Who Killed Darius Drake?

by Rodman Philbrick

  “I think we should get out of here.”

  Darius stares at the slightly saggy ceiling. “Is that what prompted the enigmatic letter? A hasty departure?”

  “Enig-what-ic? Does that mean ‘handwritten’?”

  He seems pleased by my confusion. “Enigmatic, derived from the Greek, ‘to speak in riddles.’”

  “Yeah, whatever. I’m out of here.”

  Stay any longer and Darius’ll figure out how scared I really am. Nothing enigmatic about that.

  I’m almost to the door when a deep, snarly voice freezes my feet.

  “Hey, you!”

  A big, barrel-chested man squeezes through the door, filling the little room with his ragged sneer and his dead eyes. His face looks like a skull smiling through a bowl of pudding. And one side of his face looks sort of melted.

  Scar Man. He’s real.

  I want to run, but there’s nowhere to go and no place to hide.

  “Pleased to meet you,” Darius says, offering his skinny hand.

  Scar Man growls. “Yeah? Meet my fist.”

  THEY SAY JUST before you die your life flashes before you. Not me. What flashed before me was all the great meals I was going to miss. Double cheeseburgers with extra pickles. Biscuits and gravy. Chicken and gravy. Anything and gravy. Salty snacks. Ice cream. Candy. Everything that was good in my life, ended by a sneering Stomper who wanted to hammer me into the floor like a big, fat nail.

  Scar Man grabs Darius by the scruff of the neck and aims his other fist at my head, ready to pound a two-for-one beating into us. Then for some reason he hesitates and lets Darius go. “Huh. You ain’t but kids,” he says, as if surprised. “Why are you breaking into this place?”

  “The door was unlocked.”

  The man with the melted face stares at Darius like he’s a bug that needs squashing. “Yeah? Don’t matter. Nobody allowed inside less they invited.”

  “But I was invited,” Darius says, holding up the envelope. “Someone sent me a letter mailed from this address.”

  The big man shrugs like he couldn’t care less, but his small, close-set eyes spark with interest. “What’s it say, this letter?”

  “I’d prefer to discuss that with whoever sent the letter. Unless it was you.”

  “Me? I ain’t sent no letter.”

  “Do you live here? Is this your place?”

  The big man shakes his head. “The dude lives here took sick. I’m keeping an eye out while he’s gone.”

  “The owner has been hospitalized?”

  “None of your business. He’s away for now. Maybe he get better; maybe he don’t. Only thing you need to know, he ain’t here and you’re trespassing on private property.”

  Darius remains defiant. “What I ‘need to know’ is the owner’s name and his location. Someone has threatened my life and I have a right to know who and why.”

  The man with the melted face hesitates, as if he can’t believe this skinny, red-haired kid won’t take no for an answer. A vein throbs on the side of his thick neck.

  “Get out of here,” he says, in a voice that’s almost a growl. “Leave this place and don’t come back. I won’t say it again.”

  I may not be a genius, but I can tell when someone the size of a small planet is about to resort to violence. So before Darius Drake gets us killed, I wrap an arm around his skinny chest and yank him out of that house and away from the man with the melted face.

  “Let me go!” Darius protests, trying to wriggle free. “You are in my employ!”

  “I quit.”

  “Then release me! I’ll go back on my own!”

  No point arguing. You can’t argue with a lunatic. All you can do is drag him home.

  I’M DONE WORKING for Darius Drake. He’s too strange and out of control. He may be some kind of genius, but standing up to a local legend like Scar Man? That’s just plain stupid.

  When I finally escort him back to Stonehill—possibly saving his stupid life—he’s mad enough to spit. So mad he won’t look me in the eye as I shove him up the stairs and into that mad scientist room of his, hoping the staff won’t see us, which they don’t.

  “How dare you! You had no business intervening in a personal matter!”

  I shrug. “Did you happen to notice his prison tattoos? They say Scar Man did time for murder. They say he makes people disappear, especially kids.”

  Darius snorts. “Don’t be ridiculous. Those are just ugly rumors based on his disfigurement.”

