by Matt Drabble
He moved through the house, checking the rooms one by one. The eerie silence felt oppressive and unwelcoming. His forearms prickled with goosebumps and he embraced his thumping heart and sweating forehead; his skin felt clammy with fear and trepidation. He placed one foot on the stairs. The bathroom lay at the top. The scene of a real death waited patiently for him, and he took another step. He ascended slowly, relishing the rushing adrenaline, the dread mixing with excitement.
Back in LA, late one night, he had been awakened by loud shouts and flashing lights outside of his bedroom window. He had been ten and had crawled over to the window and peeked around the curtains. There were three police cars pulled up on the sidewalk. Six officers stood hunched over the vehicles, guns drawn and pointed at a car that they had pulled over. Even through the window, he had felt the air crackle with electric tension. He had felt the piercing nervous excitement as though he was watching a TV show parading on the world’s largest plasma screen. Eventually, as the occupant of the stopped car had staggered out into the night and thrown himself onto the floor unarmed, the tension had immediately fallen. Thom remembered a feeling of anticlimax, but he remembered the electricity of anticipation. He felt the same anticipation now as he moved slowly up the exotic staircase.
He reached the upper hallway. The soft cream carpet was thick and lush and it was also thankfully silent as he moved. He stood outside the bathroom door; his hand shook as he reached out slowly with a trembling hand. The metallic handle felt like ice under his grip and his breath stilled as he held it absently. His heart pounded hard against his chest, and he turned the handle. His imagination raced through a thousand scenarios of death and fear at what waited for him inside. The door eased open easily and smoothly; his eyes wouldn’t blink, his limbs quivered and he couldn’t catch his breath. One jelly leg moved forward and he stepped inside.
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Michael punched the cancel button on the cell phone hard with frustration. He was still unable to contact Chris, and no matter how many messages he left, they were never returned. He was sitting out on his steamer chair in the garden, his face thoughtful and contemplative. It was a hot Sunday morning, but for once the weather offered little comfort. Emily had yet to rise and he was alone. He was normally a man of action and deed, but he felt impotent and confused. The more that he ran the facts around his head, the more they swirled into a continuous circle of uncertainty. He considered riding back out to Darnell’s again; perhaps if the man was a little more sober - or a little more drunk - he would have further thoughts to offer on the town and Casper’s twisted family tree. He was stuck in limbo and he did not know just how to proceed. His book had stalled for the time being - did he pursue the story, regardless of the possible damage? He wasn’t naive enough to think that, despite his best efforts, the town wouldn’t see through any attempt to disguise the setting of the story. The residents of Eden would no doubt not appreciate his portrayal of them, no matter how fictionally he camouflaged them. Despite the undeniable juicy nature of Casper’s family history, what else did he really have? His neighbor, Janet, had committed suicide; Chris had, to all intents and purposes, disappeared, and in the woodland beyond the town he’d lost some time. However, he didn’t really know just what had lurked in Janet’s heart; perhaps she and Chris had argued later that night? Perhaps her infidelity wasn’t a one-time deal? Perhaps Chris felt responsible? Perhaps he left her that night? Hell, perhaps he had even been complicit in her death, and that’s why he’d disappeared.
The high-pitched scream startled him; the noise appeared to have come from Chris’ empty house next door. For a moment, he was rooted to the spot as the sheer panic and terror rose from the scream. The shattering noise was halted as quickly as it had risen. He sat up on the steamer chair panicked. For a second he’d thought that something terrible had befallen Emily, but the noise had clearly come from next door. He stood on shaky legs, unsure as to what to do, and then he cursed himself for his cowardice and ran towards the fence. Someone was clearly in trouble, and this was now his neighborhood. He made a snap decision and clambered up and over the fence, landing in Chris’ back garden in an ungainly lump.
