"I'm sorry!" he blurted out to the trees above him.
Fright seized him and he began to run for the road. He was huffing and puffing, his arms thrown out in front to keep him from hitting anything in the dark. There were too many trees, and it was all he could do to get around them and avoid tripping over giant, above-ground roots.
He was crying now, mumbling apologies. He called out for his mother, promising he wouldn't burn things anymore. She would understand—they would all understand.
"I'm sorry!"
He ran faster, stumbling now; though it was past midnight he could hear the distant wash of light traffic on Route 22 and knew that it wouldn't be long before he reached the safety of the road.
A sudden, horrible vision came to him: the first thing he had ever burned—the butterfly collection his father had left behind when he abandoned them. He remembered the joy the flames eating that wooden case of dead insects had given him.
A huge tree snapped into view out of nowhere.
He couldn't get out of the way, and with a whoosh he ran into it, breaking the impact with his hands.
For a moment he seemed joined to the tree with the force of hitting it, and then there was a loud crack followed by a thwacking sound. Phillie found that he could not push himself away from the tree.
Sobbing, he slowly brought his trembling hands down to his middle: finding what he feared most, he began to scream.
Something had impaled him, gone straight through his back into the heart of the tree, hands moved spasmodically around the point of impalement, trying madly to push him away, but they only came up sticky with blood. He writhed, screaming in little jerky yelping cries, until he became too weak with loss of blood to scream anymore. There was no one to help.
As the world faded from him, he looked weakly up to see the sky lightening overhead. The moon peeked down, and by its light he saw with renewed terror that the branches above him were pulling back and away from one another, untwisting sinuously. Stars winked into view. He saw the handle of the Big Dipper trailing off into the treetops.
Someone, a dark figure, moved silently across his vision, jumping nimbly from one tree to another.
Phillie screamed once more, a loud, unbelieving howl.
The matches, loosened from his torn trouser pocket, fell to the ground. In Phillie's fever he saw his father's butterfly collection, the wooden and glass case so big in his small hands, filled with rows and rows of different chalk-colored butterflies. He had been only five, and he remembered the crisp look of each pinned, bright insect as it incandesced into nothingness. . . .
2
Halloween was not a good day for moving into a new house.
From the moment the half-block-long moving van pulled up at noon, there was a continuous confusion of costumed children, boxes, furniture, moving men, and more children. The worst part about it was not the moving but that it was Halloween. They'd all been so preoccupied, even the two kids, with getting everything up to the new house that nobody had remembered to buy any candy. Mark ran out of nickels and dimes after twenty minutes, and it was obvious, by the looks on those mischievous little faces, that there would be hell to pay. Everyone knew what happened to people who didn't pay up on Halloween, who locked their houses up, pretending they weren't home, or were stupid enough not to be there during the day and night. Being there and not paying up was even worse.
By five o'clock, when everything lay scattered all over and up and down the house, when the sun began to sink and a huge orange moon climbed up through the trees, the flow of trick-or-treaters all but stopped. There was one egg thrown at the front door by something in a white sheet that flapped away under a street light as Mark threw open the door, and then silence.
The egg was dripping slowly down the front of Mark's sign, which read, "Sorry. No Candy. Just Moved In. Double Next Year."
"I guess they don't believe my line," he said, removing the sign. He twisted the dripping egg up onto the cardboard so that it wouldn't drop onto the newly varnished floors. "Actually, I don't blame them a bit."
With a "Yech," he dropped the sign into the plastic trash bag in the corner of the kitchen and sat back down at the table.
"Where are the kids?" he asked Ellen, realizing that the table had become half empty since he got up.
She laughed. "They ran off upstairs to watch television. It was the first thing they hauled out of its box." She leaned back in her chair across from him, letting her dark hair hang straight down, halfway to the floor. She sighed. "God, I'm tired."
