“A kid got killed. A guy who deals drugs. The cops are eventually going to find that out.”
“So this Otis guy—was that him? Did you see him? How old is he anyway?”
“I asked my parents and they don’t know. Old. Old enough, I guess.”
“Why’s he digging in the middle of the night?” I ask.
“Maybe he doesn’t want to be spotted digging during the day. Maybe it’s a drug transaction.”
This is all a little too much for me. “Don’t you think we should tell someone else? Like the cops?”
Devon just shakes his head. “I don’t want to get into trouble. Even if it has nothing to do with Artie, I think there’s something going on there. Something really weird.”
“Yeah. You smoking pot and spying on old dudes.”
Devon doesn’t laugh. He looks as serious as I’ve ever seen him. “Don’t you think the quarry has had a weird little vibe going on around it for some time?” he asks. “With the guy it’s named after?”
“Not really.”
“Remember the summer they found all those dead birds here?”
I shake my head. “You think they were killed and sacrificed to the evil Lord Sykes?”
“Just wait and see,” Devon says.
“Wait and see what?”
“I don’t know. But that’s my point.”
I think Devon has too much time on his hands. That along with an imagination fueled by comic books and video games.
I have something else fueling me. Or I should say, someone else.
I can’t sleep. I’m thinking about what Devon said about Sykes and the quarry. I’m not sure if the guy has anything to do with Artie’s death, even if Sykes was supplying pot to him. Every show I’ve ever seen about killers ends up revealing that it’s the guy living right next to you, the one who smiles all the time and helps you with your groceries and takes care of your cat and will also slit your throat in the middle of the night. I watch a lot of late-night crime television. I know these things.
Appleton is just like a lot of other towns west of Chicago. I’ve lived here my whole life, in this suburb of about 23,000 people. It’s not as affluent as the nearby towns of Geneva and St. Charles, but it also is a lot more upscale than a place like Aurora. It’s got different pockets inside it. A pocket of old, small houses, especially near the downtown area. Then it’s got an area of really large, sprawling mansions. There’s a newer shopping area and an old, somewhat abandoned area. It’s a town that talks a lot about growth and change but hasn’t really grown or changed much at all. Some of the people, especially the old-timers, fight change.
Near downtown the river splits in two, creating on one side a small, bay-like circular area where the water sits surrounded by sidewalk and buildings. They call it the Riverwalk, and a lot of different functions take place there. I’ve always dreamt of getting a Jet Ski and taking it out into the small bay, but I don’t even know whether that’s legal.
There are three massive old churches near the downtown area, and all three are empty. One is used for town hall meetings and stuff like that. Another is supposed to be torn down. The third is due to be restored.
The downtown area is small, with a lot of empty shops and office spaces. Every now and then a new store pops up, but very few make it. So many people go to large thoroughfares like Randall Road to do all their shopping. It’s a minor miracle to even have a Wendy’s or a Target near downtown.
Fascination Street Records just seems to fit Appleton. It would seem odd in a place like Geneva, with all its fancy little stores for grandmas who love to shop. But people who love vinyl make special trips to Fascination.
A portion of downtown called Rush Street was recently renovated, with brick and stone and even an arch over the entrance to the street. Some restaurants and shops are there, and they’re trying to do something new. My mother loves how it looks, but Dad says it was a waste of money.
My parents have never really been involved much with this town. Occasionally my father goes insane about something new happening. He especially vented when they moved Binny’s Beverage Depot out of town. God forbid they take away his favorite store and the source of all his meanness.
There are maybe half a dozen Appleton residents I can think of—most of them old—who are just plain odd. But then again, doesn’t every town have that?
Appleton is no different from anywhere else.
Who knows what really happened with Artie, or whether the killer is even from this town? He probably comes from sweet little St. Charles. Maybe he runs a flower shop and sells cute little bonnets to old ladies and their granddaughters in their nice Sunday dresses. Or maybe it’s that novelist who lives on the Fox River in Geneva and writes all those scary novels. Who knows?
All I know is that there are weirdos everywhere. Artie dying has everybody spooked. I don’t want to join them. There’s no reason I should.
“Oh, great.”
Marvel is standing by the window watching the rain fall, and she looks back at me. “What?”
“Summer rain sucks,” I say.
“Why? I love days like today.”
“Some of us don’t have cars to drive around in.”
“I don’t either,” she tells me.
“At least you have someone picking you up.”
She already knows my whole bike saga. I told her to gain sympathy, but she just said I shouldn’t have let Barton take my keys. She sounded like my parents.
“I love really hot days when it’s raining,” she says, looking back outside. “You can stand in the middle of a street and let the drops fall on you and feel refreshed. It’s like God’s little sprinkler.”
I’m getting used to these sorts of statements, taking something I never thought of and turning it on its head. I was just complaining about having to ride my bike in the rain.
Marvel walks back over to the counter where I’m sitting. Harry is off doing something, since we have the store quite well under control. He still hasn’t figured out what he’s going to do with me. He’s paying Marvel, just as I had hoped. And somehow, my schedule keeps lining up with hers.
