

## Fiddleback 2

A Novel by Jeff Vrolyks

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 Jeff Vrolyks

### Foreword

Of the several novels I've written, none have included a foreword. I consider that a service to my readers, because who really cares about the author? What matters is the story. The story, it's always about the story. It isn't about technique, vocabulary, or even word selection (though it helps), it's about the story. When a daddy tells his daughter and her twelve brownie friends a story by a campfire, do they give two shits about anything other than the story? Does daddy ever give a foreword before telling his campfire tale?

I wanted to write a foreword on how stories come to be, at least in my own experience, and if you've read Stephen King's On Writing, you'll know that he shares the same method of story creating, one that preceded my own by roughly forty years. I'd guess that most writers share this method. Those who have never written a novel will assume that stories are outlined, plots considered in advance and written down, with arrows pointing this way and that, notes scrawled on the margin, stuff crossed out and some stuff with several underscores—the neighbor boy was the killer, perhaps. The truth is, most stories are written one word and one idea at a time. I don't know why stories are better written on the fly, but they are. There is always an exception to the rule, but generally speaking this is the case.

I write prolifically. Once I get a vague idea of a story, I set aside some time where I won't be disturbed and I pour out copious amounts of text in no-time-flat. I've written a novel in less than a week. I don't say that proudly, or as a badge of honor. Stories are like demons needing to be exorcised, the faster the better. Behind The Horned mask was such a long novel that I split it in two, each of them being roughly novel-length. I wrote that like a maniac, it had become an obsession. I was working 12 hour shifts at the time I wrote it, so when I wasn't at work I was cranking out words on an abused laptop in my car with a can of Monster at the ready. Just over two weeks that long-assed novel took for me to write. That demon was exorcised and I was pacified for a good while, until I ventured to write Fiddleback 2.

If I can veer off topic for a moment, let me talk about Fiddleback 2. I had never intended on writing a sequel. It shouldn't be considered a sequel, shouldn't have been entitled Fiddleback 2, but perhaps Fiddleback Lateral. The time-frame of the novel takes place during the 5 years that gapped Trent killing Mae's parents, and Tag submitting his stories on an amateur website. Those 5 years were suspiciously absent in Fiddleback.

And now for the reason why I'm writing this foreword: to tell you the ideas that sparked my novels. I'll keep it short. I won't be offended if you skip over this and get to the meat and potatoes of this novel. My novels were written from a simple image or idea, no more than that. Here they are, and thank you for your time.

(Listed in chronological order)

Fate Fatale: A man driving down a mountain highway in a convertible swerves purposely off the road, plummets off a cliff. Mid air he feels the touch of a hand on his shoulder.

Reflection: A wealthy man has a bitch wife who is divorcing him. He decides he'd rather give his money away to a select few strangers in need than letting that bitch get his money (boy did that story turn out differently than I had intended).

Fiddleback (a two pronged idea, as it was originally two separate novels): 1) What if a girl has an imaginary friend who isn't as imaginary as she thinks, and he tells her to do bad things? 2) What if an amateur writer falls in love with one of his characters, then learns the character is a real person?

Mortality in Wasteland: What if during the Black Death plague in 14th century England, a young man was tasked with being the town's undertaker. How would he deal with burying half the town, and where would he put them all?

Tell No One: What if a star college quarterback about to enter the draft has a dark secret from his childhood. What if when he was a kid, he and a little girl entered a mine and killed someone.

Harlot Malediction: What if you could utter a curse that unleashed something pretty fucking horrible, wiping out the whole town.

Inferno, Purgatorio, Paradiso: What if a guy sees a black-shrouded figure in the great distance, and every day that figure is a touch closer to him. Closer and closer until it reaches him.

Behind The Horned Mask: What if there was a masquerade party and one of the masqueraders was wearing a mask of a man, and a hat with devil horns. The devil masquerading as a man. What might he do to the partiers?

Fiddleback 2: I wonder what happened during the 5 years I glossed over in Fiddleback? There's only one way to find out: let me power up my laptop.

## Part 1: Then

### Chapter One

### 2001

The funeral service was at a church that Timothy had never been to. And even now as he was taking his seat he hadn't the slightest notion of its name or precisely what religion it was. Christian is what he had been told he was, so this was probably a Christian establishment. It was only recently that he learned that some people believed in other things, and that was a curious thing to consider. Is God okay with that?

An orderly at the foster home, Jim, had died a few days ago, and he must have had a lot of friends and family because this large room was getting pretty packed. Getting pretty cozy, as Maggie—another orderly—would have said.

Timothy picked a seat kind of in the back, where there were plenty of open seats (for now). There was a chorus of soft weeping. As he made his way down the row he spotted a girl in a pretty white dress with wide belled skirts, shiny white Mary Jane shoes. Her feet didn't reach the floor. He wondered why she didn't have to wear black like everyone else. She was seated alone. Her parents were probably off greeting some of the other mourners, touching softly their backs before shaking their hands with grave expressions. Or maybe she was an orphan, too.

He judged her to be about his age, maybe a little older—no older than eight, nine tops. She had a pert little nose, red little mouth, slate blue eyes with long dark lashes, hair so light that it might have been strands of spider silk. Not blonde but _white!_ She looked like a doll, one of those kinds whose eyes close when you lay them down. Looking at her he felt something never before felt, and that was... well he didn't know what it was, but he wanted to talk to her.

"Hi," Timothy said and took a seat two spots down from her.

"Hello," she crooned with a big smile and a wave for good measure. What a pretty way to say hello, he thought, to sort of sing it.

"Are you here for the funeral?" he asked her.

She covered her mouth and giggled. Timothy frowned at that, then giggled himself. Two people entered their row, took a seat far from them.

"Do you live in the foster home too?" he asked her. He was sure she didn't, he would have recalled seeing her. "I don't remember seeing you there."

"No," she drawled, tilted her head, and smiled widely at him again.

Pretty dang odd, this little number was. Bubbling with personality, he could tell already. "I've been there for almost a year now," Timothy said with a sense of pride. "I liked Jim. He always had funny stories to tell about his wife, who he called his old battle axe."

"He was a great man," the girl said. "He made me laugh."

"So you knew him. I'm Timothy; what's yours?"

"Arabella," she said and moved over to the chair beside his and poked him in the side playfully.

"Arabella, that's a neat name. Are you an orphan too? If not, where are your parents?"

She shrugged, giggled, took his hand in hers. Her bright blue eyes peered so deeply into his that it felt like an invasion of his privacy!—that surely she could read his mind with such a penetrating stare! But he liked it. She could invade his privacy any day she'd like.

His mouth unhinged unawares. His eyes drifted down to her nose and mouth, back to her eyes. What a wonderful girl, he thought. Too bad she didn't live at Saint Josephine's Foster home, because he'd like to play with her. He sensed she'd be good at Hide 'N' Seek, and even better at Tag. He wanted more than just to play with her, he wanted to be friends with her. He admitted to himself that he might even add a special word before friends, such as best. Sometimes things happen just that fast.

"See that man," she said and pointed to an older guy several rows up. He followed her dwarven digit with an itty-bitty nail and spotted him, nodded. "He's dying, too," she said. "Sad, huh?"

"He is? Him?" He pointed. She nodded. "Of what?"

She shrugged. "He just is. That's what I heard, anyway."

"Will you be here for his funeral?" he asked.

"Would you like me to be?"

"I don't care," he said coolly, faced forward and folded his arms under his chest. He stared sidelong at her and added, "If you'd like, sure."

More people were entering their rows, taking seats. Service would begin pretty soon.

"My parents died last year," Timothy informed her. He wasn't enjoying facing forward and pretending not to be infatuated with her, so he resumed his previous posture, which was leaning into her, inches from her charming little face. He took it a step further and put his hand on her forearm. "They were missionaries, if you know what that is. Preached gospel to poor Godless people in other countries. Some countries were really far away. _Really_ far, like directly below us if you dug a deep enough hole. They were only supposed to be gone two weeks, but there was some kind of tragedy. There are bad people out there who don't agree with the commandment thou shalt not kill."

She nodded solemnly.

More people had entered their row, which was now the only row left with available seat. They were side-stepping toward Timothy and Arabella.

"I'm really glad we met," he said to her. It was the most honest thing he had ever said.

"Me, too. Very glad."

A family took the four seats to Timothy's right. A man and woman edged their way past them now. The man smiled wanly at him, an apologetic one, the kind reserved for funerals. The woman in his company (presumably his wife) didn't look happy to be here. She'd rather be anywhere on earth over this place, Timothy judged. She dropped a folded-over piece of paper to the floor just before him. He reached down and picked it up, tapped it rapidly into the back of her knee a couple times to get her attention: she took it without a word. Timothy said you're welcome, looked to Arabella with a disapproving head-shake. Mannerlessness is what's wrong with the world today, his expression said. The man took the seat just past Arabella.

Timothy's eyes doubled when he saw the mannerless woman preparing to sit down on his new friend. She turned her back to Arabella, tucked her black dress in and just before taking the seat Timothy exclaimed, "Ma'am, the seat is taken! You'll crush her!"

The woman looked back quizzically at Timothy, then the occupied seat in question, moved down the row to the seat just past the guy.

"The nerve of some people, huh?" Timothy whispered to her.

She smiled at him, patted his knee.

An old man was now making his way down the row. There were no more available seats, so what was this old codger planning? Timothy frowned up at him as he brushed by, had half a mind to say something but didn't.

"Afternoon, son," the man said and turned his back to poor Arabella, precisely as the woman had done just a moment ago.

"Sir, the seat is taken," Timothy said at wit's end.

The man paid no attention and took Arabella's seat. Timothy was fixed on her as the man collided into her, through her.

The man adjusted in his seat as he looked over to Timothy's enormous eyes, his gaping mouth.

"Is there a problem?" the man asked him.

### 10 Years Later

Sandalwood Street was the place to be if you liked street hockey. It was Timothy's favorite after-school hobby. It was a ten minute bike ride from his house, in a lower-middle-class neighborhood where houses were built practically on top of one another, the streets narrow and typically lined with cars at the curb. What made this locale great for street hockey was that it was on the last street of the tract, and at the corner, so that people driving home would arrive before reaching them— that is, unless they lived at one of the houses offering front-row seating to the games. There was typically an audience gathered on the sidewalk composed of neighborhood kids too young or horrible to play, and an occasional parent or two.

There were two metal trashcans on their sides acting as goals, spaced forty feet apart. Timothy was the first chosen every time because he was the oldest here at sixteen, and larger than the others—lankier than most, but taller than all. The kids looked up to him as the neighborhood's best goal-scorer, and because of this admiration they never teased him about his stutter—try finding that anywhere else. He had been playing nearly every day for a month now, having learned of these games from a boy at his school. He was making new friends, though the majority of them were in middle school. There was just one other boy here from his high school, a freshman named Wally. He was pretty terrible at the game (but not at Chess and Star Trek trivia, if that helps paint a picture), and was usually picked last. But he was as good as anyone at passing the ball, and just now made a beautiful pass to Timothy, who capitalized on the lack of defenders between himself and goalie, slapped the ball with his scuffed and scarred hockey stick, and into the trashcan it went with a loud reverberating clang. His teammates cheered, gathered in to exchange high-fives.

"Car!" Someone shouted.

On cue two boys moved the trashcans out of the street; everyone took to the nearest curb as a van idled by and pulled into the driveway of a nearby house.

Timothy checked his watch. It was 5:30 P.M., almost time to be getting a move-on. He had to tend to the horses—shovel some poop, feed them, pet them—and would be at it well into nightfall. Before he discovered his passion for hockey he'd get home from school early enough to get everything taken care of before ten P.M.; now he was working almost to midnight on the weekdays. His grandparents grouched at him over this new schedule initially, but they loved seeing Timothy so genuinely happy and making new friends (he had never been great at making friends). So they not only allowed it, they supported this new extracurricular activity.

A nearby front door opened and a young boy bellowed, "Jason, Mom wants to talk to you!" The door thudded closed.

"Dangit," Jason said just a few feet from Timothy.

The cans were returned proper. Jason said sorry guys and trudged home. The captain of the opposing team said next goal wins: everyone agreed to it. Timothy volunteered to replace Jason as his team's goalkeeper. He was a great scorer but an equally great goalkeeper. It would be up to his teammates to sneak a ball past Jordan, the fat kid who blocked most of their shots with his sheer size, like trying to sneak a golf ball into the nozzle of a garden hose.

The game recommenced.

There was cheering from his right, where several youths had gathered. One such youth was a girl named Krista who seemed to love to find reasons to cry, usually after scraping any number of body parts by any number of ways. Timothy glanced over and saw her, and a girl standing beside Krista. His gaze returned to the street before him. The opposing team wasted no time making a run for a shot: Timothy hunkered down and by the skin of his teeth deflected the ball rocketing at him; it rolled down the street behind him. People at the sidewalk cheered, one whistled. He glanced over at the spectators again, this time taking better notice of the girl not Krista.

A peculiar sensation stole over him, one of vague remembrance, and it made his guts tingle.

The game continued. Timothy immersed himself in sport. Seconds later his teammate lost possession of the ball and a little bruiser by the name of Scotty took a shot that went between his legs and into the trashcan with a game-ending clang. There was a clamor of boos and cheers, banter and praise.

Timothy looked to the sidewalk, to the little girl in a white dress, and squinted at her.

The trashcans were taken out of the street. The crowd began dispersing. A boy approached Timothy and asked if he'd be here tomorrow even though it was Saturday—they were trying to organize a weekend game. Distractedly he replied that he wouldn't be able to make it, that he worked on weekends. The boy walked away crestfallen. Timothy returned his gaze to the sidewalk once again where the little girl was now walking away. He went to his bike in the driveway of a nearby house and mounted it, hurried toward her.

Friends, acquaintances, and teammates waved goodbye at him, said good game and see you Monday. Timothy mindlessly replied to a few of them. He pedaled faster, crossed the street and coursed the sidewalk, slowing down when he neared the girl.

"Hey," he said to her.

She continued walking, looked up at him. "Hello."

"I haven't seen you here before."

She nodded. Her little legs moved along purposefully.

"You look familiar. Have we met?"

She didn't reply. She looked hauntingly familiar. What was vexing about it was that she was only seven or eight, so she shouldn't have looked like someone from his past. But gut feelings are what they are.

"Well?" Timothy said impatiently. "Have we? Have we met?"

Her reply wasn't verbal but in her smile.

"I knew it! Where'd we meet? What's your name?"

"You didn't come to Rodger's funeral," she said.

A boy zipped by on his bike saying, "You're going the wrong way, dude!" And chuckled. "See you Monday!

"Yeah, and if you're l-lucky you'll be on m-my team!" Timothy replied and looked back to the girl who was no longer there.

He stopped pedaling, looked in every direction. "Where'd you g-go?"

_I didn't see you at Rodger's funeral?_ he mused. _Who's Rodger?_

Then it came to him. He gasped. Jim's funeral. The little girl whose name he did remember. He had replayed that meeting with her hundreds of times that long-ago year, and recalled her pointing at an older man saying he was going to die. Though she hadn't mentioned him by name, he would bet the farm that his name was Rodger. And this girl was none other than Arabella. And, like back then, she had vanished.

### Chapter Two

It was the busiest time of year for camping in Yosemite, this being the first week of June. School was out, family vacations in full bore. You couldn't ask for a better forecast: sunny and highs in the seventies, lows in the upper fifties. The Barnett's were a quintet, John and Lauren with their three sons, Jake, Michael, and Chris. Chris was the eldest at fifteen, a soon-to-be sophomore at Piedmont High. He was a good looking boy with aspirations of making the junior varsity football team, had a gym membership at 24 Hour Fitness which he frequented with zealous regularity, and possessed the kind of good looks that invoked giggling in girls his age. Jake was the youngest at eleven, his ambitions split evenly between AYSO soccer and X-Box. He had sprouted three inches this year, and was already taller than his thirteen-year-old brother Michael.

Michael was slow to mature, reached puberty only recently, and possessed no aspirations or ambitions that he was aware of. Like all adolescents, he was still trying to get a grasp on who he'd grow into, searching for his identity. Being that he had no inclinations of playing sports—he had tried playing football with his older brother Chris and loathed everything about it, kicked the soccer ball around with Jake and considered it too strenuous—his hobbies were those enjoyed indoors such as reading comic books, science fiction magazines, and role-playing video games on the computer which he hadn't a knack for but enjoyed immensely.

What Michael lacked in talent he compensated for in repetition, playing long hours in front of the computer after school. Role-playing games were great for one singular reason: he had an opportunity to be someone he wasn't, to be the hero in a digital world, assume the looks of a stud and not a boy slow to mature physically. The game he played more and more was DragonQuest, his character a Barbarian Warrior who led the charge in dungeons with a group of player-controlled mages, wizards, rangers, rogues, and clerics, protecting them from falling victim to monsters. He had made acquaintance with several of these warring and healing classes and attained moderate respect from them. Being that his friends were virtual and resided in cities and states far from Sacramento, California, he remained somewhat of a loner in school—this his second year at Piedmont Middle School.

On the third-to-last day of school, Michael's English teacher had assigned an essay to be turned in on the day before summer vacation kicked off: What do you want to be when you grow up? A typical inquiry, Michael thought, but that didn't make it less interesting. It was a question that would be easily and hastily answered by many of his classmates, but not so for Michael. He supposed his teacher wanted to read essays of doctor and lawyer hopefuls, future engineers and businessmen, but Mr. Kendrick wouldn't get that from Michael. His essay was titled Video Game Artist. He wanted to draw the monsters and heroes for video games. He wasn't great at drawing by computer, nor was he competent at freehand, so he supposed it was a long shot landing that career, but it was the only answer he could come up with to that ageless question.

He did have a friend who wasn't based in pixelations and spoken to solely via keyboard. Taylor was his name, was the same age and went to the same school. But a year ago he began playing baseball and since then that damned game consumed his free time almost entirely. No more hanging out with Taylor to play Transformers—which wasn't a bad thing, being that he was now thirteen and too old to play with toys—or shooting shit with pellet guns or sticking M-80s in random things to see how they blew up. Michael still spoke with Taylor when he chanced by him during passing period, or meandering around campus during lunch recess, and occasionally he sat beside him during assemblies, but that was more or less the extent of it. At lunch Taylor sat beside the kids he played baseball with; that was the agent of their unity and it was a sticky one, one that made no exceptions for boys whose hobby was playing online video-games.

In the neighborhood there weren't many kids his age. They were either a couple grades above or below him, just as his brothers were. The exception was his next-door neighbor and possessor of his heart, Mae Clark. His first and possibly last crush she was. Mae was his age and not nearly as slow in her maturation. She was already growing respectable boobs at thirteen and her hips were starting to become a woman's. Michael was shaped like a plank, flat ass and flat chest, stringy arms and legs. At least he wasn't fat, he had that much to be grateful for.

He seldom spoke to Mae. The few glorious occasions when he had occurred when she came over to his house to chit chat with his older brother Chris. It wasn't surprising to Michael that she'd befriend his older brother. He was aware of how well girls received his looks and personality, so why should it be any different with Mae Clark? He had only asked her a handful of questions in the three years she had been his neighbor, and one regarded video games, and her interest or disinterest in them. She did like them, but not online role-playing games, so there went that hope. He had once asked if she wanted to try DragonQuest. Before she could answer, he stated that there was a free ten-day trial, so there would be no harm in trying it out. The name alone was reason enough for her soured expression; she shied away from the opportunity. The next time their paths crossed he asked her if she liked shooting pellet guns, and had a proposal lined up for her in the event of an affirmative answer. But even there he failed to capture her interest: she said no, but at least she smiled politely as she said it. He bet she would have said yes to both DragonQuest and pellet guns if it had been his older brother Chris asking her.

Parents will invariably profess to have no favorites when it comes to their children, but let's be honest, few don't. His dad favored Chris, shared his love for football, having played it in high school himself some twenty years ago. He encouraged Jake in soccer and admired his competitive nature which was profound for a kid so young. His mother fawned over Jake for some inestimable reason, perhaps him being the baby of the lot. Michael sensed that his parents feigned a lot of enthusiasm for his own interests and propensities, but he supposed that was preferable to wearing their disinterest on their sleeves.

The Barnett's were to enjoy a seven day trip to Yosemite, in the Wawona campgrounds, which were the first grounds upon entering the national park. Its relatively low elevation meant more temperate climate than the grounds deeper into Yosemite, and consequently a lesser need for stocks of firewood to keep warm at night. The sites were a little too close to one another, privacy almost non-existent other than from the firs and underbrush that blanketed the mountain hillside.

On their campsite were two dome tents: one for the adults, one for the kids. After that first night Jake relocated to their parents tent, having woken up twice in the middle of the night screaming. Night terrors were what Jake had, some really shitty nightmares that ended in his sitting bolt upright in his sleeping bag and screaming his damned head off. It had been a thing as of late, spanning and escalating over the months. So loud were these violent paroxysms that the neighboring campers must have thought someone was being murdered. Nobody came to investigate the cause of their alarm though, and that was probably due to how short lived the outbursts were. Short lived because Chris shook Jake into consciousness just seconds after they began. John and Amber decided after that first night that Jake should sleep with them, judging that he'd be less likely to suffer nightmares knowing his parents lay so near him. With Jake's relocation there were just the two of them in the kid's tent, Chris and Michael.

It was the second day of their vacation, high noon when Michael wandered off by himself, to do some exploring in this verdant wonderland of hundred-foot-tall redwood sequoias, babbling brooks, and teeming wildlife most of which were blue jays and squirrels. He followed a nearby brook downstream, stopped occasionally to chuck rocks into the water, and spied a lizard basking in the warm sun on a hot rock on the bank. He threw a rock at it, narrowly missing. He moved on.

The brook originated from the Merced river and snaked down between two opposing hillsides. The farther he hiked the farther he distanced himself from the campers of Wawona. At first he could hear the distant cries of jollity, kids having a blast back at the campgrounds, but as he progressed in his travels he heard it less and less before escaping it entirely. The bank descended steeply at one point, where there were large clusters of enormous granite boulders channeling the fast-moving water downstream. He had to be cautious climbing down the rocks to avoid a nasty injury. Once he made it down, he paused to appreciate this new area. The brook was wide and slow here, dark blue in the center where it was ostensibly much deeper. Lateral to what Michael estimated was the deepest part of this section of brook, was a redwood tree with a rope fastened to a low branch, used by the adventurous vacationer to swing into the brook like a less-dramatic Tarzan.

Michael found a few beer cans on the sandy and pebbled beach and figured it to be a popular destination for teenagers looking to party in seclusion. After a cursory examination of these sun-bleached beer cans, he concluded those who drank them had done so many years ago.

