Buddy had no idea who had fathered him. His mother told him the story of a handsome, charming, extremely rich man who’d fallen madly in love with her where she worked. She’d never explained why this wealthy ideal of manhood was shopping in the sewing department of Walmart, but she claimed their romance was short, sweet, intense, and he’d asked her to marry him. Supposedly, he had died in a plane crash only a month before they were to wed. She said his family did not communicate with her and Buddy because they’d wanted their son to marry a rich girl, and Buddy always acted as if he believed every word of her fairy tale.
They lived with Buddy’s widowed grandfather, who had made every day of Buddy’s life a misery. He was whip thin, leathery skinned, and had the conscienceless eyes of an alligator. Buddy had always suspected the man had two sets of eyelids. He’d nearly forbidden the boy to have friends, not that anyone wanted to be friends with Buddy anyway. Then Dillon had walked up to Buddy at the sixth-grade graduation and introduced himself. Grandpa had glared for all he was worth and Buddy had found it astounding that one fiery glance from Dillon’s brilliant blue eyes weakened the confidence of his grandfather’s gaze.
Buddy couldn’t believe it when Dillon had asked him if he’d like to walk around and get acquainted. Buddy had followed like a frightened puppy. They’d eaten potato chips and drunk some vile punch. Dillon had explained he’d attended the ceremony because his father—Isaac Archer—had a niece who’d also successfully made it through the sixth grade.
Then Dillon had asked if the next day Buddy would like to see a tree house he and his older brother, Andrew, were building. Buddy had found being in Dillon’s presence a bit heady, not only because he was so good-looking but also because Dillon was thirteen, an actual teenager, and already a student at the middle school, but the boys had become friends.
Guiltily Buddy now looked at his watch. He’d spent a lot of time driving around in a patrol car this afternoon, blowing off steam, and after the movie he’d walked with lagging steps toward home. Bea would be upset that he’d missed the first ten minutes of the reality show about fifteen people living in one apartment and fighting all the time. She loved television.
At least now, though, his mother could stay up as long as she wanted to, watching one inane TV show after another. Her father had forced her to go upstairs to bed at nine o’clock the same as Buddy, even when Bea was in her thirties. Grandpa had gone to bed whenever he pleased, but he had invariably crept back down the stairs to have at least one shot of whiskey, although publicly he violently disapproved of drinking.
Then had come the evening Grandpa had gotten furious with Bea. Earlier, when cleaning a cabinet, she’d dropped and broken his bottle of bourbon during the day and didn’t have enough money to buy a replacement. When Grandpa discovered she’d destroyed nearly a full bottle of bourbon, he’d punched her in the face. Buddy had lunged at his grandfather and nearly knocked him down.
In return, he had marched up to Buddy’s tiny bedroom, collected his little sketchbook full of Buddy’s execrable but heartfelt drawings, his one volume about photography, and his small notebook with the few dreadfully bad poems Buddy had labored over for months. The man had carried it all to the backyard and burned it, making Bea and Buddy stand and watch.
Buddy now closed his eyes for a moment, remembering that day as if it had happened last week. Then he heard noises behind him and he jerked around to see a half-broken tree limb creaking in the stiff breeze that propelled crackly dried oak leaves down the street. Buddy shuddered slightly, then laughed aloud to reassure himself he was being imaginative and silly.
Almost against his will, his mind returned to that awful day so long ago when Grandpa had set fire to Buddy’s most precious possessions. Buddy hadn’t turned to Bea, who’d stood in helpless devastation. He’d run to Dillon. At first Buddy had been reluctant to tell Dillon the things Grandpa had burned—it all sounded so girly—but when he’d finally spilled all the details Dillon hadn’t laughed. Buddy would never forget that far-off look in Dillon’s intensely blue eyes when he had said, “This time the Old Man has pushed the limit.” Buddy’d had no idea what Dillon meant, but then often he didn’t. He’d just accepted that Dillon had a superior mind and would always know the right way to handle difficult matters.
