by Vivian Barz
Deep, way deep , Inside the Curve.
There was a young boy hovering at Jake’s shoulder. He was a cute but grimy little guy,
(I saw you peeking, you cheat!)
dressed like a prairie kid in denim overalls. His clothes were older: worn, yes, but also old-fashioned. He was staring straight at Eric, unsmiling. Eric stared right back—stared right through him, as the kid was translucent.
Eric blinked. He blinked a few more times, hoping to flutter the hallucination right from the room. The little boy remained, swiping a hand under his wet nose as he started to sniffle. Eric grimaced. The kid’s fingers were bleeding, knuckles exposed down to the bone. With growing horror, Eric noted that his visitor was rotting: skin shriveling and flaking away, eyes sinking back into sockets, hair dropping to the ground in clumps. Flies began to buzz around his small balding skull in a gruesome black halo.
Despite his great many years of practice keeping cool in public during schizophrenic flare-ups, Eric was entirely unaware of his mouth dropping open. The dry-erase board pen he’d been holding tumbled from his fingers, cracking down on the shiny gray linoleum and rolling halfway across the classroom floor. Roused by the abrupt silence, a few students glanced up to give their mute professor their eyebrow-puckered attention. Eric knew he should finish his question to Jake. He understood that he should still be speaking, but shock had stolen the words from his brain before they’d even had a chance to develop on his tongue.
Pull it together , Eric commanded himself with desperation. Letting the crazy hang out at home was one thing, but in his professional life? Unacceptable.
Slowly, he let out his breath. It’s all right. Breathe.
The kid nestled up next to Jake, who was now glaring at Eric with an expression that was somewhere between confusion and indignation. The little boy’s withering hand jerked up in a swift, unfeasible motion: before at his side, now at Jake’s head—an old eight-millimeter movie skipping over a few frames.
The kid gave Jake’s earlobe a good hard flick.
Jake didn’t exactly react , but what happened next was nonetheless astonishing: he shifted in his seat, then rubbed his earlobe, frowning.
He felt it , Eric thought. Goddamn, he felt it.
A bystander sensing his schizophrenic hallucinations. Now there was a first.
The kid vanished as suddenly as a dandelion blown apart by a shift in the wind.
“What?” asked Jake, sounding not quite perturbed but getting to be.
Now Eric had the undivided attention of the entire class. The room had grown so uncomfortably silent that, had a mouse farted at that precise moment, it would have reverberated off the walls like a foghorn. Jake seemed understandably offended, since he was probably assuming Eric was gawping at his dwarfism. The idea of offending somebody over what some deemed a disability appalled Eric, but just what could he say? Don’t take offense, Jakey Boy. I wasn’t staring at your smallness, but at the rotting kid lurking beside you—by the way, how’s your ear?
“It’s nothing,” said Eric to Jake with a tight smile. “I . . .” You what? Hate your new life and have an ex-wife whose Jim-screwing antics have driven you to hallucinations on your first day on the job—you sure you want to be sharing this?
Jake raised his eyebrows, as if to demand, Yes, what? He reached up and rubbed his earlobe, and suddenly Eric wasn’t so sure that he had felt the little boy.
Then, by sheer dumb luck, Eric caught something that he’d previously overlooked: Jake’s clothing. He nearly laughed out loud. It was his T-shirt that was going to redeem Eric, if not to the whole class, then at least to poor Jake.
“Sorry, I was taken by surprise,” Eric explained to the confused faces staring him down. He plucked his collar and then gestured toward Jake. “I don’t want to get too much off the topic of geology, but I noticed your shirt.”
Jake glanced down, perplexed. “Uh . . .”
“Swindled 5. The band?”
He nodded slowly, gave Eric a hint of a smile.
At least he no longer looks so pissed off , Eric realized with some relief. “Two of their members were my students in Philly, way back when. The bassist and the lead singer.” Eric hesitated, not sure that he wanted to get so personal. Oh, what the hell, he thought and then added: “We jammed together a couple of times, before they got really big. I play drums—or I used to play drums. Now it’s more like an occasional hobby.”
A wide grin spread across Jake’s face. “Get out of here! They’re so good . Crazy good.”
“They are. Nice guys too.”
At that, the students began to relax. A few more even started paying attention.
Maybe , Eric thought, I might live through this after all .
After class, Jake shyly approached Eric, who was busying himself with organizing the syllabi for the next round of students. “You know, I’m a musician too.”
Eric tapped the packets against the desk to straighten the stack and then set them aside. “Is that right?”
“Yep,” Jake said. He raised a hand up to his shoulder and mimed moving a bow back and forth across strings. “I play violin for a band called Augustine Grifters.”
“Oh, I like the name. Catchy.”
“Thanks. We’ve got a gig coming up this weekend here in town—well, we’re supposed to play this weekend, but we’ve kind of hit a snag.”
“Oh no.”
“Here’s the thing, Professor: I think you might be able to help.”
Eric arched a brow. “Is that right?”
“That’s right,” Jake said with an impish smile. “But before I get into it, I need to ask you a question: Do you believe in fate?”
