Nightmare

by Erik Henry Vick

  Bobby pointed his finger at Chief Morton. “There’s something for you to watch for, right there.”

  Morton nodded.

  Just then, Jenny bustled out with a tray of food and made a big production out of passing the food out to the wrong person. It was all part of the game the five of them played, and they all played their parts.

  After they finished eating, the cabal broke up. Tom Walton and John Morton went their separate ways. Bobby walked to his own cruiser and took his shotgun out of the trunk and then walked to Matt’s black and white.

  “Just gonna be the two of us, Matt?” he asked.

  Matt scratched the stubble on his chin, his finger nails making a harsh scraping noise. “There’s one other I could trust with this, but I’m not expecting much trouble out of this guy.”

  Bobby shrugged. “Better safe than sorry, though, right? And maybe we should get in someone’s personal car.”

  “I’ll radio Witherson on the way back to town. He drives a Wagoneer.”

  Bobby grunted and slid into the passenger seat with an easy grace that belied the white in his hair. “It’ll be your show, Matt. I’m just along for the muscle.”

  “Yup,” said Matt as he threw the Fury into gear and drove them back to Oneka Falls. He pulled into Meat World, the town’s only grocery store and parked next to a bright red Wagoneer with big tires.

  Craig Witherson leaned out the window as they got out of the Fury. “Well, hey there, Sheriff Jefferson. Long time no see.”

  Bobby Jefferson grunted.

  “I don’t see the sheriff around here, Craig. I don’t see any cops, either. You get me?” asked Chief Greshin.

  “Why, sure, Matt. Just three guys helping a buddy move.”

  “Yup. Get that monstrosity started, will ya?” The Sheriff and the Police Chief climbed into the Wagoneer as it roared to life. “He’s on Mill Lane.”

  “Yep, I know it.” Witherson drove to Mill Lane and pulled up at the Burton house, disregarding the drive and parking on the front lawn in front of the door.

  “Nice parking, son,” said Bobby.

  “Easier to load.”

  “Yup. You want me to knock, Matt?” asked the old sheriff.

  “Please.”

  “Sure thing.” Sheriff Jefferson walked up to the front door and slammed the butt of his twelve gauge into the wooden door. The sound of it boomed through the small house.

  “What the fuck?”

  Someone stomped up the entry hall toward the door, and he didn’t sound happy. The door flew open, and as it did, Jefferson racked the slide on the shotgun. It was a distinct sound that froze most people right where they were. Jefferson leveled the shotgun at the short guy who had opened the door. “Well, hey there,” Jefferson said.

  The man was maybe five feet four inches tall and skinny as a rail. His hair was long and unkempt, hippy-style. He wore cutoff jeans shorts and nothing else. His eyes never left the bore of the shotgun, and his Adam’s apple bobbed. “Wuh-what is this?” he asked in a small, weak voice.

  “Moving day,” said Craig.

  Candy Burton came up the hall behind the man. She glared at the three men on her stoop. “We aren’t moving,” she snapped. A cigarette bounced on her lips as she spoke.

  “No, Ms. Burton, but he is,” said Matt.

  Candy squinted at him. “Chief Greshin?” she asked. She looked Witherson up and down, and her expression twisted with emotion. Her gaze lingered on the Sheriff’s badge pinned to Jefferson’s chest. “The police chief, the sheriff, and some loser ain’t gonna tell me who can live here.”

  Matt smiled his best public relations smile. “No, Ma’am. Wouldn’t dream of it. But we heard our friend here is moving.” His eyes cut to the short man, hardening as they did so. “What was your name again, friend?”

  Candy opened her mouth, but before she could speak, the short guy elbowed her in the ribs. Hard. “I don’t need a bitch to speak for me, Candy. I told you that before.”

  Quick as a whip, Jefferson reversed the shotgun and jammed it into the short guy’s midriff. The air exploded out of the little man, and he sagged to the side, resting against the door jamb, chest heaving. “No way to treat a woman, friend,” said Jefferson in an iron-hard voice.

  “I’m not your friend, old fuck, and I ain’t moving nowhere.”

  “What’s your name, fella?” asked Matt. “I don’t believe you’re from around here.”

  “My name is Randy Fergusson, and what business is it of yours where I live or where I’m from?”

