Secrets to the Grave

by Tami Hoag

  He didn’t know what had happened to his family’s house or any of their stuff. With his mother dead and his father dead and himself stuck wherever the court put him, his stupid half-sisters had gone away to live with some relative who didn’t want anything to do with him.

  Ha! They’d be surprised when they saw his picture in the paper.

  To his shock, when Dennis had finally gotten to the house, practically everything had been ripped out of it—walls and floors and carpets. A big, huge trash bin was parked in the driveway, and it was full of junk like old drywall and linoleum and a broken toilet.

  Dennis decided it didn’t really matter to him that all the Farman stuff was gone. They hadn’t had anything very nice anyway. And most of Dennis’s prized possessions had been in his backpack that the detectives had taken away from him. They had probably divvied up the good stuff, like the pocketknife he had stolen from his father’s dresser, and the cigarette lighter he had taken from his mother’s purse. Probably nobody had wanted the dried-up rattlesnake head.

  He had spent a cold night in the house with no blankets and no bed, but he was an outlaw now, so he had to just get over it. Today he would steal some stuff and find a place to hide it. He had always heard that bums lived in Oakwoods Park. Maybe he would live there too.

  When it got light out he walked to the convenience store hoping, hoping, hoping with his fingers crossed that the old raghead guy that owned the place wasn’t working. He had chased Dennis out of the store a million times for shoplifting stuff and trying to look at the dirty magazines.

  That Paki bastard—that was what Dennis’s father had called the old man, so Dennis called him that too.

  Luckily the person behind the counter was a big, fat, pimple-faced girl, and the store was really busy with people getting coffee and doughnuts and burritos and stuff, so she didn’t notice Dennis.

  He cruised the aisles, lifting a little thing here and there and slipping them into the big pouch pocket on the front of his hooded sweatshirt. A Slim Jim, some Lifesavers, a tire gauge—just because he’d always wanted one.

  He could have whatever he wanted now. He was calling all the shots. Nobody could tell him what to do—especially not that stupid twat Miss Navarre.

  The television bolted to the wall behind the counter was showing the morning news. Dennis watched with one eye, waiting to see a picture of himself on the screen.

  Some woman had been rescued after falling down a well. There were no new leads in the murder investigation of local artist Marissa Fordham. Some crazy-looking white-haired guy had gone missing. Finally the screen filled with a shot of the county mental health center with flames shooting out a window on the second floor.

  Dennis inched closer to the counter and strained to hear. According to the reporter, the fire had been contained to the second floor and damages to the building were minimal. But—and here was the exciting part. Dennis almost shit his pants when he heard it—one person had gone to the hospital with third-degree burns, and one had been killed—KILLED!—when an oxygen tank had blown through a wall.

  He had killed somebody! The excitement was almost too much for him. Holy shit! He had killed somebody! He was a killer!

  To celebrate, he bought himself a breakfast burrito and a Mountain Dew with some of the money he had stolen from the nurse. Then, because he was feeling like such a hotshot killer and all, he decided he would buy himself some cigarettes.

  “And a pack of Marlboros,” he said.

  The pimple-faced girl looked down at him. “Get real and get lost.”

  “They’re for my mom.”

  “No, they’re not.”

  “Yes, they are, and she’s a real bitch. You want me to go and get her? She’s in the car.”

  The girl looked out the window like she was looking for his mother, then rolled her eyes and gave him the cigarettes and his change. Stupid cow.

  Dennis took his stuff and left, not sitting down to eat his burrito until he was out of sight of the store.

  He felt different now than he had twenty minutes ago. Twenty minutes ago he had been just a kid. Now he was a killer. He felt bigger and stronger and meaner. He was going to show everybody just how bad he was. And he was going to start with that bitch Miss Navarre.

  73

  He hadn’t counted on the knife.

  Zahn came at him like a wild animal, and Vince flashed on what Anne had said: You know, people don’t look the same when they turn on you.

  “Vince!” Mendez shouted, drawing his weapon.

