by Alex Barclay
‘No. It was part of the sale when John Veir bought the site.’
Ren nodded. He looked up at her, expectant.
Why am I here? Well, I thought you might be dead. That’s why. Jesus.
‘OK,’ said Ren. ‘Is there anything you can think of, Clyde, anything you saw, anyone you saw here the night Aaron drowned – someone who looked out of place or was acting suspiciously?’
‘No,’ said Clyde, ‘not that I can think of. I would have said. I told you about Aaron’s back.’
‘You did,’ said Ren. She looked around. ‘When was the last time you were here?’
‘Christmas Eve.’
Jesus Christ. He comes here at Christmas.
Ren looked at the cabin. It was in a worse state than all the others, the timber battered, the paint flaking, roof tiles missing, a section of the roof caved in. The windows she could see were boarded up.
‘I feel so bad about Aaron,’ said Clyde. ‘If I’d been here…’
‘Don’t,’ said Ren. ‘You weren’t responsible for what happened to Aaron.’
He looked down at the photo of Lizzie.
‘And what happened to your sister was a tragic accident,’ said Ren.
She squeezed his shoulder, and walked away. As she made her way up the slope, a chill swept over her.
Bad things happen around Clyde Brimmer.
She turned back to look at him. His shoulders were shaking. He looked so small, hunched and weeping, against the vast expanse of the lake, next to the tumbledown cabin that haunted him still.
That’s why you sit in the window of The Crow Bar; you find comfort in being vigilant, you think you need to make amends.
‘Clyde?’ she said.
He turned around and looked up at her with his soft blue, watery eyes.
Bad things happen around Clyde Brimmer.
No.
No: this is just a damaged, heartbroken man.
‘Look after yourself,’ she said.
When Ren got to The Crow Bar, Shannon was putting plates of sandwiches on the tables. She looked up. ‘Just if any of your guys are hungry,’ she said. ‘They’ve a lot of ground to cover.’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ said Ren.
‘Did you find Clyde?’
‘I did, thank you,’ said Ren. ‘That poor man.’
‘I know,’ said Shannon. ‘I’m not sure he’s ever going to be right.’
Ren heard a shout from inside the house. It was Seth.
‘Fuck this shit!’ he said. ‘No!’
Ren was startled.
‘PlayStation,’ said Shannon. Her expression was a tolerant one.
PlayStation …
‘Mind if I go in?’ said Ren.
‘Sure – go ahead,’ said Shannon. ‘It’s down that hallway, where I was when you came in with Pete.’
Ren knocked on Seth’s door. There was no answer. She walked in. Seth was sitting on a black beanbag on the floor, his back up against the bed, with headphones on, playing Grand Theft Auto.
His fingers were furiously, effortlessly, working the controls.
I have Nintendo muscle memory.
Caleb … Grand Theft Auto … PlayStation cheats … did Seth Fuller lure kids in here with this?
PlayStations are everywhere.
This one looks new. But there’s a dent at the corner.
‘No!’ said Seth to the screen. ‘Motherfucker! Fuck you! Fuck, fuck, fuck!’
He caught Ren out of the corner of his eye and jumped. He pulled off his headphones. ‘You scared the crap out of me!’ he said, struggling to sit upright in a black beanbag. On screen, his car crashed. ‘Damn!’ he said. Then he paused. ‘Sorry. Is everything OK? Why are you here? Where’s Aunt Shannon? Is she all right?’
‘She’s out in the bar – she’s fine,’ said Ren.
She looked at the PlayStation. ‘How long have you had that?’
‘I feel bad, but since Aaron died. It was Aaron’s.’
‘And when did he get it?’
‘For Christmas. From Aunt Shannon.’
‘What happened to the corner?’
Seth leaned in. ‘What?’
‘Do you see that dent in it?’ said Ren.
‘No,’ said Seth. He walked over to it, crouched down, got to within three inches of it. ‘Oh, yeah, now I see it.’ He ran his thumb down it. ‘No idea. Never noticed it before.’
You’re a checked-out kind of guy.
‘Did Caleb Veir ever play this?’