  Matt laid a big hand on his shoulder and pulled him away from the door jamb. “Two ways this can go, Randy. One, we let you go inside and gather your belongings. We’ll be there with you, in case your hands want to go off wandering again. Or two, we’ll bag you up, and throw you in the back, your shit be damned. Which option are you keen on?”

  “What? You can’t come around here and tell me what I will and won’t do. You cops don’t have no authority—”

  “No cops here, old son,” said Matt. “Just three buddies to help you move.”

  Randy’s face flushed. “Well, fuck you, buddy. I ain’t moving.”

  Jefferson shot a glance at Craig. “Sounds like he picks option number two.”

  Witherson grabbed Randy’s arm and bent it in a hammerlock, lifting the smaller man onto his toes. He jerked him this way and that and then pinned him up against the Wagoneer. “Anyone got a pair of cuffs handy?”

  “Wait just a goddamn minute,” said Randy. “Just wait a minute!”

  Matt slapped his cuffs on the man and bore down hard as he tightened them.

  “Ow!”

  “Hey!” shouted Candy. “Don’t hurt him.”

  Bobby Jefferson looked at her with disgust and then shook his head. “Woman, he just now bopped you in the ribs, and you want to stand there and defend him? What in the Sam Hill is wrong with you?”

  She looked him up and down. “The day you’re fit to judge me, I’ll be—”

  “A dumb woman who wants to live with a guy who beats her. Tell me, dumb woman, where’s your son?””

  Candy whirled on her heels and slammed the door.

  Bobby shook his head and then slapped Fergusson on the head. “Hey, bozo, she was speaking for you again. Didn’t hear you put up a fuss this time though.”

  Randy went over red and tried to push away from the side of the Jeep, but Craig Witherson was a man of great, wiry strength, and he held him there. “One of you want to get the back?”

  Matt opened the tailgate of the Wagoneer, and Craig led Fergusson over, gripping his shoulders so tight that Craig’s fingers went white.

  “Tell you what we will do, Randy,” said Matt. “We are gonna load you in the back of this vehicle, and we will drive on over to Genosgwa and buy you a bus ticket. Anywhere you want, as long as it doesn’t cost over twenty, and it ain’t here.”

  “What we’re not gonna do, is put up with any shit,” said Bobby.

  “Yeah, big men you three are,” said Randy. “Why don’t you come at me one at a time? And without any fucking shotguns.”

  “Because we don’t want you to get hurt, you little pissant,” said Craig, punctuating the sentence with a sharp shake.

  “Just so you know, things like what you just said, Randy, that all counts as shit in my book.” Bobby whacked the butt of his shotgun into Randy’s lower back, not hard enough to do lasting damage, but hard enough to make Randy squeal. “Now, you got anything else to say?”

  “My stuff,” wheezed Randy. “I want option one.”

  Bobby Jefferson laughed, long and loud. “I bet you do, champ.”

  2

  Benny woke, swimming in sweat and huffing hard. His heart was thumping in his chest like he’d been sprinting. His mouth was so dry his throat hurt. His room was dark, filled with shadows.

  He’d been dreaming about something dark, something scary. About something trying to get in through his window.

  He flung himself over, eyes searc
hing the shadows between his bed and the window. His mind was still grainy with sleep, and his eyes were bleary, but nothing in his room moved. He kept a sharp watch, anyway.

  Outside, the night was lit by the stars and the three-quarters moon. Color had faded from the world. It was like gazing out at a black-and-white picture.

  As his heartbeat slowed to normal, his eyelids grew heavy and kept wanting to drift shut. He snapped them open time and time again, sure there would be something creeping up on him, but there never was. The window was closed, locked. He was safe.

  Just before sleep claimed him, something rattled against his window, and his eyes snapped open. His room was darker than it had been. He could no longer see his desk, his toy box. He couldn’t see the door to the hall or the closet, either. His eyes drifted to the window, thinking maybe he’d slept after all and the moon had set.

  He couldn’t see anything out the window. It was like the windows of the house on Thousand Acre Drive—pitch black. He gulped and sucked in a breath. Maybe he’d dreamed the bright moon and stars. Maybe it was the new moon, he couldn’t remember.