  “Think about it. Maybe it was Scar Man who sent you the letter, written in his own blood. Maybe you were going to be his next victim. Sorry, but I wasn’t about to stick around and find out.”

  “You have no idea what’s really going on! Not a clue!”

  “You’re right. And I intend to keep it that way.”

  He’s still ranting when I leave.

  When my parents divorced, Mom got the house, a little two-bedroom ranch in Dunbar Acres, which is sort of run-down, but nothing like Stomper, that’s for sure. Mom never talks about what happened between her and Dad, but I know it still makes her mad. And sad, too. The weird thing is they both work in the same hospital, so they see each other all the time, like it or not. Mom is a nurse; Dad is an X-ray technician, and—get this—his new wife is a heart surgeon in the very same hospital. So Mom is stuck seeing her all the time, too.

  Talk about Suckville. I’d hate that, having to be polite to someone who hurt me, even if I really, really needed the job. But what do I know? And to be honest, Dad’s new wife is always real polite and kind when I stay over one night a week. Learning how the other half lives, is how my mother puts it, because the new wife earns lots of money, even if Dad doesn’t make that much himself, after he pays child support, which they argue about all the time.

  Anyhow, Mom is on night shift this week, so she’s around when I get home. Napping on the sofa in her ER scrubs, which means she hasn’t really gone to bed yet, even though she’s dead tired. And when I try to sneak through to the kitchen she pops up. Looking guilty, as if napping in the afternoon is something to be ashamed of.

  “Arthur, sweetie! Are you okay? I was expecting you earlier. Is everything okay?”

  “Everything is fine, Mom. Go back to sleep.”

  She fights a yawn. “In a minute. I wanted to ask you something about your new friend.”

  “I don’t have a new friend, Mom.”

  “The tall, skinny boy with the red hair. Selma saw you guys over near the Stompanado projects.”

  Selma is Mom’s best friend. They work together in the ER. Selma is nice, but she’s one of those grown-ups who notice what kids are up to, and that can be a problem.

  “She was on her way home and waved, but I guess you didn’t see her.”

  “I didn’t, no. Sorry.”

  “Huh,” Mom says, not surprised that her son failed to notice someone waving at him. “Thing is, Selma knows that boy with the red hair. She works a volunteer shift at Stonehill twice a month.”

  I nod glumly. Thinking, Here it comes, a warning to stay away, when I’ve already decided to do that on my own.

  “The Drake boy,” Mom says. “His parents died in a car wreck when he was little. Did you know that?”

  I shake my head.

  “Selma says he’s very bright and well-behaved, but outside of the staff he hasn’t got a friend in the world. Or didn’t until he met you.”

  I raise both hands, making a back-off gesture. “We’re not friends, okay? I was just, um, doing him a favor. Helping him out.”

  Mom smiles.

  “No, really,” I insist. “We’re. Not. Friends. Not even close!”

  “I think it’s great,” she says. “But I worry about you being so close to the projects. Most of those Stomper folks are just folks who happen to be poor. But some, well, I’d rather you didn’t play near there.”

  “We weren’t playing, Mom.”

  “Of course you weren’t. I just want you to be careful. Never go near that neighb
orhood alone. And never after dark. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Then Mom smiles through a big yawn and goes to her room.

  NEXT DAY DARIUS DRAKE is a no-show at school. Probably scared to show his face in public. Or unwilling to hear the stupid rumors about our encounter with Scar Man. Rumors that couldn’t be more messed up.

  “Dude,” one of the cool kids says, stopping me in the hall on the way to homeroom. “That’s really awesome what you did. Stomped on Vinnie Meeks!”

  “Who?” I manage to say.

  “Vincent Meeks. The Scar Man himself. Heard you beat the ugly sucker to a pulp. Way to go, Bash Man!”

  The kid high-fives me before it really hits home, what he’s saying. It’s totally insane, the idea that I’d beaten up a full-grown man. Insane and probably dangerous, because what if Scar Man heard I was bragging on him? He’d twist me like a fat cruller, until my brains oozed out my ears.