CHAPTER 11
Yawning noisily—a positive of living on her own, being able to yawn obnoxiously—Susan shuffled into the kitchen to make coffee. It was back to work tomorrow, so she was going out of her way to take pleasure in the simplicity of just being : the underlying scent of sweetness amid bitter as she doled six heaping scoops of caramel-flavored coffee grounds into the french press, the relaxed feel of the soft, baggy pajamas that hugged her skin, the crinkle of the morning paper.
In the living room, she turned on the television and flipped through the channels until she found her morning news station. She took a step back toward the kitchen to retrieve her coffee before she wheeled back around to peer at the screen, her mouth ajar.
The hairs on the back of her neck stood at full attention. She knew that place, that field and farmhouse. Only she’d been there at night.
She quickly scanned the banner that ran along the bottom of the screen. LIVE BREAKING NEWS: GRISLY DISCOVERY IN PERRICK, CALIFORNIA.
“Son of a bitch,” she muttered. Immediately, she felt . . .
She didn’t know what she felt—disgust, anger, and even a bit of embarrassment, she decided, that her case had been scooped by a news station. Despite it having occurred over fifty years ago, the murder of Overalls Boy was still a pressing matter and under open investigation. It would only delay her search for answers if she had to waste time, which she now undoubtedly would, responding to inquiries from the nosy public.
She felt a trifle confused.
A news exposé about a body from the 1960s—really? Susan couldn’t imagine why a murder that dated so far back qualified as “breaking” news. The disappearance of Gerald Nichol, a convicted sex offender currently loose on the streets, seemed as if it would have precedence. It would certainly be a bigger scandal to exploit.
Susan’s frown deepened as it dawned on her that the news station didn’t only cover Perrick stories or even those that had occurred all over California. It covered all of the United States. The station itself was based out of New York.
Susan groped for the remote on the coffee table, turned the volume way up.
“. . . are scheduled to hold a press conference later today,” the news anchor was saying in the gravest of tones, though she was wearing a contrastingly bright canary-yellow blazer that seemed far
too loud for “serious” reporting. “According to local sources, the bodies of nine children have been discovered on the property so far, and the search will continue . . .”
“Holy shit,” Susan whispered. “Nine?” How was that possible—had she missed more bodies by the telephone pole? She was sure that she’d been thorough in her search of the property. Then again, she’d been tired, cold, eager to get home. Her blood ran icy at the notion of her negligence, which might now be exposed on a public platform.
Who had actually found the bodies? That’s what she wanted to know.
Of course, Susan thought with a great deal of irritation, what she wanted was clearly not a top priority down at the station. She’d been trying to reach Ed for the past three days, to no avail. She imagined that he’d been busy, but it was strange that he hadn’t at least called her as a professional courtesy to give her a heads-up about the discoveries. Such oversights, unfortunately, were sometimes a part of the father-daughter-type relationship they shared. Ed probably assumed that she’d always forgive him, which she probably would.
The reporter continued. “Also according to our sources, many of the murders do not appear to have been recently committed, and in fact, the bodies of some victims might date back decades.”
Susan sank down into the sofa, her legs as useful as two wet noodles. Nine child murders? Her brain was still having difficulty processing it. How could such gruesome acts have taken place in her seemingly safe little town? Perrick was no stranger to crime, of course, but it had nowhere near the amount as neighboring San Francisco, and murders were few and far between. And when the rare murder did occur, it typically stemmed from too much alcohol between acquaintances and heat-of-the-moment lovers’ quarrels—rarely in Perrick did citizens murder strangers. The town had certainly never ever experienced anything as horrendous as this , the senseless murdering of children.
Susan was wondering if she should reconsider her earlier assumption about Gerald. If the news station was correct, and the murders had not transpired recently, the likelihood of him being responsible was remote. Sure, he might have been sly enough to have gotten away with one or maybe two murders as a teenager, but nine ? Seemed an unlikely feat for a high school kid living with his parents to pull off.
So had it been Wayne all along—was Gerald innocent of the murders? If he was, why had he fled after the first body, Overalls Boy, had been found? Could it be that he was so terrified of returning to prison that he’d simply panicked when he’d seen a police cruiser in his field? It was certainly plausible. The picture Juno Tomisato had painted of Gerald’s prison stay had been gruesome enough that even Susan had felt terrified.
There was also the possibility that Gerald had aided Wayne in the killings. A father and son bonding over murder. What a charming thought.
Susan shuddered.
An even more shocking question surfaced: What if Mary was the true killer, and she’d made up that story about her husband being a pedophile to throw everyone off her scent?
Susan shook her head. No, that was a pretty far-fetched theory. Statistically, in 80 to 95 percent of pedophilia cases, the perpetrators are male. Also, Sal had informed her about the town rumors concerning Wayne’s creepiness toward kids before Mary had even offered up her confession.
She turned her attention back to the news.
“The first body was uncovered late last week, when R&G repair crews were doing ground excavation due to an unrelated auto collision. We have confirmed that the FBI is assisting Perrick police on the case . . .”
The FBI! When had the FBI gotten involved?
And how was it possible that a news station on the other side of the country knew this before she did—who in the hell were these “sources” feeding the media information?