“It is nice to get a short little rainstorm when you’re playing ball.”
“Are you talking about soccer?” she asks.
“Oh, no—I’m talking about when I shoot basketball with the guys. I’m not that great.”
“So, soccer, basketball . . . do you play football?”
I smile and shake my head. Somehow she’s managed to find one of the touchiest subjects in my life.
“Why not?” Marvel asks. “You look athletic enough.”
“Oh, yeah, sure. Like a big defensive lineman.”
“No. I was thinking more of a quarterback.”
I nod and glance at the droplets falling outside the window right above the counter.
“What?” she asks. I imagine my expression isn’t the happiest.
“My father was a quarterback,” I say. “He used to dream of me being one too.”
“You don’t like football?”
“I don’t like my father.”
Her dark eyes don’t move off of me. I feel strangely close to her, talking in the middle of the rainstorm here. I feel comfortable sharing stuff like this, stuff I’d never say to anybody else.
“Sorry,” she says.
“It’s fine. Typical family drama.”
“No, I’m sorry for bringing the football thing up.”
“It’s fine. I decided a long time ago to play soccer. I really love it. And I really love how it infuriates my father.”
“Have you ever tried an opposite approach?”
This is funny. Marvel has no clue who she’s talking about.
“No.”
“I think our parents—or whatever adults we’re with—are put there for a reason. Despite all their flaws.”
“Some have more than others,” I tell Marvel.
“My father tried really hard, but he was gone all the time,” Marvel says. “I tried t
o accept that and not resent him. But he just—I think he just got lost.”
“So what’s your relationship like now?”
“He died.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“You didn’t know,” she says.
I feel like a fool, having talked about my hatred of my father in front of a girl who lost hers.
“That nice-looking black guy who came in the other day. Frankie? That’s your friend, right?”
I nod. Suddenly I feel a bit jealous.
“You said he played football.”
“QB,” I tell her. “Now he’s a football player.”
“Maybe you can take some lessons.”
I shake my head. “That ship passed. Or sailed. Or whatever you say. It’s fine. A lot of the football players are morons anyway.”
“Morons need people to lead them,” Marvel says.
“That’s why they have Frankie. But nah—I’d just be another moron.”
“You’re a good guy, Brandon.”
This comes out of nowhere, but it feels so natural. It’s sweet, yet it also makes me feel about ten and Marvel about twenty-two. I smile at her but don’t say anything more. I’m not sure what to say. I’m not sure she’s right.
I half expect Marvel to offer me a ride home, but she doesn’t. She doesn’t even tell me who’s picking her up tonight. We talk about everything, but then again, there are things she doesn’t talk about at all. Like her aunt and uncle and pretty much anything about her family. I’m not going to ask. I’ll wait. In time she’ll tell me, just like she told me her father had died.
I don’t want to say the obvious, but it’s there, deep down. I know it before I even think it. Maybe my father should join him.
I shouldn’t think this, but I do anyway. It’s the truth.
I close the shop door and make sure it’s locked, then I go to unlock my wet bike. Before I reach the bike rack, I see the lights of a car suddenly turn on and hear the engine rev up.
“Get in.”
Speak of the dead.
It’s my father in our Chevy Malibu. He’s here to pick me up. I’m far more terrified than I was last night spying on the creepy recluse. “I can ride home,” I tell him through his open window. “It’s not raining too hard.”
Any harder would be a downpour.
“Get in. Now.”
I move around the car and do as I’m told.
Once inside, I know what’s up. I can smell Dad, and I know bad things are about to happen. “I need to get my bike,” I tell him.
“Leave it there and get it tomorrow.” His voice confirms that he is drunk. Not sorta drunk like he always is, but real drunk. The kind that results in blackouts and black eyes.
“Really, I can get it.”
He grabs my forearm and squeezes it as hard as he can. Dad is strong, and even stronger when he’s like this. The pain tears through me.
“Just shut your mouth. Leave your bike there. It’s your fault you don’t have your car anyway.”
There was a time in my life when I wanted to know what was wrong with my dad and what had happened and how I could try to fix it, but I know better now. Something is always wrong and something always happened and nothing can fix it. Except perhaps death by hanging.
“Your mother gave me the whole guilt treatment when I told her I wasn’t going to pick you up. So here I am. After stopping for a drink on the way. Aren’t you happy?”
“I didn’t ask to be picked—”
He slaps my head with the palm of his hand. “Just shut up. I’m already tired of listening to you. You know how whiny you sound?”
Dad curses, and I wonder how else he can be a bad example. For a moment, I close my eyes and picture Marvel. I think of her smile and her dark eyes. I wish I were sitting beside her instead of here.
I keep quiet, and there’s no more drama. My arm hurts from being gripped so hard, and my head aches from being swatted. But as we get to the driveway, I realize I’m almost in the clear. He’s tired. An hour earlier might have been worse. But he’s tired.
I see Dad’s eyes close, and then I help turn the steering wheel into the driveway. This nudges him awake. He jerks the car to a stop and waits for me to get out. I don’t hesitate. Then I hear the car squealing behind me and peeling off down the road.