  Then the rattle came again. It sounded like someone throwing gravel at his window. The sound didn’t scare him, and if his window hadn’t gone black, he’d have thought it was Paul or Mike and gone to the window.

  “Benny. Benny, help me.”

  The rattle came again. The voice sounded like…sounded like Toby.

  Maybe he had run away. Maybe his mom’s beau had beat him up, and he’d taken his tent and sleeping bag and went camping.

  Benny threw back the covers, shuddering as the cool night air hugged him. He sat up on the side of his bed. “Toby?” he whispered. He threw a glance at his bedroom door. The last thing he needed was his mom hearing him.

  “Yeah, it’s me. Benny, help me! You have to help me, man.”

  Benny put his foot on the floor, toes splayed like they were monster sensors. He glanced at the bedroom door again.

  “Chop chop, Benny! It’s cold out here. Let me in.”

  “I’m not supposed to, Toby. It’s after bedtime.”

  “Just do it, Benny. Do it, do it, do it.”

  Something about the voice made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. It was Toby’s voice, he had no doubt of that, but there was something wrong. Something wrong with Toby, something wrong with the situation.

  “Toby, I’m already in a heap of trouble. I went to see the bike man, and my mom wants to boil my butt in oil.”

  “Just do it, Benny,” Toby sighed. “You know I would.”

  Then, like a lightning bolt, the memory of the bicycle man’s patter came back to him.

  Just do it, Benny, he’d said. You know Toby would.

  Benny sucked a deep breath, wanting to scream for his dad.

  “Don’t do that, sonny-boy,” said Toby’s voice. “No, don’t call your pops.”

  How could he know I was thinking that! He pulled his foot back up into bed and tucked it under the bed clothes.

  “Now, son, I don’t want to be rude, but what kind of friend leaves a buddy to freeze in the cold night air?” The voice had changed. Now, it was the creaky, scratchy voice of an old man. “What kind of boy won’t help a friend in need?”

  “Where’s Toby? What have you done with him?”

  “Come on, now, son. Of what are you accusing me? Just come on out and say it.”

  “Duh-did you kill him?”

  The old man laughed, sounding like a cat stuck in a rusty screen door. “Ah, boy, that’s a good one, son! Did I kill him, ha!”

  The man laughed for what felt like a long time, but Benny felt no desire to join him. It wasn’t that kind of laugh, it was more like the laugh of a bully after he punched you and made you drop your books. The laughter faded into a chuckle with a few guffaws mixed in, and then wound to a stop. Benny thought he could hear the old man breathing, just outside his window.

  “How did you get up on the roof?” There was no answer, but Benny could still hear him wheezing. “Did you? Did you kill Toby?” The breathing became faster. “Or are you a pervert?”

  “Listen here, boyo. I’m losing patience with you. Are you going to open the damn window or not?” The voice had gone as cold and empty as a baseball diamond in the winter.

  “No,” said Benny. “Why would I?” He pulled the covers up as if to put an exclamation point on his answer.

  “I’ll see you again, Benjamin James Cartwright. Oh, you better believe I will.”

  Chills ran down Benny’s back and gooseflesh rippled across his chest despite his fall pajamas. He pulled the covers up to his chin, staring and staring at the black window. The old man breathed, huffing like he was angry.

  “What did you do with Toby?”

  He didn’t think the old man would answer, but after a long time, the man said, “He’s with us now, Benny, and with us, he will stay.”

  Then, with a sharp gust of cold air that stung Benny’s eyes, the blackness outside his window shrank to a point that popped as it disappeared. The three-quarter moon flashed like summer sunlight off the water. The stars twinkled, and the fall wind blew.

  When Benny woke up the next morning, he laughed. What a dream he’d had. That wasn’t a dream, Benny, and you know it, said a small voice in the back of his mind. “Yes, it was,” murmured Benny. “Yes, it was.”

  3

  “Now, tell me shit-stick,” said Bobby Jefferson. “What happened to the boy?”

  “The boy?” asked Randy. “What do you mean?”

  “To Toby,” snapped Greshin. “What did you do with Candy’s boy?”

  The three of them were in the back seat of Witherson’s Wagoneer, squeezed in tight like sardines. They sat parked in a cut out in the middle of the countryside between Oneka Falls and Genosgwa.

