It was March 1st, and the colder days were behind them. Spring was making its appearance, bright green buds covering the trees and early flowers poking up through damp soil, blue skies and warmer days. Hamilton drove with the window down, arm cocked outside, enjoying the ride, his cruiser taking the curves and hills of a back road at a leisurely pace. He had just handled a minor theft at Chestnut Farms Mall, something he’d been able to settle with a summons instead of a full arrest, and was taking the long way back to Jasper.
“County Dispatch to Oh-One,” his radio said.
“Oh-One’s on, go County.”
“Sheriff,” said Kathy Webster, “Hooper and MacDonald have a T-A out on 17. They’re reporting fatalities, fire and rescue are en-route.”
“Copy that, County,” Hamilton said, accelerating. “Give me a location on 17.”
There was a long stretch of silence, and then Kathy’s voice came across sounding strained. “Same place as that LaCroix business last year.”
It was surreal. Gary was standing in the road near a flare, wearing a yellow safety vest, and beyond was the familiar sparkle of red and blue emergency lights. Hamilton didn’t even pause to talk to his deputy, just drove past him and stopped when he reached the tail end of the firetruck. The air reeked of chemical foam and antifreeze as he trotted up to Jeff Hooper, who was writing on a clipboard near the open trunk of his car. An unused first aid kit sat on the asphalt nearby. Jeff looked up as the sheriff approached, and just shook his head.
The angry, high speed whine of a saw split the afternoon as a pair of firemen started in on what remained of a car door, throwing a shower of sparks high over their heads. Up on the road, two paramedics were busy putting away their gurney, and pulling out a simple canvas stretcher and some black plastic bags. Deputy MacDonald, twenty-one and newly hired in early February, was trying to be unnoticed on the other side of the firetruck, hands planted against the red metal while he vomited.
The Challenger was barely recognizable as a car anymore, and looked more like orange tinfoil someone had crumpled into a ball, which had then somehow grown from the trunk of a massive pine tree. Fire department foam dripped from its accordion remains, and shards of safety glass glittered in the weeds along the edge of the woods. Hamilton moved down the gentle embankment, ducking to avoid the spray of metal sparks from the saw, plastic crunching beneath his boots, and stepped to what had been the front of the car. From here he could see that seat belts wouldn’t have saved them, but one only had to look at the wreck, and know that the Challenger must have been doing over a hundred when it hit, to realize that.
The front seat passenger was a tangle of torn flesh in a red-soaked letterman’s jacket. He had dark hair, and was hopelessly pinned against the remains of the dashboard and the right front post, the rear of the car having come forward to ensure that physics had done a proper job.
The driver was equally pinned, the steering column buried in his chest as if he had been impaled by a knight’s lance. He had been decapitated, the torn stump of his neck sagging forward. Hamilton looked at the tree, then at the ground all around. It took a moment to find it, but there it was, a good twenty feet beyond the impact, and he walked towards it.
Donny Maxwell’s head had come to rest face-up at the base of another pine tree, his red hair matted with blood and drawing ants, the twisted frame of his glasses still clinging to his face. His eyes were wide and his mouth hung open in mid scream, as if at the last second he had seen what was coming for him.
Hamilton made his way back to where Jeff Hooper was still working on his clipboard, and flagged down a fireman along the way, quietly telling his where to find the head. He leaned against the trunk of the cruiser next to his sergeant, who was making the first notes of his accident investigation. Hamilton could see he had begun sketching the road and the position of the Challenger. Measuring off the skid marks and taking photos would come soon.
Jeff set the clipboard in the trunk and folded his arms. “Driver of a log truck called it in. Didn’t see it happen, came up on it from the other direction, stopped and checked the car, saw they was dead.”
“He involved?”
“Doubt it,” Hooper said, shaking his head. “No marks on the truck, driver ain’t sleepy or been drinking. I think he’s legit.” He pointed at the road, where now a half dozen vehicles were parked. “I seen the skids when I first arrived. Them boys was really moving, hundred plus. Looks like they seen something in the road, locked it up, swerved… that was it. I’m figuring a deer.”