He had to pee for some time now and this was as good a place as any, so he decided to relieve himself right there on the bank. There was no need to hide behind a tree as there was nobody around for at least a mile. It felt good to pee out there in the open, the cool breeze against his exposed parts, the sound of liquid hitting sand, punctuated with accusatory caws from blue jays and the occasional chattering of squirrels.

As he urinated he scanned the area, spied something just beside a redwood some twenty feet away. It was a magazine partially covered by pine needles. After relieving himself he zipped up and investigated the discarded magazine. It was upside down, but he knew immediately what kind of publication it was: pornographic. There was a buxom beauty in a compromising position on the back cover, a phone number and website address below her. Michael bent down and took it up. Penthouse. He felt a tickle in his groin as he opened it. Images pouring into him page after page were done just above a steady awareness that he was alone. Very alone. He threw a couple glances over his shoulder as he perused the magazine. Masturbating was new to him, about a year new, and that was something he did have a passion for. Had there been any professions that masturbating played a vital role in, he'd have composed his essay differently last week. Being that he shared a bedroom with Jake, he didn't get many opportunities to do it. Even the bathroom wasn't a safe refuge from his family, as someone would knock on the door before long. He had the shower and a chance few other places to explore this new hobby. This was as great a place as any to revisit it, so he did.

After finishing, he tossed aside the magazine where he had found it, reconsidered, and picked it back up. He'd keep this, he decided. He regretted not having taken a backpack along to stow the book in, but he wouldn't let that stop him. He folded it over and stuffed it down the front of his shorts, draped the hem of his shirt over the bulge and examined himself. It would have to do. He began his hike back to camp.

He was now carrying the mag. No sense in concealing it yet. He began second-guessing this decision to take ownership of this forsaken sex book. There were still five days remaining on this trip, which meant five days that someone could stumble upon his treasure; his mother stood out as a likely candidate, as she would spruce up the tent sometime between now and their return home. Even hiding it in his suitcase wouldn't guarantee him safety, as his family was a nosy bunch. So he decided to keep the magazine away from camp for now, under a blanket of pine needles and behind a rock, and on the last day of vacation he'd sneak it to his tent and bury it under the clothes in his suitcase.

Having duly buried his treasure, he returned to camp.

That night there was no screaming bloody murder from Jake. Michael awoke only once, just before dawn, and lumbered out of the tent to take a piss by a tree. The breeze grazing his genitals as he urinated reminded him of yesterday, his blessed fortune found at the obscure swimming hole. He decided to venture off again later that morning and revisit the magazine.

True to his plan, Michael journeyed down the brook before noon. He found the mag just where he left it, only some of the organic blanketing had shifted off of it, and Michael ascertained the evening wind was responsible. That or some curious quadruped had nosed around it. He picked it up and brushed off the dust, looked around before heading off to a cluster of thick-trunked sequoias to take cover behind. He was only a hundred yards or so away from the campgrounds when he considered the spot. There were people who swam or played in this section of brook, so he took discretion in where he got down to business, and moved a little farther away from camp.

He had only just finished the deed when he heard two people conversing near enough that he reflexively dropped the book and zipped up in alarm before peeking around the tree to spy the intruders. It was an older couple walking hand in hand down the bank of the stream. Michael decided then that he wouldn't do it here again. He wedged the folded-over magazine under a wide boulder and headed back to camp.

The next day the Barnett family took the Chevy Tahoe out of the campgrounds to a well-known swimming hole called Swinging Bridge by everyone in the know. For several hours they swam in the clear cold water, dove off the rickety bridge that connected elevated hiking trails on both sides of the stream. This area of the river was governed by massive flat granite slabs. So prevalent they were that you never had to walk on dirt. On these rocks is where people spent their time in leisure, sprawled out and working on their tans, reading books, playing Checkers, sipping beer, drying off from having recently gone swimming. There were at least two dozen people at Swinging Bridge today, split into groups ranging from two and five, families.

Michael spotted a girl laying face down on blanketed rock, wearing a yellow two-piece bikini. Her body was dry but her hair gleamed wet. She was nineteen or twenty (Michael judged) and had a knock-out body. Beside her was a guy younger than she, maybe the age of his older brother Chris: fifteen. The guy was sitting with his legs stretched before him and leaning back on his locked arms. He looked over and caught Michael staring at the girl in his company—probably not girlfriend but sister, he thought. Michael quickly looked away. His eyes returned frequently. It was hard not to stare: finding someone that sexy and skimpily dressed is a rare and spectacular occasion. She flipped over and dug the bikini bottom out of her crack, adjusted her top, pulling it away from her boobs for a split second to reposition it. Michael stared feverishly. She settled down on her back, got to tanning her front side. Michael was performing all things perverse and depraved on her in his imagination. The guy at her side glared over at him again. Michael decided to only leer from now on, unless she repositioned her bathing suit; if and when that happened again he'd be staring directly, her company be damned.

Unfortunately his father decided to take a swim and urged Michael to come along. So he did, along with Chris. They played around in the water for a half hour, maybe an hour before quitting the stream and returning to their stations on towel-covered flat rock. The girl and boy had left sometime during their water-sport.

The Barnett's returned to camp a few hours before dusk. Michael refused a game of Chess against his mother and said he wanted to go hiking, alone, and would be back before dark. Jake asked if he could come along. Michael said no, but maybe tomorrow. With that half-promise he ventured off the grounds to the brook, followed it downstream. He went straight for the big rock and found his magazine where he had left it. Using better judgment he decided to return to the swimming hole a half-mile or better downstream, to ensure his privacy.

Upon arriving at his destination he found a nice rock to sit on, dropped his shorts to his ankles and took a seat, opened the mag and grew an erection. In his mind he was seeing the girl at Swinging Bridge, her face attached to the naked models of the mag. He was having sex with her in his mind, page and page again. Finally he set the Penthouse aside and relied on his memory of the girl to base his fantasy, laid back flat on the rock. He was so caught up in the deed that he didn't hear the approaching footfalls. When he did, it was too late, he had been caught. He sat up and let go of himself, met eyes with the very guy who was seated beside the girl in the yellow bikini earlier that day.

"What are you doing?" asked the guy grinning wryly.

"Sorry, I thought I was alone," Michael said, his face burning red in his shame.

The stranger stopped a few feet from Michael and stared sharply at the magazine with a scowl. "Dude, what the fuck? It was you who stole my Penthouse?"

Michael swallowed dryly, heart at a gallop. "I... I didn't know."

"You fucker, jacking it to my mag. Get your own, freak."

Michael got off the rock, pulled his shorts up, and took his first few strides campsite-bound. He saw the girl who wore the yellow bikini descending the rock cluster at the brook. She still wore the yellow top but now covered her lower half with short shorts. The stranger stopped him with a hand to his chest.

"It was you who was staring at my girlfriend at Swinging Bridge today."

"I wasn't staring," he said unconvincingly. The girl drew nearer, her brow furrowed.

"Yeah, right," the guy said thickly. "I saw you fucking her with your eyes. Were you fantasizing about her just now when you were jacking off? I bet you were."

"No, I swear I wasn't."

"Who's this?" the girl asked upon arriving.

"I don't know," the guy replied. "What's your name?"

"Michael."

"I'm Ryan and this is Emily."

Emily extended her hand to shake Michael's; Ryan slapped her hand away and said she'd do best not to touch his hand, then explained why. "I just caught him jacking off to a magazine."

Michael anticipated Emily frowning, but she didn't. She smirked. Then said, "You were at Swinging Bridge today. I saw you checking me out."

"He was jacking it to the magazine," Ryan said, "but he was fantasizing about you. Sick little fucker, ain't he?"

She nodded. Her expression was one of mingled intrigue and flattery.

Michael wanted the hell out of there. He had never been more embarrassed and ashamed in his life, and hadn't been this close to crying since he was a child. He took a step toward camp before being stopped once again.

"Look," Ryan said, "I don't want that magazine back, now that you've put your dick germs all over it. Keep it."

"Thanks," Michael said awkwardly.

"Oh it's not a gift. You're paying for it. How much money you got?"

"I don't have any money."

"Then get me some beer. Beer or money, or pot. _Something."_

" _Your_ magazine?" Emily asked her boyfriend. "It was already here when we—"

Ryan cut her off with a shush.

"You can keep the magazine," Michael said. "I don't want it. I can't offer you what I don't have."

"You're going to give me something, buddy-boy, you bet your ass. Maybe I'll find your campsite and meet your parents, tell them what I found you doing."

"No, don't," Michael said desperately. "There's no reason to, I won't have anything for you. I wish I did but I don't. I don't know what to tell you."

"Well," Ryan said contemplatively, "I suppose we could work something out." He looked at Michael's mouth. "You can work off your debt with your mouth."

Michael was confused.

"You know," Ryan said hintingly. "Get down on your knees."

"Oh no," Michael said repulsively, "I don't do that. I'm straight."

"So am I, but you're in a pickle, buddy-boy, so you have a choice to make."

"What are my choices?"

"On your knees or I kick your ass."

Michael considered an additional option: paying him off. He could borrow money from his dad maybe. "How much money would it take?"

"Fifty bucks," he replied after brief consideration.

" _Fifty bucks?_ That magazine probably cost five bucks!"

"Yeah well you're in no position to name your price. This ain't Priceline, dude."

Emily whispered in her boyfriend's ear. Whatever she said made Ryan grin. She pulled away, then returned to whisper an afterthought.

"You're in luck," Ryan said to Michael. "My girlfriend is very generous. Here's the deal: the price is still fifty bucks, but you get something for your money aside from the porno."

"Like I said, I don't have fifty bucks."

"But your parents do. You can think of something to tell them. Anyway, for your fifty bucks you get to live out some of your fantasy on my girl."

Michael blinked wide, mouth unhinged. Surely this was a joke. But Emily was grinning devilishly. Maybe it wasn't a joke.

"Like... like do what?" Michael asked. He had an idea what, but wanted to hear it.

"You ain't fuckin' her, if that's what you're thinking. Ever gone down on a girl?"

"No."

"So do we have a deal then?" asked Ryan.

"I don't know if I could get fifty from them. I can only try."

"Trying isn't good enough."

"If I can't get it, I'll give you my PSP. It's almost brand new, and I have a few video games for it. Is that cool?"

Ryan met eyes with his girlfriend Emily; they both nodded.

"Deal," Ryan said. "All right, let's do this. Down on your knees, pervert."

"Down on my knees?" Michael repeated confusedly.

"Yeah."

Emily unbuttoned and unzipped her shorts; they puddled around her ankles. Now she was dressed as she was at Swinging Bridge. The sight of her bikini'd body ushered in an erection. She took either side of her bottoms with a hooked thumb and stopped just short of dropping them.

"I don't want him seeing me naked," she said. "Cover your eyes."

Michael dropped down to his knees and closed his eyes. His heart raced. He simply couldn't believe this was about to happen. To hell with the PSP, he'd give that up any day to experience what he was about to, with a girl as painfully beautiful as Emily.

"If you open your eyes even once, I'm beating your ass," Ryan threatened.

Michael listened to the pine-needle crunching footfalls of the girl, stopping just before him. His erection was harder than a rock. He opened his mouth. Emily giggled.

Flesh entered Michael's mouth at the same time that he heard the unmistakable sound of a picture being snapped via camera-phone. At first it didn't compute in him, what was put in his mouth, having never experienced oral sex. But it wasn't long before he sensed something severely wrong. Female anatomy wasn't shaped so... so protuberantly. The idea that it wasn't Emily standing before him but Ryan was on the heels of the previous thought; he opened his eyes and his fear was actualized. The fucking asshole was sticking his cock in Michael's mouth. So furious was Michael, for both the depraved act forced upon him and the idea that he was easily duped, that he mindlessly acted, took his vengeance, and that was biting down at what was being thrust deeper into his mouth.

Ryan yelped and sought to remove his manhood from Michael's mouth, but his clenched teeth precluded this. Ryan struck the side of Michael's head as he wailed.

"Let him go!" Emily cried.

Michael released his bite, sprang to his feet with every intention of running away. Ryan was holding his crotch with his left hand, latched on to the dick-biter with his right. Ryan was hissing, doubled over. The girl was pie-eyed, a cellphone in one hand, ostensibly a phone with a new picture added to its cache of a penis in Michael's mouth.

Michael broke free of Ryan's grasp and tore off running, never looking back until he was well distanced from the fucking insane couple.

Back at camp he told his parents he wasn't feeling well and wouldn't be having dinner with them. He assuaged their concern by claiming it was just a stomach ache, not a big deal.

It was a good thing those psychos didn't know which campsite was his, Michael thought. A very good thing. But maybe they'd find him. Shit, that was possible if not downright likely. Unless Michael hid in the tent from now till the moment they left. There were only forty or fifty campsites, all along a loop that Ryan could patrol day and night until he spotted his assailant. Maybe he wouldn't do that, but Michael could imagine it happening too easily.

It wasn't long before Michael suffered a real stomach ache, engendered from constant worry. What was the deal with the picture, anyway? The bitch had a picture of a penis in Michael's mouth: what might become of that? If they learned his surname they could wreak havoc on him through the internet, posting that picture somewhere where it would be found by people who knew him. The idea turned his stomach over and over.

It was later that evening when Michael heard tires crunching pebbles and come to a stop just outside his campsite. His breath caught. He listened acutely. There was a conversation that he couldn't hear. When he heard someone approaching his tent he thought he might puke. The zipper flew up, a hand opened the flap. It was his father.

"Feeling any better, son?"

"Not really."

"There's a couple here looking for a Michael; they described you perfectly. They said they met you earlier."

"Tell them to go away, please."

"Okay. Should I tell them you're ill, and come back tomorrow?"

"Just tell them I don't want to see them. Don't invite them back."

"Is something the matter?"

"Just send them away. Please."

John nodded and walked away. Michael held his head, his heart thumping, mouth dry. This wouldn't end here.

A minute later his dad returned to the tent. "Sorry to bug you again," he said, "but he said it was very important. Why don't you just go see what he wants real quick?"

Michael nodded grudgingly and got out of the tent. He glanced to the campfire where his family was seated in a circle around it, his little brother Jake roasting a marshmallow on a skewer. His mother waved and smiled at him. Michael waved back. His father returned to the group.

The car was an old Mustang 5.0 convertible, top up. He saw two shadows inside. He stopped at the passenger-side door and hunched down. The girl looked forward, disregarded his presence. Ryan was glaring at him, shadows concealing his baleful expression but not nearly enough.

"You're fucked," was Ryan's preamble. "You hear me? Fucked."

"What did you expect? That was uncool what you guys did to me."

"How'd you like me to show your family the picture on Emily's phone?"

"Don't."

"Tomorrow at noon I want you to meet me at the same place, and you're going to have my PSP and games, and a hundred bucks. I don't want to hear how you can't get that kind of cash. Tell your parents you lost a bet, whatever, I don't give a shit. If you don't I'm going to beat your ass before telling your folks that you gave me head. How'd that be? Their sweet little son is a cock-sucker. Tomorrow at noon, or else..."

Michael began pleading but it was no use. Ryan threw the car into drive, the tires spun before finding purchase. The Mustang drove away.

It was pointless to ask his parents for a C-note, Michael decided. They didn't carry that kind of cash on them, and even if they did he couldn't conceive of an idea to get it loaned to him. Ryan would have to settle for the PSP and games. He supposed he could sweeten the deal by throwing in his Buck knife and the contents of his wallet, which was seventeen dollars. He'd even offer to mail him eighty-three dollars when he had it, if they'd leave him their mailing address. Maybe they'd go for it, maybe they wouldn't, but what choice did he have? He had never slept so uneasily in his thirteen years.

### Chapter Three

After a late breakfast Michael packed his backpack with his video games and PSP, stuffed the Buck knife down his pocket, and got a move on, promising his folks he'd be back in a little bit. His mother said have fun. Fun, ha! Michael forced a grin and waved goodbye, trudged along toward the brook.

He gave himself fifty-fifty odds of making it back without bruises, perhaps a black eye or a pair of them. His heartbeat steadily increased not from exertion but dread. When he arrived at the swimming hole he found nobody, prayed that they had changed their minds, improbable as it seemed. He checked his watch and saw that he still had a few minutes before noon. He was downright sick, and hurried to the brook, puking into the shallow water. He wiped his mouth and chin, meandered away from the water.

"Please don't show up," he muttered.

It was five minutes after the hour when he spotted Ryan. He was alone. Michael supposed it was probably better this way. He didn't need a woman seeing how pathetic he was at fighting, if it indeed came to blows.

"Well, well, the dick-biter showed up," Ryan said disdainfully.

Michael rolled the backpack off his shoulder and set it at his feet. "I got your stuff."

"Of course you do."

Ryan stopped just before Michael, dark eyes glaring icily into his, wooden-faced. "Did you get my money?"

Michael sighed. "Not all of it. But I'll mail you the rest, and you can have my Buck—"

"The fuck you will," interrupted Ryan. "I was afraid this would be the case, that you'd fuck me out of my money. That's why Emily didn't come along, she didn't want to watch me pound you into a world of hurt, hard as that is to imagine. If I was her I'd pay money to watch someone beat the shit out of you. To each their own, huh?"

"I don't want to fight."

"And I don't want to be Jewed out of my hundred bucks. And I don't want a sore dick. But you bit that shit and you screwed me out of money, so you got what's coming to you."

"I'm not going to fight you."

"Well I'm going to fight you."

"What's wrong with your girlfriend, anyway? She whispered in your ear to stick your dick in my mouth? What kind of girlfriend would say that?"

There was a glimmer of rage in Ryan's eyes, followed by a quick punch to Michael's jaw. His teeth clacked shut. He took a few faltering steps back, his left foot splashing into the brook. Ryan stepped forward and threw another punch, this one directed at his nose. Michael dodged it and shoved Ryan, sending him to his ass. Michael stood massaging his tender jaw, his enemy thunderstruck by the audacious counterattack.

"You little fucker!" Ryan roared.

Ryan shot to his feet and charged. Michael hunched down defensively, expecting another punch but receiving a kick to his thigh instead. Michael fell back to his ass in the freezing cold water, submerged to mid-back. His disadvantaged posture prevented him from escaping the next blow, which was a fist to his head, glancing his cheek. For a second Michael was stunned and motionless. Ryan capitalized by taking the back of his quarry's head in his hand and dunking him into the water, rolled him over face-down. Michael thrashed and squirmed to get his knees under him, already starving for air. A second hand joined the first, and now Ryan was throttling him. Adrenaline coursed Michael's veins at the thought of drowning, which seemed highly likely. Ryan threw a leg over the floundering kid and hunkered down, using his weight to keep the fucker submerged, his ass squatting on Michael's back.

With a spike of summoned energy, Michael's mouth turned up and broke the water, gasped sharply for air. Before Ryan could dunk his head back down, Michael cried, "You're drowning me!"

Ryan sat all his weight on the boy's back, moved his hands to his head and pressed with all his might, submerging his head fully. Michael thrashed wildly in his hands, consuming his oxygen reserves rapidly. Ryan figured another couple seconds and he'd let the fucker breathe, drag him out of the water and maybe kick him in the ribs a few times, piss on his face.

A sharp pain suddenly bit Ryan at the shin, a fucking massive bite. He released Michael and stepped out of the brook looking down at his left leg. He was hemorrhaging blood from a gash. What did that little prick do to him? He was evaluating his injury, and for a moment lost awareness of his enemy. Michael lunged out of the water with his Buck knife upside down in hand, his round eyes blazing fanatically. Ryan took a tentative step back, put his hands out in front of him. Michael lunged at him, driving the knife down into Ryan's shoulder as they fell together. Michael straddled him at the waist, pulled the blade out of his shoulder; Ryan cried out in pain, teeth bared, eyes squinted shut.

In his rage Michael brought the knife down a second time, this one a fatal blow to the chest.

Thud.

The lunatical rage in Michael's eyes blinked away as if a switch was flipped. _What the fuck did I just do?_ he thought. _What the fuck did I just do!_ He jerked the blade out of Ryan's chest and got off of him, took a step back and dropped the bloody knife to the pebbled shore.

"Oh my God, what did I just do? No... _no, no, no!"_

He looked around for witnesses. Nobody bore witness to this impossible incident.

"What did you make me do!" Michael blustered. "You asshole, you made me kill you!"

He needed to do something and fast. His first idea was to run back to camp and tell his parents. But to confess to murdering someone? He thought he'd rather die himself than to admit that. That left telling nobody, hide what he had done.

"Shit! This can't be happening!"

How would he get away with it when the girl knew that they were meeting here? When Ryan didn't return she'd come looking for him. Could he play it off as self-defense? The only weapon here was his own, so probably not. He patted the corpse's pockets, praying he'd find some weapon but found nothing.

"Fuck!"

He paced around rubbing the nape of his neck. Emily would fuck him right into prison, there was no doubt. She knew who'd be responsible for her missing boyfriend and knew where she could find that culpable party. He'd go to jail for murder and at the trial the picture of Ryan's cock in Michael's mouth would surface, as if standing trial for murder wasn't bad enough.

He narrowed his choices down to two. Slit his wrists right here and now, or wait for Emily to come looking for her man, and explain to her what had happened, maybe alter it a bit to make himself look more innocent (which would probably sound like pure grade-A horse shit), and that his taking Ryan's life was an act of self-defense. He could always fall back on the first choice if the latter didn't pan out. He'd have to get her to see things his way, that was all. He'd weep and plea with her, grovel on his knees if he had to. But what could he possibly request of her, to forget about Ryan and tell nobody of this? That wouldn't happen.

"Shit!"

He decided to dispose of the body. Whatever his destiny might be would decided later. For now, he needed to hide the body. Maybe he could tell Emily he hadn't seen him. That would lead to a search party. There was no way out of this.

Upon a cursory test, Michael concluded that the body was too heavy to carry. He looked at the brook, at the darkness centering it, darkness indicative of depth. It would have to do. He gathered a few rocks and stuffed them in the pant-pockets of the body, then dragged him by the feet to the water, deeper and deeper until the water was at his shoulders. The body tried to drift downstream, partially floating—mostly at the torso. He back stepped until the water was at his chin. Keeping hold of one of Ryan's legs, he dove under and felt around for a palmable rock, and found one. He scooped it up and shoved it down the crotch of Ryan's pants, and with that he sank adequately. He took a deep breath and went under, pulling the body deeper into the stream. He let go and was pleased to find the body not drifting. He went up for air, took a full breath of air and dove down. He felt for rocks, moved a couple onto Ryan's chest, stuffed a few small ones down his mouth before returning to the surface for a big gasp of air.

