When he was six, Malcolm’s parents, Grant and Lucia, had been killed in an automobile accident just outside of Ellishome. After the tragedy, Malcolm had come to live with his grandparents (his only living relatives).
In the late seventies and early eighties, Algernon had emerged onto the literary scene with a trilogy entitled, Poem’s Quest. He’d written thirty-three novels of dark fantasy, but none acquiring the critical acclaim as the Poem’s Quest trilogy. A year later, Eva—Algernon’s wife of forty-one years—succumbed to pneumonia and was hospitalized. She never recovered. Eva died when Malcolm was seven. Like a couple of hermits, Malcolm and Algernon had been living in the Queen Anne ever since.
Losing Grant and Lucia had shaken and scarred Algernon terribly. Losing Eva a year later had driven the final nail into what was, inevitably, his coffin. He hadn’t the strength, let alone the patience, to raise a boy on his own; he had nothing left in the literary tank, and he felt—all in all—that he deserved some time to grieve. A very long time, as the case may be. So, in retaliation, he drank from morning ’til night every day of the week, and he had been doing it for over a year now. He sat in the Forgotten Realm (a name he’d christened his bedroom) hour after hour, imbibing, numbing his brain, and trying to forget—as best he could—the world, his past, and those he loved.
Malcolm had learned to take care of himself anyway. He was a mature boy for his age, and he adjusted well. Though, Mrs. Harding (Algernon and Eva’s housekeeper for many years) came by to make sure the boys were taken care of often. Algernon had let her go after Eva had died, but Mrs. Harding insisted on stopping by…more, perhaps, for Malcolm’s sake.
Lately, however, Algernon had been experiencing pangs of guilt. Three years shut up in a room by oneself was bound to do that to a person, and the years had gotten away from him. He hadn’t meant to sit up here for that long, of course…but that was just what he’d done. Fortunately, guilt could be washed away with drink, and that was what he did. After a certain amount, you simply didn’t care, or at least you no longer felt the guilt. Malcolm was better off without him anyway, or soon would be. Drink was the driving force. Everything would even out eventually when Algernon was six feet under, when loving parents could adopt Malcolm and care for him the way a boy needed, and not by some washed up, chemically-induced old man.
Justification is an amazing antidote, Algernon thought.
He was sitting in a plush wingback chair in the Forgotten Realm, a drink on the small cherry wood table beside him, along with a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon. The French doors were open, overlooking the meadow, and a bright summer afternoon. He was wearing his long black, druidic robe (stained and soiled with spilled wine, urine, and other bodily fluids). “I’m trying to live the lives of my characters,” Algernon once told Malcolm. “In order to do that, I have to wear the proper attire.” All Malcolm did (like Malcolm always did) was smile and nod. His smile had begun to charm the old man, but it, too, was like another guilt-edged reminder.
Adding to the guilt, the boy had inherited the old man’s love for books. During one of his many drunken stupors, Algernon had called out for Malcolm, only to find him in the library with his nose buried between the pages of (of all things) In the Land of the Dragon, one of Algernon’s less worthier titles.
The murder of Sadie McCall hadn’t changed his perspective, either. If anything, it made him drink even more.
It could’ve been Malcolm out there, he thought. It could have been him, and all you can do is sit here and tell him not to go out after dark? What kind of person are you?
Drink. Easier to give in than to try.
Eva still calls. I see that day too clearly when Grant and Lucia died.
The deaths of Malcolm’s parents had left a cold and lonely void behind. Or was that his clammy skin? The smell was in the bed sheets and draperies, embedded in the floors.
On a weekend visit to the Queen Anne, Malcolm’s parents had decided to take the car out for a leisurely drive. It had been the perfect day for it.
Eva and Algernon were going to pull cucumbers and tomatoes from the garden for supper later, and Malcolm had been looking forward to spending some time with his grandparents, so he’d declined.