  I should deny it, explain that my encounter had been exactly the opposite of winning. But I can’t find the words—or maybe part of me kind of enjoys being called Bash Man—and by the time lunch block comes around I’m like this celebrity or something. Kids who yesterday treated me like a total loser are suddenly acting like we’ve always been tight. Oh, I know it isn’t real, but it’s fun pretending to be popular, or at least famous.

  At the time, I don’t think too much about who might have started the rumors. Mom’s friend Selma had seen me in the area and I hadn’t noticed, so it could have been anybody. Kids that lived in Stompanado housing who maybe wanted to take Scar Man down a peg.

  Doesn’t really matter. It’s out of my hands. All I can do is enjoy being king of the cafeteria while it lasts.

  Which isn’t that long, as it turns out.

  I’m heading home, taking my time—this is maybe the first time I’ve ever wanted school not to end—when this straggly street dude in a soiled hoodie staggers onto the sidewalk and almost knocks me down. He smells like a garbage pail, which is probably where he found his last meal, and he’s so covered with dirt you can’t tell what color he is under all that crud.

  “Eww! Dude, I’m sorry, but you stink.”

  “I should hope so,” the street dude says. “That was my intention. An obnoxious odor is often the best disguise. No one bothers to look closely if their eyes are watering.”

  “Darius?”

  He takes a bow.

  “Are you crazy?” I ask.

  “As a fox,” he says, pleased with himself. “Appearing homeless is like being invisible. Nobody wants to look at you. It’s as if you don’t exist. Therefore I am able to observe and overhear. And I heard interesting things about you. Very interesting.”

  My brain is telling me to stop right here. Explain that I no longer work for him, not for any amount of Snickers bars, but all I can manage is to sputter something about the bogus rumors that are spreading through the school like poison ivy.

  “Bash Man?” he says, nodding happily. “So they really called you that? Excellent! That may prove useful, as an intimidating factor. As to the rest, it went exactly as planned.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  He steps off the sidewalk, into the bushes, and emerges with a backpack. “Change of costume,” he explains. From a small zippered pocket in the backpack he produces a cheap-looking cell phone. “The rumors originated with me, of course. Posted shortly after dawn to a site frequented by the cool kids. And as intended, it went locally viral.”

  He sheds the smelly hoodie and pulls on a fresh sweatshirt. Then scrubs his face clean with some Handi Wipes. I’m standing there shaking my head because, as smart as he is, Darius Drake doesn’t seem to get it.

  Finally I manage to get the words together. “He’ll be coming for us. We’re as good as dead.”

  “Ah,” he says. “I assume you refer to Vincent Meeks, aka Scar Man? Put your mind at ease. I’ll handle Scar Man. In any case the message wasn’t for him. It was for the mystery man.”

  “Mystery man?” I say, confused.

  “The man who recently lived in the house on Rutgers Road, remember? The man who might have sent me the letter, likely written in his own blood. Call him Mystery Man for lack of a known identity. Scar Man won’t reveal Mystery Man’s name or his specific location, so I devised this scheme to bring us to his attention, thereby increasing the likelihood that he’ll attempt to contact me again.”

  I stare at him, shaking my head. “No doubt about it. You are totally insane.”

  “On the contrary, my actions have been completely logical. You will come to understand the wisdom of my plan. Unless, of course, it turns out that I’ve been mistaken. But even then you’ll have nothing to fear.”

  “Why is that?”

  He shrugs and says, “Because we’ll both be dead.”

  IT’S NONE OF your business exactly what happened when my parents got divorced. All you need to know is that when I was ten, Dad moved out and married this really well-off doctor and is helping her raise her perfect daughter from her first marriage. Oh, and when I spend one night a week at my dad’s new home, it’s way on the other side of town. The upscale side. It has a swimming pool and a tennis court. And a built-in freezer full of hamburgers and ice cream that nobody eats but me, because my dad and his new family are all so thin and perfect.

  As usual I’m sort of hiding in a corner of the kitchen, wolfing down microwaved burgers and double-chocolate cupcakes, when Deirdre strolls in wearing her tennis whites. Deirdre is a year ahead of me in school. We’re not at the same school because my grades are average and that won’t do for an exclusive private school.