I hope he crashes into a tree. Maybe, possibly, somehow I’ll end up regretting that thought. But right now I really do wish he’d die. And I don’t feel an ounce of regret saying so.
“Brandon?”
I want to just say hi to Mom and keep her from asking any questions. Most of the time I can do that in the busyness before school and work or the tiredness afterward. But I can tell she’s in the kitchen waiting to talk to me.
“Did your father pick you up?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
“Did he leave?”
I nod. The hardest thing about this conversation is not thinking of something to say, but holding back the things I want to utter out loud. Like Do you really not realize you’re sending a drunk man out to pick up your son?
“I just didn’t want you getting soaked,” Mom tells me in the shadows of the dimly lit kitchen.
And maybe I didn’t want to be slapped like some fly.
“Did he tell you where he was going?”
“No.” But I have a feeling he’s going to drink a little more and then maybe pass out somewhere.
She waits. Without the canister lights on, I can’t see the deep wrinkles around her eyes. Hopefully she can’t see I’m on the verge of screaming at her.
“How was work?” she asks.
“Fine.” A lot better than the ride home.
Maybe Mom is worried and wondering, but I don’t know. She’s seen Dad angry, of course, and heard him lash out, but he’s always saved the choice words and body blows for our one-on-one sessions. Mom probably figures I’d tell her if there was anything worse, something that crossed a line. But for now, I take the hits and keep my mouth shut. You’ve got enough to worry about without knowing Dad likes to beat up on his son.
“I’m so tired,” Mom says.
There’s nothing left to say. This is a typical Mom-and-me conversation. I can get away with saying little, because Mom expects that. She assumes boys are just that way. And maybe they are. But I’m only silent because I don’t want to awaken a living nightmare in her home.
I hang out with my brothers for a while, but all the time I’m thinking of Marvel. I wish I had her number. Not that she’d necessarily want to talk to me, especially since we talk all day long, but who knows? Maybe I’ll ask for it next time I see her. Or maybe I’ll ask her out. Maybe I’ll even do both.
Whenever I have a lawn to mow that’s not nearby, our neighbor Glyn lets me borrow his truck. I don’t know what he does, since he always seems to be home. Maybe he’s like Dad and lost his job. The difference is Glyn hasn’t lost his grip on life. He’s got three trucks, and he’s always been cool about loaning me the beater to pull my trailer around. He’s offered to sell it to me, but why would I buy it when he’s willing to let me borrow it for free? Now, instead of owning two vehicles, I have none and am working to pay off the one I once had.
It’s a sunny morning as I head out to do a couple of lawns before going to work at Fascination Street. I’m driving on a side street a couple of blocks away from downtown Appleton when I see a tall figure walking on the sidewalk. He’s all in black, from his cargo pants to his band T-shirt. His hair is straight and long, grazing his eyes. I almost pass him by before I realize it’s the kid I saved from getting his butt beat.
I stop and roll down the window of the passenger seat. “Hey, you need a lift?”
When he looks at me, I see that he’s not quite all in black—he’s wearing a white Japanese headband with the red dot in the middle and Japanese writing on it. I want to laugh because I wasn’t expecting that, but I catch myself.
“No.” His voice is really low and doesn’t fit his skinny form. I wonder if he recogn
izes me.
“I’m Brandon—we didn’t have a chance to talk. I’m the guy with the baseball bat.”
“Yeah, I know.”
Well, so much for thanks. “Those guys been messing with you anymore?”
“I can handle it.”
I nod.
Okay then.
“Well, look, it’s Seth, right?”
He nods.
“Let me know if you need anything, okay?”
“Like what?”
I shrug.
Okay, fine, three strikes and you’re out.
“Take care,” I say and drive away. I hate it when I try to be nice and get attitude in response.
“They brought someone in for questioning about Artie Duncan,” Devon tells me on the cell phone.
“According to who?”
I’ve just showered and am about ready to go to the record store and sweep Marvel off her feet.
“Barton.”
“He should be a spy or something.”
“They brought the person in yesterday. So who knows.”
“Do you know who it is?”
“Some guy.”
“Well, of course it’s some guy.”
Usually killers don’t end up being middle-aged mothers or young women. Seems a lot of times it’s ordinary guys, those you don’t pay too much attention to. Not a loner guy like a grown-up version of Seth. And not the weird guy living by himself in the woods. No, usually it’s an under-the-radar guy. The one nobody really knows until he’s famous and you learn he kept body parts in his freezer.
You don’t need to go see a scary movie anymore to be freaked out. All you have to do is hear about something on the news and Google it to find out the sick results. The Internet is full of horror stories.
“What if it’s someone we know?” Devon asks. “Like some teacher? Like Mr. Midkiff?”
“Mr. Midkiff a killer?” I laugh. “Come on.” Midkiff is our science teacher who graduated with a master’s in dorkdom.
“You know how the vein pops up in his forehead when he’s angry?” Devon says. “I’m tellin’ you, it could be him.”
“I gotta go.”
“What are you doing after work?”
Marvelous Page 5