He trudged to the bank in search of more rocks, collecting them as he found ones suitable to his purpose. He'd put a several more stones on him before calling it good. He could return later with goggles and a snorkel to cover him better. Bury him completely, in fact.

Michael rinsed clean the bloody knife in the water, then cut down the rope from the branch, wedged it under some foliage of a bush. The swing was an invitation to plunge into the section of brook where nobody should ever swim again.

Standing in the shallows he splashed water up to the bloody dirt, turning the area into sludge. He raked dry dirt over it with a foot, followed by a strew of pine-needles.

He leaned against the rock where this whole mess began less than twenty-four hours ago, collecting his thoughts. _I'm a murderer,_ recycled in his mind. He didn't shed tear-one over the loss of Ryan's life, but was shedding plenty at the idea of being charged with murder. Heck, the son of a bitch deserved what he got.

He was going to drown me!

Yes, it would be wise to remember that. It _was_ self-defense. What would he tell Emily? Christ, what would he tell her? His subconscious mind offered up a solution, one that was a little controversial and scandalous to his conscious mind, that being a second murder. No, that wasn't an option. He found some solace in the self-defense bit; killing Emily would unravel that. But on the other hand, a second murder charge wouldn't likely hurt him any worse than a single murder charge. Life in jail is life in jail, and there wouldn't be the death penalty for this. He wasn't certain of that, but felt somewhat confident he wouldn't be commuted to death row, especially being that he was five years away from being an adult legally; he sure as hell felt like an adult right now.

It was almost three hours later, just after three o'clock when he spotted Emily in the distance, the top of her head, then the rest of her. My what a difference a day makes. Yesterday he was lusting for her body, pulling loose the spaghetti string of her bikini top in his imagination. Now she was sexless to him, an insurmountable problem the size of Mount Everest, tight shorts and halter top be damned. As she descended the rocks carefully she said, "Where's Ryan?"

"Haven't seen him," Michael said coolly. "He's not with you?"

She approached him on the rock with a dubious knitting of her brow. "He hasn't showed up? Really?"

"Really."

She peered skeptically at him for a moment. Her suspicion was palpable. "Why are you wet?" she asked accusingly.

"I went swimming."

She looked over to the branch that recently hung a rope swing, then glared at Michael. "What did you do?"

Michael pushed away from the rock, dusted his bottom, and stepped before her, his solemn gaze just under her cold eyes. "I need your understanding right now," he said. "Hear me through."

"Did you...?" She cocked her head thoughtfully, then shook it, dismissing the idea. "No, you couldn't have..."

"Listen, Emily. Ryan tried to drown me. He _would_ have drowned me if—"

She gasped, eyes goggled. "You didn't!"

"It was self-defense. I swear to God."

"Where is he? _Where is he!"_

Michael pointed to the brook, at the dark shadowy center.

"Murderer!"

She reached into her shorts pocket half-frenzied for her cellphone. The second she had it out Michael stole it away. She tried re-stealing it, but Michael wouldn't allow it. She quit after one final fruitless attempt, glared sharply at him while calmly saying, "You're going to jail. For life."

She turned and ran away from Michael, ran toward the campgrounds where she would set the wheels in motion for his arrest. Michael started after her, quickly catching her, pounced on her back, sending her face-down into the dirt. She shrieked, a high pitch ear-splitter redolent of Jake's night terrors. He turned her over and straddled her as he had Ryan hours ago. She was a petite eighteen- or nineteen-year-old, weighed about what Michael weighed: a much easier adversary than was Ryan. To shut her up he put his hands around her neck and squeezed. She clawed at his arms but he was unyielding.

"Shut up! Shut... up!" He squeezed even tighter, eliciting gurgling sounds from her. Her pretty hazel eyes looked like they were on the verge of popping out of her head. "If you don't shut up I'm going to have to kill you! I don't want that!"

He loosened his grip around her neck when her arms slunk down to her side defeatedly. She heaved a deep breath and coughed.

"I don't want to do it," Michael said. "Honestly, I don't. And I didn't want to do it to Ryan, either, but he gave me no choice. Don't put me in that situation again, Emily, please."

"Let me go and I won't tell," she said hoarsely and coughed.

He penetrated her eyes with his, searching for the truth. Why wouldn't she tell anyone? Once she was free from him, he'd have no leverage over her. He was screwed, there was no way around it. His only chance at getting through this was joining her body with Ryan's, and hope for the best.

"Please, just let me go," she pleaded.

He nodded at her. He'd let her go, but in a graver sense than she had intended. He put his hands around her neck and strangled the life out of her. In the movies and on TV when he watched girls as pretty as Emily get killed he always thought _What a perfectly good waste of a hot chick,_ but now he was thoughtless. He'd later consider that it wasn't two people who died there that day but three. Michael's life as he knew it was laid to rest with Ryan and Emily.

Her body joined Ryan's at the bottom of the brook. He spent copious amounts of time mounding rocks of all sizes over their sunken bodies, until they were hidden completely. He took her phone with him, decided to destroy and dispose of it in a dumpster back in Sacramento. People would come looking for this couple, it was only a matter of time. Hopefully Michael would be long gone by then, because if the cops went from campsite to campsite showing campers photos of the missing couple, his dad would say, "Sure, they came looking for my son just the other day." And that would be a fucking disaster.

As luck would have it, that didn't happen. Amazingly, that didn't happen. Michael got away with murder, at least for now. The bodies would turn up someday, surely they would.

### Chapter Four

Of the nine-hundred residents of New Plains, Nebraska, the majority were farmers, and better than half the crops were corn. In the north-eastern quadrant of New Plains was the town's largest farm, belonging to the Lindmen's—a hundred-and-twenty acres of white corn. The Lindmen's were a family of six, Eddie being the eldest of three sons (the only adopted child of the family; Edgar Verboom was his God-given name) and a daughter of eighteen. Fred Lindmen ran the farm with the help of his sons and two illegal aliens Jose and Alfredo. Jose and Alfredo were twin brothers from Guatemala, had been in the states for two years now, and lived in a Lindmen outbuilding converted into an apartment. Jose (whom Eddie called Tall-Brown) studied English at a no-charge adult school in the next town over, picked it up quickly, whereas his brother Alfredo (Short-Brown) had no ambition of learning more than what little he already knew.

After a long hard day of shit work, Eddie would occasionally visit the Guatemalan's. Not that he gave two shits about them, but they always had good weed. When asked their source of the weed, Jose was vague and gave a few different versions of the same bullshit story, leading Eddie to believe that they grew the stuff themselves, the plants likely somewhere on the Lindmen's vast property. That was fine by Eddie. If and when the plants were found, the authorities or his folks would be quick to place blame on the illegals and they'd likely be deported or at least fired and arrested. That was their damned problem, not Eddie's. Eddie made out great, got the weed for a quarter of the cost that a dealer would charge, and it was some great weed. He figured if he really wanted to, he could demand it free of charge, using blackmail as the tender. He'd probably do it if he was low on funds and craving a joint. Being an eternal optimist, he reserved hope that he'd find the plants eventually, and then he'd never pay for it.

It was early Friday evening, the sky an infinite expanse of gorgeous pink and orange with a band of glowing red over the western horizon, the sun a burnished copper disc just minutes from setting. Being that it was the kick-off to the weekend, Eddie strolled over the Guatemalan's with a six-pack of Bud and rapped on the door. Alfredo answered and let him in.

The place was sparsely furnished, had a permanent aroma of refried beans, but it was clean, with two bedrooms and a modestly sized living room with an old piece of shit TV perched on a pair of dairy crates; it was tuned to a Mexican station, picked up by rabbit-ears. Jose lowered the volume and smiled at what was in Eddie's right hand.

"Sup, amigo?" Eddie said spiritedly.

"I thought you might stop by this evening," Jose said with a sidelong grin. "Getting low, eh?"

"I'm all out." He jerked two cans out of the wax ring and tossed them to the Guatemalan's. "A problem I'm looking to remedy." He helped himself to the recliner seat, opened a Bud for himself, set the remaining three beers on his lap.

"No problem, amigo," Jose said. "Es no problema at all." He walked to the kitchenette, opened a cupboard, pulled out a box of Raisin Bran and removed the large Ziploc baggie of weed from within.

Alfredo took a seat on the couch, looked stupidly at Eddie. Maybe it wasn't that Alfredo didn't wish to learn English but was too stupid to. That was probably it.

"When are you going to learn English, for chrissake," Eddie asked him.

"Who, me?" Jose asked from the kitchen.

"No not you," Eddie said thickly. "Short-Brown."

"When you habla Español," Alfredo returned with a grin.

Eddie flipped him off with a grin of his own. "This is America, I don't have to learn that shit."

Jose returned to the living room, took a seat beside his twin brother Short-Brown, placed the bag of weed on the coffee table with a smaller empty baggie for transfer.

"Oh hey, Tall-Brown," Eddie said, "I got some bad news for you. My dad found your pot plants and is pissed you're growing weed on his farm."

Eddie gauged Jose's reaction carefully. Jose laughed, shook his head, and said, "No he did not. I told you, I don't grow it."

"Then where do you get it? It looks home-grown to me."

"It is good, no?"

"Yeah, it's superb. Grade fucking A. Come on, man, tell me, where do you score it?"

"Why does it matter?" Jose said and began removing clumps of green buds from the larger baggie, dropped them into the smaller. "The usual amount?"

"Yeah, that's fine. I'm just curious. I don't know anyone in town who sells, and I know a hell of a lot more people than you."

"I have a friend who has a friend. That's how I get it. Sorry but I can't tell you who. You understand."

"Yeah, yeah," Eddie said peevishly and sipped his Bud. "So what are you two up to this weekend?"

Jose faced his brother and spoke rapid Spanish at him amusedly. He then said to Eddie, "Two girls are visiting tonight. I'm sort of dating one; the other is her sister." Sister sounded like sea-ster. "We haven't met her yet, but if she looks like Maria she'll be muy bonita."

Eddie was agape. "Are you shitting me? You got a chick? How'd that happen?"

"I have a life outside of work, amigo. Maria lives in Bridgewater. I met her when I painted her padre's home a few weekends ago."

Jose sealed the baggie and got off the couch, handed it to Eddie, who then pulled out a twenty-dollar-bill from his jeans pocket to trade. Eddie scrutinized the baggie's contents, took a long pull from his can of Bud before groping a pack of rolling-papers out of his pocket.

"If I give you some money," Jose asked, "could you buy me beer?"

"Buy it yourself, Tall-Brown. Sunset Liquors sells to minors."

"Oh yeah? Good to know."

"But you have to ask the guy how his wife Estella is doing lately. That's the code lingo. He has no wife Estella."

Tall-Brown humored.

Eddie got to rolling a joint, crumbling buds onto the leaf. "You can have the other three beers. Actually, I want one for the road. The other two are yours."

"Gracias, mi amigo."

"De nada."

Alfredo repeated "De nada" impressively. "Tu hablas Español, es muy bien."

Eddie ran his tongue over the edge of the paper, twisted the joint, stood from the recliner after peeling a beer from the ring. "Learn English already, mother fucker. Thanks for the weed. See you guys later."

"Want to smoke it here? I can match your joint," Jose offered.

"Nah, got plans. See-ya, Tall and Short."

Eddie closed the door behind him. It had darkened a bit in the ten minutes spent at the Guatemalan's. The sun was invisible, the red band on the horizon had dulled and narrowed, the sky now purple, a spangle of stars dotting through. He snatched his backpack from beside the door and slung it over his shoulder, headed due west to the vast corn field, followed a two-foot wide rough dirt path between seven-foot stands of corn that swayed and rustled with the evening breeze. He was a nature lover, enjoyed the earthy smells, the droning hum of insects. A droning hum sounding like electricity coursing through power lines, which seemed to intensify the hotter it became. He loved it out here, loved the feeling of being absolutely alone. He even loved that it was somehow spooky, wonderfully spooky. He supposed the reason he felt that way was two-fold: the movie Children of the Corn, and a Twilight Zone episode he watched a few times as a kid; the one with the boy who wished his enemies into the corn field.

He strode along the path until it intersected with another wider path, one with tractor-made wheel ruts, and turned left on it. There wasn't a hill or even a slight elevation in terrain as far as the eye could see in every direction, making the sky appear a million miles wide. He took a deep breath of air that was cooling from the hour, a comfortable seventy degrees, give or take. It smelled of plump savory corn and mineral-rich top soil, sweetly organic. He put the joint between his lips and lit it with a silver Zippo, having to shield the flame from the steady breeze to keep it alive. He pocketed the lighter and puffed furiously until the tip of the joint glowed a fiery orange.

Ahh, what a way to kick off the weekend.

Eddie spotted his recently-implemented marker up ahead: three conspicuous stones in a line on the northern side of the path. He parted the corn stalks at that location and trod north into the field. Fifteen yards into it was a small clearing ten feet in diameter, a matting of flattened corn-less stalks, looking exactly like a crop circle. Centering the circle was a fire pit hedged with stones, a bare-earth concavity not yet lined with ash. He had made it yesterday evening with the intention of bringing wood here on his subsequent visit; its christening would be tonight.

He rolled the backpack off his shoulder. It had been left unzipped due to the length of split cypress logs he had taken from his folks' wood pile earlier that day. He constructed a teepee in the center of the pit, fashioned a wisp of corn silk to place under it. Satisfied with his industriousness, he took another hit off his joint, held it, exhaled the blue-white smoke. There was a half-empty bottle of Wild Turkey that he had brought out yesterday. He spun the top off and took a long swallow, opened his can of Bud and chased the whiskey with it. He took another pull off the Wild Turkey and spat it at the wood teepee, tightened the cap back on.

Eddie sat the beer and bottle down, knelt before the fire pit. With his Zippo he lighted the corn silk. The flame grew rapidly over the alcohol-doused cypress. Satisfied, he stood and backed away, took another rip off his joint. He gazed up at the twilight sky, eyes heavy from the weed, but he wasn't sleepy. Thirsty, he was that. And high. He took a long drink from his tepid Budweiser, burped loudly. The electric drone of insects had recently become chirping crickets, as if an MP3 track on a nature sounds album had switched over, and somewhere in the distance a bat screeched. All beautiful sounds, as was the sound of wood crackling, occasionally popping.

He watched the hypnotic fire, lambent flames dancing and licking up around the cypress. It smelled like camping, a nostalgic aroma. He sat down with his legs extended out, leaned back against his arms, his marijuana cigarette jutting up between two fingers like a miniaturized space rocket launching off a pad upside down.

"I'm having trouble trying to sleep," he sang. "I'm counting sheep I'm running out." He loved that Green Day song. "As time ticks by, still I try..."

A gust swept up a glowing orange ember out of the fire pit. Eddie watched it glide and zigzag with the wind before it gracefully drifted down to the corn-husk carpeting. He brought the joint up to his lips and puffed. Holding the smoke in his lungs, he snuffed the remaining half-joint out on his shoe and dropped it in the breast pocket of his flannel shirt to enjoy later, then exhaled the sweet smoke.

"My mind is set on overdrive," he sang.

He took another swig of whisky, screwed the cap back on and rolled the bottle away from him.

_I should bring a chick here someday. That's what this place needs, a chick. That's_ all _this place needs._

Eddie was lost in reverie staring at the Wild Turkey label, when through his peripherals he became aware of fire not in the fire pit. It was minor, but wouldn't be for long; it spread quickly over the dry corn-stalk floor. He jumped to his feet and began stomping it out frantically, rolling his ankle on one such stomp. Not enough to evoke pain, but substantial enough to indicate that something hard lay under this burnt carpeting. A rock, probably.

The crisis was over, the fire was out. He used his foot to sweep the charred debris away from the spot where he had felt something. He saw nothing but dark dirt in this little one-foot gap. He dropped to his haunches and touched his palm to the dirt, testing the temperature: warm. He raked a few fingers along the dirt, felt what his ankle had rolled over, something mostly buried. He pried it loose and stood, brushed away the dirt caked to it. He stepped nearer the fire to get a better look. It was a figurine of sorts. Green stone. Was it jade? It was hard to tell what its sculptor had aimed for when creating it. There was a face, that much he could say with certainty. A big mouth stretching an eternal silent scream. Its lips and pointed teeth stood out in relief from its mouth cavity; teeth sharp enough to prick his finger and draw blood. It had wide maniacal eyes. He didn't think it was a man, but perhaps a demon. Or some Aztec or Mayan god. Yes, probably a god. That led Eddie to wonder just how old this damned thing was. And what was it doing here? Native Americans. That had to be it. Maybe it was worth something. That would be cool. Maybe he found some ancient artifact that could be used to line his pockets with cash. He decided to celebrate a little, fetched the sideways bottle of whisky and had a drink, chased it with the last of his can of Bud.

He sat back down facing the fire with his legs before him once again. He spit the nasty whisky taste out of his mouth: it landed and sizzled in the fire. Eddie frowned. Something was... different. It had to do with the fire. The orange and yellow flames now had a green tint to them. It was so subtle that he dismissed it as an effect of the weed. Odd though. The tint persisted. And there was something else about the flames streaked with green: they were a little hazy, as if he were watching the fire through a filmy windowpane. It was minor, though, and much more likely owing to the fact that he was high.

"You know what I want to know?" Eddie asked the air. "How do a couple illegals get chicks in this Podunk town? They're probably plumplings, anyway."

"You'd be surprised," a voice said.

Eddie sprang to his feet, heart wedged in his throat. He spun around madly, peered between the corn stalks along the periphery of the circle. "Who said that?"

There was a high giggle. Eddie couldn't pinpoint its location. In fact, it didn't seem to originate from any specific location, but all around him. That might have been an effect of the weed, too.

"I'm your friend," the voice said.

Eddie turned in circles, checking and re-checking each gap in the corn.

"You will not find me. I am behind your eyes."

## Part 2: Now

### Chapter Five

It was spring, and the first clear day of the week. The benign gray clouds of late was now a light blue firmament stretching from horizon to horizon. The morning air was biting cold and somehow heavy, as if it possessed an actual weight, and was imbued with the scent of bacon and sausage, a smell that would intensify as Timothy neared Millie's Diner. It was Saturday, his favorite day of the week, and not because it was the first day of the weekend. It was his favorite because it was the only day of the week he saw the girl. On his list of things to be thankful for in life, topping it was the unnamed girl's unwavering routine—at least as it was pertaining to her Saturday breakfast.

Timothy had gotten his driver's license two weeks ago, on his sixteenth birthday, and it couldn't have come soon enough. For the two weeks preceding his birthday he stood near the defunct phone-booth of a gas station adjacent to Millie's and waited for the girl to pull up in the city bus and exit near the diner before he followed her in. Now he was afforded a whole new means of waiting for her, and that was in the comfort of his '02 Camry, engine idling in the mostly-empty parking lot, heat blasting. Mornings sure were cold considering summer was only a calendar page away.

He had grown wiser over these five weeks. It was imperative that he be the customer immediately following the girl. Then he would stand a better chance at getting the booth nearest hers. The hostess tended to seat people in consecutive booths, so if there was an empty booth beside the girl's destined seat, another customer might get it before Timothy. But that wouldn't happen; not again.

His exhalations were frosty balloons as he made his way to the restaurant, grated the old door on its rusty hinges (it was part of the joint's charm, if to nobody else but the proprietor) and entered just in time to see the girl taking her seat. His heart skipped a beat at his blessed fortune. She was facing the empty booth beside hers, the very booth that the hostess would undoubtedly seat him. And if she didn't seat him there, perhaps he would take it upon himself to request a different booth and point in that direction. It would be his first time in such a fortuitous seating arrangement.

The hostess returned to her podium from having seated the girl, and was all smiles as she grabbed a single breakfast menu from the stack, said "Good morning, honey" so sincerely that Timothy judged that it came from the heart. Sacramento wasn't a small town by a long shot, but this was a small town diner, its patrons regulars and simple hard-working folk, salt of the earth people. A lot of the town's farmers dined here, partly because its location was near the belt of farmland just outside city-limits, and partly because of the food and atmosphere, which for some reason was agreeable to farmers. Timothy couldn't dispute that agreeableness to farmers, being that he both worked on a farm and dined at Millie's. The place had antiques mounted on the walls, such as an early nineteenth-century sled and a prehistoric set of wooden skis, cutesy doodads on shelves, framed covers of old Life magazines with people like Liz Taylor and J.F.K., a glass counter showcasing homemade pies, and a staff composed of kindly aging women.

Over the last couple weeks he had gotten on a first name basis with the hostess and couldn't recall how that came to be. He called her Susan because her name-plate read as much, but how she got his name out of him he couldn't begin to guess. But that was neither here or now; she was leading him to the table, his heartbeat increasing with each step taken closer to the girl. He could only see the back of her head, the lank walnut brown hair with a vibrant sheen, so dense and healthy. He yearned to touch it, to breathe its presumably fragrant scent. As he passed her table he took a deep breath through his nose, hoping to smell her shampooed hair but receiving only the pig-parts sizzling on the grill. He slid down the red vinyl bench-seat facing the girl, risked a quick glance at her. She noticed him! And smiled!

"How are you this fine morning, Timothy?" the hostess asked while situating his silverware proper before him.

"Great, Susan." He looked to the girl who was presently poring over her menu.

"Apple juice?" she asked.

"Please."

"Martha will be by shortly to take your order, dear."

"Thank you. Actually, I'd like a cup of coffee instead, if you don't mind, ma'am."

She smiled at him. In it was her appreciation of his manners. A polite and respectful young man, she thought, and left.

The coffee came a moment later, dropped off by Martha, who was another sweet-looking elderly lady. It probably wasn't a great choice of drink, being that he had already began a nervous layer of sweat before starting the coffee. The coffee would thicken that sweat from both temperature and caffeine. He wasn't a huge fan of coffee but it was all right. It was a grown-up thing to drink, and he wanted the girl to see the adult Timothy, not the stuttering child who drank juice because coffee was icky.

Gosh the girl was beautiful. More than beautiful. Whatever the greatest of superlatives is, that's what this girl was. If he was her, he'd never leave the mirror. He was looking through the window at his side, staring at her through his peripherals. Cars were coursing the road just forty feet beyond his window but he saw nothing but the girl. He finally did see something other than the girl (or someone, rather) just then. There was a young man striding across the parking lot toward Millie's with a duffle bag slung over his shoulder, smoking a cigarette. Timothy paid the guy no attention, pulled the tab off a half 'n' half creamer and dumped it in his coffee. Martha was at the girl's table now and taking her order. She ordered a ham and cheese egg-white omelet and home-fries. Timothy committed the order to memory and decided he'd order the same thing next Saturday. The key was to order it before she did, and loud enough for her to overhear. Maybe it would be the ice-breaker that he so desperately needed, though it would have to come from her end. He had no designs of initiating a conversation with her. She was far too pretty and he was far too... well, bland, he guessed. And eternally shy. He'd order the ham and cheese egg-white omelet and her pretty blue eyes—now that he was close enough to her to get a better look, he noticed an amber ring around the blue iris—how unique and strangely beautiful!—would jump to his and smile no less than they had just a minute ago, and maybe she'd say something like, "Aren't they the best here? I get the same thing. How about that? I'm _blank_ by the way. What's your name?" How he wished he knew what the _blank_ was. He had guessed her name countless times. She looked like a Hannah, he thought. Maybe an Allie. She was definitely no Agnes, Sue, or Betsy.