The day after Grandpa had burned Buddy’s treasures, he hadn’t been able to get out of the house fast enough. June had come again and he didn’t have school. He’d pulled on cutoff jeans and a T-shirt and, still barefoot, hurried for the stairs, scraping his ankle on the sharp hinge once used for a baby gate. He hadn’t even noticed his bleeding ankle until he got outside and saw Dillon. Dillon’s sharp eyes had honed in on the dripping blood and Buddy had explained what had happened. They’d used toilet paper from the gasoline station restroom to clean the wound, and neither had mentioned it again.
Then, around four when Buddy had to go home, Dillon gave him that long, intense look of his and said, “I’ve thought about the Old Man and I’ve decided what we’re going to do about him.” Dillon explained his plan. It sounded good at the time. Buddy had agreed to everything Dillon had wanted him to do, and for a couple of days he’d actually felt powerful. Let the Old Man say or do what he wanted, Buddy had thought swaggeringly. He and Dillon Archer were going to take care of him.
Buddy’s grandfather drove a delivery truck, and on Wednesdays he had a longer route and more heavy equipment to unload at various stores. He always came home late, worse tempered than usual, and he went to bed early. At ten o’clock Buddy had heard Grandpa clump up the stairs, go to his bedroom, and slam the door.
For nearly an hour Buddy had lain still, almost rigid, listening to his old-fashioned alarm clock loudly tick away the last minutes of Grandpa’s life. After he’d heard Grandpa begin to snore, Buddy slid from his bed and slowly opened his bedroom door he hadn’t completely closed.
He’d fought the urge to run down the hall. If he was merely walking and his grandfather opened his door, Buddy could say he was going to the bathroom. He’d wanted to run, though, because the hallway felt completely alien—cold on a summer night full of shadows and the essence of…evil. He’d stopped short. He now realized his conscience had been talking to him. Why hadn’t he listened?
But back then, he’d closed his mind to all thoughts and tiptoed to the top of the stairs. He held a strong length of hemp twine Dillon had gotten, boasting it was 170-pound natural-colored hemp. Some twine was dyed blue or red and would leave marks that could do them in, Dillon had said ominously. Buddy had merely listened, owl eyed.
That awful night, shaking, his breath coming hard and fast, Buddy had tied one end of the twine around the hinge for the baby gate and the other end about two inches above the floor on the newel post. Then he’d cat-walked to his room.
Buddy’s old clock had ticked away another seventy minutes before Grandpa’s snoring grew more irregular, he emitted the horrid hacking, gurgling sound that had always made Buddy shudder, then he groaned as he climbed out of bed. Grandpa had opened his door and walked heavily down the dark hall. He never turned on the hall light.
The sound of Grandpa’s banging, clattering, bone-breaking, crashing descent down those stairs would stay with Buddy for the rest of his life. Grandpa hadn’t screamed or shouted. He’d always worn just undershorts to bed, and tonight he hadn’t even bothered with a robe. He’d landed on his back with his long bare, skinny legs sprawled up the steps. Buddy had slunk down the stairway and looked into his grandfather’s face. The man’s mouth had gaped and his yellowish eyes had been open and unblinking. “Thank you, God,” Buddy had whispered. “It’s finally over.”
Then Grandpa had moaned.
Chapter 5
1
Even now, Buddy shuddered violently at the memory. He’d almost screamed when his grandfather moaned, his body still motionless but a flicker of awareness in his pale eyes. That’s when Dillon had stepped out of the closet not ten feet away. Buddy had nearly screamed again, but Dillon had mo
ved with the speed of a panther, put a hand over Buddy’s mouth, and said, “Don’t be afraid. I’ve been here ever since you were eating dinner.” He’d smiled kindly and said in an almost hypnotic voice, “I wanted to be with you in case anything went wrong. I’ll take care of you, Buddy.”
Dillon had glanced up the stairs. “Where’s your mother? Didn’t she hear the Old Man fall?”
Buddy, trembling and dripping sweat, shook his head no. He had taken a couple of shallow breaths and managed, “Sleeps like the dead.” That did it. He’d almost fainted at using Grandpa’s phrase, but Dillon had shaken him and said, “Hold on. I need you.”
Dillon Archer needing Buddy was probably the only thing in the world powerful enough to have made him keep himself from slipping into a peaceful faint. He’d nodded to Dillon and rubbed his wet hands on his pajama bottoms. He and Dillon had leaned over Grandpa and peered into his eyes. The Old Man had blinked, and Buddy rocked back onto his bottom. He couldn’t tell if Grandpa had recognized him or Dillon, but the man’s gaze seemed to shift slightly, fearfully, toward Dillon.