Seth shook his head. ‘No.’
‘Did Caleb ever mention getting a PlayStation to you?’ said Ren.
‘No,’ said Seth. ‘Why are you asking about PlayStations?’
‘Just wondering,’ said Ren. ‘Can you call up the player list?’
‘Sure,’ said Seth. He did as she asked, and pointed to the names. ‘That’s me, and that’s Aaron.’
‘OK,’ said Ren. ‘Thanks.’
Shannon appeared in the hallway.
‘Everything OK?’ she said. Her eyes were filled with fear.
You have so much invested in this kid, you don’t want him to be in any more trouble.
‘Yes,’ said Ren. She turned back to Seth. ‘I hate to break your heart, here, Seth, but I’m going to need to take that PlayStation away.’
‘What?’ said Seth. ‘Why?’
‘We’d just like to take a look at it,’ said Ren.
‘Come over here, take a look at it right now,’ said Seth.
‘If they want to take it,’ said Shannon. ‘Let them take it.’ She turned to Ren. ‘The trauma.’
‘Seth, I wanted to confirm something with you,’ said Ren. ‘You were here on the night Aaron died, is that right?’
‘Yes,’ said Seth.
‘Yes,’ said Shannon at the same time.
Ren turned to Shannon. ‘I read in your questionnaire that you were drinking that night …’
Shannon nodded. ‘Yes.’
She knows where I’m going with this.
‘But I checked on Seth before I went to bed,’ said Shannon. ‘And I could hear him snoring when I got up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom.’
‘OK,’ said Ren. ‘Seth, do you know anything about a key that’s missing from Clyde’s keychain? It’s the key to Cabin 8.’
Seth looked at Shannon, then back at Ren. ‘No,’ said Seth. ‘But get him to check again – Clyde’s got a million keys on there.’
Shannon nodded. ‘I think he collects them as he goes, never gets rid of them, even ones he knows he’ll never need again.’
Seth splayed his fingers, wiggled them. ‘He’s probably on an eternal search for the one that will unlock the mystery of Clyde Brimmer.’ He smiled.
I like you, Seth Fuller.
I hope you’re not a killer.
32
Jimmy Lyle walked the aisles of the strip-mall toy store, and it was his measured walk, the one he practiced in his mirror sometimes, so he could look less noticeable, so he would look calmer than he felt. He took a box down from the shelf, and looked at the picture. The girl in it looked so happy, in the sunshine, her black hair falling around her shoulders. He was hard right away. He looked around, saw a restroom in the corner, and moved quickly toward it. He pushed the door in, kicked off his heels, pulled off the tan pantyhose he was wearing, pushed his dress up around his waist, and took his dick out.
He closed his eyes, wallowed in visions of the girls he was going to see, their hair dark and floating, their skin white, their eyes, wide, alarmed, panicked. Wide. Alarmed. Panicked. Wide. Alarmed. Panicked.
Jimmy didn’t last long. He collapsed against the wall, exploding, sucking in huge breaths, rolling toward the mirror to smile at his bright red face and bulging, streaming eyes. He could smell himself, all his smells, he could feel his heart pounding. He didn’t wash his hands.
The sales assistant behind the counter tilted the box toward her to get a better look at it. Jimmy already had the cash in his hand. He wanted h
er to hurry the fuck up.
‘A white inflatable swan,’ she said. She beamed as she swiped the scanner across the barcode. ‘These are all the rage.’ She smiled brightly at him.
He knew his scars made people conscious of being extra kind to him. So many of these brief exchanges in his life were filled with effort on the part of other people. Sometimes he could see the little sparks of something else in their eyes.
Jimmy smiled back. ‘It’s for my daughter.’
‘I’m sure she’ll love it,’ said the sales assistant.
Spark, spark, spark.
Jimmy knew it was fear. Sometimes he wanted Inside Jimmy to come out, he wanted to open his mouth wide and let his screams out like a searing blast that would melt away flesh, right down to the bone.
As he left the store, Jimmy Lyle’s cell phone started to ring. He took it out, looked at the screen.