The restaurant door grated open stridently—it wasn't the first time Timothy wondered why they don't put some oil on those hinges—and the young man whom he recently spied through the windowpane dropped his cigarette and stomped it out, entered, dumped off his duffle bag under the bench seat utilized by customers waiting to be seated. He seemed to be in a hurry. As Susan approached him, he was approaching her, and not slowing down. He spoke to her in transit, gestured toward Timothy, and continued on. Susan nodded and left him to his will. Timothy swallowed dryly. Did the guy just point at him? He was taking long strides toward him, and that was just as unsettling, violating the lazy cozy atmosphere. Timothy nervously looked away from the guy and took a sip of his coffee, watching him through the corner of his eye.

The man stopped at the girl's table. Timothy stared a little more directly, inquisitively. The stranger looked directly at him when he discerned being stared at. The guy was maybe eighteen and handsome looking. Jet black wavy hair, sharp facial features, pale blue eyes several shades lighter than the girl's, the rugged good looks of a jock—a footballer, perhaps. The two locked eyes. He took two steps forward, now before Timothy's table. The girl didn't seem to notice any of this. She was spooning sugar into her coffee.

What happened next made Timothy so dizzy that he feared fainting. The guy slid onto the bench seat opposite him.

"Sorry to alarm you," the guy said. "I don't mean to be rude." He then considered it, and said inwardly, "Of course it's rude of me, I should have asked."

"Hello," Timothy said awkwardly. "H-have we m-met?" He knew they hadn't.

The guy looked over his shoulder at the girl, then back to Timothy. "That's exactly what I was wondering. You look naggingly familiar. I'm Edgar Verboom, but people call me Eddie. What's yours?"

"I don't b-believe we've met. I'm Timothy. Timothy Stoddard."

Eddie stared silently and keenly at Timothy a moment before saying, "Do you mind the company? Can I stay?"

"Uh..." The guy was eclipsing the girl. It was shaping up to be a miserable Saturday morning after all. He didn't have the nerve to say no to him, or to anyone for that matter. But especially this guy, for some reason, and it perplexed him why he was prepared to grant his request. The guy was teeming with confidence and wore it on his face. He looked like the type who might bully Timothy, make fun of his stutter; a stutter which wasn't severe unless he was nervous or scared. "I... I guess."

A realization occurred to Eddie. He slid to his right a little, his shoulder nearly touching the glass pane of the window. This returned sight of the girl to Timothy, who wasted no time absorbing her again, making up for lost seconds.

The corners of Eddie's mouth upturned. "She's pretty, huh?" he said softly enough that the girl probably didn't hear. There was decades-old country music playing lightly, plates clanking, meat and hash-browns sizzling, denizens conversing: the sum of these noises was a respectable barrier between the low voice of Eddie's accurate remark of the girl being pretty and the pretty girl herself.

Timothy shrugged.

Eddie's grin became greater. "Don't be shy about it. Anyone would think she's pretty." He looked over his shoulder at her again, longer this time.

"Don't," Timothy urged. Quietly this time: "Don't stare at her."

The girl looked up from her coffee, met eyes with Eddie, then Timothy, grinned measuredly and said good morning, if only with her eyes. Those blue eyes, with their amber rings like a sun's corona, Timothy thought, how remarkably unique and mesmerizing.

Martha stopped by the table to get Eddie's breakfast order. He waved her off with a no thanks.

"Is there a r-reason why you're...?" Timothy said, careful not to sound impertinent.

"I saw you through the window and thought you looked like someone I knew. It was my mistake."

"Do you go to Prescott Wills h-high school? Or d-did you?"

"I'm not from around here. I'm from Nebraska. Hitchhiked out to California to try to find work. Sacramento was where the truck-driver who picked me up was heading, so I figured it was as good a place as any to look for work. I should have known you weren't Eric; he's from my old neighborhood. It's just that you two look so damned alike." He glanced over his shoulder at the girl again. Timothy's stomach writhed each time he did this, and this time the girl didn't let it go unchecked.

"I'm sorry," she said, "but do you know me? I see you keep looking back."

"I apologize," Eddie said. He turned to better face her. "It's just that you look familiar to me."

Geez, Timothy thought. This guy was playing the you-look-familiar card to anyone with a set of ears to hear it. What was his angle here?

"But I'm probably mistaken," Eddie said. "You look a lot like a girl I went to middle-school with: Mae was her name."

Her eyes widened, brow raised. "Did you go to Piedmont Junior High?"

Her name is Mae? Timothy mused. It must be. How satisfying it was to finally know that. He said her name silently a few times, relishing the sound of it and attaching its pretty sound to her pretty face.

"No, I'm not from around here," he replied. "Is your name Mae Cook?"

Her brow lowered. "No, different Mae."

"I figured. Enjoy your breakfast, Mae."

"You too." She smiled at him, and unlike last time this one was sincere.

"I'm Eddie, by the way." He reached out over the bench: she felt obliged to shake his hand, and did. "Eddie Verboom."

"Nice to meet you, Eddie. You know my name, and you weren't far off my surname. It's not Cook but Clark."

"Truth is," he said, and turned his body toward her even more, "I don't know a Mae Cook. It was just a lucky guess. Well," he amended, "a half-lucky guess. Can't win 'em all, huh?"

He smiled at her. A charming smile with perfect white teeth; an easy smile to reciprocate, as genuine smiles typically are.

Timothy was beginning to resent this guy. This intruder was making all kinds of headway getting to know her, while he remained non-existent to Mae. At least he knew her name, he had that to thank Eddie for (and nothing else).

"If you were soliciting a psychic reading," Mae said in good humor, "I'd probably hire you. That was a pretty good guess."

"Would you believe me if I said I was psychic?"

She grinned sidelong and said, "How many fingers am I holding up?" She extended four fingers on her left hand under the table.

"I believe that would require a clairvoyant or telepath, not a psychic, but maybe I'm wrong. It's all a bunch of hoodoo in my opinion, but I'm sport. Uh... I'd guess... four fingers?"

Her eyes widened a little. "How about now?"

"I don't know, one? Your pinky?"

Her upturned lips slackened. "Oh my... are you really clairvoyant?"

"No," Eddie said and chuckled. "The post of your table has a chrome base, acting as a mirror. I saw your fingers."

"Oh," she said, cheeks colored. "I didn't see you glance down, though. You're good."

"Your eyes," Eddie said meditatively, "they're... unlike any eyes I've ever seen. Amber fringe around blue. Very pretty."

Her color deepened. "Thanks. My dad had amber eyes; Mom's were blue. Instead of getting one or the other, I got both."

"How rude of me. Mae, this is my friend Timothy."

Timothy and Mae met eyes, said hello in harmony. Now he had two things to thank Eddie for, and this one was no trifling favor: he was introduced to the love of his life.

"Do you live around here?" Eddie asked her.

"A few miles."

"Oh? It's awfully chilly out, and you don't strike me as old enough to have a driver's license. How are you getting home, walking?"

"Bus."

"Gosh," he said, assuming a bashful demeanor, which Timothy perceived to be all an act, "I hope I'm not intruding, but Timothy here drives." _How does he know that?_ Timothy wondered. "And I'm sure he wouldn't mind giving you a ride home if you'd like." He looked at Timothy for approval.

"Yeah, sure," Timothy said eagerly. "If you w-want, that is. I just got my license two weeks ago, and l-look for any excuse to d-drive. Sorry." His apology was for his stutter.

She smiled crookedly, bit down on her lip, stirred the spoon in her coffee. "I appreciate the offer, but I'll be fine. It's not a big—" Her cellphone rang in her purse. She apologized and tended the phone.

Eddie returned proper in his seat, put his elbows on the table and leaned forward a little. "Sorry, bud. I tried for you."

Timothy smiled at him appreciatively. "Thanks, that was cool of you. I thought you were hitting on her at first. You did that for me?"

"Heck ya," Eddie said, coming off as offended that his new friend may have thought otherwise. "You're shy, aren't you, buddy?"

Timothy nodded. He heard Mae talking quietly into her phone, plugging her other ear with a fingertip. "How'd you know I drive? Do I look old enough to drive to you? Most people think I look fourteen, not sixteen."

"Lucky guess. I'm good at it. What do you drive?—let me guess... a Buick Century?"

Timothy humored and shook his head no, but admitted that his grandparents drive a Buick. Eddie matched his humor.

Martha stopped by to top off the coffee and see if Timothy was ready to have her put that breakfast order in yet, which was his usual. He was, and encouraged Eddie to get something to eat with him. Eddie reluctantly declined the offer, said he needed to be frugal with his money until he found employment.

"Nonsense," Timothy said. "It's on me. Get something, I insist." Timothy noticed he was no longer stuttering, which was a good thing. It meant he wasn't nervous or fearful.

"Nah, I shouldn't."

"Martha, make it two short-stacks with home-fries. And coffee. You like coffee, Eddie?"

He nodded. "You're very kind," Eddie said. "I appreciate it more than you know. I'll get you back someday, you have my word."

"Think nothing of it." He lowered his voice as to not be overheard by Mae, who was still talking on the phone. "You did me a favor inadvertently."

"You know her name now, is that it?"

Timothy nodded with a bashful smile. A thought occurred to him, and the idea thrilled him. Winged things fluttered in his stomach. "So you're looking for work, huh?"

"I am," Eddie said with a sigh." I don't have any skills, but I'll find something. Why, do you know someone looking to hire?"

"Would you believe that I do? My grandparents. A farm hand. It's what I do. We used to have another guy, but he quit a couple months ago and we haven't found a replacement yet." Regretfully he added, "Probably because we can't afford to pay anything higher than minimum wage. Times are kind of tough for my grandparents right now."

"I'd work for half that if it included a place to shack up. Are there quarters on the farm for the help?"

"Yes, and there's no rent on it. A kind of make-shift apartment in the loft of the barn. It's where Jason used to live, the guy who recently quit. If you'd like I can introduce you to my grandparents and I'm sure they'd be jazzed to have you." _Jazzed... who the heck says jazzed?_ He was a total dork and Eddie was probably starting to piece that together.

"I look forward to it."

The drive to the Stoddard farm was fifteen minutes southwest of Millie's, out of the town proper and into a series of agricultural plots; strawberries, spinach, and when he turned south on Road 171 it became cows. A heavy stench of cow manure that Timothy was immune to, having smelled it his entire life. The Stoddard farm was on eight acres, consisted of a large single-story house with detached garage, built sometime before the second World War, a modest barn, a long narrow stable where they boarded horses for rents, which they had been doing since the 60's. An equal portion of their income came from olives, which they began growing in the 70's to supplement their revenue. They had four acres of olive trees on the farm. There was a sprawl of outbuildings, sheds and a henhouse. A stout wooden fence lined the perimeter of the ranch with the exception of the entrance which was an ornamental iron gate that glided along a track when Timothy entered the password on the keypad.

"Just to let you know," Timothy informed, "my grandma Phyllis is black. Phillip is white. So I hope you aren't racist or anything. They aren't my real grandparents. I was adopted. They treat me like a son, though, and I love them as if they were my flesh and blood. Grandpa has Alzheimer's."

"Do I come across as a racist?" Eddie said from the passenger seat.

"No, just saying. A lot of people aren't fond of a white man and black woman married. I could tell you some stories that would break your heart. There are some mean people in the world."

He rolled the car forward. The gate closed behind them. They idled up the driveway and pulled into an empty garage-stall.

"You'd think in this day and age people would be okay with it," Eddie said. "Do they get threats? Do people call Phillip a nigger-lover or anything like that?"

"Yes, and worse. People in this neighborhood even. Some kid or kids spray painted some pretty horrible things on our stable about a year ago. God," Timothy reflected painfully, "Grandma acted like it didn't bother her, but I could see it in her eyes. She was hurt. And Grandpa, he was both hurt and angry."

They got out of the car and ambled toward the house. Timothy pointed at the barn and said they'd check it out a little later.

"Can they do anything about it?" Eddie asked. "Get the cops involved?"

"No proof. I know damn well who did it, though. The night it happened, that day a kid named Reynold was riding his bike just outside our gate and flipped me off, asked when I was going to find me a nigger bitch to marry." He shook his head at the thought.

"Are there others like Reynold around here? Is this a chronic problem here?"

"Most people are great about it. It's a nice community over all, but there are a few troublemakers. But I guess the same could be said about any community. It's not as bad as it was in the olden days. Grandma told me about some pretty bad stuff that happened. Like _really_ bad stuff, when she was just a kid. Stuff that happened right here on this farm, long before my grandpa bought it. Back then it was called the Hunsacker farm." Timothy saw that he was unraveling a yarn that would go on and on, get uglier and uglier. It wasn't an appropriate conversation to have with Eddie yet.

"But there are a few troublemakers, yes. A kid named Max, he's probably the worst. He kicked my ass once on my way to the bus stop, before I could drive. What hurt worse than the beating were the things he said as he was d-dishing it out. Asking me how n-nigger tit tasted and wondered if drinking it was why I'm a stuttering retard, and something about a sh-short bus." He looked over at Eddie. "As you've heard, I stutter."

Eddie stopped and looked sternly at his new friend. "Christ. That ain't cool, man. If you get me this job, things will be different from now on, okay? Even if I don't get the job. How would you like being on the right side of a fight with Reynold and Max?"

Timothy scoffed, looked dubiously at him as he took the two steps leading to the porch. "Yeah, right. I'd never be able to kick their asses in a million years. I don't know how to fight and I'm not very strong. And I'm a c-coward."

"Strength has little to do with winning a fight. You'll see, Timothy. I'm not saying we should go out on a mission to kick some asses, but from now on we'll defend ourselves. I got your back. All right?"

Timothy shrugged and opened the door.

### Chapter Six

Phyllis was at the local market. Phillip was on the back patio sweeping and whistling some forlorn tune when the door opened. He smiled at Timothy, a smile that weakened upon noticing the stranger in their company.

"This is my new friend Eddie," Timothy said. "Eddie, this is my grandpa Phillip."

They exchanged a greeting.

"I think I found Jason's replacement," Timothy said proudly.

Phillip was an old codger of seventy-two years, stick-thin and a bald head with precious few gray hairs clinging to the age-spotted dome. Old folks can be divided into two categories: mean old bastards, and sweet as pie. Timothy once heard someone say that the mean old bastards were those who made the wrong decisions earlier in their lives and spent the rest of their lives in regret, which turns them bitter. Sweet as pie people made the right decisions in early life and not having those regrets makes them agreeable, sweet people. Phillip and Phyllis were emphatically the sweet as pie types. Phillip smiled and extended his palsied hand out to Eddie, who shook it with both hands, bright eyes conveying his gratitude for the opportunity about to be bestowed upon him.

"Praise be to the lord," Phillip said. "And not a day too soon. I'm sorry, son, but I can't offer you the position until my wife returns from the market. We agreed to make these decisions jointly." He looked to Timothy, and in his expression was uncertainty, apprehension, which Timothy interpreted and felt compelled to bring to words.

"It's okay, Grandpa. Eddie knows about Grandma. He's like us. He's not hateful."

Phillip grinned at Eddie and nodded, patted his shoulder as he walked past him, and said, "Let's have a seat at the table. The missus should be home any minute now."

* * *

The three were seated at the dining table when Phyllis entered through the front door with her arms laden with brown grocery bags. Both Timothy and Eddie shot out of their chairs intent on assisting her: Eddie gestured to his new friend to retake his seat, that he'd get it. Phyllis stopped and stared suspiciously at the stranger in their house.

"Let me get those for you, ma'am," Eddie said. She handed them over tentatively. "My name is Eddie. I'm friends with your grandson."

"Oh. Lovely."

She followed Eddie to the kitchen, where he placed the bags on the counter. He returned to the nearby dining table and took a seat, met eyes with Phillip. For a brief moment Phillip's eyes were wide and confused, but remembrance washed over his kind face as quickly as the confusion came.

"This young man is looking for work," Phillip said to his wife. Timothy couldn't decide if his grandfather's excited tone was for the prospect of replacing Jason or that he remembered Eddie's reason for being here. His Alzheimer's was still somewhat in the early stages, but there were times when things escaped his memory and didn't return for long stretches of time. It was progressing, but slowly, thanks to modern medicine.

"Oh?" Phyllis said.

She put the perishables in the fridge and left the non-perishables in the meantime, joined them at the table where a pitcher of sweet tea was centered, three glasses filled and one empty, reserved for Phyllis. Before she took her seat opposite Eddie, Eddie stood and offered his hand. They greeted one another, then seated in unison. Her gut feeling was this was a good, kindhearted boy. The eyes never lie. A smile could, but not the eyes. His eyes conveyed a gentleness, a tenderness. All too easily she could envision this boy becoming a part of their farming enterprise, which essentially meant a part of their lives, their family, and that was no small decision to make. It was one they had made only a few times over the years—Jason being the most recent—and had always been made in private following the interview, a family decision. Phyllis reached back and rotated the ceiling fan knob, which sputtered and squeaked into life.

"How do you know Timothy?" she asked the stranger.

Timothy gave the details, brief as they were. She inquired into his background.

"Would you like the short version or the long?" Eddie asked.

"That's entirely up to you, sweetheart," she said and poured herself some sweet tea from a sweating glass pitcher.

"My name is Edgar Verboom. Verboom is Dutch, I was born in Holland. My mom died birthing me. My father and I got visas and moved to the states, Nebraska, where he had a sponsor. I was three at the time. My dad worked for a logging company. Dangerous work, but paid well. I suppose I was about eight-years-old when an accident killed him. A tree crushed him. Ironically Verboom means the tree in Dutch. I don't remember him a whole lot, but there are things, memories I cherish of him. The state took custody of me and I was taken-in by an older couple, adopted by Fred and Cynthia Lindmen."

The three Stoddard's exchanged stares with one another, their eyes projecting their intrigue at his similar circumstance to Timothy's.

"They own a farm, corn," Eddie continued. "When I was old enough to work, I did, a kind of gopher. I did it all. My adopted parents say politics is what did their business in. Subsidiaries for corn, the whole ethanol thing. Some farmers got them, others did not. The Lindmen's did not. They were at a disadvantage because of it, the money was less. They had to sell off some of the land, partly for the money but mostly to reduce the property tax. They retained as many workers as they could, but had to lay some folks off. They would keep me employed of course, but I figured I should just leave so the remaining two non-Lindmen laborers (twins from Guatemala) could stay. Deep down I knew I wasn't meant to be in Nebraska. I wanted to get out and see things, go to exciting new places. Fred and Cynthia pleaded with me to stay, but I'm somewhat of a headstrong guy: once I have an idea in me, it won't go away. I had resolved to try to make a living out on the west coast, where there are plenty of jobs. If all else failed, I'd join the army or something. I have a diploma so I'd be good to join. I thumbed a ride from Nebraska to here, had only just arrived when good fortune crossed my path with Timothy's. So here I am."

"That's the grace of God, my son," Phillip said. "You need work and we need a worker."

"Indeed it is," Phyllis said. "I'm glad you made it here safely. Would you like to use our phone to let your folks know you made it here all right?"

"I appreciate the kindness, but I have a phone. I'll call them soon enough."

"The help we need," Phillip began, "is in the olive portion of our business. Timothy here tends to the horses, and since the other boy quit, he's been a man with two hats, picking olives when he has the time to do so. If you don't mind working for minimum wage, we'd love to have you gathering olives. I know it isn't much, but we'll do all we can for you, boy. We'll provide hot meals, a place to sleep in the loft, and maybe even..." He solicited his wife's approval with an expression: she grinned at him and nodded. "And transportation. Phyllis' LeSabre is getting up there in mileage and we've been considering buying a good used-car, a reliable one. At our age we don't need the misfortune of being broke down and having to walk several miles." He chuckled feebly, which lead to a coughing fit which was quickly subdued. "We'd probably only get two thousand for the Buick, maybe fifteen-hundred. So if things work out we'll be replacing our car, and instead of selling the Buick we'll leave it here so you can drive it whenever you fancy."

Timothy smiled widely at Eddie, who returned it with an even greater one.

"You guys are too kind," Eddie said, looking at all three faces. "I'm a hard worker, you'll see. And will help any way I can."

### Chapter Seven

Mae walked the three blocks from the bus stop home, which was an upper-middle class two-story home on a shady street with huge properties. The kind of neighborhood where locking the door was something you did out of habit, not out of necessity. She was still getting used to calling this home, this being her uncle Matthew's house. Her parents David and Rebecca had been buried two months now, their killer the SacTown Slayer still at large. A serial killer with a tally of nine murders, her parents numbers seven and eight.

Her uncle Matthew had been a bachelor for three years now, had divorced Mae's Aunt Denise for reasons he didn't like to talk about, but she knew it had something to do with an affair, only she didn't know who was the guilty party—she suspected Aunt Denise. Uncle Matthew hadn't dated since the divorce, claimed to not have the time or desire for it. She hoped he'd meet someone soon, so he'd be less involved with her life. She had offered to create an eHarmony profile for him, but he scoffed at the idea.

Uncle Matthew had been treating Mae as a victim these couple months, his sympathies great and there were no indications that he would soon let up. His eyes were in a perpetual state of apology toward Mae, and he touched her often with a gentle hand on her shoulder or back, usually while offering to make her something to eat, or for some cash to go to a movie or a ride to her friend Lisa's house if she wanted the companionship of a friend. Mae loved him but it was painful to see him, as he resembled her mother too greatly. They had the same eyes, same nose, and even their smiles were similar.

He was a doctor at Saint John's Memorial Hospital, a general practitioner, and worked long hours; his days off usually Wednesday and Thursday, but he worked even then if they were understaffed or busy, which was often the case. He worked the evening shift during the weekdays, the morning shift on the weekends, and regretted that the hours Mae was typically home Matthew was not. He'd get to spend a little time with her in the dark hours of the weekends (assuming she wasn't out with her boyfriend Trent), and always spent an hour with her in the mornings before she headed off for school. He'd cook her breakfast employing the same sympathies, making comfort foods such as biscuits and gravy and scrambled eggs, blueberry pancakes and hash browns. Mae judged she'd gain twenty pounds this first year if he continued cooking these rich breakfasts.

