Wicked Cruel

by Rich Wallace

  All those punches that Scapes and the others threw, all those insults and rejections and shoves. “Mine hurt worst, didn’t they, Bainer?” I whisper as I take the final steps to the house and set my hand on the windowsill.

  I taste bile in my throat and swallow hard. I hurt him physically and that helped finish him off. But I also hurt him deeper—right to his soul—and that sort of hurt doesn’t ever go away.

  Lorne Bainer was a total jerk.

  But maybe I could have manned up and helped him.

  I sit on our couch until almost three, wrapped in a blanket and shivering like crazy. David finally comes home, feels my forehead, and makes us hot chocolate.

  “We rocked the place tonight,” he says, pumping his shoulders as if he’s still at the Shamrock, jamming on his guitar.

  I stare straight ahead.

  “You all right?” he asks. “Besides being cold, I mean?” He turns to the thermostat on the wall and amps it up.

  “The TV turned on by itself,” I say, wrapping both hands around the mug and breathing in the chocolaty steam.

  He raises one eyebrow. “It was windy.”

  “The night before that my computer started up by itself, too.”

  He leans back in an armchair and smiles. “Old house. I bet there’s a lot of faulty wiring in the walls. You get a storm or a big gust and it can cause power outages.”

  “The power didn’t go off.”

  “Sometimes it’s a split second that you barely notice. But then there’s a surge when the power comes back, so electronic stuff will reboot by itself. Happens all the time.”

  Maybe so. But it’s different when something reboots and you get Bainer’s voice or a video that scares the piss out of you. That’s no coincidence. That’s a haunting.

  Or insanity.

  I’m not buying this power-surge theory. “I heard Bainer talking when the TV came on,” I say. “Before that, too, but then I shut it off.”

  “Oh.” David’s tone sounds like he doesn’t quite believe me but that he’s pretty sure I believe it myself.

  “I know that sounds ridiculous,” I say. “It sounds ridiculous to me, too. But things keep happening.”

  He takes a deep breath and blows it out, and I can smell cigarettes and beer. “You’re shook up, Jordan, so everything seems magnified. I admit that this is a weird situation, but everything that’s happened—if you look at them one at a time—has an explanation, right?”

  “One at a time, yeah. But this stuff keeps going down. I’m seeing his face or hearing his voice or having that creepy video show up on my computer. That’s too many coincidences for me.”

  We sit quietly for a few minutes and I sip the hot chocolate.

  “Think you can sleep?” he asks.

  “Not up there.”

  He nods. “Stay here, then. Leave the kitchen light on. I’m really beat. I’ll sleep in your parents’ bed tonight.”

  “Okay.” I set down the mug and shut my eyes. Having him in the house is better. I can probably sleep. A little.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Gary’s phone call wakes me up around ten. “Get bagels?” he asks.

  “Yeah. Gimme ten minutes.”

  David’s rolling out dough for a pie crust when I get to the kitchen. I was so zonked I hadn’t heard a thing.

  “Sleep okay?” he asks.

  “I guess so.”

  He gives me a little smirk. “No more disturbances?”

  “Not lately. Is that apple?”

  “Yep.”

  “I’m meeting Gary. But I’ll be back for some of that.”

  I realize that I’m too hungry for bagels, so I get a small pizza instead. Gary buys two Milky Way bars and we walk toward his house.

  “What’d you do last night?” he asks. He says it sort of accusingly, as if he already knows.

  “Hung around.”

  “At the scene of the crime?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I saw you walking with Scapes.”

  “So?”

  He shakes his head. “You’re crazy.”

  “And what crime anyway? There were a thousand crimes committed on Bainer, if you want to look at it that way. And every one of us is guilty.”

  “I never hit him.”

  We’ve reached his house, so we don’t say anything more until we’re in his room with the door shut. The dog followed us in.

  “What do mean, you never hit him?” I say. “You hit him. I hit him, too.”