"Me too. This is the last time we move." Mark's face suddenly grew serious, and Ellen was reminded of the little boy she knew was still trapped inside him. The cautious but easily surprised face, unruly brown hair—he looked like a slightly chubby Richard Dreyfuss.
"Ellen," he said, leaning toward her with his elbows on the table, "did we do the right thing?"
She reached across, taking his hand in hers. "For the hundredth time, we did the right thing. How else were we ever going to have a house? Did you really want to spend another eight years in the Bronx?"
He pushed back his chair and began to pace the room, fingering boxes, opening and closing the white overhead cabinets. "It's just that I feel weird about the whole thing."
Ellen smiled knowingly. She was lifting her coffee cup as Mark suddenly bent down and kissed her.
At that moment the doorbell rang.
"Damn," said Mark, straightening. "A mood broken."
The kids ran down the stairs, Kaymie a step ahead of Seth.
"Maybe it's the kid who egged the house," Kaymie said breathlessly.
"Let's get him!" Seth piped in.
"That's enough of that," Mark replied. He flicked the porch light on and opened the door a crack, instantly shutting it when Feeney, one of the two cats, tried to get out. Ellen grabbed the animal, cradling him tightly in her arms.
Mark reopened the door, revealing a stocky, middle-aged man with a tweed cap in his hand. His thinning hair was somewhat unkempt, and there was a worried, distracted look on his face.
He almost looks frightened, Mark thought.
"I'm sorry to bother you," the man said slowly. He wouldn't step through the door. "My name is Naughton. My son . . ." He seemed confused for a moment but finally mustered his resolve. "My son is lost. He may have been involved in some sort of mischief with your house. He was . . . complaining about not getting any candy when he came here, and he mentioned something about coming back . . ."
Mark smiled. "As a matter of fact, we did have some of that a little while ago. If I can help you find your son, I'd be happy to."
Naughton shrugged nervously. He would not even look into the house.
Mark grabbed his pea coat, winked at Seth and Kaymie, and followed the man outside.
"Nice house you have here, Mr. Campbell," Naughton said distractedly.
"It is," Mark said, and then he thought, How did he know my name? The two men stood on the stone walk, looking back at the structure. The moon was out, and it gave a ghostly glow to the heavy, almost brooding place. It was beautiful and solid in its own way, a mass of eaves and juttings. A black, tar-shingled roof angled down over the huge second floor; there seemed to be a window every two feet or so, looking in on hallways, bedrooms, storage rooms. The first floor was another jumble of windows. There was a full-length front porch, and another porch, screened in and now closed off for the cold months, in the back. And high above, just under the somber roof, yet another tiny string of windows peeping in on the huge attic. Almost a full acre enfolded it, exhibiting copious numbers of trees and hedges and a smoothly sloping front lawn leading to the driveway and the street.
"Hell to heat in the winter, I'll bet," Mark said. When Naughton didn't answer he said, "Why don't we circle around?"
They walked off the stone path through snapping leaves and twigs to the side of the house. There was a rustling of the curt wind through the trees, and pale, swaying shadows cast by the gray-white moon. And ov
er this, a kind of silence.
This certainly isn't the Bronx, Mark thought.
They saw the yellow silhouette of a window on the second floor. A bright crack outlined the space where it was improperly closed. A tall oak branched out toward the sill. Mark noted that it was the room where Kaymie and Seth were watching television.
"Doesn't seem to be anyone—" he began.
Naughton pointed to what looked like a stack of raked leaves under the oak. The two men moved closer, and the stack of leaves resolved itself into the unmoving figure of a light-haired boy with a brown ski jacket on.
"Billy!" Naughton cried, rushing forward. A knot of apprehension tightened in Mark's stomach, and he stood helplessly by as the man bent over the cold, still form. There was an open carton of broken eggs nearby.
The boy's head was cocked at a gruesome angle on his neck.
"I told him to stay away from here!" Naughton suddenly wailed, startling Mark. His hands shook spasmodically and his eyes were raised overhead; he almost seemed to be talking to the tree. "He promised me!"
