“Yeah, what makes you so curious about Frankie—” Marjorie began.
“Marjorie!” his father snapped.
Marjorie jumped in her chair and began to cry.
“Now, look what you’ve done!” his mother said. She stood, picked up her daughter, and patted her back.
“Daddy screamed at me!” Marjorie wailed.
“This is all your fault, Miles,” his mother said. “Killers and Frankie Boone. You just ruined a perfectly nice dinner. I hope you’re happy!”
“Daddy screamed at me!” Marjorie wailed again.
“Is that what this is about . . . the scrapbook in your room?” his mother said.
“What scrapbook?” his father asked.
“Nothing—” Miles tried to say.
“He had some filthy thing in his room,” his mother said. “I made him get rid of it.”
“What kind of filthy thing?”
Miles had never been sorrier for asking a question in his life, and given the chance, he’d probably flush his entire sister’s head down the toilet.
“I don’t have it anymore,” he said.
“But you did?”
“No.”
“Yes!” his mother said at once.
Miles looked at her, his face turning beet red. “It was just a book! A stupid book. It’s gone now, because Mom made me burn it!”
“I made him burn it! I didn’t want that vile thing in the house. I think a couple of the pages were stuck together, too . . . if you know what I mean.”
A smile crept across his dad’s face. Miles looked at his mother for a second and thought it possible to drown her in the Miramac just as Frankie had done. His hatred for her could have lit the dining room table on fire.
“What was in it?” his father asked.
“Nothing,” Miles said, looking down at his plate, playing with his mashed potatoes.
“I asked you a question,” his father said.
“Yeah, tell him what was in it—”
“Shut up and let the boy speak,” his father said, and once again he smiled, looking like a predator.
Miles continued to stare at his dinner plate. He wanted to pick it up and throw it in his father’s face. He wanted to take the knife and gouge out his mother’s eyes.
“Miles?” his father said.
Marjorie quieted. Her father scared her, and he was scaring her now. The calm he exuded was only a prelude to the violence.
“Miles?” his father asked again. “What was in the book?”
Miles took a gulp, still playing with his mashed potatoes. “Newspaper clippings.”
“What kind of newspaper clippings?”
Why had he spoken? He didn’t know, but he thought he would never speak again after tonight. Not to anyone in his family. He wished his mother had pigtails so he could soak them in gasoline, then light them on fire.
“Yeah, Miles, tell him what kind of newspaper clippings they were,” his mother said. She smiled.
“They were about Frankie Boone,” he said.
His father raised his eyebrows, pleased. The smile stretched wide, and he nodded. His mother continued to look on with Marjorie clinging to her neck. She was sniffling, wiping her nose.
“You got a little homosexual thing for Frankie Boone, Miles?” his father asked.
Jesus, Miles thought, the man looks proud of himself.
Yes. He could kill them. He could pull a Frankie Boone right now and kill the whole lot of them.
“No, sir,” he said.
His mother continued to look on, bouncing Marjorie on her hip.
“You have big dreams to grow up and be a momma killer, Miles?”
He looked at his mother, and for a second, he thought he was Frankie Boone. He thought he could be Frankie Boone easily, and he was not surprised to find his love for Frankie Boone growing in that moment. The look he gave his mother was murderous, and he was pleased to see she was receiving the signal. Her eyes widened a fraction in fear, and he grinned.
“No, sir,” he said. “And Frankie wasn’t a serial killer. He was just a guy that killed his mother.” He looked at his mom again.
“Thinking of following in his footsteps? Maybe doing away with dear old Mom and Dad?”
If only, he thought.
He was waiting for it. It was going to happen. His father was enjoying this. His mother, too. There was some shame, yes, humiliation as well, like they’d cut him open and revealed his darkest shame right on the dinner table for the whole family to see. An intense rage came over him he could not control. He was going to explode! His cheeks were burning red. Nothing would please him more than to skulk away, slither from the table and across the floor to his bedroom, but there was no way that was going to happen.