Hamilton nodded. That fit. At that speed, any sudden correction would throw the muscle car out of control in a second, and there would be no recovery. He agreed with his deputy, Donny must have seen something and tried to avoid it. Then he looked towards the woods beyond the wreck. Not far back in there, at almost this exact spot, was Harriett’s little clearing.
The boys had seen something in the road.
Cecil Hamilton made the notifications later that day. He met with the First Selectman at home, and Earl Maxwell crunched forward over his knees, fists buried in his eyes as he sobbed. Jeremiah Hutchins was in his office at the mill, and just sat there saying nothing, staring out the window with a lost look on his face.
The turnout for Jeb Hutchins’s funeral was massive. In addition to family, most of the high school showed up, almost everyone from the mill and the lumber yard came, along with his daddy’s business associates. Much of Jasper’s population – the white population, for the most part – and lots of folks from the surrounding towns attended, and of course the town and county officials, though not the first selectman. Johnny Lee and a couple of his troopers showed up, looking spit and polish, and the sheriff and any deputy not out on patrol were in their dress uniforms. David didn’t sit with his parents, but instead took his place with the rest of the football team, all of them standing together and wearing their varsity jackets out of respect for their teammate and friend. There was plenty of sadness, and Cecil knew the entire event would be replayed in a couple of days for the Maxwell boy.
The minister was talking about how hard it was for folks to understand when such a wonderful young person, with a bright future and an entire life ahead of them, was called home by the Lord. He reminded them that God had a plan, and his works were mysterious indeed.
Hamilton didn’t hear him. He was thinking about the accident. Doc Fulcrum ran a toxicology test on both boys, and it came back negative for alcohol or drugs of any kind. They hadn’t been high when they left the road. He was also thinking about the phone call he had received from his dispatcher Kathleen just before the service, and the envelope she said was waiting for him in his office.
After the graveside, Hamilton told Patricia he had to make a quick stop at the office, and then he’d be home. This was met with a hard look.
“Cecil, David just lost two friends from school, and he and Jeb were close.”
Ham knew it, and he had liked the boy too. Jeb Hutchins and some of the other players had come out to their place on occasion for barbecue or just to hang out and throw the ball around.
“Your son doesn’t want you to see it, but he’s hurting, and he needs his daddy to let him know everything’s going to be alright.”
Cecil promised that he would only be a moment and would be right home, giving his son an arm around the shoulder and a squeeze before making the short walk from the church to the sheriff’s office. Kathleen immediately handed a brown envelope over the dispatch counter as he walked in. The return address was MedCo Laboratories in Jackson. Hamilton thanked her and went to his cruiser around back of the station, then headed home. The envelope sat on the seat beside him, unopened.
Cecil sat at his kitchen table, his dress uniform jacket hung on the back of his chair, drinking a beer Patricia had fetched for him. She was puttering near the sink, trying to stay busy, and Cecil could see David through the kitchen door, sitting in the living room, texting on his cell phone, probably with Ashley. They hadn’t really spoken
yet. He knew David wasn’t ready, but he’d be there for him when he was.
He tapped his fingers lightly on the brown lab envelope.
What if he was right? It wouldn’t bring Harriett back, and would only destroy the reputation of two dead boys. He considered just putting the envelope in the burn barrel out back. Then he picked it up and tore it open, his hands shaking slightly at what he might find.
Inside was a cover letter from the lab, followed by a legal page detailing the chain of evidence and the handling procedures, should the results ever be needed in court. Then there was a section of technical jargon explaining how the DNA testing was conducted, what the defining points were, and how it may or may not compare to the crime scene samples provided. The final pages were the computer-generated color graphs and the results of the tests.
DNA obtained from saliva on the cigarette butt was a match for DNA recovered from Harriett LaCroix. Donny Maxwell was a match.
DNA obtained from the hair in Jeb Hutchins’s comb was also a match.
