Snapdragon Book I: My Enemy

by Brandon Berntson

  At least you know. At least you haven’t drunk away all your sense. You still have a conscience. Do you believe in miracles?

  For Algernon Alister, it was unacceptable to live this way a minute longer. He only hoped it wasn’t too late.

  He cared about Malcolm. The boy had had parents at one time, and he could have them again. Maybe Algernon wasn’t as good a role model as Grant or Lucia, but he could still try. He would be a figure worth respecting. No, he wasn’t the perfect replacement.

  “But goddamnit,” he said. “I’m not the worst, either.”

  For the first time in three years, he spared a thought for someone other than himself. He would get sober and healthy for Malcolm. Why? Because he and the boy deserved better than this.

  In a pique of fury, Algernon thrust his arm out, sending the bottle of wine, and the glass through the air. The bottle fell, spilling to the floor. The glass rose, an arc of red wine sailing across the length of the room. It shattered against the wall.

  His hand throbbed. He was out of shape. He’d have to start exercising again.

  Yes, he thought. There are going to be some changes around here!

  He’d start right now! He wouldn’t confine himself to this ridiculous chair anymore. He would start right now, washing the floors, scrubbing the house! He didn’t have a choice, after all, because he’d spilled the wine. He’d scrub the walls, cleanse away the stench of his toxic sweat, air out the entire house, starting with the Forgotten Realm. He’d mow the lawn and paint the trim. He’d get the car up and running, buy some things in town, new clothes, treat Malcolm to something special. He’d open the windows and bring some sunshine into this gloomy dungeon for once!

  All he had to do was stand up, get out of this goddamn chair!

  Something akin to hope moved through him, a feeling he hadn’t had in a long time. At his age, he’d thought it impossible to feel reborn, but he felt exactly like that now.

  He gripped the arms of the chair, wincing at his own smell, the soiled robe. God, he was amazed the boy could tolerate living under the same roof!

  Algernon lifted himself up and out of the chair. His knees popped. Something seemed wrong with his hip; it felt disjointed. Pain jolted up his back. He was light-headed, and he put a hand to his head. Was he still drunk?

  Maybe renewal proved more difficult than he realized. Inactivity had deadened his nerves. The room shifted to one side. His knees were shaky, and he stumbled when he took a step. He reached for the arm of the chair to steady himself. Another ache split the base of his skull, fingers of fire spreading into his eyes.

  He could not—for another second—tolerate what he’d become.

  “Ah, what do you care,” he said, trying to make it to the Forgotten—the bedroom door. “Bedroom door,” he said, testing the way it sounded. Yes, change was good! Change began right here, christening the room they way it should’ve been christened a long time ago.

  “It’s good to be alive,” he said. “It might kill me, but it’s good to be alive.”

  Algernon giggled like a schoolboy, his first genuine laugh in years! He made it to the door, leaning against the frame. He twisted the knob and pulled it open. He wondered if this was how Ebenezer Scrooge felt on Christmas day!

  I’m as giddy as a schoolboy, he thought. I’m as light as a feather!

  Between bouts of laughter, Algernon called out to his grandson, wondering, insanely, how much the prize turkey was hanging in the window!

  Why, the one as big as Malcolm!

  vii

  Eddie’s Journal:

  August 29th. Monday. 2004.

  The beginning of my long life here has just begun. To some, I am only a dumb kid. That’s what Dad says, but oh well. I am sitting in my room with this spiral notebook and my pen, good friends. Hello, Journal. I’m back for a time, so you’d better watch out! And I mean business! Ho ho ho!

  Today was the first day of school. The mighty fifth grade. I’m glad it’s over. It’s always good to get the first day of school out of the way. I hate it like always, but I have a knack for it. It’s easy for me to pay attention. So, I usually get pretty good grades. I’m not trying to pat myself on the back or anything. It’s just the way it is. Puke puke. Gag gag. My guts hurt from puking and gagging.

  Our teacher is, Mrs. Dunbar, Journal. You’d like her. She’s just as full of herself as you are. Ha ha. She treats us all like a bunch of babies. It’s a joy. A real thrill! I mean, it isn’t as if I get enough of that here at home. Dad’s real good about that. He’s a treasure! Talk about your joys!