It was then Miles realized what kind of people they were. He could not imagine his father laughing, smiling in good humor, or telling jokes down at the office. He could not imagine him showing unconditional love to a single human being, and he could not imagine it from his mother either.
“I would never do that,” he said, staring at his meatloaf.
He wasn’t hungry anymore. He wondered if he’d ever be hungry again. He’d been horrified when his mother made him burn his scrapbook. He’d cried, too, not then, but in his room. He didn’t want to give her the satisfaction. He’d seen a piece of himself in those flames, turning black, sparks rising into the night sky. He would never forget the way she’d smiled, like the devil was leering at him from the eyes of his mother.
Later, he’d sifted through the ashes, looking for any salvageable piece of paper he could find, a photograph.
But there was nothing.
“Miles?”
He knew that tone, knew the hunger in his father’s eyes, and that’s exactly what it was. Hunger. There were wolves around the table. He would never love them after this. He wanted them dead. But unlike Frankie, he’d never be able to perform the deed. They would move out of town years later, but he would stay. He would never talk to them. Marjorie, either, and that was fine with him.
“You’re growing up, Son. Getting’ to be the kind of man that can make his way through the world, who won’t take any shit from anyone. Startin’ to feel your direction? Know who you are.”
“I guess so,” he said.
“Yeah . . . well . . . not if I have anything to say about it,” his father said, and moved so quickly, Miles barely had time to register what was happening. The man was like a dark-haired blur. A sharp sting welled across his face, a siren going off in his brain. It was like being hit with a lightning bolt.
He was lying on the floor. He couldn’t remember how it happened. His mother was shouting like they were at a Hollywood death match: “Kick his ass! Kick his ass!” And Marjorie was crying and wailing, his dad telling her to shut that fucking kid up before he broke both their faces, and that made him laugh again . . . a real man of the people, while the fireworks rained down on Miles’ head.
Through it all, he could remember holding onto the one thought that saved him, the mantra he’d recited over and over, written on his desk at school, in his scrapbook:
I love you, Boone. I love you. I love you, Boone . . .
~
For the longest time (even Boone didn’t know how long), he stood in the darkness, in the rain under the trees, and closed his eyes. No noise, no traffic, no voices. But more importantly . . . no screaming.
He opened his eyes. The lights of lower downtown were like a homing beacon. The windows of several houses were lit on the lower regions of the valley as well.
The creeks were rising. Under the thunderous downpour, he could just make out the roar of the Miramac to the southeast. He would have to cross the Takamine Bridge before making it into town. But he wasn’t worried. Since the storm arrived, several inches of rain had already fallen. His feet were wet and cold, but it didn’t bother him. He loved the rain, always had. At the rate of the storm, he’d soon be wading through water up to his knees.
But he was free, and that
was a feeling he hadn’t experienced in a long time. He’d always felt confined, closed in. He’d imagined growing old, even dying in the sanitarium. He’d never thought it possible to be with Isabelle, the Silence Maker.
Silence the world, Boone, she said in his mind.
He heard something else in the downpour: the sound of gossip and lies. They were making up stories again. They were making up stories and turning their music up too loud. It was coming from all over. He could hear it in the neighboring houses along the west side of the Miramac. He could hear it toward the downtown streets.
It rose again from over the water, carried all the way to him and back again. He could put an end to it if he concentrated hard enough.
His peace lasted only a moment, but that was okay.
There would be a greater peace at the end of it all.
Chapter 6
“Weather report says it’s the worst rain storm we’ve had since the nineteen fifty-six flood. Can you believe that shit? And I made plans with Marci. Jesus, we haven’t been alone in two weeks.”
“Maybe you can paddle in a canoe or something. After two weeks, you might want to let her wear a raincoat, if you catch my drift. Kill two birds, you know?”
“God, Miles, you are so freaking hilarious, I think I just showered my undershorts.”
