chest.
Brandy paused the DVD. “What is it, honey?”
“There’s a boy outside my window.”
“Come show me.”
She followed the little girl back down the hall and into her bedroom. The stuffed animals were rearranged and the curtains at the window had been pulled aside. She told Tabby to get into bed then went straight to the window and peered out. Tabby’s bedroom window looked out onto the Olsons’ side yard, which was as black as the interior of a cave. The sky was moonless. Beneath the window, holly bushes scraped along the siding of the house.
“There’s no one out there,” Brandy told the girl, who had crawled back into bed and pulled the covers up nearly to her neck. The tattered panda bear was propped on one pillow.
“He’s out there,” Tabby said.
“It’s the bushes making noise in the wind.”
“Brandy, I saw him.”
Brandy sucked her lower lip. She looked back at the window, that rectangle of infinite blackness. “Okay. Come here and show me.”
Tabby flung the blankets off and hopped down from the bed. The little girl padded across the room and stopped at the window, both her tiny pink hands perched on the sill. A look of intense concentration came across her face as she surveyed the darkened yard.
“Well?” said Brandy.
“He’s not there anymore.”
“Okay. Good. Now you can go to sleep.”
Tabby didn’t immediately let go of the windowsill.
“Come on,” Brandy said, playfully tugging on one of the girl’s pigtails. “Back into bed with you.”
Looking disappointed, Tabby left the window and climbed back into bed. Brandy tucked the blankets in all around her. “Good night, squirt.”
“Don’t forget the door,” Tabby warned.
“I won’t,” she said, leaving the door partway open again when she left.
In the kitchen, she filled up a glass with ice cubes and Coke then reclaimed her seat on the sofa. She restarted the DVD and watched about twenty minutes of the movie—as she’d suspected, it was a bit slow and boring—before she thought she saw someone or something pass by one of the living room windows. The sight caused her to jump and her skin quickly prickled with sweat. Again she paused the movie then got up and went to the window and looked out. She could see no more from here than she could from Tabby’s bedroom.
An indistinct rattling sound came from the kitchen. Brandy froze. The rattling stopped. Her mouth suddenly dry, she licked her lips before saying, “Tabby? Honey, is that you?”
The girl did not answer.
Peeling herself away from the window, Brandy crossed the living room into the kitchen. The only light came from the single bulb over the sink. She glanced around the kitchen, finding it empty, and realized that Tabby would have had to cross through the living room to get into the kitchen. Brandy would have seen her.
When she looked toward the door that led from the kitchen out to the side of the house, Brandy suddenly realized what that rattling sound had been—the doorknob. She suddenly felt vulnerable, standing there in the middle of the kitchen in the dark.
There’s a boy outside my window, Brandy thought, her eyes locked on the oval of pebbled glass in the center of the door. Beyond, black shapes were distorted and bled into one another. Brandy held her breath and waited for a figure to materialize beyond the glass. Waited…
And then it happened—the silhouette of a person appeared on the other side of the door, a darker cutout against a less dark background. She felt her heart seize in her chest. As she stood there watching, the figure moved. Something like an arm extended, distorted behind the textured glass. A second later, the doorknob rattled again; she could see it jiggling from halfway across the kitchen.
“Go away,” she called to the intruder, her voice no stronger than a slight wind. She slid across the floor and snatched the telephone off the wall. “I’m calling the police.”
The figure placed a palm on the glass. Brandy felt as though her entire body were about to crumble to powder.
“Brandy,” the stranger said on the other side of the door. The intruder was male, his voice muted. “Open up. It’s me.”
She blinked, suddenly recognizing the voice. She hung the phone up, went to the door, unlocked it, and pulled it open.
Grinning, Jim Talbot stood there with his hands in the pockets of his varsity jacket.
“Oh my God, you scared the hell out of me,” Brandy said in one nervous, shaky breath. “Jim, what are you doing here?”
“I heard you were babysitting, thought I might drop by.”
“You scared the kid, too. She saw you outside her window.”
“Can I come in?”
“Come on, Jim…”
“What do you say, Brandy?” He was glancing over her shoulder into the darkened kitchen. “Is the kid in bed?”
“She is, but you know you can’t come in.”
“Aw, man, you hurt my feelings,” he said playfully. “You look good.”
Her face went hot. “Thanks. So do you.”
“What time do you get off? A bunch of us are heading into Garrett to catch a midnight movie.”
“I can’t. I gotta be home.”