  I met some guys today who all seem pretty cool, though. We got in a heated discussion before the bell rang about superheroes. Everyone likes to tease me about my favorite superhero, which is the only superhero on the planet—and many distant planets as far as that goes. Tease me all you want, Journal. They’re just jealous because they didn’t think of the Surfer for themselves. Hey, Surfer, it’s just you and me. And that’s all I need. I have a dream to be just like you someday, cause I know how truly cool you are.

  Ah, what does it matter? I know I’m smarter than they are, except for Malcolm. Even though Malcolm never takes his homework home with him. I wish I could get away with that. Not with good old Dad peering over my shoulder all the time. Ah, the beauty of home life!

  I met a kid today named, Seth. He seems pretty cool. I walked home with him, and we talked about Malcolm a little bit. Hope you don’t mind, Malcolm.

  I like Seth, though. He’s thoughtful and astutely quiet.

  How do you like that, Journal? Astutely quiet. Maybe someday I’ll write a book. And I’m only ten-years-old!

  Sorry, am I getting cocky? You’re the only one I get to joke around with, Journal, and I’m the only one in the family who keeps one. Except for Elise, but she’s just a girl. What on earth could she have to say that’s so important? Her journal isn’t about anything but Jimmy Womack, Tate Anderson, or Lance Hollister, or some guy named, Durango Dermont. How’s that for a name? Why would you even want to be friends with a guy who had a name like that? Maybe that’s not very nice of me. They never call her anyway, though. Kind of makes me laugh. ‘How about Jimmy, Elise? He’s a nice fella. Didn’t call back? Bummer. Neither did Tate Anderson? Golly-gee. Lance Hollister, too? You don’t say? I know a couple of kindergarten boys who might be interested. Maybe it’s that permanent scowl you have on your face. Maybe it’s those fat ankles.’

  Actually, Elise isn’t fat at all. And I don’t have a problem putting her down because she always calls me the ‘little dweeb,’ or ‘twerp,’ or some sweet token of affection that really makes me love her all the more. Gosh, I just want to give her a great big hug sometimes!

  Journal’s telling me I shouldn’t be so sarcastic. I apologize, Elise. I’m sure all those guys have girlfriends already. That’s why they don’t call back.

  Gavin and Howard are also two new kids I met in school today. Howard is totally cool. He knows all about the Surfer, which put everybody in their place after they were telling me the Surfer was a baby and all. That was Malcolm, but he’s cool. I know Malcolm’s only jiving me. But I like Howard. Gavin seems a little odd. There’s something about him, though. I don’t know. It’s early. I always jump to conclusions about friends in school, and then I end up hating them all later. That’s probably what will happen this year. Kind of funny, really, don’t you think, Journal?

  Howard’s about my height, which is pretty small compared to every other fifth grader, and Seth isn’t much taller, actually. It’s nice to have some kids who make me feel not so puny. If we were all walking in a group, Howard and I would be the runts, while Malcolm took the lead. Seth and Gavin would be the warriors in the middle.

  Seems weird, after Sadie McCall, and everything happening with school already…it’s like some strange, apocalyptic (I had to look that up in the dictionary just now to make sure I spelled it right) thing is going to happen. I don’t know. Maybe I just want it to, you know? Life gets boring here i
n Ellishome, with the exception of Sadie McCall, of course.

  I didn’t mean that the way it sounded, Journal.

  Well, other than that, it was an okay day at school. I don’t get the chance—or take it very often—to write my thoughts down in you, but it seemed like a good day for it.

  Until Galactus comes to suck another planet dry…live on Shalla-bal! (That’s Norrin Radd’s girlfriend, in case you were wondering, Journal. That’s what the Surfer’s name was before he became the Silver Surfer, and Galactus came to suck the energy out of his world.) But, hey, that’s a whole ’nother story…

  Best of luck to you in all your endeavors…

  Higglesby.

  viii

  A gangly deputy of the Ellishome Police Department by the name of Alex P. Anders ran into Sheriff Bimsley’s office, sweating, gasping, eyes wide, and panting like a dog. His tongue wasn’t lolling out of his mouth, but he did look terrified.