Miles couldn’t help but suppress a grin. Remy Spangle, the other deputy, had been planning on spending time with Marci Jenson, a fair-skinned redhead, whom, Miles had to admit, was adorably cute in every way. If you liked girls. She had nice legs and some penetrating green eyes, like forest green leaves.
“I’m just trying to give you some ideas,” Miles informed him. “We shouldn’t be out for long anyway, if the storm keeps up. It’s not too bad in town, but if it’s your night off, you might want to skedaddle. What can you do here anyway? I’m gonna make the rounds while Wally man’s the switchboard.”
“Well, that’s what I’m talking about, you leprous polygon. Wally wants me to hang tight in case something does happen.”
“So, keep the radio turned on in the truck, in case he needs to get a hold of you.”
“I just got the feeling the night’s not gonna go the way I planned.”
“Should be a romantic evening. I’m surprised her parents are letting her out of the house at all.”
“The regions below the Miramac are what worry me. I think most everyone’s evacuated down there. The beauty of elevation. Up here in the downtown lights, all is well.”
It was true that downtown Shepherd’s Grove had been built on higher ground against the small peaks, but that didn’t make it less susceptible to flooding, and everyone in the Grove knew it. History from the 1956 flood had proved that downtown Shepherd’s Grove was in just as much danger as any other place in the valley.
“She thinks I’m romantic,” Remy said. He was a tall and rangy man with thin, copper hair. He smiled broadly and winked at Miles. He wasn’t wearing his uniform at the moment, just his civilian clothes, but he’d decided to stop by to see if they needed him, despite it being his day off.
“Marci thinks you’re romantic?”
“Dude, the duty and the uniform are what she digs. Sometimes, she doesn’t want me to take it off. At least the belt. She likes the night-stick, too.”
“I think you’re giving the uniform a bad name.”
“A-yuk a-yuk, Miles. What time are you getting off anyway?”
Miles looked at his watch. It was already eight-thirty. “I’m doing the late hours tonight. Graveyard Blues, as chief likes to call it. Wally wants me to make sure everything east to west and north and south are stable. Probably head out to the Takamine and the Chippewa Bridge, just to make sure all is well because that’s the job I applied for. I hear the First Presbyterian is getting together for an all nighter to wait out the storm. That’s on a little higher elevation, too, so they should be fine. Still, anything west of the Miramac could be in trouble. You see, Rem, I care about the people of this town, and I don’t take advantage of my authority by trying to get women into bed like some of the deputies around here. I think you know one of them.”
“There’s that rapier wit again. I’ll have you know I might actually love this girl, Miles. She’s the only one I’ve actually wanted to share the remote with, you know? I let her flip through all the channels she wants to without even thinking about it, and I pee sitting down on the toilet, just so I don’t have to bother with that whole toilet seat controversy. She doesn’t fall in, and I don’t get pee on the floor. Plus, I hear it’s better for your bladder. If that isn’t love, I don’t know what is.”
“You’re a real Renaissance Man, a nobleman through and through.”
“Either way, we both know you’re not going to do anything but cruise around all night drinking coffee, having to piss every five seconds, and hoping to catch some teenagers smoking pot by the bowling alley, just so you can confiscate it and smoke it yourself. Or maybe someone will hold up the Tilt-a-Whirl or, God forbid, Sunny Side Up, and you’ll pull out your gun only to realize it doesn’t work because you’ve never actually shot the damn thing. That, my friend, is life in the Grove. Am I right, or am I right?”
“You could be right, if you knew what the hell you were talking about.”
No news or happenings in the Grove was a good thing. That meant the town was getting along fine. In all honestly, Miles didn’t think Remy wanted to handle anything too difficult. He’d botched that shoplifting gig a few weeks ago when two teenagers had run into the Tilt-a-Whirl trying to kipe a twelve pack of beer. Remy didn’t want to bust them and decided to share several cold ones with them behind the bowling alley, preaching about the evils of under age drinking and alcoholism.
