The lawn has plenty of Halloween decorations, she kept reminding herself. You have nothing to worry about.
But that didn’t keep her from worrying. Not only for herself, but for James, out there putting his own safety on the line to protect this town.
She tried to focus on the film, a perennial favorite of hers, but she chewed on her nails more than the popcorn. She knew she was supposed to be avoiding stress, but this wasn’t stress she’d sought out. She couldn’t exactly make herself forget what was going on in town.
Placing a hand on top of her stomach, she thought about her first baby, the one she’d lost before the boy ever took his first breath. She and James had already picked out a name, Eugene Brock Workman, and she often found herself wondering what Eugene would have been like if she hadn’t failed him.
The doctors all told her she wasn’t to blame, that the miscarriage wasn’t a result of anything she’d done or didn’t do, but deep down she did feel responsible. If she’d been stronger, she could have saved him.
She didn’t plan to fail this child.
On the screen, Bette Midler and her backup witches were singing “I Put a Spell on You,” and as Wanda raised a handful of kernels to her mouth, a sound like thunder rocked the house, causing the windows to rattle in their frames.
An explosion, she thought as the popcorn rained down on her covered lap. Something in the neighborhood just exploded.
She got to her feet as quickly as possible, which wasn’t all that quickly, and made her way to the front window. Pushing aside the curtains, she glanced out and saw the glow of a fire across the street at the Graham house.
—
Larry Butler had been in the rocker on his front porch for a couple hours now. He’d finished off his coffee, and the pressure in his bladder suggested he’d have to visit the bathroom soon. All the lights in the house were off, including the porch light, leaving him shrouded in complete darkness. His property was perfectly nestled between two streetlamps, meaning that anyone approaching probably couldn’t see him or the shotgun he cradled in his arms.
There had been no movement on the streets. A black car idled down the block, but he figured that would be the cops, keeping watch on all the defenseless homes not festooned with the holiday trimmings.
But Larry wasn’t defenseless, as anyone who dared try anything would find out.
The pressure in his bladder became more insistent, and he leaned forward, preparing to stand and go in the house, but a rustling in the bushes that separated his property from the one next door made him freeze.
He waited in silence, holding his breath, to see if the sound would come again. Thirty seconds later it did, and he detected movement in those bushes. Seemed too large to be a stray cat or dog.
More rustling, a snapping branch, and a soft curse that wafted on the air like innuendo. Larry bolted to his feet and brought up the shotgun, aiming it at the bushes.
“Who the hell is that?” he growled, tightening his finger on the trigger.
—
So far Johnny Wirtz had TPed two houses, but only halfheartedly. In one yard, he covered an inflatable Frankenstein’s monster with toilet paper, turning it into a mummy, and in the other had just started covering a Honda in the driveway when the porch light had come on and sent him scurrying into the next yard.
Johnny rested in the bushes between two properties, sitting on the damp ground, weighing his options. On the one hand, he could go back home and face his brothers’ wrath; on the other hand, he could finish the job they’d set him to do and risk getting into even more trouble. His parents had already grounded all three boys for a month and taken away their laptops, tablets, and cellphones for a week because they’d swiped all the decorations from Old Maid McDowell’s house.
Damn it, Johnny, grow some balls and stop doing everything Bobby and Timmy tell you to do!
And that was exactly what he was going to do. He’d been their whipping boy long enough. He rose to his feet, rustling the bushes. He moved a branch aside, but it snapped back and struck him in the nose, bringing tears to his eyes. “Fuck,” he whispered.
“Who the hell is that?” a voice roared, coming from the property to his left.
Johnny didn’t move, wondering, if he stayed perfectly still, if the guy would assume he’d heard nothing more than a raccoon or a rabbit.
“Either show yourself right this damn minute or I’m going to unload both barrels of this shotgun into your ass!”
Johnny raised both hands and started out of the bushes, but his foot caught on a root and he tumbled forward.
—
When the shadowy figure came rushing out of the bushes, Larry pulled the trigger.
—
Workman heard the call on the radio. Shots fired at Larry Butler’s residence. Adam Gore, the policeman assigned to that house, responded, calling for an ambulance as well as back up. and reporting that Larry Butler had shot one of the Wirtz boys and it didn’t look good.
A big fucking mess, but Workman didn’t answer the call. Gore was a good officer; he could handle the situation. Besides, tragic as the whole thing was, it didn’t sound like it had anything to do with the Hashtag Killer. Workman felt his place was right here.
At least he did until another call from dispatch came through his radio, specifically asking for him.
“This is Workman,” he barked into the radio. “What’s up?”
“Sir, nine-one-one just logged a call from your wife.”
Workman bolted upright. “What’s wrong? Is it the baby?”
“No, nothing like that, sir. She reported that the house across the street is on fire. I thought you would want to know.”
The house across the street.
That would be David Graham and his family. They never decorated for Halloween, but Hammett had decided not to station an officer there because Graham had packed up his wife and kids and left town.
“Is anyone on-scene?” he asked.
“We have a car en route.”