  Alex leaned over and put his hands on Bimsley’s desk. Frank looked at Alex’s hands leaving sweat marks on it, wondering how badly they smelled. He looked at Alex. Frank did not look amused. He was tired. He ran a hand over his mussed hair.

  Frank wasn’t getting much sleep these days, and Alex, by the look on his face, wasn’t helping matters. If the man were a cartoon, Frank thought, he’d be Ichabod Crane.

  “Frank? Frank are you awake, Frank?” Alex said, pounding on the desk, as if he couldn’t see Frank staring right at him with his eyes wide open. The coffee mug of pencils jumped and rattled, adding to Frank’s vexation.

  “Of course I’m awake,” Frank said, furrowing his brows. “I’m staring right at you, aren’t I? You trying to get a gig, Alex? What’s with the poetry?”

  “Huh? What?” Alex said, flummoxed. “Oh! Gee!” Alex P. Anders chuckled, the fright suddenly leaving his voice. “Oh. Yeah. I get you, Sheriff. No, I’m not takin’ up poetry. I’m not looking for a gig, either. Jeez.” Alex P. Anders regained his composure, the fright and concern returning to his face and voice. “It’s the Patterson’s—the guy who found the McCall boy—”

  Frank leaned back, putting his feet up on the desk. He grabbed a pencil, twisting it in both hands as if rolling a cigarette. He raised his eyebrows, waiting for Alex to continue. “I’m listening,” he said.

  Alex took a gulp, his Adam’s Apple bouncing in his throat, making Bimsley wince. Frank wanted to ask Alex if it hurt to swallow with an Adam’s apple that large.

  “They’re…dead, sir,” Alex said, eyes wide. “Both of them. They look—”

  Frank’s heart seemed to freeze in his chest. He didn’t want to hear anymore bad news, not today. He was still trying to sort out the first bit of bad news. He wondered how Austin and his family were doing.

  Alex continued:

  “They look like they’ve been…well, sir…they’re both dead, sir.”

  Frank put down the pencil and pulled his feet off the desk. He stood up, looking more distraught than he had been ten seconds ago. He rubbed his hand over his head again.

  “Honest, sir,” Alex said, as if Frank didn’t believe him. “I was just there. I was having a Cool Misty down at the Thirsty Burst, and Bud Jackson comes runnin’ in. Says he found the Patterson’s up at their house dead on the porch. Says Hailey owed him ten dollars, and he went up there to get it. That’s when I got up there, right after he told me. I saw it. I saw them. And then I hurried right down here, sir.”

  “How come Bud Jackson didn’t phone it in?” Frank asked.

  “He says he was on the way into town, but saw my car at the Thirsty Burst and decided to stop.”

  “He could’ve phoned from the Patterson house.”

  “I don’t think he wanted to get close to the bodies, sir. You’ll see what I mean when you get there.”

  “Just one more question, Alex.”

  “Sir?”

  “How come you didn’t phone it in instead of coming all the way down here? You’re not supposed to leave a crime scene.”

  Frank raised his eyebrows.

  “Well,” Alex said, coughing into his hand. “Sir? I just didn’t think about it. I guess I just got so scared seeing them, that I just high-tailed it to the car and came right over.”

  Frank let out a long breath and shook his head. He grabbed his Stetson from the hook on the wall. “Thanks, Alex. Remind me to put a special request in for you. You deserve a raise.”

  Alex brightened. “Gee. Thanks, sir.”

  Frank looked at him for a second or two. “That was a joke, Alex. Next time there’s a crime scene, you stay put. Come on. You’re coming with me.”

  Alex nodded, crestfallen.

  Frank stepped out of the office, walked down the stairs, and out the front door with Anders trailing. He pulled his keys out of his pocket, took note of the heat, and opened the driver’s side door. Alex climbed into the passenger’s seat.

  Bimsley started the car, decided to leave the Stetson, and threw it on the floor at Anders’ feet. He pinched the bridge of his nose and wished he had a bottle of aspirin. Frank Allen Bimsley was getting one hell of a headache.