“. . . property’s owner, convicted sex offender Gerald Nichol, is at large. Authorities are asking for anyone with tips that may help locate him to call the hotline listed at the bottom of the screen. We will provide updates as we receive them.”
Susan hurled the remote down on the sofa. Her hands were shaking badly, though she hardly noticed them through her indignation. She began pacing around the living room, stung that she’d been left out of the loop. The lack of respect!
She had to do something , or else she would lose her mind. She decided to start with more coffee. She went into the kitchen to pour herself a cup, spilling about half of it because of her quaking hands. She’d been the officer present for the discovery of the first body—how had nobody down at the station thought to call her? She would have made the call, had the roles been reversed.
She marched into the living room, where the information previously given by the sunny-jacketed woman was now being repeated by a man in a somber gray suit—perhaps the woman had gone to change into something in a grimmer shade—and snapped off the television.
Right. To hell with her last day off.
She was going to get some answers.
CHAPTER 12
Outside the police station was pure pandemonium.
The entire building was surrounded by news vans with their dubious claims—KTLO 2: Breaking news you can trust! XTB 10: Number one eyewitness news delivered! KIT 5: Get it here first! —most from out-of-town stations. Nearby reporters preened for camera close-ups as they practiced lines. While their deliveries varied, the story remained the same. It wasn’t every day that a mass grave of children was unearthed—particularly not in a town as wholesome as Perrick—so naturally word had spread fast.
Susan hadn’t come in uniform, so thankfully, they let her be.
Inside the station, it was just as chaotic, with people milling about everywhere —more than Susan had seen in the building during the last six months combined. Maybe ever. The majority were ghoulish busybodies, in attendance only to glean details about the murders. They were aggravating in their very existence, as their main goal seemed to be to get in everyone’s way, Susan’s included.
There were, however, some legitimate visitors. Just past the entrance, a couple of stressed-looking officers, arms waving overhead to be seen through the throng, were shouting directions to the volunteers who were gathering to help answer phones for the tip hotline. Wrapped around the front desk was a line of about thirty well-meaning locals coming forward to provide information about the case. Near the back corner of the station congregated a cluster of mostly couples, their voices hushed and eyes red from weeping. Desperate parents of missing children.
Susan quickly averted her gaze when they noticed her staring.
She snaked through the crowd to find Ed. She located him just outside his office, where he was finishing up a conversation with a very tall man in his mid- to late forties. Judging by the way the man was dressed (smart), as well as his manner of speaking (authoritative), she guessed he was high-ranking FBI. He had the look . Or at least how she imagined they’d look based on what she’d seen on TV.
Trying to disguise exactly how much she felt like a caricature of a feeble underling, Susan maintained a respectful distance until their conversation was over, pretending to study a text on her phone that her mother had sent earlier that morning about a children’s birthday party a friend of hers was throwing for her grandkids. Her mother was helping out with the preparation. What do kids like these days: ice cream cake or regular? she had asked. As if Susan knew. She wondered if the text was a veiled dig at her childlessness. This is what I’m reduced to, throwing parties for children who are strangers, as I have no grandkids of my own. It was better than her asking about the case, she supposed, though Susan had to wonder if her mother hadn’t heard the news yet. If she had, Susan’s phone would have been inundated with a dozen or so texts, which would have only added to her vexation. Being scooped by a national news station was one thing, but her own mother . . . well, that just might have pushed her completely over the edge.
The fed, while lean, was intimidatingly muscular, with skin the color of pure coffee and kiwifruit fuzz for hair. Streamlined was the wor
d that first came to Susan’s mind. A Dyson vacuum cleaner personified. The blindingly white smile he offered Susan as he glided past her in the hall deepened her trepidation. Hey, we’re all friends here. But you’d best stay out of my way, understand?
Susan offered a polite smile in return, though she didn’t mean it. Sure, he was smiling—why wouldn’t he be? She could already see how it was going to pan out. The FBI. They were running the show now, which Mr. Smiley Face had made crystal clear with that smirk. Now all she’d have to do was wait for them to start treating her and her fellow officers like bumbling yokels who couldn’t hack working with the big dogs. Just see if they didn’t.
Frown deepening, Susan made a beeline toward Ed, who didn’t seem all too surprised to see her. “Aren’t you off?” he asked just the same, leading her to his office with a lazy step. He closed the door behind them and then took a seat behind his desk.
Susan didn’t bother to sit down before she started in with the questions. “So what gives?”
Ed gave her a patient look and waved an upturned hand out in front of his midriff, indicating the crowd outside. “As you can see, we’ve been busy.”
“Why didn’t you call me in?” she demanded, sounding far more petulant than she had intended. Or maybe she had. She felt she was justified in her anger, and she wanted Ed to know it.
“Last I checked, I wear the stars,” Ed snapped, pointing to the brass pinned to his collar. “I don’t report to you.”
Susan took a seat and leaned back in the chair, stung and chastened from her verbal dressing-down, remembering her place despite her resentment. He had never spoken to her so harshly, as if she were just some run-of-the mill subordinate.
They were like father and daughter, but even Ed had his limits.