  Bobby was on Randy’s left, and Chief Greshin was on his right. Craig had their guns up in the front seat, but Randy didn’t stand a chance, even so, and by the look on his face, he knew it. He scoffed. “That little bastard? The best part of him ran out Candy’s cooze right after she banged the kid’s dad.”

  Bobby growled and leaned closer to Randy.

  “All right, you grumpy old bastard, all right! I smacked him around a little. So what? He needs a firm hand, or the way he’s going, he’ll be in trouble before he can get a driver’s license.”

  “And then what,” asked Greshin.

  “What do you mean, ‘and then what?’ And then he cried like a little girl.”

  Bobby reached across and smacked him. “You know what we want to know, skid-mark. Don’t play coy, or I’ll ask these two to step out a minute.”

  “Oh, a tough guy,” sneered Randy. Even so, he leaned away from the sheriff. “Well, I’ll tell you guys, I have no idea what you want to know. I hit him. I hit Candy. They both deserved it, and I would do it again.”

  Bobby looked past him and quirked his eyebrows at Greshin.

  “Where did you hide his body, Randy?” asked Matt in a mild tone as if he were asking about the baseball game the previous night.

  “His what? His body? Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa. Put on the brakes. There is no body. At least, not a dead one. Not that I know of, anyway.” Randy’s chin quivered.

  “Maybe you better tell us about the last time you saw him,” growled Bobby.

  “Yeah, okay. I can do that, but you’re not pinning his murder on me. His or anyone else’s. I didn’t kill no one.”

  Bobby leaned in close. “Spill,” he whispered, and his whisper was more menacing than his shouting.

  “Yeah, fine. It was at dinner Sunday night. Or what you could call dinner, I guess. Candy cooks about as good as she fucks, and I’ll save you all the twenty it would cost you to find out. She fucks like an old, dead fish.”

  Bobby twirled his index finger. Go on, his eyes said.

  “So, we’re sitting there, eating Candy’s slop, and boy… You ain’t gonna believe this, but the boy looks right at me, bold as brass, and says, he says, ‘Why don’t
you have a job?’ Can you believe that? Right there at dinner.”

  “And then?”

  “And then I popped his snotty little puss for him, didn’t I? He can take a punch, I’ll give him credit for that. Candy goes off like a firecracker. What did I do that for? It’s an honest question. Blah blah blah. So…she gets one, too.

  “The whole while, Toby’s just sitting there, looking at me. A little blood was dribbling down from his split lip, adding color to those watery mashed potatoes Candy makes. He didn’t even notice. He’s just staring at me, right?

  “So, I says to him, I says, ‘If you don’t get those peepers off of me, bucko, I’ve got another pop for you just like the first.’ He just looks at me, calm as crackers.”

  “So…” said Greshin.

  “So I popped him again. Other side of the face this time. Still, he don’t cry like usual. He don’t snivel and run to Candy. What’s worse is he’s still looking at me like I’m a bug.

  “Candy, now, she’s smarter than the rugrat. She knows one pop to the kisser is better than two any day of the week, so she’s keeping her mouth shut, looking at her lap.

  “Not Toby, though. No. Toby’s eyeballing me like he’s got a pair, and the way boys develop these days, maybe his dropped early. I don’t know, ‘cause I don’t go for little boys. Not like Witherson up there.”

  “You aren’t too bright, are you?” whispered Bobby Jefferson in a tone of voice that made the hair on Matt’s arms stand up straight. “You’re going to sit here bragging about beating up an eleven-year-old, and then crack wise, the whole time sitting not an inch away from me?”

  Randy looked at him out of the corner of his eye and gulped. “So, anyway, Toby’s staring at me, and I can’t have it. You know how it is. I demand respect, and, by God, any kid I’m supporting better give it to me, or he’s gonna get popped once or twice.

  “Well, the third time I smacked him, I hit him harder, and his head snapped to the side. He turns back to me, slow-like, and stares at me again! Can you believe it? I was thinking, ‘My God, this kid’s dumb.’ Then I said to him, ‘School time, Toby,’ and pushed back from the table.

  “I don’t wear a belt, but I keep one handy. You betcha. So, I go and get it and come back. Candy’s crying and whispering to Toby. Well, she should know better, so I laid that belt across her back, and she screams, all high and watery.