  CHAPTER IX

  With Anders putting some distance between he and the bodies, the Pattersons looked as if they’d defiled one another in the worst possible way. A mass of flies swarmed, crawled, and buzzed in the air. The house was in chaos. Tanisha and Hailey lay in a pool of dried blood, which had traveled down the porch steps and into the dirt. A bloodstained butcher knife lay several inches from Hailey’s head.

  The Pattersons had a reputation for being a violent couple, but Frank thought their wars nothing more than harmless quarrels.

  So much for thinking, he thought.

  His eyes drifted to the knife. Hailey’s throat was a deep, smooth gash. If Tanisha had cut her husband’s throat, then who had killed Tanisha?

  Frank dragged his hand through his hair again. He thought of the brougham that day, the image of Sadie without eyes. Frank shuddered and felt a chill climb up his back.

  Impossible, he told himself. This is impossible. This kind of thing cannot happen.

  Impossible was the only explanation. Looking at the scene, Bimsley knew something unnatural had happened here, and he was trying to figure out what to tell the press, what to tell the mayor, knowing what he knew, feeling what he felt.

  The morning sun had cooked Tanisha and Hailey, making a ripe, unpleasant odor on the porch of the farmhouse. Bimsley put a hand to his nose.

  Wasps danced and dipped in the air, crawling over a nest just above the front door. Swarms of them crawled across Hailey and Tanisha’s lacerations.

  When Frank first stepped onto the porch, he shooed away a lone mongrel nibbling at Hailey’s thigh.

  Anders held his arm across his face. He was pale.

  “My God,” Frank said. “Who did this?”

  Anders did not answer.

  Frank’s hands were shaking. He was—he hated to admit it—frightened to death.

  The sun dipped below the Rockies, sending flames of orange light across a pale blue sky.

  A man cannot do this, he thought. A man cannot do this kind of thing. Not without the help of others.

  “An animal? A bear?” he said.

  “Sheriff?” Anders said.

  Frank ignored him.

  Hailey did own a gun. The man could’ve defended himself, and Frank looked at the knife again.

  Maybe Hailey and Tanisha didn’t know what happened, Frank thought.

  He thought of the brougham again, and for a second time, a shiver ran down his spine. Dread sank into his gut.

  How do you investigate the unknown, Frank? he asked himself.

  Staring at the carnage, he felt helpless. He had no idea what to do.

  Death was walking the streets of Ellishome, and praying wouldn’t help because Death—by the looks of things—didn’t plan on leaving anytime soon.

  ii

  Masie Auburn questioned it all: the salvation of her soul, the existence of God, and the overa
ll philosophy of goodness. She’d never had to question God’s existence before, not after stargazing for long nights with Seth—the two of them lying on their backs in the meadow, staring up at the night sky. With the events in Ellishome, however—especially now—she began to wonder…

  The death of Sadie McCall, and now the Pattersons, had left her feeling strangely disconnected.

  Was He up there, Masie wondered, in the vast, star-filled universe? And If so, what in the hell was He doing?

  She didn’t know, but she had an idea. She didn’t think it as simple as she’d thought. Wasn’t it more complicated than what she had in mind?

  Masie imagined God often, but she’d never contemplated Him to this extent before. She didn’t know her place in the miraculous, star-filled universe. How did she even know where to look for God? How could she remotely understand where to find Him?

  Religion had been absent from her life, and she was equally skeptical about making it a part of her life now. She’d never gone to church as a kid. Her mother wasn’t associated with community programs and organizations. Shouldn’t it be enough to seek and find Him on her own without feeling a member of some fanatical cult?

  The whole idea drove her crazy. She wanted answers no one could give. Did everyone reach a moment in their lives when they questioned its meaning? Was God up there—perhaps all around her—simply waiting for her to find Him?

  When the options run dry, you often do things that surprise yourself, Masie thought.

  On that Tuesday afternoon, the second day of school, these thoughts entered her brain. Her questions began with the small white church across the street from the high school.

  Masie had never prayed, never knelt and clasped her hands in supplication before, let in sincerity or contrition. The idea seemed foolish. Her heart, however, continued to question. She wasn’t satisfied with the answers she had.