  Not a surprise we’d be in different schools because she occupies a totally different planet.

  Don’t get me wrong, she’s not a bad person, and not nearly as snobby as you might assume, being so rich and beautiful. And she’s never been not nice to me, not on purpose.

  Anyhow, she notices me wedged into the breakfast nook and grins and says, “Hey there.”

  After pouring herself a skinny glass of bottled water she slips into the opposite side of the booth and watches me inhaling cupcakes. “Can I ask you a question, Arthur?”

  My mouth is jammed full but I manage to nod.

  “Mommy says you eat to make up for a sad childhood. Are you sad, Arthur?”

  She’s not trying to be mean, she really wants to know. Deirdre is like that, curious about everyone. Like if she keeps asking questions eventually everything will make sense.

  “I’m just fat,” I tell her. “And hungry. Always hungry. Want one?”

  I push the plate of cupcakes over to her side of the table.

  “Okay,” she says, and takes one. Holding it like you might hold a dead mouse you found in your sock drawer. She pretends to nibble the frosting, then returns it to the plate and pats her lips clean with a cloth napkin. “I heard you have a new friend. That’s nice. Friends are essential.”

  “That’s so not true.”

  “That friends are essential?”

  “That I have one. Darius Drake hired me to help him check out some stupid old house, that’s all. And I already quit.”

  “What house?”

  I tell her about the house at 123 Rutgers Road. And then I tell her pretty much everything, including the letter written in blood that asked the question “Who killed Darius Drake?” and how it didn’t make any sense because nobody had killed him. Not yet.

  She stares at me, her eyes gleaming so bright and true it’s amazing I don’t melt into a puddle of blubber. “Fascinating,” she says, meaning it. “Now, what do you mean he ‘hired’ you?”

  Here’s where I should excuse myself and go away, but instead I find myself telling her about pretending to be a tough guy for candy bars. A thug-for-hire.

  She shakes her head, amazed. “But, Arthur, you’re not a thug. You’re sweet and sometimes you’re a little sad. A big, strong teddy bear. Not a tough guy at all.”

  “Yeah? How about this?”

/>   I put on my meanest face and glare at her.

  She laughs. “Really? Kids fall for that?”

  “Everybody but you.”

  She thinks about it. “I worry you might get hurt, pretending to be someone you’re not. If somebody takes you up on it, I mean.”

  “I worry, too. But I’d rather kids felt scared of me than sorry for me, you know? I don’t like it when you say I’m sad.”

  She sighs, which naturally makes her look even more beautiful.

  “Arthur, being sad is not a crime. And I don’t care if you’re fat. Truly, I don’t. People come in all sizes. I just want you to be happy.”

  So that’s my stepsister, Deirdre. Sometimes I wish she wasn’t so perfect. If she wasn’t so perfect maybe she wouldn’t feel sorry for me.

  Thinking about that makes me hungry, so after she says good-bye and glides out of the kitchen I get to work on another plate of cupcakes.

  “Arthur?”

  She leans back into the room, catches me with my mouth stuffed.

  “I was thinking about your friend. You know his parents died in a car crash one night? He was like, I don’t know, three years old or something when it happened? He was in the car, Arthur. What I heard, his heart stopped beating. So technically … he was dead. They shocked him back to life. He survived but had to be revived. Do you understand?”

  “Yeah,” I say, dumbfounded. “You’re saying the answer to ‘Who killed Darius Drake?’ might be about what happened to him the night his parents died.”

  “See, Arthur? You think you’re not smart, but you are.”

  THE NEXT MORNING I get called into the principal’s office. I figure they heard about Bash Man going viral and wanted to set me straight or maybe even boot me out of school. But when I get there it’s even worse than I expected.

  Darius Drake is kicking back in a visitor’s chair, a triumphant smile splitting his freckled face, and Ms. Bamberger, the principal, is beaming at me like I’ve won some kind of prize.

  “Arthur, I am so pleased to hear that you have taken the initiative. This is splendid news! Splendid!”