Both boys had been there, had done this terrible thing.
Then Hamilton looked at the last page, at the results from the pubic hair he had collected from the locker room, and this too was a match. He looked out the kitchen window and wasn’t even surprised to see Wisdom LaCroix walking up his driveway towards the house, cupping his twisted hands before him. He walked past David’s truck.
David’s green pickup truck.
Like the one in Harriett’s picture.
Hamilton held the paper with the third match and looked through the doorway into the living room, looked at his son, as tears welled up in his eyes. There had been three suspects, and three white boys in Harriett’s picture.
Wisdom pushed through the screen door and stepped inside. Patricia turned, holding a dish towel, surprised and looking to her husband. Hamilton just stared at Wisdom, saying nothing, and the old man looked back with his yellow nicotine eyes, nodding and solemn. “We come for justice, Sheriff,” he said.
Hamilton crumpled the piece of paper into a ball and dropped it on the table, then stood and drew the Glock from his patent leather dress holster, pointing it at the old man. “You’re distraught, Wisdom, and you come at me in my home with a gun. I had no choice.” Patricia didn’t move, but looked from the pistol to the unwelcome visitor and back.
Although the day was mild and the room comfortable, the temperature suddenly plunged thirty degrees, making gooseflesh stand out on all their arms. Then the walls began to shake violently, as if an earthquake had suddenly come to Mississippi. Decorative plates and family pictures crashed to the floor, and a shelf of glassware broke free and shattered. The floor trembled and buckled with a loud crack of timber and tile.
“Daddy!” David called from the other room, and Patricia hung onto the sink and yelled for him to stay where he was. The light fixture over the table swung and broke free, exploding onto the table’s surface, and cabinet doors flung open, dishes and canned food cascading out onto the floor. Hamilton braced one hand on his chair, the Glock wavering. Wisdom simply stood hunched, riding it out on bowed legs, but his eyes went to the doorway.
“Hello, baby girl,” he said, smiling.
Hamilton looked too, for something was now there, standing about five feet tall, swirling smoke and shadow in the shape of a little girl, a dark thing. But not so dark that he couldn’t see through her to where his son stood in the living room, looking back. David could see it too, they all could. Harriett’s black, glittering eyes stared back at Sheriff Hamilton in accusation, and when she opened her mouth, a hate-filled hiss escaped.
Cecil cried out and swung the Glock at Harriett, firing once, then twice more at center mass. Patricia shrieked and covered her ears, and then as suddenly as it had started, the shaking stopped. Harriett’s eyes and face immediately lost their rage and darkness, softening into the features of a little girl, and she quickly faded from view with a gentle, audible sigh.
Hamilton was still staring at the doorway to the living room, and lowered his pistol as David walked towards him.
“Daddy?” he said, his eyes searching his father’s face in confusion. He had his hands planted against his letterman’s jacket, which now featured three small holes and spreading crimson. He sagged to his knees, still looking to his father for an answer.
Patricia screamed his name and ran for him, dropping to her knees and wrapping her arms around him even as he collapsed on his side. Wisdom lowered his head and pushed back out the screen door, shuffling back down the driveway, still cradling his hands as he started the long walk back to town. There were screams coming from the house behind him.
It was a man screaming.
A SHADE ABOVE NORMAL
The hospital room smelled of plastic and disinfectant, and Carlos had the blankets pulled to his chin.
“Mmmph hmm phmmph?”
“Hold still just a moment,” said the nurse. Her handheld reader beeped, and she pulled the thermometer from Carlos’s mouth, dropping the plastic tip into a biohazard container.
“I have a fever, don’t I?” he asked, shaking.
The nurse shook her head. “Ninety-nine-point-seven, no worries.” She smiled, checked his water pitcher and left.
No fever. He was a little encouraged, then not at all. He was hoping for something to explain why he felt so bad. They had checked him in for observation after the ER, and an afternoon nurse said his white cell count was extremely high. That meant he was fighting an infection, but so far there were no answers, and no symptoms other than his complaining.