The patio doors at the rear of the house were open and he moved towards them cautiously. The house smelled clean and sterile, and he was surprised to see the lack of personal touches. The photos and prints that had once hung on the walls and decorated the surfaces in silver frames were all conspicuously absent. If Chris hadn’t been home since that night, then just who had been spring cleaning? Michael worked from home and would have undoubtedly noticed any unusual coming and goings, at least during daylight hours.
He moved slowly through the open plan lounge. Here too, personal touches were missing; the furniture looked clean and new and the house stood empty, seemingly waiting patiently.
Michael moved towards the front of the house. Suddenly, the hallway was filled with two dark shadows - one huge and one small. The larger dragged the smaller down the stairs with ease. Sheriff Quinn held a small boy roughly by the throat. Michael watched as a cruel, sadistic smile perverted the huge man’s face. The boy looked to weigh about eighty pounds soaking wet and the sheriff’s large meaty paw gripped the small boy by the collar as he dragged him, tearing the fabric of his shirt. His other hand reached back and pulled out something that glinted wickedly in the bright sunlight.
“P-P-Please,” the boy begged.
Michael stared in horror as Quinn laughed; it was a disturbing rumble that seemed to shake the air. The sheriff’s face was alight with pleasure, seemingly at the child’s now sobbing and trembling form. Whatever the glinting silver he held in his hand was, it was now rising to the boy's face. Michael couldn’t see what he held as his broad back was turned.
“And just how am I going to make sure that you learn a lesson?” Quinn whispered ominously.
“QUINN!” Michael shouted.
The sheriff turned and in that split second Michael was afraid for his life. Quinn’s face was a thunderous black mask of rage; his eyes squinted, and his whole body shook with fury. The intense vehemence suddenly melted away and the sheriff smiled normally again, his giant shoulders relaxed, and calm exuded once more.
“Mr. Torrance,” he greeted Michael. “You gave me such a fright,” the huge man said in a friendly polite manner. “I’m afraid that we’ve had an intruder.” He shook the boy to illustrate.
“And you were looking to hand out a little private justice?”
“You misunderstand, Mr. Torrance. Here in Eden, we believe in preventative measures. A little scare works wonders. Isn’t that right, Mr. Bray?” he said, addressing the trembling boy.
“Yes, sir,” Thom managed through his tears.
“Well now, I’ll just be driving young Thom here home and having a little word with his mother,” the sheriff announced.
“Where is it that you live, Thom?” Michael asked suddenly, feeling that it was important for the sheriff to know that he’d taken an interest.
“Greenfields, sir,” Thom answered.
“Hey, your mom rented us the house, didn’t she? She works for Casper?” Michael never took his eyes off of the sheriff as he spoke to the boy.
“Yes, sir,” Thom answered, his voice growing stronger. “Hey, aren’t you the writer?”
“Yeah, Michael Torrance. I live next door. You know, Sheriff Quinn, maybe I’ll have a word with Mrs. Bray as well. I seem to remember that she was a single parent. I was raised the same way, and it can be tough,” he said, enjoying the large bully’s uncomfortable silence.
“Whatever you think, sir,” Quinn said through a forced smile that never quite reached his eyes. “I’m sure that she’d appreciate the help.”
“Jot down your number, son, and I’ll be in touch,” Michael said with a smile.
As Thom wrote his phone number down with a pen and paper that the sheriff grudgingly produced, Michael looked at Quinn. The big man now knew that Michael would be checking up on Thom and that he would have
to arrive home safely and untouched.
Michael watched as the sheriff gently put Thom into the front of the police car parked outside. Quinn was all smiles and charm with the neighbors outside who had come out to watch the show. Quinn was nothing, if not a reassuring presence to them. He was a huge bear of a man in a uniform that silently promised protection for the good citizens of Eden under a gleaming star badge. He seemingly offered a comforting blanket that proved why this town was different from the outside world.
The police department car pulled away from the kerb amid the tuts and headshakes of the watching public audience, thankful for the swift legal intervention. Michael watched the car with an entirely different view of the sheriff. Only he had seen the cruelty on Quinn’s face as he manhandled a small and defenseless boy. Whatever had been about to happen had only been stopped by his presence, and he shuddered as his thoughts ran wild with visions of just what the sheriff might have intended.