It was DEAD TO ME again.
This time, he picked up.
‘Jimmy? It’s Daddy.’
Jimmy said nothing.
‘Did you get my message? I left you a message.’
Jimmy didn’t reply.
‘I had a visitor … and … it’s not good. That little Mexican girl …’
Still, Jimmy didn’t reply.
‘She’s goddamn loco,’ said his daddy. ‘Loco.’ He chuckled.
There it was again – the reaching out, searching for commonality. Jimmy could feel the blood pounding at his temple.
‘I’m sorry, son,’ said his daddy. ‘I’m sorry for everything.’
A surge of anger shook Jimmy. Inside Jimmy was pushing against his ribcage. He could picture small fissures breaking out across his bones. He was trembling. Inside Jimmy flared up again, vibrated, hurt.
‘No, you’re not,’ said Jimmy. At first, his voice barely made it, and it felt as if the strength inside him was going only to fuel the pounding in his head.
‘What was that, son?’
‘No, you’re not!’ roared Jimmy, Inside Jimmy, out. ‘You’re not sorry! You’re afraid is what you are. You’re a scared old man. You’re weak and you’re terrified and alone. Don’t dress that up like sorry and try to sell it to me. I’m not buying.’
‘Please, Son. I need you to—’
‘Don’t need me, Daddy! Don’t need me! It won’t end well.’
‘Please …’
‘We had a deal,’ said Jimmy, ‘and I’m done.’
His daddy’s voice dropped to a snarl. ‘No, you’re not.’
The line hummed. Jimmy’s heart hummed along with it. Tears welled in his eyes. He wiped them away. His lips trembled.
‘OK, Daddy,’ said Jimmy. Inside Jimmy, in again. ‘What do you need?’ He swiped at his tears. He mouthed the word ‘no’ over and over, so he could try it the next time. Out loud, so he could be strong. He mouthed again. ‘No, Daddy, no. No – this time. This time? No.’
‘What do you need me to do?’ said Jimmy. ‘Tell me, Daddy.’
Jimmy heard sounds; breathing, shuffling.
‘Daddy? Are you still there?’ said Jimmy.
‘I am, Son. I need you to … maybe bring me a few of my things. Something to watch.’
With a lightning-fast reflex, Jimmy’s thumb shot out and ended the call.
Jimmy got to the car, carrying the bag from the store, his heart pounding. He popped the trunk. It was an automatic gesture. It was foolish. He quickly slammed it shut, looked around, as if anyone would be able to see what was inside.
His eye was drawn to the line of dumpsters along the wall. He looked for cameras. There were none. He checked his watch: it was two hours to darkness. He had some ideas how he could spend the time.
33
Ren got back to the hotel at nine that night. She parked outside, closed her eyes and listened to the rain pounding on the roof, pouring down the windshield. She reached into the back seat and pulled her raincoat toward her. She struggled into it, and pulled the oversized hood up. She took a deep breath, opened the car door, and ran.
The Do Not Disturb sign was still hanging on the door knob of her hotel room where she had left it that morning. She went inside, straight into the bathroom to hang up her coat. She glanced around. Her heart plunged.
Someone’s been in here. It smells different. It smells like man. And it hasn’t been serviced.
She looked at the space around the sink.
I did not leave my soap bag there.
She felt a spike of anxiety.
Paranoia.
No.
Someone was in here.
She went into the bedroom. In the shadows, she could see her suitcase, some notes, her file folders. She had left more notes out on the bed because she was running late. She had left the Do Not Disturb sign on the door.
Like that’s a security measure.
Anyone could have been able to look at those notes.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
She sat down on the bed and called Reception. She hung up before they answered.
Paranoia.
She was about to call Gary.
No way: he will kill you. She had done it before, and he went ballistic, bawled at her in front of everyone about running a command center out of her hotel room.
She called Reception again. ‘Hi there, it’s Ren Bryce in 310. Was anyone in my room today while I was out?’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ said the receptionist.
Noooooo! How unbefuckinglievably unprofessional.
You’re the one who left your notes out.