He became hysterical, and Mark had to leave him there, screaming over his son, while he called the police.
A squad car arrived fifteen minutes later. One of the two policemen, a short, solid-looking man with slick dark hair and sunglasses, who was obviously in charge, identified himself as Sheriff Ramirez. The other officer, lanky and shaggy-haired, looked like he was in his teens and did little but stand around nervously with his thumbs in his belt, glancing sideways at the body of the boy every once in a while.
It was nearly midnight when the body was taken away. After sending his obviously relieved deputy out to the patrol car, Ramirez stayed behind.
"Mind if we talk?" he said, and Mark noted that his tone of voice didn't leave much room for a negative answer.
"Sure."
Ramirez nodded. "You know anything about a kid named Phillie McAllister?"
Mark tried to place the name. "Should I?"
Ramirez didn't answer, and Mark had the uncomfortable feeling that the cop was staring at him hard from behind his sunglasses.
"Thought you might have known him," Ramirez said finally in a flat tone. "We found him dead in the woods yesterday."
He was obviously waiting for a reaction.
"I really never heard of him, Sheriff. Do you mind if I ask why you're being so hostile?"
Ramirez paused again, and Mark found himself thinking, Why doesn't he take those damn glasses off?
"I just thought," Ramirez said finally, "that you might have known of him. Since you come from around here. The place is named after your family."
"I haven't been back in Campbell Wood since I was five years old," Mark said, beginning to be annoyed by the cop's manner. "There isn't anyone here I know or even remember."
"Did you ever see your mother after the age of five?"
"Look, Sheriff, I wish you'd get to the point. My mother is a bit of a sore spot with me. And before we came up here to see the house after my mother died, I hadn't seen this town in more than twenty-five years."
Some of Ramirez's bulldog manner abruptly dissipated. "You're from the Bronx?"
"Since I was a kid I've lived on the Grand Concourse," Mark said.
Ramirez suddenly smiled, revealing a line of straight white teeth. He seemed a different person. "I grew up on 155th Street off the Concourse myself." He paused. "Place has changed."
"Yes, it has," said Mark, startled by the change in the man.
"Listen," Ramirez continued, "I'm sorry I came on so strong. It's just that people are a little hard to get to up here. I was a New York City cop for five years before I decided I'd had enough. But ever since I started working up here I've gotten the feeling I'm an outsider. I'm used to that, but this town is just a little too tight with itself." He pointed out at the police cruiser waiting by the curb, with the young cop in it. "Even that kid won't open up with me," he said. "It's just that you start to get hard on everybody."
Mark said, "Well, if there's anything I can do to help you, let me know. I've got a lot of strange feelings coming back here myself."
Ramirez fitted on his cap, making a motion to leave, and Mark walked him out. They stopped on the porch, and Mark now noticed that the man was nearly as short as he was and had a perfectly clear complexion. He also discovered why Ramirez never took his dark glasses off. The cop lifted them briefly to rub his eyes, and Mark saw that the left socket was deformed and twisted, with what must be a plastic eyeball in it.
Ramirez caught his look and tapped at the dark glass over the deformed eye.
"Knife fight," he said. "When I grew up on the Concourse my family was the only Puerto Rican one on the block. The rest were pure white. We had a little trouble with bigots, but not much. My father worked hard, and a lot of people respected him. We had a lot of friends. The trouble started when a few more Puerto Rican families moved in who weren't quite up to the standards of the whites. They got scared and started to move out. In five years the place was completely turned around." There was an edge of anger in his voice. "I was fifteen, on my way home from school, when one of the new brand of neighborhood kids decided I didn't look tough enough. I had my Catholic high school uniform on, so he thought I was easy to beat. I wanted to be a Navy pilot. Not having two eyes took care of that." He smiled wryly. "I took the knife away from the kid, though. I don't know what he wanted to be, but whatever it was he did it without two fingers."
Ramirez tilted his cap back on his forehead.
