Children of the Dark

by Jonathan Janz

  After Chris’s bombshell about Kylie Ann yesterday, I hadn’t let my little sister leave my sight. When Mom put her to bed at around 8:30, I turned on the TV and got the full story on the abduction.

  Carl Padgett, it turned out, had been spotted and positively identified on the south side of Indianapolis, which was ninety minutes from Shadeland, on Sunday morning. That meant that if Padgett had been the one to kidnap Kylie Ann, he’d either killed her and left her in Shadeland, taken her with him to Indianapolis, or freed her somewhere in between.

  On the way over to Chris’s, I ran through it in my head. Every time I did, the same scenario played out: Padgett grabbed Kylie Ann, knocked me over the head, and then carried her deeper into the Hollow, where he’d lopped off her hand and then…what? How did you get inside the mind of someone so twisted? Why would Padgett sever a girl’s hand and then take her somewhere else?

  The only answers were too awful to stomach.

  The more I thought about it, the sicker I felt. Kylie Ann had been a beautiful girl. Icy, yes. Stuck-up for sure. But beautiful. And just the type to enflame the perverted mind of someone like Carl Padgett.

  Back before he’d been apprehended, he’d murdered nine children between the ages of five and fifteen. Most were girls, but there were a couple boys too. In every case he’d left a piece of their bodies behind. A foot. A hand. A finger.

  It had to be Padgett who’d taken Kylie Ann.

  “You okay, kiddo?” Mom asked.

  I was leaning against the passenger’s window, watching the houses get nicer and nicer as we drove through Chris’s neighborhood.

  “I’m sorry I can’t be home today,” Mom said, “but you know Ron.”

  I grunted sourly. Yes, I knew Ron. Even though my mother’s looks had begun to deteriorate over the past few years, her boss still looked at her like a juicy cut of prime rib. He always called me “Champ” and mussed my hair, a habit that suggested that the sum of his experience with children had come from watching crappy movies.

  I wished Ron would have an aneurism.

  “I’ll pick you guys up by five,” Mom said. “Okay?”

  In my periphery I could see her hopeful stare. I knew it was petty, but I was mad at her for her prior bad attendance, for backing herself into this corner. Because now that we needed her, she couldn’t be here.

  Stop it, I told myself. Remember that she’s trying. She can’t undo everything at once. You’ve got to be patient with her, especially now.

  I knew all that was true, but the best I could muster was a “Fine.”

  She watched me a moment longer, then smiled sadly.

  Soon I was ringing Chris’s doorbell. His mom answered.

  I turned and waved at Mom. She waved back, beeped, then made a slow U-turn out of the Watkins’s huge driveway.

  “Hello, Will,” Mrs. Watkins said. Her expression was polite, but little more than that.

  Feeling awkward, I stuffed my hands in my pockets, said, “Thanks for letting me come over today. I know it’s a bad time.”

  Some of her reserve seemed to go away, and her smile became less forced. “It’ll be good for both of you. I know Chris needs to take his mind off of…” She let the thought fade to nothing.

  Once inside the house, Chris led me up the curving staircase.

  “Aren’t we going to the basement?” I asked.

  He spoke over his shoulder as he neared the top of the stairs. “Foosball can wait. I’ve got a surprise for you.”

  “You learned to pee standing up?”

  In answer, he saluted me with a middle finger.

  We entered his room and I noticed the computer was on. What was more, the tiny green light at the top of the monitor was glowing, signifying he’d been Skyping someone when I’d shown up. But whoever he’d been talking to was gone, and the only thing showing on the monitor was an empty chair and an unfamiliar kitchen.

  “That’s not Barley’s house,” I said.

  Chris only grinned, leaned toward the monitor. “You still there?” he asked.

  “Hold on,” a muffled voice replied, and I felt my belly do a little tap dance. No way, I thought. It can’t be.

  Mia appeared on the monitor, looking flushed and incredibly full of life.

  “Hey, Will,” she said.

  I realized I was standing behind the chair and only my midsection was showing. How she knew it was me, I had no idea. Were my clothes that identifiable? My stomach and hips?