  Zahn’s arm came down in an arc, the light catching on the blade of the knife. By reflex, Vince caught hold of the man’s wrist and stepped to the side to get out of the path of the weapon.

  “Zahn! Drop the knife!” Mendez shouted. “Drop the fucking knife!”

  But Zahn didn’t hear him. What was reasonable and civilized in him was gone, overridden by fear and demons. He struggled to pull free of Vince’s grasp, the two of them crashing into the bed frame, falling against a nightstand.

  Madness fueled and intensified Zahn’s strength. Vince had half a foot and a good fifty pounds on him, and all he could do was stumble backward on his heels as Zahn continued his attack.

  “DROP THE FUCKING KNIFE!” Mendez shouted again.

  From the corner of his eye Vince could see him trying to maneuver around them to get a clean shot.

  Zahn twisted and yanked free of the hold Vince had on his wrist, stumbling backward and banging hard into the wall. Vince took the chance to dive across the box spring to the other side of the bed.

  “DROP THE DAMN KNIFE!!”

  “TONY! DON’T SHOOT!” Vince shouted.

  Zahn stood there, looking stunned, looking like he didn’t know where he was or who he was or who they were. He looked at the knife in his hand, his arm still cocked at the elbow, ready.

  “Zander!” Vince said. “Zander! It’s me, Vince. Put the knife down.”

  Zahn stared at the knife in his hand, fascinated. He stared at the knife and at his arm as if it weren’t attached to his body.

  Mendez had taken the stance to fire, his arms straight out in front of him, his finger on the trigger of the weapon. Everything about him was pulled as taut as a string on a bow. His dark eyes were as bright and hard looking as polished onyx.

  “Zander, put the knife down,” Vince said, lowering the tone and volume of his voice. “You need to put the knife down. Isn’t your arm getting tired?”

  Zahn looked uncertain. His fingers flexed on the handle of the knife.

  “Aren’t you tired, Zander?” Vince asked. “You’ve had a rough day.”

  He let the quiet hang, imagining his words trying to find a way into Zahn’s brain and, once there, struggling to be routed and processed.

  “I’m very tired, Vince,” he said in his small, soft voice. The look in his wide eyes was still glassy and far away. He seemed to be staring into another dimension. “I’m very tired. Terribly tired.”

  “So let’s put the knife down,” Vince said, moving slowly down to the foot of the bed. “You don’t need that thing. Put it down and we’ll sit down and you can rest.”

  “I’m so very sorry,” Zahn said.

  “It’s okay. Everything’s okay. No harm, no foul, right?”

  He took a slow step toward Zahn, keeping one arm stretched out in front of him, just in case.

  “No,” Zander murmured.

  “Did you come here to see Marissa?” Vince asked quietly.

  “Marissa. Marissa is gone.”

  “You miss her, don’t you,” Vince said. “She was a very special person, wasn’t she? She accepted you for exactly who you are, didn’t she?”

  “Marissa,” Zahn murmured. “Marissa is gone.”

  “I’m sorry for that, Zander. She was special to you and now she’s gone. That’s a scary place to be, isn’t it? She left you alone, and you don’t feel safe. But you’re safe with us. So why don’t you put the knife down?”

  “I’m sorry,” Zah
n said, his hand flexing on the handle of the knife. “I’m so sorry.”

  “What are you sorry for, Zander?”

  “I’m so sorry. Very sorry. Terribly sorry.”

  “Why are you sorry, Zander?” Vince asked. “Did you do something wrong? Did you do a bad thing, Zander?”

  He began to rock slightly with his upper body, a sign of agitation.

  “Very bad,” he said. “I’m very bad. Terribly bad. Bad, bad.”

  “I don’t think so, Zander,” Vince said. “Why don’t you put the knife down and we’ll talk about it. Your arm must be very tired by now.”

  Zahn rocked a little harder.

  “So tired,” he said. “Very tired. I’m sorry.”

  “Did you hurt Marissa, Zander? Is that why you’re sorry? Did you hurt Marissa?”