“Let me get this straight,” Emily said later, after Michael had relayed the events of next door to her, “what exactly did he do?”
“I told you,” Michael replied.
“Yes, but you didn’t really say anything, did you?”
“You had to be there; if you’d seen the look on his face…”
“Michael, he’s the sheriff. I’m sure that it was like he said; he was just trying to give the kid a scare.”
“Jesus, Em, the kid looked petrified, and Quinn looked positively evil. He had something in his hand that I couldn’t see, but that kid was shaking like a shitting dog.”
“Oh, lovely,” Emily said in disgust.
“I know what I saw. That big ass son of a bitch was dragging that kid like a sack of meat. The kid was terrified, and Quinn was smiling like he was enjoying it.”
“Hey, aren’t you the one who was always calling for tougher action on anti-social youths? During the riots back in London, you were the one who wanted water cannons and rubber bullets.”
“This was different. This was just some bored kid nosing around an empty house looking for a ghost,”
“You spoke to him?”
“Yeah, I chased him up this afternoon. I just wanted to make sure that he got home alright.”
“What did you think was going to happen to him in a police car?” She laughed, until she saw that he was deadly serious. “Jeez, Michael, this isn’t one of your novels, you know; this is real life and that imagination of yours might be the money maker, honey, but you’ve got to get a grip.”
“This wasn’t my imagination, Em. I saw the look in Quinn’s eyes, and it scared the shit out of me.”
“Babe.” She leant forward and touched his leg. “It’s okay to be happy here, you know. You do deserve to be happy. Stop picking at the corners and waiting for the other shoe to drop. It was never your fault, the accident, losing the baby.”
“That’s not what this is.”
“Bullshit,” she stated with finality. “I know that you carry the guilt. I know that you believe it was your fault. I asked you to go to the store that night, and you didn’t. I could have waited but I didn’t want to. I wanted the fresh air. I wanted to stretch my legs. I left the apartment and someone lost control of a car; they mounted a sidewalk and killed our baby. That’s who we blame, not ourselves or each other.”
“But!”
“No buts,” she snapped viciously. “No buts, babe,” she added kindly as she stroked his face gently, feeling the rough stubble coarse under her soft skin. “I think we’ve found a perfect little slice of happiness here and everything’s going great guns. It’s a new start for us and a chance to be a family. So what if the local law enforcement gets a little rough to keep things perfect! You are the last person I’d expect to have liberal, lefty leanings when it comes to crime.”
“So what would you have me do?”
“Nothing, because there is nothing to be done. Enjoy the sunshine; write if it still makes you happy, retire if it doesn’t. Find a hobby, prepare for our baby, and be happy, Michael; that’s all I’ve ever wanted for you.”
“Maybe you’re right,” he said, rubbing his head, wanting to believe that it was all just rattles in his own musings, knowing that he did have trouble in being happy and that he had a self-destructive streak a mile long. Maybe it was just his own vivid imagination that had witnessed the demonic glares of the large, town sheriff. Maybe he was overreacting again, and maybe he should just junk the book he was writing and go fishing.
“I’ve read your new book, Michael.”
Emily’s voice suddenly interrupted his thoughts. He looked up guiltily.
“Don’t worry,” she said, “I’m not cross. I knew that you wouldn’t be able to leave the idea alone once it had grown roots.”
“What did you think?” he asked warily.
“I thought two things. One that it was good, and two that the town would shit a collective brick if they read it,” she giggled disarmingly.
“You think that I should junk it?”
She looked at him seriously. “Yes, I do. I think that if you finish and publish this book, then we couldn’t live here anymore; it’s that simple.”
“Not if I changed…”
She raised a hand to stop him, “It doesn’t matter what you change, Michael, and you know that. We’d have to leave; even if they never asked us, I couldn’t stand the shame of our betrayal.”
“Did you read my notes?” he asked.