They had stopped at a railroad crossing, waiting for a train to pass. Behind them, a man named, Derek Rolston had been having a heated discussion with his wife, Janette, in an ’82 Ford pick-up. Not paying attention to the road, the parked Volvo, or the speeding train, Derek had hit the back of Grant and Lucia’s Volvo at sixty-five miles and hour, sending the car into the speeding train, where it collided, pin-wheeled, flipped upside down, and landed on its hood. They died instantly. Malcolm had been living with his grandparents ever since. At least until Eva died.
As a novelist, Algernon had acquired fame, but it had come with a price. He’d buried his wife, his son, his daughter-in-law, and now he was ready to bury himself.
You’ll be better off without me, Malcolm, he thought.
Algernon picked up the wine and took a drink.
For years, he’d collected the stuff, thinking himself a connoisseur. He always liked to have a glass at dinner time, at least before the tragedy. Now, instead of tasting, smelling, and savoring it, he slammed them back one by one like whisky shots. He could care less. For all he knew, he’d been stocking up for this very moment.
His features had hardened over the last three years as well. He looked like an angry hawk now. His eyes were beady, black agates, his nose a hooked talon. White hair fell in thin, greasy strands to his shoulders, corkscrewing over his large ears. He was over six feet tall, and when he walked, he resembled a hunched, vulpine villain.
A warm summer breeze came through the French doors. No matter how many times Algernon tried to air out the Forgotten Realm, the smell remained, a hint of toxicity, urine, and unclean skin.
Well, what do you expect when you never take a bath, change the sheets, or wash this filthy robe?
Algernon sipped at his wine, facing the French doors, and watched the wind bend the mountain brome in waves.
Thanks for the memories, but I think I’ll bow out.
And what about Malcolm? Eva said.
He lifted the glass and paused. Sometimes, he thought he saw Eva. Maybe the house was haunted. Why else would he hear her voice? It came from the small oval portrait on the wall, the one he had thrown a towel over because he could no longer stand her accusatory gaze.
He’d tried, but failure was inevitable. He told Eva this. Often, he felt her cold, hard fingers curling around his wrist like a vice.
Even here, sitting here, confined like this, I’m trying. I know it doesn’t seem like it, but I am. I’m trying. Please, believe me.
Haunted failure…one of his favorite excuses. He had a million of them.
He didn’t always need Eva to remind him of his failures. Malcolm reminded him as well. His presence alone: Here’s the little boy you left to fend for himself, with the smile that makes you melt, and the big brown eyes, who reads all your books when you’re not looking. Are you feeling like shit yet? Good. You have a conscience after all. Congratulations, old man.
“Aren’t they ever coming back?” Malcolm had asked, after his parents had been killed.
Eva gripped the boy’s hand, while Algernon squeezed his shoulder.
He hadn’t known what to say. The question surprised him. He’d shaken his head in answer. Eva spoke instead, telling Malcolm as gently as she could that, no, they weren’t coming back.
Malcolm confronted Algernon again after Eva passed away:
“Are they really gone for good? Why did God take them away?”
Algernon had closed his eyes, unable to find the words.
What happened? Algernon thought. Where did it all go?
For Algernon, the last three years had become a haze. Malcolm brought the old man sandwiches on occasion, glasses of milk, knocked on the door, even asked if he were okay. On one of these occasions, Malcolm had even placed a copy of Purple Rose�
�the first volume of the Poem’s Quest trilogy—next to a plate of food, as if trying to remind him: See what you used to do? See what you used to love? See what you used to live for?
To think…it had almost worked.
Just drink, Algernon told himself. Better to forget than to try. The boy will see that soon enough.
Yes. Pity and drinking. He had them down to an art.
Algernon raised his head to the French doors and looked blearily across the fields of grass. A patch of blue sky was visible. How long had it been since he’d felt the sun on his back?