  I remembered how she’d touched my hip.

  “Sit down, dipshit,” Chris said in a harsh whisper.

  I sat down. And looked at Mia.

  Her smile broadened. “It’s great to see you!”

  She bit her lip and gave a nervous shrug. “I should probably be a little less enthusiastic, huh? Given the circumstances.”

  Chris said, “Anything new on Kylie Ann?”

  Mia shook her head. “Nothing. Did you hear Padgett was spotted in Indy?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “That’s good news, isn’t it?”

  She looked troubled. “I don’t know. It’s only good news if they find Kylie Ann, right?”

  There was a long, painful silence.

  She hugged herself, shivered. “Let’s talk about something else. Where’s your sister today?”

  I told her.

  She smiled. “I like how you call her Peach.”

  I like how you breathe, I wanted to say.

  “So…how are you gonna spend your day?” I asked.

  Mia appeared to search the room behind me. “Is Chris still there?”

  “Not at the moment,” I said. Which was true enough. He’d apparently gone downstairs for a snack or something. Or perhaps he was in the bathroom dropping the kids off at the pool.

  “Good,” she said. “I want to show you something.”

  I had an ungentlemanly thought, then felt a rush of guilt. “Go ahead,” I said in a hoarse voice.

  “Hold on,” she said. She got up and disappeared. I felt an irrational sense of loss. I knew she’d be back, but having her in front of me—even on a computer—had filled a void I wasn’t aware had existed. I knew what I was feeling was what most would describe as a crush, or more nauseatingly, puppy love, but deep down I knew it was more than that. I’d known Mia Samuels since the second grade, and though we’d never dated, I’d always looked at her differently than other girls. There was something genuinely good about her, something real. Not to mention the fact that she was the prettiest girl I knew.

  I was remembering Mia in her black bra when she reappeared.

  I blushed, hoping what I’d been thinking didn’t show in my face.

  “Here it is,” she said. She was clutching a multi-colored notebook with stickers and tassels and all sorts of wild shapes adorning its cover. “I wanted you to see I wasn’t lying.”

  “Lying about what?”

  Rather than answering, she started to read, “‘He’s lost in his thoughts most of the time, so it’s a good thing he looks so cute when he goes to that remote mental place. He reads a lot, I can tell. When he talks, he sounds like someone twice our age. His eyes are the nicest shade of blue, and though he never combs it, I love his dark hair.’”

  I realized with a combination of elation and disbelief that she was talking about me.

  She grinned at my reaction and went on. “‘He thinks I don’t notice him, but I do. Sometimes I catch him looking at me. He always looks away before I can smile at him. But that’s probably a good thing. Brad can’t stand him, and if Brad knew how I felt about Will, he’d probably try to kill him.”

  You don’t know how true that is, I thought.

  She continued, “‘He always leaves English before me, which I like. Rebecca and I walk behind him and Chris so we can watch them. Sometimes Rebecca and I argue about which one has a nicer butt. I’m right, of course, but Rebecca thinks—”

  She cut off, looking anxious. “I thought I heard something.”

  “Is there more?” I asked,
dry-mouthed.

  “Maybe,” she said, looking mischievous. “Do you want to hear it?”

  “Uh-huh,” I croaked.

  She smiled her dazzling smile, turned the page. She scanned it until she settled on a passage and read, “Whenever I break up with Brad, I hope Will doesn’t have a girlfriend. I’d love to…”

  I sat forward. “Love to what?”

  She looked at me primly. “It’s a little bit personal, if you must know.”

  “I don’t mind personal.”

  “I’m sure you don’t,” she said. Her look sent lightning bolts through my stomach.

  She read, “‘I’d love to know what his kisses are like. I bet he’s gentler than Brad. Of course, a Shop-Vac would be gentler than Brad.’”

  We both laughed.

  Mia composed herself and went on. “‘When I imagine kissing Will, I think…’” She broke off, frowning. “I can’t read this part out loud. It makes me feel like I’m a prostitute.”

  My heart was thudding. “I don’t think that about you. Really, I’d like to hear more.”