Workman glanced back at Davis’s house. He had committed to not letting the writer out of his sight all night, but nothing was more important to him than Wanda and the baby. It took him less than a second to decide his next course of action.
“I’m on my way, too,” he said into the radio, then pulled away from the curb.
—
The Hashtag Killer watched the policeman drive off, leaving the writer’s house unprotected.
—
Dustin came out of the kitchen carrying two more beers to find Shawn pacing around the front of the room. On the TV, the volume turned low, Michael Meyers chased a little girl in a clown costume through darkened streets.
“This whole thing is probably stupid, I know,” the reporter said. “I mean, the chances are slim this fucker is going to show up here tonight.”
Taking a seat on the sofa, Dustin popped the tab on one of the cans of beer. “I’m going to be completely honest with you here, I’m hoping you’re right. I write about this stuff, but I don’t like living it. I’m not much of a fighter.”
Shawn flopped down on the sofa next to Dustin, so close their knees touched. He grabbed the other beer. “Me, either. I don’t know what I was thinking, wanting to play vigilante. Except that’s not really true. I do know what I was thinking—I was thinking of making a name for myself.”
“You’re certainly driven, I’ll give you that.”
“Driven?” Shawn said, sinking into the cushions. “That’s one word for it. Obsessive might be more accurate.”
“Any idea where that comes from?” Dustin asked, not wanting to sound like he was trying to psychoanalyze the reporter, but honestly curious to know more about him, to understand him.
“The first adult movie I remember watching was All the President’s Men, about Woodward and Bernstein breaking open the Watergate scandal. I was probably ten; my father had rented it and we watched it together. I remember being absolutely enthralled by the two reporters, their pass
ion and dedication in following the story, the intrigue as they put all the pieces together. They changed the world with only their words.”
“A noble profession.”
Shawn cast a side-eye glance toward Dustin, his lips curled gently in a mischievous smile. “Don’t paint me as a saint quite yet. Yes, they changed the world, but it wasn’t a completely selfless endeavor. What they got out of the bargain was fame, notoriety, and a lot of it. Their names were immortalized. They had a movie made about them with Robert Redford and Dustin Hoffman, for Christ’s sake! It seemed to me that was the best of all possible worlds, to do important work that would also make me famous.”
“The American dream,” Dustin said, raising his beer in toast.
“A dream is all it is. Here I am trapped in the dying world of print journalism working for the Greer Citizen.”
“You can’t even say that anymore.”
Shawn sputtered a laugh. “Touché. I’m going backward instead of forward.”
Dustin leaned over and nudged the reporter with an elbow. “You’re young, you have plenty of time to make it.”
“I know, but patience has never been a virtue I can claim. That’s why I’ve sunk my teeth so firmly into this story and refuse to let go. It seemed like my shot to elevate myself, a shortcut to the kind of work I really want to do. When I lost my job at the paper, I kind of freaked out, felt like I was letting my best opportunity slip through my fingers, so I came up with this ridiculous scheme with us as Batman and Robin nabbing the villain and getting medals from the mayor. Book deals and job offers from CNN and MSNBC would follow. Pathetic, huh?”
“Not at all. Or if it is, then I’m even more pathetic. I went along with it, mostly because I wanted to prove something to the people of this town.”
“How’s that going, by the way?” Shawn asked. “Everyone still treating you like a pariah?”
“Pretty much. You know, I actually gave all my Halloween decorations to the neighbors, thinking it would warm them up to me.”
“Didn’t work?”
“They took all the stuff, but they still looked at me with this wary disdain, like they thought I was going to burst out of my skin and reveal that I was some kind of lizardy alien or something.”
“Sorry to hear that, man.”
“In a weird way, I’m used to it. It’s the same kind of looks I used to get when I first came out of the closet.”
Shawn gave him another of those side glances. “It’s got to be tough being a gay man in a small southern town.”
“It was particularly rough when I was a teenager, coming to terms with the whole sexuality thing, but honestly things have gotten much better. Then this happens, and I’m some kind of untouchable freak again.”
After downing the last of his beer, Shawn put the can on the coffee table that was now littered with an assortment of empty cans, chip bags, and cellophane wrappers. Among the refuse, the gun stood out like a piece of modern art.
“So, you seeing anybody?” Shawn asked.
The question caught Dustin by surprise, and he stammered a moment before answering. “No, not for a while. It’s not that easy for me. I’m not into the bar scene, the idea of Internet dating makes me physically ill, and I suffer from a serious case of social awkwardness. I guess that’s why writing appeals to me so much. It’s a solitary effort.”
“You should have more confidence. You seem like you’d be quite the catch.”
Dustin laughed. “I don’t know about that. What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Do you have a girlfriend?”
Shawn placed a hand on his chest and scrunched his face into an expression of faux-shock. “What, you just assume I’m straight? How rude.”
Dustin found himself stammering again. “Oh, I didn’t…I mean, I just…I didn’t realize you were gay.”
“I never said I was gay. I merely said it was rude to assume I’m straight.”
“I’m confused. So are you gay or straight?”
“Does it matter?”