Being that it was Saturday morning, the house was vacant when she returned home from Millie's. On the bus ride home she had gotten a text from Trent: he was on his way to her house to visit before his intramural baseball game at noon. She looked forward to it, she had replied, and really did. A more profound juxtaposition between Trent and Uncle Matthew there was none. Trent wasn't sympathetic toward her. Not even in the wake of her parents' deaths. Mae would have guessed his seeming indifference toward the tragedy would have offended her, but it did quite the opposite. She had spent enough time crying over their losses. She needed a distraction—cherish their memory, but find reasons to enjoy life once again. Uncle Matthew sure didn't offer a distraction. One look in his pitiful eyes sparked recollection of the double-homicide and it was all she could do to keep from crying all over again. But with Trent the tragedy never happened. Well, it happened, but he treated it like it was something he read in a newspaper article: "Aww, isn't that just horrible? Poor couple. Could you pass the jam, sweetheart?" He was more of a look-to-the-future kind of guy, not reflect-on-the-past type. Spending time with him set her mind to rights, lightened her heavy heart if only for a while.

Trent rented an apartment in Roseville, some thirty minutes from Matthew's. He had been suggesting to Mae since the tragedy that she should move in with him. She liked the idea but it simply couldn't happen. Uncle Matthew was her guardian now, and he wouldn't allow his fifteen-year-old niece to live with her eighteen-year-old boyfriend. He disapproved of the relationship entirely, but hadn't yet made an attempt at dissolving it, because to do so would hurt Mae, and that wasn't an option. He knew they had been having sex, because his sister Rebecca had told him as much before the tragedy. He'd love to bust Trent for statutory rape, but again, that would hurt Mae.

When Mae asked her uncle if she could move in with her boyfriend, she was denied on the premise of her school being here in Sacramento. Matthew gingerly added that she was too young to live with a boyfriend, no matter how much they professed to be in love with one another. She'd only have to wait three years, he had consoled her, and then she'd be a high school graduate and adult, could live with her beloved Trent for the rest of her sweet life, if she so chooses. She understood his position and thought if she were in his shoes she'd probably say the same thing. But since it was her own shoes she was in and Trent was the world to her, she argued the decision. She didn't have a say in the matter, being that he was her guardian, so it didn't really matter. Trent had said he'd talk to Matthew one of these days, to get him to see that what was best for Mae was her living with him, and that Roseville high schools were superior to Sacramento's (maybe it was true, maybe it wasn't), and it would benefit her in every conceivable way. That day hadn't yet come, but it neared.

Mae went straight to the couch, snatched the remote control from the coffee table and powered on the TV, quickly found the news. As she suspected, the news still centered on the latest attack from the SacTown Slayer: a middle-aged man by the name of Scott Thatcher, who was found dead by his concerned son two days (coroners determined) after his execution. He had been banded to a chair by duct tape, his throat slit with a knife, and bled out. The story racked Mae's heart, as it was the same means of death her parents had suffered. She was compelled to learn the story and its grisly details, and every story concerning the serial killer. She somehow felt she owed it to her parents to keep up on events, that perhaps her involvement (silent and inactive as it was) would honor their memory. Mr. Thatcher's death marked the ninth victim. Would there be more victims before he was caught? The stolid spokesman for the Sacramento Police Department seemed to think not. He extenuated their incompetence in catching him, then enumerated the courses of action they pursued to prevent there being a tenth victim, none of which inspired hope in Mae.

Would the next attack be merely victim-number-ten? Or might the headlines read something like: VICTIMS NUMBER TEN AND ELEVEN FOUND SLAIN. A two-fer. Maybe there'd be a three-fer or more. Why not? The guy was obviously working on depopulating Sacramento and wouldn't stop at a paltry nine slain. If the cops continued their ineptitude, it was reasonable to think even _they_ might account for some of the slain. Hell, if the serial killer offed the guys hunting him, wouldn't it make life all the easier on him? These were the dark thoughts whirling in Mae's mind as warm tears ran down her cheeks, watching the grim broadcast but hearing very little of it. Mingled with her sorrow was anger. Anger toward the city for not having caught this asshole yet. At least put a teary-eyed sympathetic spokesman in front of the damned camera, is that too much to ask? Not a complacent motherfucker regurgitating the same stale excuses and false hope.

When she heard the door of Trent's Audi close in the driveway, she changed the channel and wiped her tears away. Trent didn't approve of her following the news stories of the SacTown Slayer, said they would only inflame her despair. She supposed he was right, as he usually was. It didn't mean she'd stop following the stories, it only meant she'd dwell on them less, and never let Trent catch her watching special news broadcasts. 'We interrupt this program to bring you breaking news' was always broken a second time by Trent changing the channel—often a few times before he found a channel without a news team.

Her cellphone rang. The screen read Private Caller. She got off the couch to head for the door while answering it.

"Hello?"

"Mae! Mae, Mae, Mae!" the caller said excitedly.

"Yes, who is this?"

"Guess," the caller baited. His excitement was manifest.

Mae arrived at the front door and didn't unlock it for the time being. She looked out the peephole and didn't yet see Trent.

"I have no idea," Mae said to the unknown man.

"I'll give you a hint." The caller began singing the nursery rhyme Oh My Darlin' Clementine.

Mae gasped and dropped the phone. It smacked the wooden foyer floor loudly. She picked it up and reached to the deadbolt, and instead of unlocking it, she made sure it was locked fully, and retreated out of the foyer into the kitchen.

"It can't be," she whispered into the phone.

"I'm so sorry for all of this. Sorry doesn't begin to express how—"

"Breuer? It can't be!"

The front door tried to open: the knob rattled. The doorbell rang.

"Ah, I see you have company," said the caller. "It's Trent, and he has a present for you. A box of chocolates."

"If you're Breuer, and you're real, show yourself to me right now."

He sighed into the phone. "I can't. Not anymore. I told you—"

The doorbell rang again, followed by loud sharp knocks.

"You aren't real," she said decidedly.

"Not... not _real?"_ the caller said with hurt feelings. "Honey, how could you say that to me?"

Being that he wasn't real, she didn't feel it was necessary to say goodbye when she slid the cellphone in her jeans pocket. She went to the door feeling rather numb from the shock of it all, and let Trent in. Her eyes doubled when she saw the box of chocolates in his hand. He was smiling at her, but the smile lessened when he perceived her distress, the lines around her bright eyes, her creased brow. He imperiously stepped inside, jostled past her and entered the living room, checked the TV. It was some ludicrous game show, not the news. He pressed Previous on the remote and the news was on-location at a murder scene.

"I hope you weren't watching the news, Mae."

Tears formed in her eyes, from his tone, the memory of the subject matter on the news, and the phone call she just received.

"So you _were_ watching it. What did I say about that? You don't need to scare yourself needlessly, or remember things you're better off forgetting."

"I know. I'm sorry."

He handed her the chocolates and said, "Got you a little something. I know you love Sees." He studied her sorrowful countenance and sought to console her. He raked her walnut brown hair behind an ear and caressed the nape of her neck. "Mae, sweetheart, you're safe with me. The SacTown Slayer will be caught soon enough. You have nothing to fear, so long as you're with me. Okay?"

She nodded, wiped her tears. "I'm not afraid of him."

His cold gray eyes penetrated her own, fishing for truths that she wouldn't openly confess. "What happened," he said accusatorily.

"Nothing."

He took her by the hand to the couch, sat down and said, "What did I tell you about lying to me? I know when you're lying. What happened and don't you dare lie to me."

"Remember what I told you about my imaginary friend?"

"Breuer," he said disdainfully and rolled his eyes.

She nodded.

"You're seeing him again?"

Trent reflected to when he last fed her a pink pill. It was last night, broken into small pieces and stuffed into the sausage pieces of their take-out pizza. "I'll go with you to pick up the pizza," she had said. "No, honey, I'll get it alone. Be back soon." There were days when he simply didn't have an opportunity to feed her a pill, but generally she took a dose a day—obliviously, of course. That she might be seeing Breuer again was troubling as hell. Mae was his little angel. His slice of heaven, of perfection. Mental illness didn't fit into that picture anywhere. That's what the pills were for, to take the mental illness out of the picture. Maybe he needed to up the dosage. What a bitch that would be, to not only sneak her a pill a day but two. He had enough pills to last another month (at one pill a day), then he'd need to drive to Mexico to buy more, and it was hell acquiring them in Mexicanville. Only one place had them, and only because Trent had requested them in advance and paid upfront with a promise to be a regular customer. What a pain in the ass that was going to be, to need twice as many. Things weren't cheap, either. Maybe it would be worth it to take Mae to the head-doctor and get the pills prescribed directly, legally, and paid for by her insurance. But after his and Mae's big discussion...? After Trent vehemently opposed her parents forcing crazy-pills down her throat, assuring her that she was anything but insane, that _they_ were insane for thinking their daughter needed lithium...? To do a one-eighty and tell Mae she'd better take the pills because she was indeed nuttier than a fruitcake? He wasn't so sure he could do that. He was the rock foundation that Mae built upon. A resolute man firm in his convictions and actions. He wasn't a waffler, so rarely changed his mind, so adamantly didn't want to appear as having been wrong about the medicine all along. But... but he'd do what he had to do, that was the bottom line. Even if it meant secretly feeding her not one pill but two pills a day for the rest of her life, he'd do it. He planned on being a psychiatrist one day (God willing) and then getting the crazy pills would be simple, and being that she would be living with him, feeding her the pills would be a breeze. He'd have to give the subject the breadth of thought it warranted at a later time. He made a quick mental note: _Up Mae's dosage???_

"No, I didn't see him," she said noncommittally. "But... but I just spoke with him on the phone."

Trent exhaled loudly. Every time he did that she cringed.

Before he could reprimand her, and with her hands out gesturing to punctuate her words, she said, "Trent, I know it didn't happen. I _know_ it. It's all in my head, you don't need to remind me. I'm sorry, I really am. I'm _not_ hallucinating, though. Are you mad?"

"Babe," he said and exhaled, "I can't be mad at you for something that's not your fault. It's not like you're asking to see him, or hear a phone call that never happened, right?" She nodded and chanced a grin; a tear rolled down her cheek. He patted her hip, felt a cellphone. "Let me see your phone."

She produced the phone and he took it. He went to recent calls and widened his eyes at what he found: Private Caller: 10:46AM – 10:47AM. It was only a couple minutes ago.

"Who was this?" Trent demanded.

"Like I said, it was Breuer. Or at least he insinuated that it was. The voice was a little different from what I remember." At least she thought it was. Funny how that works. Breuer had been a part of her life for four years, his voice she had heard innumerable times. Yet here it was a few months after she had stopped imagining him and the voice that was once so recognizable that it might as well have been her own, was now uncertain. The recent voice on the phone, it was deeper, she thought.

"But he doesn't exist, which means you spoke to someone else. Who, Mae? Who!"

She fixed on one gray eye, then the other, back and forth. Her lips parted as though she wanted to say something, but didn't. Couldn't.

Trent returned her phone, put his hand on hers to comfort her. 'Nice Trent' had returned, abruptly. But 'nice Trent' was just a mask over the real Trent. At least when he was angry he was a known quantity. 'Nice Trent' was always a wild card.

"It's okay, baby," he said. "It's nothing, really. Let's forget that it happened. That's the first time you've seen or heard him since we've been dating, right?"

"Yes. I swear on my soul, it is."

"Good." Trent opened the box of chocolates and pinched out a specially-chosen candy and fed it to her. She smiled appreciatively and allowed it into her mouth. He watched her as she chewed it a few times before swallowing. "One more," he said and pinched another out, fed it to her. If she could have seen the undersides of the candies she'd have found holes where a half a pill was stuffed inside those two particular candies.

She frowned. "That one was a little bitter; a tangy nut in it."

"They can't all be good. Hey listen, I have a game in an hour. Want to come watch?"

"Always."

### Chapter Eight

The first evening of Eddie's residency at the Stoddard farm, Timothy entered the barn after debating himself whether or not he should knock—he decided on not. The two lamps were shining yellow light dully in the loft; thick shadows pervaded the lower windowless barn. The dry musky scent of hay was a welcome one to him. It had been years since it had been used to board horses. Since the stable's construction decades ago, the barn acted as an overflow in the event of the stable being at capacity. This was rarely the case, as fewer and fewer people in the region either owned horses or enjoyed the option of paying others to care for and shelter them. Now the barn was both an apartment for a single farm-hand and storage, primarily hay—four stalls were dedicated to the storage of olive totes, but they had only been harvesting enough olives to occupy a single stall since Jason quit. In the corner of the barn was a small bathroom that Phillip had constructed himself twenty or so years ago, and has since made renovations to. It wasn't much, but it had a shower with hot water and a sink and toilet.

"Yo, Eddie? You up there?"

Eddie appeared at the railing, leaned his elbows on it and said, "What's up, my man?"

What little worry Timothy had over his impetuous entry into his new friend's living quarters was assuaged by Eddie's congeniality, his warm expression and tone. He could hardly believe he had a friend such as Eddie. Eddie, who undoubtedly was once a popular boy in school, dated cheerleaders, and chose whom he would befriend instead of taking what he could get, like Timothy always had. What a depressing thought, Timothy considered. He would never relate to 'the cool crowd', could scarcely imagine what it must be like to enjoy that circumstance, which befalls almost exclusively the good looking and charismatic—occasionally the wealthy. He hoped against hope that Eddie would become a close friend of his, one that would last forever and have nothing to do with their employer-employee dynamic.

"Got a few minutes?" Timothy asked.

"Sure. Should I come down or do you want to come up?"

"I'll come up, if you don't mind."

He crossed the barn, the row of dark empty stalls, ascended the fixed step-ladder to the loft and surveyed the arrangements. There was a single mattress, a dresser with a small TV on its corner and facing the bed, a hot-plate, and microwave, a radio-clock, a mini-fridge, two chairs and a coffee table before them, a rudimentary closet that was constructed as an afterthought, and a low angular ceiling, elevating toward the railing. It was precisely how it had been when Jason lived there. On second glance, he saw that there was one thing new and it was standing on the dresser beside the TV: a small jade figurine of a creepy little man.

Eddie bowed dramatically and gestured him to take a seat in one of two chairs. Timothy humored and took the farthest chair; Eddie repositioned his chair to be nearer Timothy, sat down.

"How do you like it so far?" Timothy asked. "Comfortable enough?"

"It's perfect. I never would have guessed I'd have a job the same day I got to California. It really is the land of milk and honey. Thanks again for everything, you're a lifesaver. A true friend."

Did he mean that? Could their relationship evolve so quickly? Or maybe it was a gratuitous remark. A charitable offering. "No, Eddie, thank _you._ You're a Godsend. That's what my grandparents said, and I agree. Tomorrow morning I'll show you how to pick olives. Not that you couldn't do it without my instruction, but I'll show you how to tell if they're ready to be plucked, the nets we use, where and how to store them and all that. There isn't much to it. It's kind of boring, really. It helps if you get an iPod, makes the time go by faster. Also we have a tractor. I'll show you how to operate it; it's a little finicky sometimes."

"Sounds good. Hey, when do you think your grandparents will let me use their car?"

"Funny you should mention that. That's one of the reasons why I stopped by. They agreed to start looking for a car tomorrow. They're very prudent with money, so they'll be shopping around awhile before they buy one, I'm sure. They'll probably comb through the papers, visit a dozen dealerships at least. I'd guess within a week they should have a new used-car."

Eddie grimaced a little. "That long, huh?"

"Did you need transportation before that? I can give you a ride. Or feel free to use my car if you want. You have a license, right?"

Eddie's brow arched. "You'd do that for me? You'd let a near-stranger borrow your car?"

"Not a stranger. You work for us now, you're like family. That's just how we are here. I hope it doesn't creep you out. And my grandparents seem to really like you, sense you are a good person. And so do I."

"It's touching, Timothy. Really, I'm humbled. Yes I have a license. I wanted to drive to the store tomorrow and buy some food, stock my fridge. And buy some little things like a new toothbrush. Now that I'll have income coming in, I don't have to hold back on my spending."

"Not a problem. But feel free to take food from the house. That's part of the agreement: you can eat for free. I hope you like olives." Timothy chuckled.

Eddie smiled. "Very generous. I don't mind eating olives and horse meat."

" _Horse meat?"_ Timothy blurted.

"I kid, I kid. I stopped eating horse," Eddie said stolidly, "the meat give me the trots."

Timothy stared confusedly at his friend for a moment before bursting out laughing. They both cracked up.

Neither spoke again for a long moment. The laughter calmed down until what remained were matching smiles. You could hear the crickets serenading, and it reminded Eddie of home, which he missed already.

"So Timothy," Eddie said with a suggestive grin, "going to Millie's again next Saturday?"

Timothy blushed and looked away. "Probably."

"She's there every Saturday at the same time, huh?"

"Yeah."

"How long have you been watching her?"

"More than a m-month now. It's a little emb-barrassing to admit."

"Don't be. How come you're stuttering now? You weren't a minute ago."

Timothy shrugged, but he knew why. After considering it a moment, Eddie had a pretty good guess why. "Thinking about Mae, is that it?"

Timothy shrugged again, but then nodded once.

"Now that you two have been acquainted, maybe next week you can share a booth with her. What do you think?"

Timothy's eyes doubled. "Share a t-t-table with her?" He shook his head adamantly. "She wouldn't w-want that. No way would she want that."

"I bet she'd love your company. Why wouldn't she? You're a good looking cat. And you're a nice guy. Don't underestimate the allure of being a nice guy. Some chicks dig the bad boys, but those are the girls we don't need anyway."

"That's n-nice of you to say, but I bet you'd have a lot better luck with Mae than I would. You look like an athlete. Are you? _Were_ you?"

"I did play a little football last year, my senior year. I wouldn't go for a girl my friend wanted. That ain't cool. Besides, she's a little young for me. I'm almost nineteen and she's barely fifteen. You, on the other hand, are only a year older than her."

"Barely fifteen?" Timothy said confusedly.

Eddie coughed into his hand and waved dismissively with the other. "That's my guess, anyway. Maybe she's older, who knows. Doesn't she look barely fifteen to you?"

Timothy sensed that it wasn't a guess. "She looks older to me. You don't know her... do you?"

"Of course not. Like I said, I just came from Nebraska. I don't know anyone here."

Timothy leaned back in the chair, kicked his legs out before him and took a deep pensive breath, reflected a moment. He glanced at the little relic or idol or whatever it was on the dresser. It was kind of creepy. Not much in the way of apartment adornments. Maybe there was a story behind it that Eddie would tell him someday.

"She's the most beautiful girl I've ever seen in my life," Timothy said wistfully. "I mean it, the prettiest thing on earth. I think about her all time. I wish I were more like you: had the gall to talk to her like you do. And to ask her out on a date."

"You just need a confidence booster. It'll come, and soon. You'll see."

Timothy patronized him with a nod, but didn't believe it would be the case.

"Phillip and Phyllis might be the nicest people on earth," Eddie said. "You're lucky to have them as your adopted parents."

"Tell me about it."

"I think it's dope that Phillip's the kind of cat who'd marry a black woman. What are they, like seventy?"

"Yeah. Grandpa is five days older than Grandma. Cool, huh?"

"Yeah. They must have been total rebels to start an interracial relationship back in the day. How did they wind up together?"

"Want to hear their story?"

"Sure."

"Grandpa lived here with his folks back in the late fifties when he met Grandma. She's the granddaughter of a couple house-servants that used to live in this very barn back when it was the Hunsacker farm, a _long_ time ago. The Sotheby's, her family was named. There's a story I could tell you about her grandparents but I'll save it for another time. It's pretty crazy.

"Grandpa said it was love at first sight. They began dating, even though Grandpa's folks were against it, said that it was a sin for a white man to be with a black woman. Grandpa didn't care, he continued to see her. Once his parents got to know Phyllis, they liked her. It's hard not to, you know? She's such a sweet lady, and I'm sure she was just as sweet in her youth. I saw pictures of them during that time: she was really pretty. They dated for only a few months before getting engaged. She got pregnant before their wedding, and they planned it so they'd be wed before she gave birth. This was now the early 60's. You'll remember from history class that this was the time that Martin Luther King Junior was marching for civil rights. It was a huge topic of the time, people having strong opinions either way. Tensions were high. Grandpa said that when people saw him and Grandma holding hands in public, some would approach them and actually shake their hands, say good for you and well-wishing and all that, and genuinely meant it. Others would say the opposite, start with the nigger-this and nigger-that. People who dislike blacks just cannot help but say the N-word, like it's bottled up in them and they just leap at the chance to say it. And they say it with a kind of fervor, like it excites them in a dark way. I don't understand that, do you?"

He didn't give Eddie a chance to answer.

"Grandpa got in some fist-fights over it." Timothy grinned proudly at his friend as he said, "Grandpa said he wouldn't be half the brawler he was if he had chosen a white woman to settle down with; said that if he had met Grandma when he was younger, he probably would have been a golden-glove boxer."

Eddie laughed, then apologized for laughing.

"As Grandma's belly grew from the child inside of her, people opposing their union spat even uglier things at them. It got to be that my grandparents were scared for their unborn baby's life. And they were right to be scared." Timothy looked gravely at the floor. "The baby was never born."

Eddie's lips thinned, eyes sharpened; a glimmer of rage shone deep within them. "What happened?"

"They were going for a walk one evening, hand in hand, and a truck driving by stopped. A couple people got out, and... well, things didn't go so well for my Grandma and Grandpa."

Eddie gritted his teeth, clenched his fists.

"She miscarried because of it. Both were beaten pretty badly. They didn't let it stop their pursuit of love, though."

"Good," Eddie said defiantly. "To hell with those assholes."

"They got married soon after, tried to conceive another child." Timothy's voice was now softer, and quavered. "But she couldn't anymore. What they did to her, it—"

"They raped her," Eddie surmised.

"That's Grandpa's biggest regret, that he couldn't overpower those two guys. If he had, things would have turned out much differently. But I guess everything happens for a reason: had Grandpa beaten them up I probably wouldn't be here right now. Not that it makes it all right... it just..."

"Silver lining. I know what you mean."

"Anyway, what they did to her made it so she couldn't have babies anymore. So they adopted a boy. Charles. They considered it a blessing in disguise, being that they found a child from mixed parents, black and white. Most people back then wouldn't adopt a baby like that. He'd live in an orphanage till he was an adult, probably. He was just an infant when they took him in. They raised him, loved him like their own. When he turned eighteen in the late 80's he joined the army, got orders overseas. Charles is a master sergeant now, helicopter crew-chief, stationed in Germany. He visits once a year still. He's a really nice guy, you'd like him. Man, the stories he tells..."