Buddy’s heart had been beating so hard it hurt his ribs, but Dillon seemed unfazed. With remarkable concentration, he had watched a rivulet of blood run from the corner of the Old Man’s dry lips to his chin before he’d croaked, “Help me.”
Dillon had looked at the Old Man calmly and said, “Okay.” Then Dillon had taken Grandpa’s head in his hands, lifted it slightly, and jerk-twisted it so fast Buddy wouldn’t have known what he saw if he hadn’t heard bone snap. “There now.” Dillon had sounded satisfied. “You’re not in pain anymore, Old Man, and you can’t cause Buddy pain anymore, either. I call that fair and square.”
Buddy had been too shocked to utter a sound. He’d sat rigid when Dillon looked directly into his eyes and said gently, “This seals our friendship for life.” When Buddy didn’t answer, Dillon asked louder, “Well, doesn’t it?”
Buddy had nodded.
Dillon was all business. “Take the hemp off the hook and the post. Make sure every strand of hemp is off that hook. Then flush it down the commode. Don’t forget to flush it—it’s incriminating evidence. Go back to bed. When the cops come, act surprised, but don’t scream and cry and all that crap. Everyone knows you hated him. You’d be overacting and they’d think something was suspicious. Got all that?”
Buddy had nodded again.
“Okay, then.” Dillon had stood up, peeked out a front window, and decided to make his escape. He’d opened the door, stepped onto the porch, looked back into Buddy’s frightened eyes, and smiled. “Remember, this makes us pals for life. Friends never tell on each other,” he’d said softly with just an undercurrent of menace. “Don’t ever forget it.”
So Buddy had carefully removed the hemp, checked the hook to make certain he’d left no strands, flushed the twine, gone to bed, and numbly lay awake until his mother screamed. He’d called Emergency Services because Bea was so frenzied she couldn’t put together a comprehensible sentence, and when the ambulance came Buddy had acted shocked but not grief stricken. Later, Grandpa’s death had been ruled an accident, and Buddy Pruitt had lived in fear and guilt the rest of his life.
Now, fourteen years later, Buddy still awakened from nightmares about Grandpa lying stretched out on those stairs saying, “Help me.” No one in town except Bea mourned the old man after his death. Only Dillon had come to the funeral with Bea and Buddy. Buddy didn’t hear a word the minister said. Grandpa’s moan and the sound of Dillon snapping the old man’s neck echoed so loudly in Buddy’s mind he could hear nothing else.
Like now. True, it was almost nine thirty at night on a little-traveled street, but usually when he walked this street at night he could still hear a few birds chirping before they bedded down. Sounds from elsewhere also drifted over—sirens, the whistle of the nine-thirty train, at this time of year stores blasting Christmas carols out to the street. Now there was nothing—nothing except newly fallen dead leaves crackling as the bitter wind drove them over the remains of snow and ice. They sounded remarkably like bones snapping. Like Grandpa’s neck snapping.
Buddy shivered but decided looking around would indicate, if only to himself, that he was frightened. Dillon Archer—damn him—wouldn’t be frightened. Much as he hated it, Dillon was still Buddy’s model of fearlessness and bravura. So, Buddy merely lowered his head and picked up his pace, although his heart beat faster and a feeling of cold, dark dread washed through him.
Suddenly an arm encircled Buddy’s neck, yanked him sharply backward and fiery pain shot up his back. His vision dimmed as the pain branched out, scorching, raging, running rampant throughout his body, sending him to his knees. His skinny frame shook, and something twisted deep within him, tearing organs, grating against his ribs, sending a torrent of warm blood down the flesh of his back and past the belt that surrounded his small waist.
Buddy tried to scream, but the arm held his throat so tightly, all he could do was whimper. That’s all I could ever do, he thought distantly as the gouging and tearing continued inside him. That’s all I was ever good for, he thought with fuzzy sadness whispering through the pain. A whimper.