  “Will,” she said.

  “Please?”

  “It’s embarrassing.”

  I knew I should let her off the hook, but my pulse was racing too fast, my excitement over her too great. I’d never really had a girlfriend before, and though Mia wasn’t my girlfriend—not yet, at least—I was beginning to understand how nice it might be. “Look,” I said, “just pretend you’re not the one who wrote it.”

  “But I did write it.”

  “I know, but tell yourself you didn’t. Pretend you’re reading a novel.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “A romance novel?”

  “Or an action-adventure book.”

  She snorted laughter.

  “And Will,” I went on, “isn’t me. It’s this strapping hero the main character has a crush on.”

  She tilted her head. “Is that what you think, Will? That I have a crush on you?”

  Hell, I thought. “It isn’t you, remember? It’s the main character.”

  “Who happens to be named Mia.”

  “It’s a fabulous name,” I said. “You two just happen to share it.”

  She smiled at me. Embarrassed, I could tell, but enjoying herself too. She straightened in her chair, crossed her legs, and read, “‘When I imagine kissing Will, I think of the water. The lake, maybe, warm and smooth. He has his shirt off and—” She broke off, glancing up at the ceiling with maddening coyness.

  “Go on,” I said, trying to keep the pleading note out of my voice.

  She sighed. “‘—and so do I.’”

  My body turned to rubber.

  She looked up at me in a way that did not make her look like a teenager at all. I tried not to fall out of my chair.

  “‘His skin is warm. His arms are around me, and even though they’re thin, they’re strong. Will kisses me tentatively at first, but then he relaxes, and we kiss more passionately. And…and…’” She shut the notebook with a pop. “I’m sorry, but I’m not reading the next part. There’s no way I can pretend some action-adventure author wrote that.” She stared at me. “Well?”

  Not knowing what else to say, I murmured, “When did you write that?”

  The ghost of a smile played at her lips. “Two months ago.”

  ¨

  The conversation went wonderfully, but toward the end of it I started to think about how unfair it was that I could only use a computer when I was at Chris’s or Barley’s house. I tried not to show it, but the thought stuck in my brain like a pesky burr. And as sometimes happened, I found myself feeling resentful toward Chris even though he’d done nothing wrong.

  “Must be nice to have a new Mac,” I said when my Skype session ended.

  Chris glanced at his new computer uneasily. “It’s okay.”

  I knew it was nasty, but I said it anyway. “I guess I wouldn’t be excited either if I got everything I wanted.”

  “Come on,” he said, “you know that’s not—”

  “The hell it isn’t,” I barked. “You try being the poor kid everybody makes fun of. The one the cops are mean to. The one who got his nose bloodied by some psychopath in the woods.”

  Chris scowled at me. “Don’t you think I’d rather that have been me?”

  And the way he said it, I knew he was telling the truth. It reminded me of something that had happened in the first grade. Three of us boys were in the bathroom. Me, Chris, and a kid named George Gates. We’d finished lunch, and the kindergartners were getting ready to eat. But before they did, a few of them needed to use the restroom.

  George got the bright idea to hold the doors shut so the younger kids couldn’t get inside. Before I knew it, I was blocking the doors and laughing along with George. Chris was in a stall going number two and didn’t even know what we were doing. And as the pounding on the other side of the bathroom doors grew more frantic, part of me realized how stupidly we were behaving. But it wasn’t until one of the kids outside wet his pants and told a teacher what we’d done that I realized how horrible my behavior was.

  Ten minutes later we were all three outside the principal’s office. George went in first and got paddled so hard that my butt began to ache. Moments later, George stumbled out, sobbing, and Chris was called in to talk to Mr. Carroll, our gargantuan, paddle-wielding principal. I was sure Chris would tell him the truth, that he’d been in the stall the whole time and that he’d had nothing to do with the kindergartner wetting his pants. But the concussive sound of the wooden paddle connecting with Chris’s rear end told me otherwise.

  Several smacks later, Chris exited the office with tears in his eyes. Mr. Carroll followed. The hulking man looked down at me and said, “You can go back to class now, Will.”