“Come on, Walls,” Remy had told the chief later. “We were kids once. At least I was.” Even though he was the sheriff of Shepherd’s Grove, Miles and Remy both referred to Wally as ‘chief.’
“Still are, by the looks of it, ya damn horse’s ass,” Wally had told him. “What you did was basically tell those two hoodlums that if they ever do it again, you’ll be there to coddle them and share a couple more beers. Maybe you can score some coke and a few hookers while you’re at it, and all three of you can paint the town emerald green, you dipshit.”
Wally about choked himself to death over that one. Miles figured Remy was just thankful for the beers.
Remy Spangle was older than Miles by eight years, making him 32, having been with the Shepherd’s Grove Police Department for 6 years. Marci was 24 and still living at home with her parents. Over the years, there hadn’t been a whole lot to talk about in the Grove except for when Dexter Desjardin had knocked over Chase Montgomery’s fence and let all his animals loose. They’d had a hell of a time gathering them up. The pigs had gotten out, along with several sheep and horses. All Remy could say about the situation was: “Why the fuck does Chase have so many fucking animals?” The man had been referred to as Old McDonald ever since.
But Shepherd’s Grove was like any small town: domestic disturbances, public intoxication, misdemeanors, petty theft, but nothing completely out of control. It was what Wally Manwaring called a successfully run, well-behaved sort of town. That’s what he got paid for, and that’s what the citizens of Shepherd’s Grove wanted. It was what Mayor Bainbridge liked to call a front row seat to a backyard barbecue.
“In this mess, you might find a few kids trying to pull down some rain gutters, but that’s about all,” Remy told him.
Miles nodded, then look confused. He looked at Remy. “Why the hell would they tear down rain gutters?”
Remy shrugged. “Jesus, Miles, how the hell should I know? Why do kids do any of the half-baked apple pie shit they do?”
“You are really doing a service to the men and women of Shepherd’s Grove, you know that, Rem?”
Remy grabbed some candy out of a jar that was sitting by the switchboard, which was where they’d been having this conversation.
“Yeah, I’m a real humanitarian,” R
emy said. “Stay cool, Miles.”
“Will do.”
Remy left, his tall lanky form walking around the corner to Wally’s office, where he disappeared inside. There was no one at the dispatcher’s desk, so Miles hung around until Wally was available. He was sure Remy would get the evening to himself, at least a few hours of it. The dispatcher’s desk was reserved for Reba Mason, who worked at Sunny Side Up, just several blocks up the road, but she had to work tonight, and Wally was fine manning the station as long as everything was under control.
Miles didn’t mind the night shift and volunteered for it often. He had his reasons, places he liked to go, one at the end of Ashbury Lane on the east side of the Miramac.
His heart beat fast just thinking about it.
~
Boone looked behind him through the rain at the asylum. The lightning flashed, illuminating the underbelly of the clouds in bright white and silver. A crack sounded above him so loud, he could feel it in the ground under his feet.
There were still noises, voices, and the hum and vibration of a car with its radio blaring. It was all around him. Through it, he could hear the words: Frankie. Devil child, the left hand of the beast.
Some of it sounded like it was coming from the First Presbyterian Church, which was about a mile ahead of him. Other sounds and noises were coming from downtown, where he would eventually go.
But there was another place he wanted to go first, a place he hadn’t been to in over 20 years.
~
“What I want you to do is keep your mouth shut and listen to me for two seconds, boner patrol.”
“What’s with all the name calling? Jeez, between you and Remy, it’s amazing I have any self esteem at all, chief.”
“Quit being a pansy, and just remember what I told you. Check out the downtown area and then take a drive out to the Miramac. Radio in and let me know what’s happening, if anything. Make sure those bridges are stout. Then go check out the psych hospital. The phone lines are down out there, and they might be trying to call if they need any help. Got it, McGruff?”
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