"How do you fit into the picture?"

"I was eight years old, living in a foster home when they adopted me. To tell you the truth, I'm not sure why they adopted me. They were nearly sixty. I suppose they were lonely, probably missed raising Charles. I don't know. I doubt it was for free labor," Timothy smiled measuredly, "because I was only eight and scrawny. Scrawnier than I am now, if you can believe that."

"Maybe they have so much love in their hearts that they needed another receptacle for it," Eddie said and winked at Timothy. "And besides, I'm sure they want someone they love to take over the farm one day, and you'll be that person."

"Yeah. Charles plans on living in Germany forever, loves it out there. So you're probably right."

"Plus when Phillip is too old to take care of Phyllis, you can do that. You said he has Alzheimer's, so maybe it won't be too long from now."

Timothy nodded solemnly.

"Actually, she'll be taking care of him," Eddie considered, "not vice-versa. Poor Phyllis. It can't be easy, caring for a soul mate who will eventually forget who you are."

"You know what scares me? What if when Grandpa loses all his memory, and Grandma enters his room to care for him, what if he's mean to her? Like assumes she's just some black nurse caring for him and he resents her for it or something. I can't imagine if he says some of the same racist epithets that he's heard throughout his whole life, like a reanimation of someone else's prejudices, not his own. If his mind is all but destroyed, who knows what he might say? I honestly think it would break Grandma's heart and she'd just keel over dead from it."

Eddie reached over, put his hand on Timothy's, squeezed it affectionately. "That won't happen. No way in hell will that happen. He's a good man, a beautiful soul. He'd treat her well because that's who he is. Even if she becomes a total stranger to him, he'll treat her respectfully."

"I'm sure you're right, but I can't help but worry about it. Just recently he didn't know who Grandma was. Only lasted a few minutes, but he didn't know her. It's only going to get worse from here." He looked over at Eddie and shook off his gloominess. "Well I'll let you go for now. Normally we wouldn't work tomorrow, being that it's Sunday, but Grandpa thought it would be good for me to show you the ropes around the farm tomorrow, get you familiar with things. He'll pay you time-and-a-half, being the Sabbath and all. We have breakfast at six-thirty. Come join us then, if you'd like."

### Chapter Nine

It was delightfully warm and sunny at the baseball field. The lush green fresh-cut grass looked too perfect to be real, smelled too wonderful to be synthetic. You could hear the satisfying sounds of baseballs thudding into supple leather mitts, wooden bats cracking into balls as men in red jerseys fielded practice pop-flies. Perfect baseball weather it was, on a perfect late-spring day. It was the same ballpark Mae had first met Trent, four months ago, when his Roseville Jaguars stomped all over the Sacramento Monarchs. It seemed a lot longer than four months ago; it felt like lifetimes. It was in fact two lives ago: Mae's mother Rebecca and father David. She recalled how Breuer was with her that evening, if only in her mind, playing cupid by bringing Trent into her life. What a magical evening that had been. The best day of her life, without question. And my-oh-my did it come with severe consequences, both physical and emotional. It was that night she lost her virginity in his Roseville apartment, after she had decided that she wanted to experience love in its fullest extent before the medicine her parents were force-feeding her shut off the lights, turned her into a mind-numbed robot of a girl; in a word, a zombie. She had returned home the next morning with an assortment of concealed bruises blotching her body. Bruises from aggressive love-making. Bruises her mom found and went ape-shit over. That was the beginning of her being grounded for a month; her interludes with Trent then became secretive. It was both a wonderful time and horrific time, as her parents were soon killed by the SacTown Slayer, still at large. 'Still at large' could be an epithet for the SacTown Slayer, being how often it was used. Alexander the Great, Ivan the Terrible, SacTown Slayer the Still at Large. The expression 'still at large' was dead wrong in this case. Large signifies the world, meaning the killer could be anywhere on the planet. 'Still at Small' would be more fitting. The son of a bitch hadn't killed a single person outside a four mile radius in southwest Sacramento.

For the hundredth time today Mae remembered Breuer. What surprised her wasn't how often she was thinking about him, but that she was doing so longingly! Who in their right mind would long to reunite with a make-believe friend? It didn't seem possible that he was all inside her head. Not at first, at least. She had finally and grudgingly come to the conclusion that he was imaginary, after Trent had hammered home that assertion time and time again, and his reasoning was pretty sound. Pretty damned unimpeachable, though she couldn't recall a single reason at that moment. "Beings like Breuer don't exist in the real world; they are products of wild imaginations." That's a summation of the preamble to his litany of circumstantial evidence against Breuer. Mae estimated that she must have one heck of an imagination. She didn't believe she did, though, that was the thing: she had an average imagination, at _best_. She was never much of a dreamer. Mae was grounded in reality. To create Breuer, wouldn't she need to be one of those individuals always with their heads in the clouds? The artistic type who create something from nothing? She didn't know, but thought so. "Breuer is not real," she reminded herself aloud.

Then how could she account for certain things if Breuer didn't exist? Some of her shared experiences with Breuer could be explained away, but not all of them. Not nearly enough of them. When she was in the bathroom just seconds away from spitting her medicine hidden under her tongue into the toilet, Breuer had warned that Rebecca was coming to listen at the door, and he was right. She supposed maybe she had just assumed that would be the case, or maybe heard her padding down the hall. If that was the only occurrence it would be a lot easier dismissing Breuer as a figment of her wild imagination.

Then there was Breuer leading her to the baseball field to meet Trent, and he had mentioned him by name. That night she met Trent; Breuer had been right about him. How could she have known it in advance to the encounter? She'd have to be psychic to know that, wouldn't she? Maybe there was an explanation there somewhere, one that continued to elude her.

Also was the time Breuer employed a plan that led her into being in back of a station wagon as she was being conducted down the interstate by her kidnappers. He had instructed her what to tell her kidnappers to instigate a car accident that would claim their lives while sparing hers. She was all of ten years old! She couldn't have devised such a fantastic plan as that, a plan that infallibly killed the both of them, and led to her reuniting with her biological parents.

She supposed Breuer couldn't be real. As strong as the argument made for his being real was the one made for his being imagined. The pills her parents had given her—some lithium compound—had put an end to her seeing him. Squashed it like a miserable bug. It was hard to refute the efficiency the medicine had on her ceasing to see Breuer. The pills were for crazies, and when she took them Breuer went away quickly and completely. In a court of law, if such circumstantial evidence was shared with sensible jurors, Mae judged that many of them would come to their conclusions right then and there, that he was imagined.

Interestingly though, when her folks died and she stopped taking the crazy pills, Breuer didn't return. She had only taken them for maybe a month, maybe six weeks, but it was long enough to cure her from hallucinating Breuer. He was out of her life now.

The way she saw it, there were only two possibilities: he truly was an imagined friend, or he was not and willfully left Mae's life. One of those possibilities was pretty easy to shoot down, and that's Breuer willfully leaving her life. Breuer loved her with all his heart, he had repeatedly vowed that and she believed him. He wouldn't abandon her, especially when she needed him the most: following the tragedy of her parents' murders. Yes, possibility number-two was so improbable that the alternative must be true, that he didn't exist. Trent was wise beyond his eighteen years, and was certain of Breuer's non-existence, so she would do good to agree with him, put to rest her many toils over the matter. She thought that's exactly what she had done! So what about that damned phone call this morning?

Her cellphone rang in her purse, pulling her out of deep thought.

She nervously opened her purse, praying it would be anyone other than Private Caller. She was cognizant of how great a coincidence it would be having ruminated over Breuer's existence one minute and receiving a phone call from him the next. She flipped open her phone and grimaced: it was Private Caller. Before answering she looked for Trent on the field, found him holding and stretching his hamstrings. His eyes were on Mae in the bleachers. She waved at him with a forced smile and took the phone call.

"Hello?"

"Mae, don't hang up on me this time."

She lowered the phone undecidedly before returning it to her ear. It was evident to Trent what was happening with his girlfriend. The crazies were creeping back, he feared. This was no laughing matter, no trifling problem. This was serious shit. His willingness to drive a combined eighteen hours to procure expensive medicine was proof of how much his girlfriend's sanity meant to him. He erected from his stretch and began jogging toward her.

"Who are you?" she said accusatorily.

"You know who I am. Look, you have to listen to me. Trent isn't who you think he is. And you have to stop taking—"

She ended the call, dropped the phone into her purse and zipped it. It wasn't hot enough out to warrant the sweat on her brow, but she felt it. And her mouth was suddenly dry. Her eyes prickled, tears not far off. Trent took the bleachers two steps at a time and stopped just before her, glared down at her.

"Who was that?" he demanded.

"It... it..." She hated lying to him. He always knew when she wasn't forthcoming, so it was pointless to lie. "It was Breuer," she said grudgingly. Then amended, "I _think_ it was Breuer _._ He didn't say who it was."

He gestured for the phone. She hung her head shamefully, retrieved the phone for him. He checked recent calls and sure enough she had one, just as she had earlier today; it wasn't imagined. He didn't know if he should be relieved or dismayed by that. It was good that the medicine was keeping her from imagining Breuer, but it wasn't good that some asshole motherfucker was intruding in her life. _Their_ lives. What did this prick have to gain by it? And how could he know about Mae's Breuer? What else might he know? That was a question that soured his stomach and ramped up his blood pressure. Could it be that this caller knew other things?—things he shouldn't be knowing? Secrets? Only three people knew his greatest secret, that he killed Mae's parents, and they were himself and Mae's dead parents. And like Benjamin Franklin said, three people can keep a secret if two of them are dead. Or if you prefer, dead men tell no tales.

The phone rang in Trent's hand. Private Caller. The call was answered. Before Trent could say a word, a voice preempted him. "You'll pay for this," the unknown man said not maliciously but plainly, matter of factly.

"Who are you?" Trent returned.

"Go ahead and feed her one more pill, I dare you. It'll be your ass, I guaran-damn-tee it."

Trent's eyes widened, face burned red. "Never call her again," Trent threatened, "or you and I are going to have a serious fucking problem." He spiked the phone down at the aluminum bleachers, shattering it into clusters of plastic and wires. People in the area looked alarmingly at Trent and Mae.

"Trent!" Mae cried and impulsively gathered the parts of her obliterated phone, half of which had fallen to the ground below the bleachers.

"Fuck him," Trent exclaimed. He snapped his fingers: she looked up at him. His hateful expression halted production of her picking up parts. "If you hear from him again, if he calls your home number or visits you or whatever, you tell me right away. Do you understand me?"

She nodded, recommenced picking up phone parts; why she didn't know. More to herself than him she said, "But I won't be able to call you without a phone."

"You have your retarded uncle's home phone still. If that guy calls your home-phone, I want you to hang up on him and unplug it. Understood?"

She said yes and wondered what Uncle Matthew might think about that. She had the solitary advantage of Matthew's inexorable sympathy, that he'd do anything for her just short of allowing her to live with Trent. She figured if she unplugged the home phone and explained to her uncle that she was receiving sexual prank calls, he'd be on board with it, especially being that he used his personal cell primarily.

As if Trent was reading her thoughts, he then said, "In fact, I want you to unplug the phone when you get home. If this stalker freak asshole can find your cell number, he can find your home number. Make some shit up to your uncle, he'll believe you."

Cautiously she said, "But how will we communicate?"

"You'll be living with me."

"Trent," she said exasperatedly, "I told you that he won't allow it, and I don't have a choice: I'm a minor."

"I'll have a talk with him, don't worry about that. I'll get him to see things my way. _Our_ way. What time does he get home from work?"

"If he doesn't work overtime he gets home around three P.M. or so."

"Today's no good then. He works nights on weekdays, right?"

"Yeah."

"Here's what we're going to do. Tomorrow after my classes I'll come over and pick you up—you get home from school at what, 3:20? 3:30? Yeah, Matthew will be at work. Have your stuff packed. I'm driving you to my place."

"Trent, I—"

"Don't interrupt me. I'll take you to my place and you'll live with me from now on. I'll have a talk with Matthew tomorrow night when he gets home from work, because he'll be expecting you to be there. What time does he get home?"

"Around two in the morning, give or take."

"Okay. If for some reason I can't talk Matthew into it, I'll drive you back. Okay?"

She liked that. It was going to be the case, she had no doubt. "All right."

"But that shouldn't be the case," he said and leaned forward to kiss Mae on the lips, smiled a plastic smile at her. "Don't worry, sweetheart, I'll take care of everything. I always do. Sit back and enjoy the game. I expect to hear you cheering for me."

"I love you," she said automatically.

Trent turned and descended two steps before stopping suddenly with an idea. It was a great one, one that he should have had earlier. If he was right, it would explain everything. Oftentimes the most simplest answer is the correct answer, and in this case it might just be. Over his shoulder he said, "Do you write a journal or diary or something?"

"Yes. Why?"

He turned to face her, the gears in his head turning; eyes churning with ideas and understanding. "Where is it?" he asked.

She reflected, at first in the recent days, then having to go further back.

Impatient, Trent asked another question, a more critical one. "Could anyone have read it?"

"I haven't made an entry since I moved to Uncle Matthew's," she replied. "It's in a box in my room, I think. And I don't know who'd want to read it, but I suppose my uncle _could_ have, if he really wanted to. Why do you ask?"

He looked disappointedly at her. It was a look he often gave her before calling her retarded. "What do you think? Come on, think about it," he said condescendingly. "Someone knows about your imaginary friend, is pretending to be him, right?" The 'Feed her one more pill, I dare you' part, well that could have been an idea born from reading her diary. She did most likely put an entry in there whining about being force-fed crazy pills by her distrusting parents. Who knows what else she put in that damned thing. Maybe she had suspected Trent was slipping her pills and included that in the diary. It wouldn't surprise him. No more diary entries for Mae. That's a fine new rule, one he should have implemented the day he met her. Their affairs were nobody's fucking business but their own. And ink is just so... concrete, so permanent. It isn't malleable like spoken words, like promises, like lies. The tongue beguiles while the hand signs its fate. Write nothing, say everything.

Trent imagined himself keeping a journal. What a laughable notion. How dangerous would that be? A one-hundred-page book of evidence begging to be exhibit A in any number of trials. They'd burn him alive at the stake, and the journal pages would fuel the fire.

It occurred to Mae that Trent was probably right about this diary thing. She couldn't fathom anyone desiring to read it, though, let alone actually committing the atrocious act, that most vile molestation of her privacy. She wasn't even a hundred-percent sure it was in the box she figured it to be in. She had moved hastily and shortly after her parent's violent murders: what and where she packed things hadn't been on her mind. It wasn't even a blip on the radar. And since then she has had zero ambitions of continuing her entries. It did make sense though, Trent's theory. And it would be helpful to her contention of being sane. The phone calls were indeed real, after all. And the caller didn't sound like Breuer, though she couldn't be certain. Maybe the caller was a man who read her diary, like Trent said.

"Hun, would you mind if I activated my old cellphone?" Mae asked. "I can see if Verizon will give me a new phone number, if you prefer."

"I suppose. It would kind of suck not being able to get a hold of you whenever I want. We'll talk later," Trent said and left.

### Chapter Ten

It was mid-afternoon when Timothy concluded Eddie's orientation of the farm. Eddie said he'd begin working on the olives right away, but Timothy assured him it wouldn't be necessary, that tomorrow morning would be a fine time to begin. He then produced a set of keys from his pocket and handed them over.

"You said you wanted to do some shopping," Timothy said. "If you'd like I can go with you, show you where the market is, and there's a Walmart a couple miles down the road."

"Thanks, but I don't mind going alone."

Timothy nodded. "You did well today. You're a fast learner. I can't believe it was your first time driving a front-loader."

"Any plans for this evening?" Eddie asked.

"None. Why?"

"Just wondering. Are there any rules against me bringing company over?"

"Company?"

"Yeah, if I make friends can they come over?"

"I... I suppose. Sure. Do you plan on picking up some friends at the market this afternoon?" Timothy said jocularly.

"I just may," Eddie said with a waggle of his brow. "One can't have too many friends. You're a great one; don't think I don't appreciate you as a friend and my saving grace in getting me this job. I want to help you out, Timothy. Get you out of your shell. Introduce you to people I meet."

"I don't do too well with strangers," Timothy admitted and looked away. "But I'll do whatever you want. I trust your judgment." He returned his admiring gaze to Eddie. "And if you run into Mae, feel free to invite her over to supper." He laughed, as did Eddie.

* * *

After a shower and a shave, wearing a clean tee-shirt and twice-worn blue jeans, Eddie took the keys to the Camry and got a move on. He headed toward the Sacramento Mall on the other side of town, in a district known as Old Town. What a remarkable city, he thought. High skyscrapers and low smog, bumper to bumper traffic on the freeways, congestion everywhere else, bums at every intersection. The enormous white capital building with a dome and monolithic stone columns reminiscent of the White House. Even the damned governor was unlike anyone Nebraska had ever elected. In California they elect muscle-bound governators. Our governor can out bench-press your governor.

"Jesus, another cop," Eddie said to the empty Camry cabin. There were shit-lousy cops _everywhere._ He couldn't go two blocks without spotting one. "Ahh," Eddie remembered, "the serial killer at large."

A skimpily dressed woman with a shock of red hair (it had to be a wig) stood at a street corner. Was she a prostitute? Is a pig's ass pork? Eddie grinned sidelong as he cruised by her. She finger-waved at him when she perceived his interest. Why weren't the cops harassing her? Maybe she provided them with a special complimentary service. Speaking of special services, Eddie just drove past the third massage parlor in less than a mile, and laughed at the sign in the corner of a window: Full Tension Release.

"I bet," Eddie said. He intoned: "Uh yes, I'd like an F.T.R. massage, please. Got a knot in my lower back that needs rubbing out. Interesting thing about my back: it's on my cock."

There's nothing remotely like this place in Nebraska, Eddie thought. And Sacramento was tame compared to cities such as L.A. and San Francisco. Maybe if he stayed out till nightfall he'd witness his first murder. Murder, now there's a postcard for Tall-Brown and Short-Brown. He made the postcard in his mind: a colorful shot of a dead hooker lying face down in the gutter, a knife in her back. It would need a caption, of course. _Wish you were her,_ written in slanted electric-blue scrawl. Maybe. How about having the knife in her back gold plated, the caption then reading _The Golden State_. Eddie giggled. How about a picture taken through the lens of a rifle scope, snapped from a freeway overpass, a motorist centered in the crosshairs. _California traffic: it's murder, all right._

He lowered the driver's side window and enjoyed the wind drumming his face, the distinct smell of big city, which included but was not limited to combusted diesel fuel and asphalt's hot oily pitch. It was a lovely big-city day for a small town dude; it was hard not to smile. He wondered how long he'd live in Sac Town. Sackatomatoes, as some people called it.

He parked in back of the crowded mall parking lot, strolled toward the mall whistling, smiling at all whom he passed, verbally greeting those who smiled back. He felt the weight of the jade idol in his jeans' pocket. Occasionally he touched it through the denim. A beautiful blonde was walking away from the mall in his row. He stuffed his hand inside his pocket, now touching it directly. She must have sensed that he was checking her out because she looked away from him at nothing in particular and held that angle as she passed him.

"Geez, relax, lady," Eddie muttered, probably too quietly for her to hear. "I ain't going to rape you, sheesh." He realized a lot of people were probably uptight these days in Sacramento. A city whose population sign was slowly but steadily ticking backwards. An exaggeration, sure, but it _was_ happening.

Eddie figured he'd meet the serial killer face to face soon enough, and sort of looked forward to it. There was no rush, and plenty else to do. Maybe next weekend he'd meet him, maybe sooner. He had several questions to ask him, the biggest being the most obvious: why are you doing it? He wanted to settle in his new home and job first.

He stepped into the shade provided by of the large structure's cement edifice. It was a clothing store, Macy's. Before entering he glanced down to evaluate his clothes. They were pretty shitty by anyone's standard, so this was the store for him.

He picked out a pair of slacks, some Dockers, two pairs of shorts, a couple nice shirts and one dress shirt, three tee-shirts, a tie, some black leather loafers, boxer underwear, white socks and black socks. He carried his items not to the first clerk he spied, nor the second or third, but the fourth, who looked like a winner. He waited in a short line with his overflowing jumble of clothes. The old crone in front of him took her bags and receipt and left. Eddie dropped his items on the counter, greeted the heavily perfumed and well-dressed matronly clerk with a warm smile. His right hand touched the jade idol in his pocket.

She stared curiously at him for a moment before asking if he found everything all right. He did, thank you. She scanned the items slowly—she was in no great hurry— glanced up at him coyly, which he returned with an almost imperceptible wink. She blushed as she began bagging the items. If one was forced to guess on the outset of this meeting at what this prim and stately woman's behavior might have been during this specific transaction, one would have been dead wrong.

Oh yeah, I picked a winner, all right.

"Would you like to donate a dollar, five, or ten to the Susan B. Komen foundation?" she asked in a high tone.

He removed the checkbook from his back pocket and said, "Why does it stop at ten dollars? Is Susan _et al_ on the brink of discovery, and another ten should do it?"

She smiled bashfully and shrugged, then giggled like a girl thirty years younger than herself.

"I take breasts very seriously," he said. He considered a moment, cleared his throat and said, "Let me turn a poem to suit the occasion, for your pleasure." He looked over his shoulder, satisfied that nobody was currently behind him—though if there were, nothing would change; the transaction would crawl along and tough shit if you didn't like it.

He looked earnestly in her eyes and said, "No breast is an island, entire of itself. Each is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. If a breast be washed away by the sea, womanhood is the less. Each breast's death diminishes me, for I am involved in womanhood. Therefore, send not to know for whom the bell tolls, It tolls for thee."

Her mouth hung open, her expression bedazzled. She wanted to say something, Eddie was sure of it, but she seemed to be stuck on stupid.

"John Donne is the poet I just injured," Eddie informed, "but I'm sure he would have been a crusader of the C-cup had he knowledge of this wretched disease." He set the checkbook down on the counter and muttered softly (but not softly enough), "Or known a pair like yours."

Her cheeks blushed somehow deeper—a natural rouge more slutty, more French-looking than anything you might find painted on a 1970's porno actress' face—and once again she giggled. She had been a matronly forty-year-old at first glance, but my how those matronly layers peeled away like a sweet red onion by the giggle; damned if she hadn't arrived at adolescent coquette.

"If Misses Komen insists on a ten dollar limitation," Eddie said, "go ahead and push that little button ten times for me. A hundred dollars so that breasts may have a fighting chance. Sound good, Nancy?"