“Oh. That’s too bad.” He looked down at his feet, giving her enough time to admire the perfect part in his dark hair. When he looked back up at her, his trademark lopsided grin was back. “You excited about the dance?”
“Yes!” She cringed inwardly at the force of her response.
Jim laughed. “You got something to wear yet?”
“Not yet, but I know what I’m g
onna get.”
“I’ve got this pretty badass tie that lights up. You’ll die when you see it.”
“Sounds awesome.”
Again, Jim peered over her shoulder. She thought she saw the vaguest frown in his features, but it was gone so quickly she couldn’t be sure. “I really can’t come in?” he asked again.
“You really can’t, Jim. The Olsons would flip.”
“I’ll sneak out when they pull up in the driveway.”
“Too risky. I’ll see you soon, okay?”
He scuffed one of his Converse sneakers on the step. “Yeah, okay. Cool. Talk to you later.”
She watched him hop down the stairs and vanish into the darkness. For some time she could hear his sneakers crunching over dead leaves and breaking sticks, but those sounds vanished soon enough, too.
5
It was ten thirty when the Olsons got home and Bob Olson offered to drive Brandy home. She accepted the offer, and the drive was blessedly quick, as Bob was not the best conversationalist. As they pulled up outside the Crawly household, Brandy undid the seat belt and thanked him for the ride. Bob Olson was looking past Brandy, out the passenger window at the house.
“Looks like you got something going on tonight, hon,” he said. There was an uncharacteristic tinge of compassion in his voice.
Brandy looked and saw a police car parked in the driveway.
Chapter Four
1
Ben turned and saw Wendy Crawly’s daughter come through the kitchen door. She had obviously seen the cruiser out front and had a look of terror on her face. Both Ben and Wendy had been seated at the kitchen table; now, Wendy stood and went quickly over to her daughter.
“Mom?” the daughter said, her voice shaking, her face about to break apart. She hugged her mother.
“He hasn’t come home yet,” Wendy said. Her voice was equally as fragile. “Nothing has happened, he just hasn’t come home.”
Ben stood rigidly from the table. This was the second night in a row that saw him working late hours and he was exhausted. Despite his protestations, Wendy Crawly had poured him a cup of coffee when he’d arrived ten minutes ago and until now he hadn’t touched it. Sighing, he picked it up and took a sip. It was very hot and very strong.
“Hi,” Ben said to the daughter, setting the coffee cup back down. “You’re Brandy?”
Brandy nodded, her eyes drinking him in. She seemed as though she could be knocked down by blowing on her.
“I’m Ben Journell.”
“You knew my dad,” Brandy said, catching him off guard.
Yes, he’d known Hugh Crawly. Though Hugh had been a few years older, Ben had gone to school with him and, for a couple of years back in the days of their unbridled youth, they’d maintained a laconic, easy sort of friendship. In a town as small and inquisitive as Stillwater, Ben was certainly aware that Hugh Crawly had picked up and left his family in the night roughly a year or so ago with a woman purportedly half his age. Ben would have never mentioned the girl’s father to her, for fear of dredging up bad memories and overstepping his boundaries; now that she’d mentioned him, Ben found he didn’t know how to react. His hands fumbled along the brim of his hat, which he held in front of him.
“I did, yeah,” he said eventually.
Wendy smoothed a hand through her daughter’s hair. “I’ll make you something to eat.”
“I’m not hungry,” Brandy said.
Wendy went to the refrigerator anyway and began to take out some lunch meat and half a loaf of French bread. Without looking at him, Wendy said, “Ben?”
“No thanks, Wendy. I’m good.”
He watched her cut frantically through the bread.
“Have a seat, Brandy,” Ben said, pulling one of the kitchen chairs out for the girl. He reseated himself at the table, setting his hat on the tabletop and looping one finger in the handle of the coffee mug.
Brandy sat down, her eyes never leaving him.
She’s trying to be tough, he realized. She’s trying not to cry. He couldn’t help but wonder how tough a kid suddenly had to be when their father sneaks away and never comes back. Especially if that kid had a younger sibling they felt obligated to look after. This made him think of his own father, and even as a grown adult with no siblings, he had felt completely lost and frightened when his father had died. He recalled the nights in the house after his father’s death when he thought he heard the old man getting up and walking down the hall to the bathroom…only to remember that he was no longer among the living and it was only Ben’s bittersweet memories playing games on him in the night.
“When was the last time you saw your brother, Brandy?”
“Last night. He was downstairs watching some horror movie on TV when I went up to bed.”
“What times was that?”
“I’m not sure. Mom had already gone to bed. I guess around eleven.”