  “That was nothing compared to what Scapes does to people. You’re out of your mind hanging around with him, you know.”

  “I wasn’t with him long.”

  “What’d you do?”

  I let out my breath and peel a slice of pizza from the box. I take a bite and chew it slowly. “We snuck into Bainer’s house.”

  “You went in there alone? With Scapes? Are you that stupid? Scapes is a murderer, Jordan. He could have left you there dead. They’d find your corpse in twenty years.”

  I take another bite. “Can I give Barney this crust?” I ask. The dog’s been drooling on Gary’s floor ever since I opened the box.

  Gary looks at it while he chews his Milky Way, shifting his head from side to side. “Nah,” he finally says. “I don’t know what’s in that crust. It might not be good for him.”

  Barney lets out a sigh and flops onto the floor.

  “He’s not a murderer,” I say softly. “Nobody wanted Bainer dead. We were all just stupid, that’s all. Stupid and gutless, but not murderers.”

  * * *

  My dad called from Paris that afternoon and said they hadn’t sealed any deals yet but they’ll be home on Wednesday. David did most of the talking. I didn’t say a word about my visits from Bainer.

  We watched the Patriots game that afternoon and had scallops with rice for dinner, and a lot of pie. David’s gone out “for an hour or so,” but I don’t expect him back anytime soon.

  I’m totally exhausted from being up most of last night, and the couch isn’t the most comfortable place I’ve ever slept. So I say the heck with it and climb the stairs to the attic.

  Spike is on my bed. I scoot her off and lie down, but she jumps up again and stands on my back. She sleeps up here most nights, but I don’t need the disturbance this time.

  “Sorry, buddy,” I say. “I need a solid sleep. School tomorrow.” I lift her gently and set her on the stairs, then close my door to keep her out. It shuts with a click and I feel a chill in my gut.

  I haven’t slept in this bed the past two nights. I sink in and mold myself into the mattress and the pillow, stretching out and finally beginning to relax. It’s quiet. I sleep.

  My dream is of a window, the one into Bainer’s house. I climb through and step to the floor, but there’s nothing but a vast emptiness, and I fall and fall and then hit hard on my back. I press into the surface. It’s my bed. I’m lying flat. I’m suddenly cold, but I’m sweating.

  I prop myself up and glance around the attic. All’s clear. I lie back down. I sleep again.

  This time there’s a floor when I pass through the window, and I shuffle across the dark, empty living room, up the staircase, and past those first two doors. I put my hand on the third doorknob, hesitate a second, and pull it open.

  The attic stairs are lit softly by the moonlight. I hear a buzzing from the attic, steady and mechanical. It gets louder.

  It wakes me up.

  The buzzing is coming from my laptop, but the monitor is black, except for the screensaver. If I click the space bar, whatever is there will reveal itself. I’m not sure I want to see.

  I wait a minute. The buzzing gets softer, then stops. I sit on the edge of the bed and reach for the space bar, holding my finger above it. I gulp, then press. The screen lights up. It’s just my desktop: a handful of icons. There’s an orange INSTANT MESSAGE lozenge flashing in the lower right. I hesitate, then click it. It says it’s from LBAINER.

  Hello Jordan.

&n
bsp; L. Bainer? Sure it is. Does Gary think I’m dumb enough to fall for that?

  Jordan: who r u?

  LBainer: Who do you think I am?

  Jordan: i know ur gary.

  There’s a long pause on the other end. He knows this is just too obvious.

  LBainer: I am who you think I am.

  Jordan: and i think ur gary.

  LBainer: No. I am who you REALLY think I am.

  Jordan: yeah? prove it.

  The computer shuts off. I hear Spike yowl outside my door and go scurrying down the stairs. Everything is dark, and then the computer beeps and whines and turns back on.

  And I hear the opening notes of “Way Back into Love.”

  This is nuts. I scramble across the bed and reach for the doorknob. It’s stuck.

  I rattle it and pull it, but it won’t turn at all. The video is playing loudly now; the grungy guy is singing in the shadows. Get me out of here.