  “Marissa, Marissa. Mommy, mommy. I’m so sorry.”

  “Did you hurt Marissa, Zander?”

  “Very tired. Terribly tired. Have to go now.”

  With that Zander Zahn brought the knife down and plunged it into his own stomach.

  74

  Oakwoods Park held special memories for Dennis. He had grown up playing in the woods away from the playground and picnic area where everything was neat and tidy. The wooded, wild part of the park was way more fun. He had spent hours in there playing war, and Indians, and pirates, and pretending he was a kidnapper. That was his favorite. He would kidnap some other kid and tie them up and scare the crap out of them. That was fun.

  Out in these woods was where they had found the dead lady last year. Him and Cody had been chasing Tommy Crane and Wendy Morgan, and they had gone tumbling down a bank. Tommy had practically landed right on her. She was mostly buried, but her head was sticking out of the ground, and one hand with a finger almost chewed off by a dog.

  When nobody was looking Dennis had snapped the finger off and stuck it in his pocket.

  He walked through the woods now, looking for, and finding, a good spot to stash his stuff. He would camp there tonight, but he was going to have to steal a blanket because it was fucking cold and the ground and all the dead leaves on it were wet. He wouldn’t complain, though. He was a man now. He would suck it up.

  The next thing he needed was a disguise. His picture was going to be all over the news, and the cops were going to be looking for him. With his red hair, he was going to be easy to spot.

  He picked his way through the woods to the edge of the playground where a couple of kids were kicking a soccer ball back and forth. They looked like they were maybe fifth graders. Both of them were smaller than he was. The one was wearing a black baseball cap with the Raiders logo on the front.

  “Hey!” he said, walking up to the boys. “Can I play?”

  The kid with the cap looked up at him. “Who are you?”

  “I’m the guy that’s gonna kick your ass. Gimme the ball.”

  The other kid snatched the ball up off the ground and held it, ready to run.

  “You better gimme the ball,” Dennis said. “I killed someone last night. I can kill you too, you little dick.”

  The kid’s eyes got big and he took off running.

  Dennis grabbed the other one by the arm with one hand and smacked him upside the head with the other.

  The kid screamed like a girl. Dennis took his ball cap and knocked him to the ground, then turned and ran for the woods before somebody’s parents showed up.

  That had been easy. But of course it was. He was a badass stone-cold killer now. Taking a hat off a kid was nothing.

  With his new prize shoved down on his head, he went walking. He needed a weapon. He wished he could get a gun, but nobody was going to sell a gun to a twelve-year-old boy, even if he had killed somebody.

  Knives were better anyway. He had really liked the way it felt when he had stuck his pocketknife into Cody’s guts. He had relived that moment over and over in the year since. It made him get excited thinking about it, and thinking about how it would feel when he stuck it in Miss Navarre.

  It was kind of like fucking, he thought. If he was fucking her, he would stick his thing in her over and over and make her scream. When he stabbed her, he would stick his knife in her over and over, and she would scream.

  Cool.

  He cut through the alleys in the neighborhood near his old school. The houses here were old and most of them had garages that weren’t attached, which was good because no one inside the house would hear him looking around. And a garage would be a good place to find a weapon. People left all kinds of shit in their garages.

  He picked a garage that had a small side door that wasn’t locked, and let himself in. There was all kinds of cool stuff hanging on the walls and piled on a workbench. Power tools, garden tools, regular tools.

  A screwdriver might be good, he thought. He picked one up and felt the weight of it in his hand, and practiced stabbing with it. Not bad.

  Among the garden tools was a machete, which was the coolest thing, but it was too big. He couldn’t go around town carrying a machete and not have people notice.

  Then he found it. Hanging on a pegboard at the back of the workbench were some woodworking tools—chisels and gouges and stuff. Most of them were four to six inches of blade with a curvy wooden handle that would feel really good in the hand.