Not just yet, he thought. He didn’t have the strength now. Instead, one more glass, a few more seconds of isolation, and the suppression of memory…
viii
Frank Allen Bimsley sat at his office desk at ‘Headquarters’ chewing on the end of a ballpoint pen. His feet were up on the desk. ‘Headquarters,’ was his way of thinking of the Ellishome Police Department. The building, off the corner of Main Street and Keller Avenue, was made of gray and red brick. Stenciled on the double doors in blocky white letters was simply, Ellishome Police Department. Bimsley’s office was upstairs and to the left at the end of a large room of desks, chairs, typewriters, and filing cabinets. An oscillating fan stirred warm air back and forth. Bimsley’s office overlooked Main Street. On bad days (there hadn’t been many until recently), Frank kept his door shut, mulling over Ellishome’s recent events. In a town of its size (roughly 3,000), vandalism, drug use, drunk driving, speeding, bar fights, and the occasional domestic dispute, filled his reports.
And now one murder.
Frank pinched the bridge of his nose. A headache pounded between his temples. He’d been having nightmares since he’d seen Sadie just outside the Patterson house. In one nightmare, Frank stood staring down at the boy while flies buzzed around his head. Sadie’s dead face turned toward Frank, making a dry, tearing sound as his cheek ripped away from the frozen earth. Sadie’s single eye locked onto Frank’s, the corners of his lips curling upward in a smile.
Frank wondered what Sadie had endured during those final moments of his life.
He had nothing, the reason for the headaches, he supposed. Not a thing, not a clue. Ellishome was conspiring against him, laughing in his face.
Kind of looked as if a monster ripped him apart, didn’t it, Frank? Not a bear, but a monster. That’s what Chase wanted to tell you. That’s what he wanted to say, but he was too damn scared, and you can’t really blame him, can you?
He was hearing voices, too, the darker side of his imagination coming to life.
When he checked the boy’s room, Sadie’s bedroom window had been open. That wasn’t anything unordinary. It had been warm the day before. When Frank visited the McCalls and stood in Sadie’s bedroom, his eyes kept returning to that window as if it held some vital clue.
People wanted answers, but answers were hard to come by.
Something, he felt, was right under his nose. He just couldn’t quite see it…
The window was open, and the boy was sick the night before…
Not much to go on. Hardly anything, in fact.
Frank was desperate, willing to take whatever he could get. He would’ve done anything. Something…
Racecar pajamas…
Frank wondered if the only reason Austin recognized his boy was because of the pajamas. The man had repeated it over and over on the ride home: Those were the racecar pajamas we got him for Christmas. We couldn’t find Chicago Cub pajamas. Couldn’t find them anywhere. Looked all over. Thought he’d like the racecar pajamas…
He received a phone call three days ago, a man, someone Frank didn’t recognize:
“You find that sonofabitch who murdered that boy, Sheriff? Gonna be one of our own kids next? Is that what it’s gonna take?”
Frank told the man if he wanted his badge and gun, he could have them.
“I would’ve found that sonofabitch by now,” the caller said, and hung up.
Frank chewed on his pen.
Sleepwalking? A ridiculous possibility, but it was the only thing that made sense. Maybe Sadie had been sleepwalking. Maybe the wrong person at the wrong time had come along, murdered him, dropped him in the field, and then hightailed it out of town. Simple as that.
But Frank didn’t like it. It didn’t make sense.
He shook his head. The vision kept coming back…
Racecar pajamas…
His head pounded. Frank put his fingers to his temples. He was afraid the town would lynch him, if he didn’t find something soon.
Frank leaned back, rolling his chair across the floor. He stood up and went to the window, looking out across Main Street. It was hot again. Heat emanated from the window in dull, pulsing waves. The bright white glared off the window, stabbing Frank’s eyes, making him wince.
His thoughts returned to his days as a Denver police officer. He’d come home from the graveyard shift after busting two kids for shoplifting, then an early morning drunken dispute between friends outside a bar, only to find that by the time he made it home, his own apartment had been robbed.
If that isn’t irony, I don’t know what is, he’d thought at the time.
Celia had been the criminal. His wife of four years had taken everything. No note. Nothing. Much like now. Not that he could blame her. It had been going south for a long time. It was only a matter of time, he supposed. Still, a part of him hoped she’d hold on a little longer. But he when he saw the empty apartment, a stone seemed to drop into the pit of his gut.