It’s a small-town hotel … what did you expect? More! Always!
‘We’ve been having problems with some of the showers on your floor,’ said the receptionist. ‘I know yours has been working OK, but we had our plumber check them all. We just need to make sure everything is OK.’
Oh, thank God. ‘Would you mind letting me know the next time someone needs to access my room?’ said Ren. Because I can’t fucking stand my privacy being invaded. ‘And if you can’t reach me in my room, can you please call my cell phone before allowing anyone to come in?’
Or maybe I could tidy my stuff away …
‘Yes, ma’am,’ said the receptionist. ‘I apologize for any inconvenience.’
Inconvenience … a great sweeping fuck of a word.
‘Could I get the name of the plumber?’ said Ren. Just in case …
Pause. ‘Sure … it’s J. J.’s Plumbing Services – J. J. Nash.’
‘Thank you,’ said Ren. She googled J. J. Nash on her phone. His company was five years old, based in Tate. His testimonials all ended with four and five stars. The photo was of a smiling but slightly sad-eyed man in his mid-twenties.
Move along, nothing to see here.
Ren still hadn’t turned on the lights in the bedroom. She stood up, made her way over to the window. The rain was relentless. She stood in the darkness, separated from the night by the icy glass. She started to unbutton her shirt.
Ben ripping my shirt off … losing my buttons.
Ben.
Ben.
Ben.
Tonight, it is just you.
I want you. I want your arms, your beautiful face. I want every part of you.
And I can’t have it. I can’t have it ever again.
She took off her shirt, threw it on the back of the chair. She unhooked her bra, threw it on top. She went to her bag and took out a faded black Dropkick Murphys T-shirt with a skull and crossbones on the front. She held it up to her face, breathed in.
Loser.
Don’t.
She put it on, looked at her reflection in the glass. She finished undressing, then pulled on a pair of loose black shorts that were shorter than the T-shirt. She tied her hair in a ponytail, grabbed her laptop, went over to the bed, lay down and curled toward the window to lose herself in the drenched and clouded world outside.
Her phone beeped with a text.
Go away.
She reached out, took the phone from the nightstand and pulled it toward her
. She held it above her face, squinted at the screen. The text was from Paul Louderback.
Are you OK? Missed you at dinner.
She replied.
Just shy. ;-)
He replied:
One of my favorite things about you.
Then:
Want company?
Ren punched in:
Are you fucking high?
She deleted it. And replied:
Working …
He typed back.
Sure you’re OK?
Sure you’re not just looking to get laid?
She sent:
Yes, honestly. Sleep well. And thanks. XX
I should just send him a text:
I am wearing my dead boyfriend’s T-shirt.
She touched her hand to her heart.
Ben Rader, I miss you so much.
Work. Forget.
She sat up, propped against the pillows and opened a photo of Caleb Veir.
Where are you? Did your daddy kill you? Did your mommy? Did you run from a home you didn’t love? Why did you fall out with your mother? Did she do something to you? Did your daddy come home after work, bitching about the inmates at BRCI, calling them psychos, or did he make sure they were humanized? You knew Seth Fuller had been at BRCI … did you allow him to befriend you to provoke your father? Did it provoke your father?
Were you a trusting kind of kid? Would an adult buying you comics and candy just seem like kindness to you, seem unthreatening? Or what if a man like Franklin J. Merrifield approached you? Would you have been afraid of him? Could he have mentioned your father to earn your trust? What made you afraid? Who made you afraid?
Ren opened a new document and started typing.
John Veir lost his temper and killed Caleb accidentally …
John Veir killed Aaron and Caleb because he is a pedophile and was abusing them.
Teddy Veir lost her temper and killed Caleb accidentally …
Teddy Veir killed both boys to get back at John and Shannon for having an affair.
Teddy Veir killed her son to get the same attention her husband gave his mistress when her son died.
Franklin J. Merrifield killed Caleb Veir.
Franklin J. Merrifield abducted Caleb Veir, but has not killed him.
Another former inmate from BRCI abducted/killed Caleb to get back at John Veir for something.