  Dennis stood on a cooler to reach them and selected two—one for each hand. One was thin and sharp and had a groove running down the center of the blade. The other one was straight and pointed.

  They fit perfectly in the pouch of his sweatshirt.

  Happy, he let himself out the side door and continued on his way. Miss Navarre’s house was only a couple of blocks away.

  Dennis had been to her house before. Not because she had ever invited him, but because he had come in the night to try to look in her windows. It was a really nice house with a big porch on the front and roses in the yard.

  Dennis’s heart was pounding as he went up the sidewalk with his hands stuffed in the pouch of his sweatshirt. He didn’t really have a big plan. He figured she would maybe invite him inside depending on whether or not she had seen the news about him being a killer. She would be surprised to see him. That was for sure.

  He almost got the giggles as he thought about the things she might say to him.

  You shouldn’t kill people, Dennis. That’s not nice.

  How can I give you your surprise if you started the fire with your homework?

  She was going to be sorry she hadn’t come to see him.

  Dennis rang the doorbell and stuck his hand back in his pouch, his fingers touching the handle of his weapon. His heart was beating fast. His palms were sweaty.

  The door opened and a skinny old man scowled down at him. He had to be a hundred, and he was dressed like a golfer.

  “Who are you?” the old man demanded.

  Dennis swallowed hard.

  “I’m Dennis. Is Miss Navarre home?” he asked, trying to crane his neck so he could see inside the house.

  “My daughter doesn’t live here anymore,” the old man said. “She finally got married.”

  “She was my fifth-grade teacher,” Dennis said. “I just wanted to see her ’cause ... she was the best teacher I ever had. And ... I mow lawns now and she told me that maybe I could mow her lawn.”

  “Well, she doesn’t live here. She lives over by the college. This neighborhood wasn’t good enough for her,” he said bitterly. “I’m well rid of her, though. She wasn’t much of a housekeeper.”

  Dennis didn’t know what to say about that.

  A short, plump lady with black hair piled high on her head came up then from somewhere inside the house.

  “What you doing standing there with the door open? You let in all the cold. You catch your death,” she said with a funny accent. She looked like maybe she was Chinese or from an island someplace or something. Dennis wasn’t sure.

  “You should be so lucky,” the old man snapped at her.

  “You catch your death, I don’t get paid,” t
he woman said. “Why you think I keep you alive, old man?”

  “For the witty repartee.”

  The woman zeroed in on Dennis. “What you want, little boy?”

  “He wants to visit Anne,” the old man said, waving a hand at Dennis as if to dismiss him. “Write down her address for him.”

  75

  “He’s in surgery,” Mendez reported, handing him a cup of coffee.

  Vince sat in a chair in the ER waiting area, drained and stunned. He had already replayed the entire scenario over in his head half a dozen times, trying to make sense of the things Zander Zahn had said.

  What had he been apologizing for? Killing Marissa? Killing his mother? Killing himself? When had he been bad? Thirty years ago? A week ago?

  Marissa, Marissa. Mommy, mommy.

  Had he confused the two and killed Marissa? Or was he saying she had been the mother he never had?

  “Wow,” Mendez said. “Brilliant guy like that ... I guess it’s true what they say about it being a thin line between genius and madness.”

  “I guess,” Vince murmured.

  “So he was in a dissociative state when he came out of that closet at you?”

  “Something like that.”

  “He sure as hell looked crazy. Do you think he snapped like that when he went after Marissa?” He snapped his fingers as a thought popped into his head. “I’ve got to get his blood type so we can match it to the blood on the sweatshirt—in case he cut himself during the attack.”

  Vince said nothing.

  Mendez looked at him, brows furrowed. “Are you okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “We just closed our case, man. It’s all over but the paperwork.”

  “The crazy guy did it,” Vince said with none of the enthusiasm Mendez was looking for.

  “Well, he did,” Mendez said. “He all but confessed.”

  Vince tipped his head. “All but.”

  Getting irritated, Mendez got up and began to pace. “What the hell do you want? A fucking Perry Mason moment?”