She sobered at his calling her by name. "Have we met?"

"No." He pointed to the nameplate over her left breast.

She looked down at her nameplate and became flush with embarrassment. "Of course," she said. She hesitated before requesting money, as it would expedite this most intriguing encounter. "A poet _and_ a philanthropist. The consummate bachelor," she said, having noticed his bare ring-finger and a still-empty line behind the young man. "That will be five-hundred-and-seventy-two even, dear."

He took the pen from the counter and wrote a check, tore it off and handed it over. She processed it through Check Scan, frowned at the unsatisfied machine, then tried it again. Her confused eyes met his.

"It's okay, Nancy," Eddie said both calmly and persuasively. "It's just fine. Isn't it?"

She nodded, hit the override button on the register. The drawer slid open; she buried the check under the money tray, closed it, tore off the receipt and placed it in the giant white handled-bag with a red star, handed it to Eddie.

"Thank you kindly," Eddie said. "You have a great day, Nancy."

"You too. I hope to see you again... soon."

She watched him off.

He changed out of his crappy clothes in the Macy's men's room, almost threw them away before deciding they'd be just fine to work in. He placed them in the bag beside his new threads. He went with Dockers and a nice button-up shirt: not too dressy but plenty classy. Before the mirror he teased his hair a little, wet his hand and teased it some more. He gave himself one final evaluation before calling it good and leaving.

He sauntered along the upper-level walkway: destination food court. The mall was packed this Sunday afternoon. It's astonishing how difficult it is to find black people around here, Eddie thought. He had spent a week on the east coast several years back (a family vacation spanning nine states), and blacks were plentiful out there—Nebraska, not so much. He scanned around, weaved through knots of people, around red plastic communal tables with people dining on rank shitty food. When he spotted a pair of young black girls, he smiled broadly. He engaged them at their table, where they were chewing on Mongolian Barbecue and conversing idly with one another. Together they looked up at Eddie unexpectedly; one wiped her mouth clean with a napkin.

"Good afternoon, my fair young ladies," he said affably and sort of bowed at them while tipping his invisible hat.

One giggled; the other smiled up at him.

"Could you watch my bag for me as I order a couple tacos?"

"Sure," said one. The other nodded.

"Be right black." He coughed. "I mean back."

Five minutes later Eddie returned with a tray of food from Paco's Tacos. He seated himself beside one of the girls as he said, "You don't mind, do you?"

"Not at all," one said. "Of course not," said the other.

"I'm Edgar Verboom," he said, "but beautiful people tend to call me Eddie."

"Nice to meet you, Eddie," said one of the two, then giggled some more, prompting the other to laugh.

"I'm Nichole."

He took Nichole's hand and kissed the top of it gallantly.

"I'm Jennifer, Eddie," said the hereto non-introduced lovely lady and offered her hand, which was kissed no less passionately than was Nichole's.

"What kind of name is Verboom?" Nichole asked.

"It's Dutch. Means the tree." He shrugged and said, "I don't know. Leave it to the Dutch to come up with mundane surnames, huh?" Unsurprisingly they found humor in that. "I just arrived in California yesterday. I'm trying to get used to the area and people here. It's rough being in a new state, you know? Especially going from the Midwest to Cali; completely different in every conceivable way." He shifted from one's eyes to the other to involve them both equally.

"Yeah, must be tough," Nichole said. "Are you from Holland?"

"Originally, yes. Moved to Nebraska with my dad when I was a kid."

"Nebraska," Jennifer said with an arched brow. "I don't think I've ever met someone from there."

"It's a dull place to be," he said and leaned back in his flimsy chair. "I tell ya, good luck finding specimens such as yourselves in Nebraska."

"Specimens," one said and giggled.

"If I may be blunt," Eddie said, "the biggest strike against Nebraska is its lack of diversity. Personally I prefer the company of women such as yourselves."

"You're into black women, huh?" asked Nichole.

"Into? That's kind of an ugly way to put it. I'm drawn to them, admire them. A beauty surpassing all others."

"Aren't you a talker," Jennifer said with adoring eyes.

"What do you think of her?" Nichole asked, pointing discreetly at a table ten yards away, where a young couple dined. The woman was gorgeous. Not Victoria's Secret caliber, but not far from. A trophy wife for a young successful businessman.

"Her?" He studied the trophy for a moment before returning his attention to his company. He crinkled his nose and said, "Bleh. Not my thing."

The two ladies exchanged impressed stares.

"So what is there to do around here for fun?" Eddie asked.

"Parties," said one. The other agreed emphatically.

"You two are in high school, yes? Seniors?"

"Yes," said Jenny. "How about yourself? Are you graduated?"

"Yes, last year." He took a bite of his taco. It tasted like the shit had been smoldering under a heat lamp for three days, but was priced like the shit was just killed off a free-ranged farm thirty minutes ago. The girls followed suit by digging into their bowls of Mongolian Barbecue which didn't look half bad. Eddie should have gotten that.

After a few more hard-swallowed bites, Eddie took notice of Nichole's nearest hand, reached over and put it in his. Her eyes fixed on their conjoined hands. He glided his thumb over the top over her smooth-skinned hand.

"I've never seen such a beautiful example of a hand," he said. "Your skin is so soft and smooth. I adore it."

The two girls looked at one another with bewildered expressions that might have said _Who IS this guy?_

He released her hand, then looked into the eyes of the girl opposite him and said, "I'm going to ask you two for a favor. I fear that if you reject me, I'll be devastated to the point that I may relocate back to Nebraska." He let them see his puppy-dog eyes. They were great ones.

Their attentions were raptly on him, mouths open.

"I have this friend. My only friend, really. Timothy. He's a great guy, but a little shy around women. We were going to hang out a little this evening, have a beer or two. I can't help but wonder how much more enjoyable it might be with your company. If you can't I'll understand, and all I'll ask of you is for directions to the freeway leading back to Nebraska."

They both smiled. One nodded as the other said sure, they'd be happy to.

"Great," Eddie said with palpable relief. "It wouldn't just mean a lot to me, but to my friend. He really is shy. Try to make him feel good about himself, if you would." He bit into his shit taco.

"Where do you live?"

* * *

It was late afternoon when Eddie drove past the Stoddard farm in Timothy's Camry at low speed. Just before arriving at an intersection, between two choppy dirt fields, he pulled off the road and killed the engine. The stop sign up ahead was riddled with bullet holes. Eddie grinned at it. "Ahh, to be young, bored, and stupid."

In the far east low dark clouds were coming this way. Would there be rain and thunder tomorrow, possibly even tonight? Eddie kind of hoped so, and the wind was picking up. Is there anything more cozy than rain pelting your roof with punctuations of crackling thunder rattling your domicile? No, there isn't.

He reached over to the passenger seat, handled his jade idol, gazed vacantly at it, swept a thumb over its misshapen head, palmed it tightly, set it back down. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, sighed impatiently, looked off into the distance. The sun was directly to his left and at the perfect angle to annoy him, searing the corner of his eye. He withdrew the cellphone from his pocket and dialed information. He lowered and turned the sun-visor to blot out that fucking yellow ball of lava.

"Connect me to Saint John's Memorial Hospital, please." The call connected with a click. A receptionist answered after two rings. "Transfer me to Doctor Matthew Albrect's office, please." It transferred, rang. He was greeted by a receptionist who sounded like the previous. "Good afternoon," Eddie said. "I need to speak with the good doctor Matthew Albrect, if you please."

"Regarding?"

"Personal affairs. Tell him it pertains to his niece Mae Clark. That should do it."

"One moment, please."

Eddie spied in the distance a young man walking in his direction on the other side of the road. Road 171, which claimed addresses of farms, farms, and more farms, ranging in size from a half city-block to two blocks.

"This is Doctor Albrect," a man said.

"Matthew, my name is Edgar Verboom. I'm an acquaintance of Trent Blackwood's."

"Oh," Matthew said with blatant disappointment. "What do you want, Edgar?"

"I suppose acquaintance was a poor word choice. I'm at odds with him."

"And what is it I can do for you?"

Eddie half-expected him to say he was a very busy, important man, so stop wasting his valuable time. He didn't, but that didn't mean the doctor wasn't thinking it.

"Could we meet this evening?" Eddie fixed on the boy drawing nearer and changed his mind. "Make that tomorrow evening. There's something you ought to know about Mae's boyfriend, something that would be of great interest to you. What time do you take your break?"

"Whenever I get a chance. I'm perpetually busy. Couldn't you tell me over the phone?"

"No. Could you give me a time-frame to meet? I'll be in the lobby of the hospital during that time." The young man was getting near; Eddie stowed the jade idol in his pocket.

"Since it's regarding Mae, of course I will. How does between seven and eight P.M. sound?"

"I'll see you tomorrow."

Eddie ended the call and tossed the phone aside to the seat, returned the impeding sun-visor forward. Across the street the kid was now lateral to him, staring at Eddie, at the guy in a car on the dirt shoulder for no apparent reason. Eddie waved the dude over. He crossed the street and hunched forward even with the open Toyota window.

"What's up, man?" Eddie said spiritedly.

"Hey."

"You know what I can't stand?"

The young man's eyes asked what it was he couldn't stand.

"White people who pal around with blacks," Eddie said. "And worse than that?—white people who mate with them."

The dude humored and nodded in agreement.

"I'm Eddie."

"Max."

They shook hands.

"Yes, I've heard of you. I just landed a job with the Stoddard's. You know who I'm talking about." He thumbed in the direction of the farm, behind him. "Phillip and Phyllis, their adopted kid Timothy." Max nodded. "Timothy told me about you, about how if he ever got in a fight with you a second time, your ass would be fucking pounded. Pounded harder than a gay sailor on shore leave. That's what he said, verbatim." Max looked both stunned and pleased. Mostly stunned. "Anyway, I know how you feel about Phillip being with that black chick. Pretty disgusting, huh?"

"It ain't right," Max said. "God didn't intend for whites to mix with blacks."

"You're right. God how you're right. That's why there's a vanilla flavor and a chocolate flavor, but there ain't no flavor that's a mixture of the two. What's so unfortunate is that shit's passed down from generation to generation, tolerance. Wouldn't you know it, but Timothy has a couple black girlfriends now. Can you believe that shit?"

"That stuttering little pecker has girlfriends?" Max said incredulously.

Eddie nodded gravely. "And I got to work with these people. But a job's a job, and I need the money. Look, I was hoping you could help me out, this evening, at eight o'clock. Timothy is having those black bitches over. I'd love to see him get his comeuppance, you know? Wipe that smug little grin off his stuttering face. Maybe you could stop by and teach him a lesson on race?"

"Why do you need me? Can't you kick his ass by yourself?"

"What do you think?" Eddie said thickly and laughed; the pedestrian laughed with him reflexively. "I would crush that little fucker. But like I said, I work for them, and can't afford to be unemployed again. So you're going to help me; that is, unless you're worried he'll kick your ass this time. He swore up and down that you just got lucky last time, and threw some cheap shots."

"Dude that ain't even funny. It wasn't even close, man: I pulverized that stuttering little freak. Yeah, I'll come."

"Here's how it'll play out. There's a gate, but who cares: the wooden perimeter fence is low enough—hop on over, just come right in, go to the barn. In the loft is where they'll be. I'll be just outside the barn." Eddie looked again to the east, those low rolling dark clouds headed this way. "I won't be in the barn. I can't. I can't have Timothy thinking I had anything to do with this. You'll rough him up a little, smack those bitches around how you see fit. I really don't care what you do with them. Have some fun for all I care. They got nice bodies. There's some good times to be had there, trust me."

"What if his grandpa and nigger grandma hear us? They'll call the cops on us for sure."

"They won't hear it. They sit in front of the TV all evening, and they're hard of hearing to begin with—you should hear how loud they got that TV going. Not to mention the barn is far enough away from the house that it shouldn't be an issue. Look, I really appreciate this. We whites got to stick together, bro."

"No problem, dude. I can't believe that panty-waste thinks I got lucky last time." Max shook his head with a smirk.

"Hey, who around here sells weed?"

### Chapter Eleven

It had started to rain at dusk despite the forecast. There was a reported zero chance of rain tonight, a thirty-percent chance tomorrow. Timothy was watching a Sacramento Kings game on the little TV in his bedroom, heard the rain drumming on the roof during gaps between game and commercial. His cellphone rang. He got off the bed and went to the dresser, saw it was Eddie. As he answered there was a knock at his bedroom door.

"Just a second," he said into the phone and opened the door.

It was Phyllis, having recently changed into her nightgown and robe. "Maybe you ought to go to the barn and be sure the roof isn't leaking on Edgar's apartment."

"Okay, Grandma."

"How's that dear getting along? His needs met?"

"Yes, ma'am. He's liking it here, I'm pretty sure. I let him borrow my car earlier to go shopping. I have a feeling he'll stick around."

She smiled. "Good to hear. I have a good feeling about that boy. Do me a favor and be sure all his needs are met, the best we can. If he needs something within reason, help him out. If it requires money—and not too much of it—come see me or your grandfather and we'll help out."

"I will, Grandma."

She stepped to Timothy and kissed his forehead. "You're a sweet boy, Timothy. Phillip and I are blessed to have you."

"It's me who's blessed."

She caressed his cheek before walking away. Timothy closed the door and put the phone to his ear, hoping none of his conversation with his grandma had made it to the small speaker of the phone which had been pressed against his stomach.

"What's up, Eddie?"

"Evening, bro. How about the rain, huh? It came down all at once, like someone cut open the clouds with a knife."

"Is it coming down that hard? Are you in the barn?"

"Yep."

"Are there any leaks up there? Grandma wanted me to check."

"No, it's all good up here. Doing anything?"

"Watching the King's game, why?"

"Want to watch it over here? I could use the company."

"Yeah, sure. The rabbit ears work okay, huh? You get the game clear?"

"Do you guys have some mugs?" Eddie asked, disregarding the question. "Like ones you drink beer in?"

"Yeah we have some of those. Want me to bring some over? You don't have beer, do you?"

"Bring four over if you got them. No, no beer. Come on over."

Timothy grabbed his yellow rubber rain jacket and left his bedroom, walked through the living room where his grandparents were sitting side-by-side on the couch, watching the evening news and sipping hot tea. He heard a newscaster mention the SacTown Slayer. He stopped and looked at the TV.

"Another murder?" Timothy wondered.

"No, thank heavens," Phillip said. "They're talking about that poor gentleman who got it the other day. That Scott fellow." He sipped his tea with an almost imperceptible shaking of the head, dark brooding eyes.

"Oh. Thank God."

Timothy wished his grandparents weren't so emotionally vested in the serial killer. It was hard not to be, being that the slayings weren't just on the national news and local news, but were occurring so near that Timothy could lace up his New Balance walking shoes and visit all nine murder scenes on foot, and be back before midnight. He preferred not to think about the killer. Thinking and worrying wouldn't capture the killer, so what good was it? Grandpa, being a religious man in spite of the fact that he hadn't been to church in many years (there was a scandal at his church involving a pastor stealing tithings, and he hadn't since adopted another church). Grandpa sometimes quoted scriptures that he had committed to memory back in the days when he looked forward to waking up Sunday mornings and listening to the local pastor preach the gospel. One such verse was something like, "Worry not about the day; let the day worry for itself," or something like that. Not a lot of bible verses connected with Timothy on a spiritual level, many he didn't understand, but that one made a lot of sense to him and he leaned on it during times such as these. He did however pray for the serial killer to be caught. Every night in his pajamas before sliding under the comforter and sheets, he'd kneel before his bed and fold his hands together like some Norman Rockwell painting, and give thanks to the Lord for all his blessings, which were many. He'd pray for the families of the recently slain, and finish his prayer by urging God to put an end to the madness that was the SacTown Slayer, if it was His will; but if the killer simply _had_ to kill more people, don't let it be good people like his grandparents but instead rotten people like Reynold and Max and the old fart who was interviewed on CNN who actually had the nerve to say that it was Sacramento's fault for the serial killer killing all those people, and found a clever way to build a case for the citizens deserving it. He later retracted the statement, but still...

He headed toward the kitchen saying, "I'm going to visit Eddie for awhile. I'm taking some mugs, if you don't mind."

"Have fun," Phyllis said mindlessly, her attention on the newscast. "Remember what I said, make him feel at home. Let him want for nothing within reason."

"Will do."

In the kitchen he could hear the rain coming down, the pattering of raindrops against the awning over the bay window behind the sink. He opened the cupboard and saw only two glass mugs, then remembered there were some in the freezer. Grandpa liked to run water over them and stick them in the freezer to get a nice thick layer of frost over them, then pour lemonade in them when the fancy struck him (Grandpa's word, not Timothy's). He put on his rubber coat, hood and all, took the two dry mugs and two frosty mugs and went to Eddie's.

It was twilight, but dense rain clouds made it night. The dirt between the walkway and barn was thick sloppy mud. Grandpa had been saying for years that they were going to pave the area someday, from the barn to the house, and a driveway from the garage to the front gate. They simply couldn't afford it right now.

He hurried to avoid getting soaked (from the waist down, at least), rain pelting his face along the way. He skirted a puddle here and flanked standing water there, each footfall a gooey squelch. In the north a bolt of lightning split and scarred the twilight sky; two seconds later the ground shook. It sounded like a wooden ship being crushed into splinters by the hand of the Almighty. He awkwardly managed to open the door, careful not to drop a mug, and stepped inside, shuffled his mucky shoes across the industrial rubber-studded floor mat, streaking thick coats of brown slop on it. Outside it brightened for a second, followed by more thunder. It was dark in the lower barn, cozy yellow light in the loft.

"Need a hand?" Eddie said from the loft.

"I got it. You know there's a light switch by the barn door, right? Want me to turn it on?"

"Nah. Let it be dark down there."

Eddie met him at the bottom of the ladder anyway, took two of the mugs and went back up.

The game was on the modest 19" tube TV, the picture a little fuzzy. Timothy didn't mind: it would be fun watching it with his new friend, a title he wasn't soon to tire of. Eddie put the mugs in his mini-fridge while offering his wet companion some chips or jerky. Timothy wormed out of his rubber coat, slung it over the rail that spanned the length of the loft, turned one of the two chairs to more directly face the TV, and said he was fine.

Eddie checked his watch: 7:10 P.M. "Thanks for the mugs. We're having company over in about twenty minutes or so. I want to be a good host."

Timothy gaped at him. "C-company? Who?"

"A couple girls I met at the mall this afternoon. Nichole and Jennifer. They're really nice, you'll like 'em. And pretty."

"Girls? You inv-vited girls over?" His eyes were round and fearful, a worrisome crease splitting his forehead.

Eddie stepped to the other chair, turned it around and sat backwards in it facing Timothy, folded his arms on the back. "You said you trust me. Was that a lie?"

"N-no. I do. I trust you. I'm just a little surp...prised is all."

"You need a friend like me, dude. You're shy and at this rate you'll never have a girlfriend. I just so happen to know how to talk to the ladies, and this talent—if you want to call it that—is going to benefit you. Don't worry about them, just be yourself."

Timothy looked away from him, suddenly felt hot in this temperate room, felt blood piling up high in his cheeks. He wanted to tell Eddie to cancel the get-together, to call them and say something came up. There was little chance Eddie would do that for him, he surmised, friends or not. And besides, since there were two girls, he probably had ideas for one of them—or both of them. To turn them down was to deny Eddie a chance at getting a girlfriend, or whatever it was he wanted from them. So he said nothing.

Eddie with his pale blue eyes the color of faded denim jeans, eyes that projected intelligence and something else that Timothy couldn't quite identify (cunning, perhaps), grinned the slightest bit when Timothy had nothing more to say on the matter. He had anticipated an attempt by Timothy to call off the get-together, probably would have rebutted a rebuttal and won the argument. Eddie fished the phone out of his pocket and tapped a quick text to Jennifer: On your way?

Less than a minute later Jennifer returned the text: running a little late. Be there soon.

It was a quarter till eight when they heard the engine purring up the mud driveway to just outside the barn, as they had been instructed to do.

"How'd they g-get inside?" Timothy asked. "Did you g-give them the gate-code?"

Eddie nodded at his overtly nervous friend. "Dude, relax. You're going to have fun, I swear. This will be a very memorable evening, one you won't forget. Lighten up. Put your faith in me, I know what I'm doing."

Timothy wanted to believe that, chose to believe that.

Eddie stepped to the mini-fridge and withdrew all four mugs, then four bottles of St. Pauli's N.A. and poured them into the mugs.

Timothy got out of his chair and stared pie-eyed at what his friend was doing. "You s-said you didn't have beer."

"It's not beer. It's non-alcoholic beer. It's all the guy would sell me, being that I'm not twenty-one. Don't tell the girls it's N.A. beer, okay? They won't know the difference."

He dropped the bottles in the little trashcan, handed Timothy a non-frosted mug of beer. He accepted it and stared down undecidedly at the foamy head.

Eddie went to the railing of the loft with his beer, waited for the girls to come through the open barn door. Once they did, he said, "Up here, ladies!"

The girls stepped inside, both wearing colorful nylon rain jackets with hoods covering their long black hair.

"It's raining so hard!" said one.

They crossed the barn, spoke in an undertone to one-another and giggled, mounted the ladder. Timothy paced around, heart thudding in his chest like a war drum. Eddie met them at the landing, offered a hand to bring them up safely. Once arrived, the girls checked out the little apartment with grins while removing their jackets.

To the girl with the purple long-sleeved tunic, Eddie said, "Nichole, right?" To the girl wearing a thin yellow faux-cashmere sweater he said, "Jennifer, this is my bud Timothy."

Timothy shook her hand, then Nichole's, stammered out a hello.

Eddie took their coats and draped them over the railing beside the yellow rubber coat, removed the two frosty mugs of beer from the mini-fridge, handed them to the girls. "Glad you two could make it."

Nichole took a sip from her beer, eyes peering over the rim at the nervous boy. She lowered the glass and wiped the suds off her upper lip with the back of a hand. "Eddie mentioned you were shy," she said, "and he wasn't kidding! You're shaking."

Timothy was shivering and said he was just cold is all. He gazed curiously at Eddie and wondered why the girls were black. Not that he minded (he didn't mind at all) but it was a little strange, he thought. Maybe his friend truly was colorblind in that aspect, and if that was the case how wonderful Eddie was. He'd revere him all the more.

Jennifer grimaced after sipping her beer. She dribbled a little of it onto her yellow sweater, rubbed her upper-chest where a little wet spot remained. Yellow beer, yellow sweater: no harm, no foul. "Is this Dutch beer or something?" she asked Eddie. "It's skunky."

"It's St. Pauli's, German beer."