“Yes, yes I did and I’ve made an appointment for you with Dr Creed on Tuesday.”
“What for?” he asked, surprised.
“Michael, you said that you lost time when you cycled out to the woods. You don’t think that might be a medical matter?” she scolded him.
“What about Darnell’s story?”
“All that vague stuff about Casper’s dim and distant relatives, tales of devil worship and human sacrifice?” She laughed. “It’s not exactly Woodward and Bernstein style deep throat research is it?”
Michael could only shrug. His wife had always been his fiercest critic, and he was often irritated by her accurate questions and suggestions.
“Some lonely old guy - who, by your own admission, was half cut - telling old wives tales and gossiping. You’re really going to take these as research facts, Michael?”
Emily stood, hoisting her increasing weight up from the garden furniture, waving his helping hands away. “I’m going to take a swim, my dear,” she said grandly, smiling as she teased. “Why don’t you join me? We’ll make a little whoopee in the water.”
Despite all of Michael’s thoughts and doubts, he shut down the factory that ran in his mind, clocking the boys out and sending them home early for the night. He joined his wife in the pool. They loved each other in the water and dozed off after, happily holding hands as they lay on the grass beneath the hot sun.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“So tell me about the woman who was here before me - Jessica, I think you said her name was,” Emily asked.
She was sitting in the outdoor seating area of Baskin-Robbins with Sarah-Jane; they were both indulging in a treat after a long day at work. The furniture was a wicker metallic blend and the chairs were soft and comfortable. There was no subtle seating designed to push customers on quickly and the parasols offered a welcome shade. Emily was manfully destroying a chocolate chip cookie dough sundae whilst Sarah-Jane picked lightly at a fat-free frozen yogurt. Emily definitely felt that she was eating for two now. Her pregnancy was progressing without any problems. By now she had managed to relax into the term and had decided to go with the flow. She knew that her hormones were a little out of whack, but she figured that it was Michael’s problem if she acted a little erratically from time to time. It was, however, the first time that she had seen her friend conscious about what she was eating.
Sarah-Jane was pleasantly curvy as far as Emily could tell, but she now appeared to be taking a closer look at herself. Emily wondered if the good Dr Creed had anything to do with SJ’s sudd
en concerns over her appearance.
“What about her?” Sarah-Jane asked.
“I got the impression that Mrs. Thirlby didn’t like her much.”
Sarah-Jane shrugged in a noncommittal gesture, “I think that they used to get on well enough, and Jess certainly seemed happy here.”
“Where did she come from?”
“Somewhere near Boston, I think. Her husband, David, was some kind of investment banker I think. I didn’t really know her all that well; she was quite private.”
“And they lived in our house, out on Fairfax?”
“Yes, that I’m sure of. Jess was good friends with one of your neighbors, Janet.”
“It seems a bit weird, don’t you think? I take over her job and move into her old house?”
“Ah, you know Eden. Everything and everyone are connected in one way or another. Just one of the traits of a small town I guess.” Sarah-Jane pushed the half eaten yogurt away.
Emily noticed the movement. “So … tell me some more about Dr Creed.”
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Michael waited patiently as Dr Creed reviewed the paperwork with genuine interest. The office was private and the door was closed. Michael didn’t like the signs. “Damn it, doc, what’s wrong with me?”
“Nothing that I can see, Michael,” Samuel replied casually.
Michael never knew how worried he had been until Dr Creed said those magical words. He had been poked and prodded for most of the day; he’d had bloods taken and tested and he’d been scanned in an iron coffin that they called an MRI machine.
Michael had met Creed in his office that morning expecting a precursory examination by the doctor, to be followed by some appointments at the small town hospital in a few weeks’ time. He’d been astounded to find himself whisked off to the hospital’s full array of state-of-the-art facilities within minutes. His natural pessimism told him that the doc had immediately spotted some terrible symptom as soon as he’d walked through the door. The battery of tests that he’d been subjected to was staggering, and it got to a point where he’d stopped asking questions about what they might be looking for.