  I’ve never had this door closed before, never checked to see if it would lock. Why would it? I’ve never seen a key.

  I dive across the bed and try to shut off the computer, but it won’t stop. The audience scan is coming up. I start tapping keys and arrows, trying to get it to end.

  And it does. The screen goes blank. The computer shuts down with a whissssssss.

  Power surges, right? I crawl to the window and look at the street. It’s breezy out there, but nothing major. The moon is still nearly full and it’s casting a glow on the lawn. I’m panting as if I ran a hundred-meter dash.

  The laptop starts up again, but this time there’s no music. I step to my door and try it again, but it’s locked fast. The IM lozenge is flashing. I click it.

  LBainer: Hello, Jordan.

  Jordan: gary id come over thre right now and pnch ur STUPID face in but im lockd in the atttic. come ovr here and letme out. the frnt doors not locked

  LBainer: I wish I could help you, Jordan, but I’m afraid I can’t.

  Jordan: i’l bust your head tomorow jerk if u dont get overhere now

  LBainer: Sounds like you’re scared, Jordan.

  Jordan: Im not scared of anythng. and il’ break ur nose if udon’t stop this crap

  LBainer: Buck-buck.

  Jordan: yu r dead meat gary.

  LBainer: Buck-buck-buck.

  I go to my buddy list and click Gary’s real IM name, but it says he’s offline. I clear the screen, but another one pops up immediately.

  LBainer: Say Jordan?

  Jordan: what?

  LBainer: Stop making that ugly face. It’ll freeze like that forever.

  I yank the power cord and throw it toward the wall. The laptop turns off. I stare at the screen and wipe my forehead with my hand. Then I try the door again, easier this time. It’s still locked.

  I pull my chair over to the window and watch for David to walk up the street. It takes at least an hour, but he shows.

  I start yelling as loud as I can as soon as he enters the house. I hear him thumping up the stairs, calling, “What’s the matter?”

  “I’m locked in here. The door won’t open.”

  “Hold on.”

  I hear the knob rattle, then turn. He pushes the door open and grins.

  “It wouldn’t open from this side,” I say.

  He grabs the interior knob and this time it does turn. “It was just stuck,” he says. “This gadget’s probably a hundred years old. Maybe more. You ever have trouble with it before?”

  “I’ve never closed it.”

  The knobs are old round brass things. “They should be replaced,” David says. “Leave the door open for now.”

  “Don’t worry. I will. Light on, too.”

  “You’re white as a ghost.” He laughs. “Bad choice of words, huh? You gonna be okay?”

  “Can’t get much worse.”

  “Just yell if you need me.”

  “I will. If I can.”

  It’s going to be another long night.

  CHAPTER NINE

  I sat like a zombie through all of my classes this morning, yawning and shaking my head to keep my eyes open. Scapes comes up to me at lunch and asks if anything more happened.

  “Oh, nothing much,” I say. “Got locked in my room. Heard Bainer talking on my television. The usual stuff when you start losing your mind.”

  He laughs nervously. “That was creepy in his house. It really felt like he was watching us.”

  I shrug. Things have been a lot eerier in my house than at Bainer’s.

  “Would you go back?” he asks.

  “I don’t know. I’d rather leave that place alone.”

  “Me too.” He hesitates for a minute, then sits across from me. I’ve barely touched my disgusting corn dog, but I take a bite.

  “His gums used to bleed all the time,” Scapes says. “For no reason. Remember how he always had that phlegmy stuff between his teeth?”

  The corn dog hasn’t gotten too far down, and it suddenly comes racing back up. I spit it onto my tray and grimace as stomach acid burns my throat. I take a swig of grape drink and swish it around in my mouth.

  Scapes looks at the floor and frowns. “I wish I knew what really happened to him, you know? Maybe we had nothing to do with it.”

  “Maybe.”

  “All I know is … all I know is I wouldn’t do it again. Not any of it.”