He sighed, closed his eyes and held the covers close, worrying about finishing the cabinetry job, about getting the countertop bid for that new clinic, wondering when Simone would show up, thinking about mowing the grass and paying bills. He didn’t have time for this.
A moment later he opened his eyes to a blaring electronic tone, and was suddenly overcome by a sick disorientation. Someone had moved a large mirror in above his bed, and he saw himself holding the edge of the blanket, no longer shaking. Why were his eyes closed in the mirror? He looked left to the rack of monitors, but saw only acoustic tiles and a dusty sprinkler head beside him.
Not a mirror. He was on the ceiling.
A trio of nurses and a doctor in scrubs burst in with a crash cart, and they surrounded the Carlos in the bed, stripping away the blankets, all shouting at once.
“What are you doing?” Carlos demanded. They didn’t look up, didn’t even acknowledge him. Neither did Bed Carlos, who only moved when the paddles made his body jump, but even then only like a rag.
“You’re going to hurt me!” Carlos shouted, reaching down to stop the nurse. Then he saw his hands and arms, an even shade of charcoal, and worse than that, he saw the room and the people in it right through them. He gasped, hugging his arms to his chest, but they hugged nothing, and he had no sensation of moving muscles or bones.
Below, the medical team had been joined by others, and they pumped his chest, plunged needles into his motionless body and shoved a clear plastic tube down his throat. Bed Carlos didn’t seem to feel any of it. Ceiling Carlos didn’t either. After several minutes the activity slowed and finally stopped. The doctor checked his watch, shook his head and called out the time, and then most of them left the room.
“But I’m fine,” whispered Carlos.
“Obviously not,” said a voice beside him. Carlos turned his head to look, feeling a coldness pour through him. How was that possible, without a body to feel it?
There was no one there, only the sprinkler head.
“Time to go,” said the voice, deep and stern and now coming from everywhere.
Carlos shook his head. “There’s nothing wrong with me!”
He felt himself pulled off the ceiling, descending towards his own form in the bed, and was suddenly filled with relief. This was one of those experiences people on talk shows claimed to have had. In a moment he would be back in his body, gasping himself awake with a story to tell.
>
He passed through Bed Carlos, through the floor, through the room below, and then the next, faster and faster, the pulling turning to falling. In moments the hospital was gone, and he was in a lightless void, still descending.
“Where are we going?” he asked the darkness in a small voice.
There was a long silence before the reply.
“Not where you were hoping.”
A MASTODON ON MICHIGAN AVENUE
The comet hit Gary, Indiana in December of 2012, burning most of it to the ground and leaving a crater close to a mile wide. Franklin didn’t remember how many thousands had been killed, but he certainly remembered the storm of criticism the government suffered for not seeing it coming. The military sealed off the area in a wide circle, followed this with quarantine and a media blackout, and it had taken the better part of two presidential administrations before the government finally admitted that they might not be fully in control of the developing situation.
Few were surprised by the statement, especially the people of nearby Chicago.
It was eleven degrees outside, and the thin light of a January afternoon was quickly fading as the storm lashed the Windy City. A heavy snow was falling, the Canadian front moving in from the lake in what promised to be a record-breaker, and bitter gusts twisted through the granite and glass canyons.
Franklin Platt sat in the driver’s seat with the heater roaring, his gloved hands cradling a tall coffee, watching the wiper blades struggle to push back the rapidly falling white film in two second intervals. The furry ear flaps of his hat were pinned up so he could hear, and he hunched into his heavy jacket, tucking his chin into a black scarf.
He was fifty-three, his short hair thinning and silvering, and he had put on weight since leaving the Air Force over thirty years ago. Just above the cuffs of his coat sleeves was sewn a gold star and gold bar, signifying twenty-five years of service (though it was actually twenty-nine years, eleven months and six days), and the silver star of a basic patrolman was pinned over his left breast.
Red Circus: A Dark Collection Page 13