“Of course not,” Dustin was quick to say. “You have me intrigued, that’s all.”
“Maybe that’s the point,” Shawn said with a wink.
Feeling the heat of a blush enflaming his cheeks, Dustin went to take another sip of his beer and realized he’d finished his as well. Glancing at the empty cans, he realized that between the two of them he and Shawn had gone through half the twelve-pack.
“I’m feeling a little buzzed,” he said with an embarrassed laugh. “I’ve never been able to hold my booze well. If the killer did show up, I’d be in no shape to do anything about it.”
“Maybe we should have some coffee,” Shawn suggested.
“Good idea. I’ll make us some.”
Shawn slapped a hand on Dustin’s thigh. “You stay right here, I’ll take care of it.”
“You sure?”
“Making a pot of coffee is within my scope of accomplishment,” Shawn said with another wink. “I’ll pick you out some flavored brew and put enough sugar and milk into it that it no longer tastes like coffee.”
Dustin watched the reporter as he crossed the room and pushed through the swinging door into the kitchen, not sure what was happening here. He wondered again if Shawn was flirting with him. Had tonight been nothing more than an elaborate and very strange seduction? If that turned out to be the case, was Dustin interested?
His mind was too dizzy with drink for him to really give this the thought it deserved, so he decided to busy himself. He started gathering up the trash on the coffee table, taking pains to not touch the gun. He had never been comfortable with firearms, had never held one other than plastic toy guns when he was a boy.
He was depositing the trash in the bin by the couch when the sound of shattering glass from the kitchen startled him, and the beer cans fell from his hands to land at his feet.
“Shawn?” he called, staring at the swinging door. “Everything okay in there?”
No answer.
“Shawn, did you break something? Don’t worry about it if you did, I don’t have any priceless china or anything.”
Still no answer. The house seemed almost preternaturally quiet except for the murmured soundtrack of the movie coming from the TV and the popping of logs in the fireplace. Dustin started toward the kitchen door, then paused and glanced back at the gun. With a trembling hand, he picked up the pistol. He held it down by his leg, pointed at the floor, feeling foolish as he inched slowly across the room.
With his free hand, which also trembled, he reached out to push open the kitchen door.
—
Workman brought the car to a screeching halt along the curb in front of his house, jumping out and sprinting down the walkway without even bothering to cut the ignition. He was halfway to the door when it opened and his wife came rushing out. They met and embraced fiercely.
“Wanda, are you okay?”
“Yes, yes, just shaken up. Something exploded over at the Graham house.”
Workman glanced across the street. The house itself didn’t seem to be on fire, but something was blazing in the backyard. A firetruck was parked up on the property, and one of the unmarked police cars sat next to it.
“Why didn’t you call me?” he asked, turning back to his wife.
“I didn’t want to bother you, I know you have more important things to worry about tonight. I had no reason to believe that the fire had anything to do with the killer, and it’s not like I’m in any real danger.”
He took her by the shoulders and squeezed. “Everyone in this town is in danger tonight. I want you to get back inside and lock the doors. I’m going to go across the street and talk to the officer.”
With a nod and a kiss, she scurried back into the house. Workman started across the street as Officer Stoughton emerged from around the house.
“What do we have here?” Workman asked.
“It’s an old wooden storage building around back. Burning like a bonfire, but the
firemen seem to have it under control. They got here in time to keep it from spreading to the house.”
“Any idea what caused it?”
“Considering that the building is in pieces, my first guess would be some kind of explosion,” Stoughton said.
“Yeah, that jibes with what Wanda said. Wonder what could have caused it.”
“I don’t know about what, but I have an inkling as to who.”
Stoughton held up an evidence bag, and in the refracted glow of the flames Workman saw that inside were several charred and partial white cards with blue printing on them. #MAKEHALLOWEENSCARYAGAIN. The Hashtag Killer’s calling card.
“These were on the scene?” Workman asked.
Stoughton nodded. “Scattered among the rubble of the building. My guess is they were inside when the explosion happened.”
“I don’t get it. If the Hashtag Killer is responsible for this, it doesn’t make sense. Why blow up a building at an empty house?”
Stoughton shrugged. “Beats me, unless he wanted to create some kind of distraction, direct our attention here while he focuses somewhere else.”
Workman’s breath caught in his throat like a piece of stale bread. “Fuck me, Davis!”
“What?” Stoughton asked, but Workman didn’t hear him. He was already running back to his car.
—
Dustin’s fingers had just brushed the wooden slats of the door when it suddenly swung toward him, catching him square in the face. He fell back onto his rear end, biting his tongue. Blood flooded his mouth even as it trickled from his nostrils. Judging from the pain and the instant feeling of swelling, he’d guess his nose was broken. Multicolored dots swam in his vision. He gave his head a vigorous shake, detonating even more pain in his nose, and when his vision cleared, he looked up at the man filling the doorway between the living room and kitchen.
The baggy overalls, the rubber gloves, the burlap sack covering the head and cinched at the neck, the straw hat. The Hashtag Killer.
Halloween Carnival Volume 1 Page 15