The ghost of a woman is only a memory, he thought. Or is it the other way around? The memory of a woman is only a ghost?
He’d chosen the wrong profession. A midlife crisis in criminal law. Small towns didn’t suit him. Still, his time at the academy had paid off. This is what he’d wanted to do. So, here he was, letting go of lost loves, old ghosts, trying to put some order into a town he’d come to think of as his own.
Frank shook his head. For a second, Ellishome’s warm streets disappeared. He did not see the carriage emerge in the middle of the street, pulled by a single black horse. That was what he told himself. When his eyes cleared, and he did see it, he burst out laughing. The rider sat on the seat wearing a black cape and a top hat.
“God, he must be burning up in that thing,” Frank said.
He blinked, making sure he wasn’t imagining it. The sun disappeared behind a cloud. A strong gust of wind rattled the window.
Frank blinked again.
The carriage moved down the street in front of the police department, heading south, the slow, steady clip-clop audible from below. He hadn’t gotten a good look at the rider’s face.
Not a carriage, he thought. A brougham.
Suddenly, a memory from long ago—when he’d been a child—came into his mind like lightning:
His dad was sitting on the edge of his bed. Frankie clutched him around his midsection, his eyes big and round, lips trembling, scared, terrified of his closet because he’d just had a dandy of a nightmare. Something lurked in there, something hungry and…waiting. He could smell it.
It was a damn funny thing, at least looking back on it.
Is it? Is it funny now, Frank? If so, why are you thinking about it? And why are you…shaking?
“There’s nothing in there, Frankie,” his dad had said. “And there’s nothing under the bed, either. Just like there’s nothing outside the window but the wind and the trees.”
When it came time for bed, Frank’s imagination ran wild, and he imagined the closet monster waiting for his dad to leave, so he could gobble up little Frankie Bimsley.
Some kids at school that day had told him about the bogeyman.
His father had laughed. “Bogeyman? Look, squirt, that’s just bad juju. No one believes in that stuff. Kids’ll say anything to get you all riled up. Now, let’s tuck you in. I’ll leave the door open and the hallway light on, okay?”
But that was then, and this was now.
A grown man, a sheriff
at that, and you’re still scared of the bogeyman? You’ve got to be kidding?
It sounded ridiculous, stupid even. He was acting like a fool. Like a—
Child.
William Hollister must be out and about early, the man who drove the carriage during the winter months. Maybe he was trying to make a few extra bucks this summer. William didn’t have a carriage—
Brougham, he corrected.
William had what was called a, vis-à-vis.
“Maybe he’s moving up in the world,” Frank said, aloud.
He felt dizzy suddenly. He saw Sadie in his mind again, his face peeling off the frozen ground. A blast of cold air replaced the heat from the window.
Frank hurried from his office, throwing the door open. Dana Hues, the dispatcher, looked up at him and frowned. He trotted down the stairs, pushed open the doors, and ran outside, looking south along Main Street. The brougham was making a left on Juniper Avenue.
Bimsley pursued, feeling like a jackass. In the next instant, he stopped dead in his tracks.
Something about hallucinating?
Ellishome disappeared completely: the streets, the police department, everything. The town was gone. Frank stood by himself in eerie darkness, surrounded by thick, dense fog. He was dizzy. He put his arms out on either side of him, scared he was going to fall over. Something tugged at his leg. He looked down and saw it was the hand of a child.
Just as quickly, Ellishome came back. He saw the brougham down the street, finishing the turn down Juniper. Although, the streets of Ellishome were visible now, the cold was predominant. His breath emerged in clouds when he breathed. The cold was an entity itself.
Good Jesus, it’s like the frickin’ Arctic.
Was he working too hard or not working enough? An overwrought mind didn’t warrant this kind of hallucination, did it?
He was losing his mind, and a tendril of dread snaked up his spine.
Frank pursued the brougham before it disappeared.
The carriage was ten yards in front of him, coming to a stop, as if waiting for him. The rider, whoever it was, had disappeared. The brougham was all by itself.
Snapdragon Book I: My Enemy Page 11