“And what happened when you got up this morning? Your mother said you noticed he was gone.”
She told him about finding the kitchen door open, mud and wet leaves on the floor. “When I went out to hang the laundry, I noticed his bike was still against the garage, too. That’s when I started to get worried. Oh,” she sparked to life and looked at her mother, who was still busy making sandwiches at the counter. “We found his shirt, too.”
At the counter, Wendy set the knife down. Her shoulders appeared to slump.
“Yes,” Ben said. “Your mom told me about the shirt.”
“I went to his friend Dwight’s house because I thought he might be there. He wasn’t.”
“Dwight?”
“Dandridge. They live a few blocks up the road.”
“Did Dwight say where he might have gone?”
“He said maybe to Hogarth’s Drugstore. There was something in the window he said he wanted to buy.”
Wendy came over and set a hefty sandwich down in front of her daughter. Brandy stared at it with a muddled look of contempt and sadness, like someone looking at a dead animal on the side of the road. Without a word, Wendy returned to the counter and began preparing another sandwich.
“Did he have an argument with either of you?” Ben asked.
Brandy shook her head.
“He’s an eleven-year-old boy,” Wendy said from the counter, her voice slightly raised. “He’s always arguing.”
“I understand.”
“Go upstairs, Brandy.”
The girl looked at her mother, her face expressionless.
“You heard me,” Wendy said. “I need to talk to Ben alone.”
Brandy pushed away from the table, hugging herself with both arms, and crossed silently into the next room. A moment later, Ben heard the stairs creaking as the girl ascended. She’d left her sandwich behind, untouched.
Wendy sat down in her daughter’s chair. Her hands shook and the worry and fear were clearly visible on her face.
“What is it, Wendy?” he said. Of course, he knew Wendy well enough too, though she was a Stillwater transplant. Hugh had met her when he was living and working in Pittsburgh and he’d brought her back with him like some kind of prize he’d won at a state fair. Wendy was still pretty, but she had been youthful and beautiful back then. For the first time, Ben wondered why she had remained in Stillwater after Hugh had left. This wasn’t her town, wasn’t her home. She owed nothing to the land or to its people. Ben doubted she felt the same obligation he’d felt in staying here to take care of his ailing father. Moreover, she did not have that obligation tethering her to Stillwater. Ben had it and it had become stronger, not weaker, after his father had died. He wondered what could be going through Wendy Crawly’s head.
“Those storms we’ve been having,” she said, her voice wavering. “The creek has been flooding and the Narrows are like rapids, Ben. And I keep thinking about that boy that was found down by the—”
Ben placed his hand atop hers, silencing her. “Matthew knows to keep away from the Narrows, Wendy. Right?”
She nodded.
“Chances are he’s at some friend’s house. Sometimes parents don’t realize when their kids are upset and want to rebel. Maybe you guys exchanged a few words and he wants to make you worry for a night.”
“I’ll tan his hide,” she uttered, suddenly crying and laughing at the same time.
“I’ll stop by the Dandridge house when I leave here. Maybe Matthew’s friend Dwight lied to your daughter and he’s spending the night over there. Or maybe he’s at another friend’s house.”
“He…he doesn’t really have many other friends.”
“Could you write down some names of the friends he does have? I’ll check in with each of them.”
“Okay,” she said, rising from the table and going to one of the kitchen drawers. “Thank you, Ben.”
She returned to the table with a pad and pen and began writing. Ben watched her write as he sipped some more coffee. He was trying not to let his uneasiness show. Brandy had said Matthew had been watching TV around eleven o’clock last night. In his head, he was doing the math, wondering if the boy would have had enough time to make it from his house out to Full Hill Road by midnight. It was a long shot, sure, but he couldn’t stop thinking of Maggie Quedentock insisting that she had hit a boy with her car.
2
It had been twenty-four hours since Maggie Quedentock’s incident on Full Hill Road and Evan still hadn’t noticed the damage to the Pontiac.
She had arrived home last night from the scene of the accident at around two in the morning. Under the spray of a hot shower, she’d curled into a fetal position and cried, partially for the fear that still lingered in her from the accident and partially because of what she had done with Tom Schuler. After the shower, she’d dressed in a knee-length nightshirt then slipped between the cool sheets of the bed. The bedroom window was cracked open, allowing a cool autumn breeze to infiltrate the bedroom. Evan’s shift wouldn’t end until six—he’d be working the nightshift at the plant over in Garrett for the next two weeks—and she’d struggled to find sleep before she heard the VW Beetle rumble into the driveway.