  I dodge Gary after school and head out the back way, crossing the blacktop basketball court and turning up Marlboro Street. It’s four blocks to my old elementary school. I walk as fast as I can. If anybody would know what happened to Bainer, it’d be the principal.

  All of the students are gone and the janitor is pushing a wide mop along the hallway. I stick my head into the principal’s office. “Mrs. Graham?”

  “Yes?” I can tell that she recognizes me but is searching her brain for my name. “Jordan … How are you?” She steps out from behind her desk.

  “I was wondering if you knew anything about Lorne Bainer.”

  She touches her lips with two fingers. “You mean, since he moved away?”

  “Yeah. Since then.”

  She shakes her head slowly. “No, I haven’t heard a thing. Were you hoping to contact him?”

  No. He’s taken care of that. “I was just wondering how he might be doing.”

  “Hmmm.” She squints a little, sizing me up, probably wondering about my motivations. “Well, I know that they moved out of the country.”

  “Out of the country? Like to Canada or something?”

  “Farther than that. His parents were from Germany, so they returned there.”

  “Oh. You haven’t heard anything about him since?”

  “Not at all. Sorry. I know you two were”—she squints a bit—“friendly?”

  “Not exactly.”

  She leans against her desk and smiles at me.

  I’m confused. “They didn’t move to Pennsylvania? Or Japan?”

  Her smile gets broader. “Oh no,” she says. “The father was very … old-country, if you know what I mean. Very traditional. They were definitely going back to Europe.”

  “So as far as you know, he’s okay?”

  “As far as I know. Is anything wrong, Jordan?”

  I shake my head. “No. I just was thinking about him lately. He wasn’t treated so good around here.”

  She lets out her breath and stands straighter. “You’re right about that. Lorne was … unusual. Some children used that against him.”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s nice that you’re thinking of him.”

  I turn to go and mumble, “Thanks.”

  “Jordan.”

  “Yeah?”

  “We’ve all been cruel to others at some point in our lives. Sometimes in a small way, sometimes more seriously. And sometimes, unfortunately, we never get the chance to atone for that.”

  I’m feeling squirmy now. She must know about that time I pushed him into the chairs.

  “But we can learn from that, right?” she says. “We c
an do good turns for someone else and make the world a little better.”

  I swallow and try to say thanks again, but my throat is tight. So I just nod really hard and walk away toward home. I’ve got some research to do on the Internet.

  * * *

  miller funeral home davenport pa

  I press search and the website pops up on my screen. The obituaries are listed by date, and the first page shows all of the ones from this month. Just as I was starting to suspect, there’s no Bainer. I start clicking on them anyway.

  The third one down shows Brandon Matthews, Age 12.

  Brandon Matthews of Davenport, Pennsylvania, died Tuesday, Nov. 12. He is survived by his parents, William and Natalie. He attended Lake Erie Middle School in Davenport and was a member of the city’s First Presbyterian Church. He was born in Youngstown, Ohio, and attended Euclid Elementary School there before moving to Davenport.

  Funeral arrangements are by the Miller Funeral Home of Davenport.

  Memorial contributions can be made to the Leukemia Foundation at the University of Pittsburgh Medical Center.

  It’s the exact same obit with the names changed, and a cancer foundation instead of one for brain injuries. I click on the guest book and find the same sympathy wishes for Brandon Matthews: “… we’re soothed that his lingering distress is over …”

  I do another quick search just to make sure. There’s no Western Pennsylvania University.

  Gary. You bastard. Prepare for another bloody lip.

  I’ve calmed down a little by the time I get to his house. We go up to his room and he shuts the door, even though nobody else is home but the dog.

  Obviously, he did some cutting and pasting. I trusted his links and that made for a great hoax.

  “But how did you get Bainer to show up on my computer?”

  Gary bursts out laughing. “The links were easy. I just fished around online until I found the right obituary, copied it, and made my own document with Bainer’s name in it. And it worked exactly like I wanted it to.”