  And that was it.

  When I finally got up the nerve to ask Chris why he’d confessed to something he hadn’t done, he gave me a funny look, like I’d insulted him by asking the question.

  “One of us had to get paddled, right?” he said.

  And now, sitting on Chris’s bed, having just treated my best friend like crap for no reason at all, I realized that yes, Chris truly did wish he had been the one who’d come face-to-face with Kylie Ann’s abductor. Not so he could be a hero, but so I wouldn’t have had to suffer.

  He was a better friend than I could ever hope to be. A better person.

  I exhaled shuddering breath, disgusted with myself. “I guess Kylie Ann’s in worse shape than I am, huh?”

  Chris didn’t say anything to that. The silence drew out.

  My shoulders slumped. “Sorry for being such a dick.”

  He shrugged one shoulder. “You can’t help it. You were just born that way.”

  I raised my middle finger at him, and we both chuckled softly.

  It went a little way toward defusing the tension I’d created, but not nearly enough. Maybe to break up the morose mood we were in, we decided to play catch in Chris’s huge back yard. As we moved through the kitchen, we spotted Chris’s mom watching the TV that folded out from beneath a cabinet.

  Chris said, “Have they found any sign of Kylie Ann?”

  Chris’s mom didn’t remove her eyes from the screen. “They’ve combed the woods, but they can’t find anything. It rained in the morning, so the dogs are having trouble picking up her scent.”

  “What about Padgett?” Chris asked.

  “I think he’s long gone,” she replied. “He’s too smart for them.”

  “Oh you think that, do you?” a voice half-shouted from behind us. We all turned in surprise and saw Chris’s dad stalking forward, his fingers white on the coffee mug he grasped.

  Chris’s mom paled. “I was only saying that if they haven’t found him yet, they might not—”

  “He’s a real hero, isn’t he?” Mr. Watkins snapped. “Chopped off that girl’s hand and left it in the woods. What do you think he did to her before he killed her?”

  Chris’s mom flinched and glanced at Chris, who was
watching his dad with wide-eyed dread. “I think the boys are scared enough without—”

  “You’re the one complimenting the son of a bitch, Caroline,” Mr. Watkins said, his mouth splitting in a nasty grin. “So don’t go telling me what I can and can’t say in my own house.”

  I looked up at Mr. Watkins, for the first time noticing just how large he was. He had a big gut on him, and I was pretty sure he was on the verge of a heart attack. But he was also nearly six-and-a-half feet tall and imposing as hell. Looming over his wife, he reminded me of a grizzly bear about to maul a defenseless camper.

  Looking like she was going to puke, Mrs. Watkins put a hand on each of our backs and led us away. “You two better go outside,” she murmured.

  I nodded, eager to go, but Chris’s look of dread changed to one of outright terror. “We can wait, Mom. You don’t need to stand there and let him yell at you.”

  “And you can shut your goddamned mouth!” Mr. Watkins snapped, his face going a livid red. “You’ve already caused enough trouble.”

  Chris looked at his dad, stricken. But I managed to get him outside. As the door wheezed shut, I heard Mr. Watkins growl, “Why the hell is that Burgess kid over here? You think that deadbeat is doing our son any good?”

  My cheeks burned as I moved down the porch steps, but Chris was standing on the second step gazing through the screen door.

  “Come on, man,” I said. “Let’s throw each other pop flies.”

  Chris didn’t answer. I could see his chest heaving.

  His father’s raised voice echoed through the door, reminding me of distant thunder. Chris’s mom said something in response, her tone suggesting an apology, though what she had to apologize for I had no clue.

  We heard a flat, meaty smack. Chris’s shoulders hunched, his expression one of physical pain.

  Oh God, I thought. I went toward Chris, reached up to touch his elbow, but dropped my hand when I realized I had nothing to say. What could I say? Sorry your dad’s abusing your mom?

  The dull smacking sound came again. Chris whimpered.

  What’s wrong with people? I thought weakly. What kind of a man would do that to a woman? And why does Chris have to live with him?