He felt as if he was being dragged; then someone unzipped his jacket and a hand darted inside, maybe looking for something, maybe leaving something…he wasn’t certain…and then left his jacket partly open. Buddy waited a few moments, then tried to get to his knees, thinking his attacker had left, but the effort was too great and he collapsed. Someone snickered. He looked up and saw no one, but he realized he was beneath the tree that glowed glorious burnt orange in the autumn. He closed his eyes and dreamily pictured his mother’s face—bovine and full of love. Finally someone beside him spoke:
“Say hello to Grandpa, Buddy. He’s waiting for you.”
2
The bedside phone rang and Marissa, hanging on the cliff edge of sleep, groaned and answered.
“You kilt him!” a woman screeched. “You murdered him because you always expected him to act like you’re some kind of princess, and when he wouldn’t you kilt my poor Buddy!”
Marissa lay in stunned silence for a moment before looking at the caller ID. Unknown 555-3476. “Who is this?” she asked.
“It’s Bea. Who else would it be?”
Marissa blinked several times and focused on the clock by her bed. Two fifteen. A woman had a nightmare and simply picked up her phone and began punching numbers, Marissa thought, her shock fading. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I think you have the wrong number.”
“I’m Bea Pruitt and I don’t have the wrong number. It’s right here! He was carryin’ it on a piece of paper close to his heart!” She broke into heart-twisting sobs. “It’s got your name and phone number on it. Marissa Gray, it says. I heard when you came to see the sheriff today Buddy made a joke and you threw a fit. You tried to hit him. You threatened to kill him! Maybe he was gonna call and apologize to you or maybe he was meetin’ you and that’s why he didn’t get home in time for our favorite TV show.
“Anyway, I know who you are. You’re that doctor’s daughter who works at the newspaper,” Bea continued. “Your mama was nice to me a couple of times, so he and me went to your mama’s funeral, and I saw you. You’re the mean one with blonde hair that hit him a long time ago. Today he teased you and you got so mad that you kilt him tonight! You’re not as smart as you think you are, though. I watch murder shows, so I know about evidence. You left murder evidence right on him and I’m gonna give it to the police as soon as they get here and then your goose is cooked!” She drew a deep breath and choked out, “My poor Buddy!”
Marissa’s hand tightened on the phone as realization dawned. “Are you talking about Buddy Pruitt?”
“How many men named Buddy did you kill tonight?”
Marissa sat up in bed, her stomach clenching. “My God, Buddy Pruitt has been murdered?”
“Don’t you take the Lord’s name in vain and don’t you even try to sound innocent. You can’t fool me. You won’t fool the p
olice!”
For a moment Marissa’s mind went blank. Buddy Pruitt had been murdered? Why? How? Where? Finally, she knew what to ask. “Ms. Pruitt, where are you calling me from?”
“I’m with Buddy. I wouldn’t leave him all alone! I’m with him here at his favorite tree. You knew it was his favorite tree, didn’t you? He must have told you sometime. Maybe he gave you a picture of it when it turned all orange in October.”
“What tree, Ms. Pruitt? Where is the tree?”
The woman began talking vaguely, recalling the earlier hours of the night. “When he didn’t come home tonight and our TV show was on, I knew somethin’ was wrong. I waited till after midnight and then I came out lookin’ for him. I don’t usually come out at night—I get lost. But I had to find Buddy. I walked awhile and then I thought about his favorite tree here on Oak Lane.” Ms. Pruitt sniffled. “I found him layin’ almost right beside it in the big mess of moldy leaves mixed with snow where you’d tried to hide him. So we’re here. Just me and Buddy by his tree,” she ended miserably.
Marissa’s mouth had gone dry. She asked gently, “Ms. Pruitt, are you using your cell phone?”
“No. I don’t need one of those. I’m usin’ Buddy’s. It was layin’ a ways from him, but I found it. Then it took me a while to figure out how to use it even though Buddy’s shown me a bunch of times, but I finally called nine-one-one like Buddy told me to do if there was ever any trouble. And then I found that piece of paper with your name and phone number—” She choked on more sobs. “That paper’s got blood—my Buddy’s blood—on it, but I could still see the writin’. You didn’t count on me havin’ such good eyes, did you? But it’s too late for you just like it’s too late for Buddy.” Bea’s voice trembled. “The police are on their way!”
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