"Mind if I ask you a personal question, Mr. Campbell?"
Despite the cop's seeming friendliness, Mark hesitated before saying, "Sure."
"Why didn't you ever see your mother after the age of five?"
Mark felt himself getting hot under the collar again. "If you have to know, it's a pretty simple story. I was born in this house, but my father left my mother when I was five and took me with him. Until the day he died I never heard my father say a good word about her. He taught me to hate her. And I loved him, so after a while I didn't think twice about it. My mother might as well have not existed. But after she died the house was left to me, and since it was either move up here or stay in the Bronx . . ."
Ramirez nodded slowly. "Thanks, Mr. Campbell. I really don't mean to be so nosy, but . . ." The cop paused. "Things have been a little strange around here since I got here, just after your mother died. I get the feeling she had a lot of influence over the people in this town, and I get the feeling that since she's been gone everybody's been in a daze. I can't find out what it's all about. It's like everyone's . . . I don't know, waiting for something to happen." He lifted his sunglasses again, and that cold, dead eye bored into Mark, sending a shiver down his back. "The reason I asked if you knew that kid Phillie McAllister is that he died pinned to a tree with a slice of wood a foot and a half long through him."
"Jesus."
Ramirez nodded. "And now with this kid dying tonight, falling out of a tree . . ." His sunglasses fell back into place. "It looks like whatever is going to happen has started." He glanced at the young cop fidgeting in the patrol car at the curb. "I'd better be going. Sorry again I had to bother you like this, but I'm just doing what I have to. Between you and me, Mr. Campbell, this town sometimes gives me the creeps." He smiled suddenly, showing his white teeth. "I may even go back to the Bronx."
Later, in bed, with Ellen sleeping soundly beside him, her dark hair spread out like a shadowy halo around her pillow, Mark lay with his arm behind his head, staring out at the sinking yellow half moon. There were no window curtains yet to block the pure moonlight, and the half orb was perched just above one of the huge oaks, outlining its top branches sharply.
Mark's eyes began to close, and in that time between sleep and waking, the distinct outline of a figure appeared, crouched in the crook of thick branches near the trunk of the tree. He could see no face, but he knew the figure was staring in at him.
He started awake, but when he looked out the window in full wa
kefulness the figure had disappeared.
He rose silently from the bed and walked to the window. There was nothing but the empty tree and the rest of the neighborhood. He could just make out the house across the street through the tree branches, and the houses to either side of it. A short, broken snake of cars lined both sides of the roadway, painted an eerie sharp gray by the moonlight.
He yawned and turned back to bed, rolling over away from the window and putting his pillow over his head.
Outside, something moved again.
3
In the dark, Kaymie came awake holding her breath.
Something or someone was in the closet. There was a low but insistent knocking sound, as if someone were rummaging through a box of wooden blocks.
She suddenly remembered the story her friend Clara from the Bronx had told her. Clara's father had left about ten years before, and one night after her mother put her to bed and turned out the light she heard a noise in the closet next to her. The door opened. There was a man in there; he'd broken into the apartment in the afternoon and had been hiding all that time, waiting for them to go to bed. Clara said he had a wild look on his face and had started to come toward her bed, but then her mother came in and screamed and the man ran out. She said her mother was shaking for two hours after that.
The sound came again. A creaking, splintering sound now, but not loud enough for it to be a man. One of the cats? No—she'd seen both of them before she went to bed and the closet door had been closed then.
A mouse? Kaymie could handle a mouse; she'd seen one once at her cousin's house on Long Island. It had gotten stuck behind the refrigerator in a trap. It was so little she'd cried for it.
The first sound came again, like rattling blocks. Kaymie thought of screaming to bring in Mom and Dad, but for some reason she didn't. She was twelve now, had her own room for the first time in her life, and she didn't want to look like a baby over some sounds in the closet. It was probably just one of the cats who'd somehow gotten in there. She wanted to face whatever it was alone.
Campbell Wood Page 2