"You just got to Cali and already found someone to sell beer illegally, huh?" Jennifer said impressively. "Why am I not surprised by that?"

Nichole giggled at her friend and said, "I'd probably sell him beer if he wanted it, wouldn't you?"

Eddie winked at Timothy and said to the girls, "Nah, it was Timothy who got it. He knows a guy. So you can thank him."

"Really?" Nichole said and stepped closer to Timothy with a genuine smile. "What school do you go to?"

Being that Nichole was the first to engage Timothy, Eddie decided that he'd work on the other, and said, "I want to show you something, Jennifer. Be right back, guys."

With beer in hand he backed down the ladder with the girl in yellow right above him. He led her to one of several dark stalls, her free hand in his and stopped.

Feeling that they were on the precipice of doing something mischievous, and sensing his intent, Jennifer bit her lip and stepped into him, smelling faintly his sour beer-breath. He kissed her shortly, then more passionately.

In the loft Nichole had taken a seat at the edge of the bed, was sipping her beer and smiling her eyes at the unequivocally shy boy who was pacing around. He was kind of cute, she thought, in a strange kind of way. She had a thing for shy boys. In truth she thought Eddie was sexy and would rather it be him she was alone with, but evidently he preferred Jennifer. Typically the boys went for Nichole over Jennifer, but not always. Eddie had said to make Timothy feel special, or something like that. He was presumably a virgin, probably never even kissed a girl, never even held a girl's hand. She could be wrong, but didn't think so. Maybe she'd allow herself to be his first kiss. He'd remember her forever because of it, and that's a neat kind of thing.

"Cool place you have," she said and patted the spot beside her for him to sit.

"Thanks," Timothy replied, "but it's Eddie's. I live in the house." He sat at the edge of the bed and inquired into how she met his friend.

She sipped her N.A. beer, grimaced at its intense skunkiness and set the mug down on the floor saying, "In the food court at the mall today." She put his hand in hers and felt the calluses on the pads of his hand. "You work hard," she murmured and leaned closer to him, "don't you?"

Timothy was gawking at his hand in hers, swallowed a dry lump in his throat. "Y-yes, I s-suppose."

She smiled at him, amused that he stuttered, and wasn't surprised in the least. He looked like a stutterer, if there is such a look. His eyes finally met hers. His mouth hung open.

"Don't be shy," she said gently, "I won't hurt you." She almost said what her mother would have said, 'Close your mouth before the flies come in,' but didn't. He was timid enough without teasing him.

_Kiss her,_ a voice urged in Timothy's head. Timothy laughed internally at that. Yeah right. _She'll let you kiss her, so do it!_ The voice demanded. But would she? Timothy wondered. He guessed she would, but even the remotest chance of rejection would be catastrophic to his self-confidence, which was dismal to begin with. She looked like she wanted him to kiss her, and the idea was enough to make his heart palpitate. He was getting dizzy and sweating like a pig. _She likes you! Kiss her, man! Have some faith, dude._ His subconscious sounded an awful lot like Eddie, and that wasn't so surprising. He wanted to be like Eddie, so why not take the first step in that direction by impersonating him, if only in his mind. He stared at her full lips, then her pretty brown eyes with long lush lashes. She was a pretty girl, too pretty to like an ordinary guy like him. Wasn't she? _No way, man. She's pretty, yeah, but she's wanting it, dude! What are you waiting for, a written invitation? Because she's already given you the green light! Do it!_

Eddie wouldn't hesitate to kiss this girl. That's the thought that cemented his resolve to kiss her. Eddie would kiss her, and so must Timothy. He leaned to her a little, stopped when his nerves prevailed over his desire to be like Eddie, and backed away from her upset at himself. She took it upon herself to kiss him, and darted her mouth at his, a short kiss. Then a longer kiss, one that Timothy actually participated in. Breathing rapidly, he closed his eyes and allowed their mouths to do things new and exciting, their tongues to meet and boy did it feel wonderfully peculiar.

The moment that would live in Timothy's memory forever, revisited frequently and wistfully, found a graceful end. They opened their eyes together; his looked away bashfully.

"You're the first white boy I've ever kissed," she said. "You're good at it."

"Nah, you're just being nice."

"Yeah, I'm just being nice. You're awful at it." She giggled, elbowed him gently with an expression that Timothy found charming. He imagined her as his girlfriend, liked the idea. Liked it a _lot._

They heard someone climbing the fixed ladder. It was Jennifer, lipstick smudged around her mouth, hair a little disheveled at a side where Eddie's hand had been. She took a seat beside Timothy, putting him between the two girls.

From down below Eddie said, "Be right back, guys. I have something to discuss with Phillip real quick."

* * *

Eddie stood inside the open garage at the trunk of the Camry, checked his watch: It was a few minutes past eight: Max was late. He stared off into the distance, past the gate to the farthest reaches of Road 171 that he could see in both directions, which were hazy from the rain and dark from the hour. When he spotted Max he grinned, waved overhead. Max walked briskly, clambered over the low wooden fence and headed toward the garage. He was wearing a Gortex military jacket, camouflaged, his head hooded.

"What's up, dude?" Eddie said when he was near.

"Fuckin' rain. It's almost summer, what's up with this shit?"

He entered the garage and out of the rain, unzipped his burly jacket and flung back his hood. Max must have had military in his immediate family, not just because of the jacket. His doo was a crew cut, high and tight. Suddenly a large peal of thunder shook the ground. It might have been a mild earthquake.

"Christ," Max said. "God's pissed."

Eddie opened the driver's-side door of the Camry and got in, gestured his new acquaintance to get in. Max entered on the other side and closed the door.

"Thanks for coming," Eddie said and produced a joint from an Altoid tin.

"Sweet," Max said, eying the hefty joint. "That's a bomber, brutha."

Eddie handed the joint to Max, lit it for him.

"Am I really going to beat Timothy's ass?" Max said after the first pull, then coughed.

"I thought we had an understanding? He's with two darkies as we speak, up in the barn loft. He's probably having a threesome with them."

"You've got to be shitting me. How's a dude like that score a pair of bitches..." Max puffed the joint, held it in, puffed it again, held it some more. He exhaled a cloud of dense fragrant smoke, hot-boxing the cabin. "Maybe we should smoke this afterward instead. I've never gotten in a fight high before."

"Want to change your dirty diaper before the fight too? Don't be a pussy. You're easily thirty pounds heavier than Timothy, all muscle. And the chicks aren't going to get involved. Yeah he scored a pair of bitches, better ones than you can ever get. Are you going to stand for that?"

"Fuck you, man. Don't call me a pussy," Max retorted, but in a half-kidding tone. He took another puff.

"I won't call you one if you don't act like one."

Max laughed mid-puff, expelling choppy clouds of smoke. He passed the joint to Eddie, who feigned taking a hit before passing it back. "They're up in the loft," Eddie said. "Ain't much room up there to fight, so you'll draw him down to the barn. Dude, are you listening to me? Pay attention."

"Why aren't you coming with me?" Max said crossly. "You're calling me a pussy but you won't even fight. Who's the pussy?"

"I work here, dumbass! I'd lose my job!"

"Dude," Max said, "it's cool. I forgot. I'll handle it."

Eddie nodded and settled his temper.

* * *

Timothy was feeling pretty amazing, having just received his first kiss, and now seated between two attractive girls who were finding enjoyment in playfully teasing him, making a kind of game out of it. Nichole had his left hand, Jennifer had his right. There was one enchanting moment where both girls planted a kiss on either cheek in unison, then again at the corners of his mouth. Reversing his enchantment was the sudden realization that he was being intimate with Eddie's girl. A totally uncool thing to do to your best friend. Best friend? Maybe it was a little premature to declare the word best openly, but that was just a formality: he _was_ his best friend. "What about Eddie?" he said to Jennifer.

"What about him?"

"I... um... d-doesn't he like you? Maybe he wouldn't like you t-touching me like this, kissing me."

"He asked me to do it," she said and laughed. Her full breasts bounced in her fitted yellow sweater with each guffaw. Timothy couldn't help but steal a peek at them. He felt ashamed at once. Had it been Nichole, he'd feel like a pervert still, but at least she wasn't Eddie's girl. Jennifer hadn't seemed to notice.

He looked away from her breasts. What she had said that invoked her laughter had escaped Timothy due to the aforementioned sweater incident, but was absorbed now. "Really? He asked you to kiss me? Why would—"

The barn door grated open on its hinges, stealing Timothy's attention. That would mean Eddie had finally returned from having a word with Grandpa. He wondered if it had been a ploy to get him alone with these girls. He grinned at the thought. What a stinker that Eddie was. Telling Jennifer to kiss him. He wondered if he had told Nichole to kiss him too, and that was a horrible notion. He hoped she had wanted to kiss him on her own.

There was a cut-off chuckle down below. He got off the bed and stepped to the railing. The equally curious girls joined him in staring down at the dark bottom floor of the barn.

"Wow, he wasn't shitting me," someone said inwardly down below.

It was too dark to see who it was, but the voice wasn't Edgar's.

"How's a stuttering fuckwad like you get two bitches?"

Timothy now recognized the voice, and an image of Max standing on the barn floor turned his stomach over.

"Niggers will fuck anyone, that's why," Max replied to his own question. "Hey dickhead, why don't you come down here!"

"Max? Is th-that you? Eddie, are you d-down there?"

Nichole was the first to head to the ladder, but Jennifer was right at her heels.

"W-wait," Timothy said after them. "What are you doing?"

Nichole glanced back at Timothy and her expression said it all. She didn't care for being called that poisonous word and was going to put this little racist fucker in his place.

"No!" Timothy blustered and rushed to them. "Don't, please!" He put himself between them and the ladder.

"Get your ass down here!" Max bellowed, coughed and spit.

"Please stay up here," Timothy said to the girls, gesturing with both hands. "I'll handle it, okay? Please."

The girls nodded grudgingly and returned to the railing to watch this play out. Timothy descended the ladder into the dark. There was but one silhouette before the open barn door, large and unquestionably Max. Max, the bruiser who was big enough to be a starting linebacker on the varsity football team (heck, maybe he was), and who had kicked Timothy's ass last year. He didn't move as Timothy approached him. Timothy looked up to the loft and saw the girls staring down at them, their faces shadowed, expressions invisible.

"Max," Timothy began, "let's not d-do this."

"Let's n-n-not d-d-do this," Max mocked, and laughed. "Just because your gramps digs blacks means you got to breed with them too? What the fuck, dude? It ain't right."

"Fuck you!" One of the girls shouted from the loft.

"Fuck _you!"_ Max returned. "Why don't your kind stick with the same?"

"How'd you like to see how embarrassing it is to get your ass kicked by a girl!"

"Nichole, please!" Timothy pleaded. "I'll handle this." To Max he said, "I don't want to fight. Just be on your w-way, leave us alone. Okay?" He wondered where the hell Eddie was. How could this have happened?

"I'm going to fuck the one on the left," Max declared loudly enough for the girls to hear. "Then maybe the one on the right. Yeah, that'd be just fine. Home in time to wash up for dinner. Never fucked a blackie before. First time for everything, I guess."

Max turned and swung the barn door closed.

The girls weren't angry anymore. Their dispositions had changed wholly upon that foreboding little tidbit. This wasn't going to be a little scuffle, a little heated debate about race. No, this guy was prepared to commit the second worst crime of all; hell, maybe after that he'd commit the worst of them, a double or triple homicide. There was only one of him, but he was a big corn-fed boy, a country bumpkin—a product of incestuous procreation wasn't out of the realm of possibilities—and would lay Timothy out, leaving the girls to defend themselves against him. If he had a knife or gun, it would be over before it began. And guys like Max seemed to always carry some kind of weapon, such as a knife, Buck or switchblade or something.

It was Jennifer's idea to call the police and it came at once. She stepped away from the railing and took the cell out of her pocket. Nichole nodded at her, as she surmised her best friend's intention. Jennifer saw that she had a text message, from Eddie. It read: Hit the light switch by the ladder. DO NOT CALL THE COPS.

Jennifer showed the text message to Nichole. The two met eyes and silently considered their recourse. Nichole nodded, and crossed the small loft to the wall near the ladder and flipped the lights off. The barn was now swallowed by shadows, black as pitch.

"What the fuck?" Max said.

The girls felt their way to the invisible railing. All they could do now was listen to what transpired below. They heard the barn door creak open. It was dark enough outside now that the open door did nothing to improve the visibility. Was Max leaving?

There was a surprised yelp followed by a meaty thud. There was lightning just then, blue-white light flashed in the barn through the open door and narrow gaps between timber planks. The girls saw a tangle of silhouettes, a fist being thrown before the barn returned to blackness.

"What should we do?" Nichole cried desperately to Jennifer.

"Just wait a minute. We'll call the police if we have to."

There was a half-minute of grunting and groaning and scuffling before it became silent, save for the loud rain. Jennifer used the LCD screen of her cell to illumine the way back to the light switch. She flipped it, bringing yellow light back to the loft, and returned to the railing.

* * *

Locked up with indecision, Timothy stood before Max without a clue as to what he could do or say to resolve this seemingly unavoidable skirmish. The guy had just let his idea of rape be known. Maybe he was kidding, but there was no humor in his tone. And for that to happen, something would first have to be done with Timothy.

He'd have to fight Max, there was no way around it. And he'd get his ass kicked severely, just like last time. He prayed silently for the power and courage to endure what was about to happen. He prayed for a fluke victory over this insurmountable adversary.

Suddenly the loft lights blinked off. Darkness swallowed the room. In his mind he still saw the silhouette of Max, knew precisely where his face was, should he decide to throw a preemptive blow. The girls had killed the lights to give him a chance at overcoming Max, and bless their sweet hearts for contriving the idea because he needed all the help he could get.

Timothy took a bracing step forward and swung blindly at his target, striking his face, a glancing blow that would have been more effective two inches to the right. It would end nothing.

" _The fuck?"_ Max cried.

Max lunged forward and grappled Timothy, pumped a knee into his gut, stealing his wind with a guttural grunt. Max threw a quick hook where he figured Timothy's head to be, connected with what felt like a cheek, sending him back on his ass. Max heard him fall to the floor; he massaged his hand with a slanted grin: lights or not, this fight was going to have the same outcome as last year's.

* * *

With the lights now on, the girls gazed down at the dusty floorboard, where Max was unconscious and Timothy was sitting on his ass catching his breath, rubbing the side of his rosy face. Jennifer descended the ladder with her friend shortly behind.

Timothy stood up, dazed from the excitement of it all. Through the open door entered Eddie. He flipped the main light switch; overhead fixtures buzzed to life.

"What happened?" Eddie said bewildered.

"I'm s-sorry, Eddie. I d-don't know how this happened."

"Are you okay?" Nichole said sympathetically to Timothy and turned his face toward her for inspection. What looked like a shadow on his left cheek was a bruise.

"I th-think so."

"Dude," Eddie said impressively, "you kicked that ogre's ass?" He gestured to Max. "He's one big son of a bitch!"

"I couldn't have," Timothy replied. "I don't think I did. It all h-happened so fast."

"But you did."

"Wh-what should we do?" Timothy asked him.

"Let's take out the trash. Help me carry him off the property."

They carried him by the wrists and ankles in the rain, set him down as Timothy entered the password on the inside key-pad. The gate hummed open; they re-clutched Max's extremities and lugged him off the property to the shoulder of Road 171 and dropped him. The rain was washing the blood away from the deep gash on his expressionless face; fresh blood pushed through.

"Let's leave him," Eddie advised. "He'll come-to soon enough, then leave."

"Shit, Eddie," Timothy said in a panic. "What have I g-gotten myself into?"

"Nothing. It's over."

Timothy looked to the hulking two-story shadow that was the barn, where the two girls were shoulder to shoulder watching from the doorway. When the guys returned to the barn, Nichole pulled Timothy inside hastily by his wrist and enveloped him in her arms, hugged him tightly.

"Let's go," Jennifer said to her friend. "Let's get out of here."

"Yeah, probably not a bad idea," Eddie said. "I'm so sorry, girls."

Nichole released Timothy and stared into his eyes, ran a hand through his hair and kissed him briefly on the lips. "That was very sweet of you to stand up for us. Eddie has my phone number; call me sometime. Will you?"

He nodded, said just a minute and went up to the loft to get their jackets. The girls donned them, stepped into the rain and hurried to the Honda. As Jennifer drove up to the gate, Nichole rolled down her window and blew Timothy a kiss, which landed squarely on his heart. The gate sensor detected them, rolled open. As they idled across the track, a brown hand thrust out the window and flipped the bird to the wet lump on the side of the road.

The boys went inside the barn and closed and locked the door. Up in the loft they sat in the chairs.

"What the heck _happened?"_ Timothy said dreamily.

"What happened is you beat that dude's ass. Did you see how Nichole looked at you? Bro... that chick will love you forever, believe me."

"It was hardly a f-fight. He hit me," Timothy recalled, hissed when he touched at his sore cheek-bone. "I hit him first, but... I don't know."

"Give yourself some credit, man."

"What do you th-think he'll do once he awakens? Come back to fight?"

"After the beating he just got? I doubt it. He'll go home and put some ice on that fat lip."

"I suppose so." He looked blankly at the floor. "I'm s-scared, Eddie. He's going to come back eventually, I'm sure of it." He looked over at Eddie, who was stooped forward in his chair, elbows on his knees and massaging the knuckles of his right hand.

"Then you'll just kick his ass again," Eddie remarked.

"No, that was a fluke thing. I couldn't kick his ass. Hey, Eddie?" They met eyes. "You're rubbing your hand. You didn't... you didn't come in to help, did you?"

"Nah, it's just the rain. Makes my joints stiff. Don't worry about that punk, I'll take care of him. Okay?"

"I need to tell Grandpa."

"No, Timothy, don't. Do you want to worry them? There's nothing they can do about it anyway. I'll tell you what: would you like me to have a talk with the guy? Settle things?"

Timothy looked undecidedly at Eddie. "You'd do that? For me? That would be great, yes."

Eddie gave it some thought before saying, "I'm taking the Camry. I'm going to drive the dude home and have a talk along the way."

Timothy stood from his chair and thrust his open hand to Eddie, who tentatively accepted and shook it. "Thanks, friend, from the b-bottom of my heart. I don't like fighting and having enemies isn't in my n-nature."

"Think nothing of it. You might want to devise a lie about where you got that bruise on your face. I'll be back later. I might stop by Starbucks and get a coffee."

"Okay. Eddie, do you think I could have Nichole's phone number?"

"Hell yeah, of course. Will you really call her?"

"Someday, m-maybe. I d-don't know. I'd like to have it, just in case."

"I'll text it to you, unless you have something to write on, and with."

"Text is fine," he said with a sweet smile that Eddie was growing fond of.

Timothy went inside the house and entered the hallway through the dining room instead of the living room—he didn't want his grandparents to see him. Though he'd say he ran into the bucket on the front-loader (accounting for the bruise), he thought they'd perceive trouble somehow, pick up on a vibe.

Inside his bedroom he closed the door and plopped down on the bed face first, erupted into tears from the immense emotion of the evening.

### Chapter Twelve

Max awoke from a series of slaps across his face. He smacked his lips and looked blearily over at a shadow of a man. It was Eddie. They were driving in the car they had recently smoked pot in. The street they drove on was of his address.

"Morning, sunshine," Eddie said with a sardonic grin.

"What happened?"

"What happened is you got your ass kicked. And by a scrawny little shit. Didn't I tell you that would happen? Or was it Timothy who had said it would happen... either way, you got your ass kicked and you're probably the only one who's surprised by it. And if that wasn't bad enough, you had an audience of two chicks cheering Timothy on as it happened."

"Dude! Why didn't you help me?" He touched his swollen mouth and hissed. He felt a gummy gash from his temple down to his jaw and gingerly ran a pair of fingers over it, transferring coagulating blood to them.

"If I have to tell you one more time that I'll get fired if I interfere, I'm going to kick your ass myself."

Max tightened his fists, nearly said something taunting, but thought better of it. Eddie was a pretty big guy himself, and his confidence suggested he was no stranger to brawling. And if he were to get his ass kicked twice in one night, he might as well kill himself. Nobody should be that fucking pathetic.

"Damn," Max said and rolled his head back to the head-rest. "I knew I shouldn't have smoked that. Prick had me at a disadvantage. Take me back, I'm going to fuck up that stuttering little punk."

Eddie gazed over speculatively at Max. "You want to?"

Max considered it. "Maybe not this minute. I'm high still. I'll come back when I'm clear-headed."

"Yeah, you'd probably just get another ass-kicking." Eddie slowed down as he neared Max's house. "You're not going to see Timothy again unless I say to. Understood?"

"Why?"

"Because I said so." He pointed a threatening finger at Max's face and said, "If you stop by without my permission, I'll do more than kick your ass: you'll be hanging from a Stoddard tree by a noose that I fitted. Got it?"

Max looked away, unnerved by the image.

Eddie rolled to a stop at the curb. "Now get your ass out of here. I got shit to do."

"How'd you know where I live?"

"Don't worry about it. Remember what I said... you'll be hanging from a tree, that's a promise. Now get the fuck out. You are no longer allowed to speak to Timothy. Tell Reynold and all the others: fucking with Timothy means fucking with me, and there's plenty of land on the Stoddard farm to bury you all."

* * *

Timothy clicked on his stereo with a remote, wiped the last of his tears away, and wondered what Eddie might be telling Max at this very second. There was a rap on the bedroom door.

"Sweetie?" Phyllis said from the other side of the door. "Is something the matter?"

"No, Grandma. I'm just... I'm just talking on the phone."

"Your grandfather thought he heard you crying. May I come in for a moment? There's something I want to tell you."

"What for?" Timothy inquired. He got off his bed and inspected his face in the mirror hanging on the wall. There was a bruise on his cheek, all right.

Phyllis took that as an invitation to enter and opened the door. Her countenance was sorrowful; she came with bad news. Before he could explain why he had a bruise on his face, or why he wasn't on the phone when he said he was, she began the grim revelation just learned from the eight o'clock news: "Another murder," she said gravely. "The tenth victim was found this afternoon."

"Really, another one?" Timothy said sorrowfully.

"Sweetheart," Phyllis said, "the residence was on MacAdams Road. Do you know where that is?"

"Sure, I ride my bike on it almost every day. It's near Sandalwood Street, where I play hockey."

"Yes." She bowed her head and muttered something Timothy didn't quite catch. "This monster needs to be caught."

"He will be, Grandma. I'm sure it won't be long. Every cop and F.B.I. in Sacramento is probably working overtime to catch him."

"My sweet boy, I just hate to have to do this to you, but your grandfather and I have decided to impose a curfew on you. Only for the time being, until he is caught."

"I understand your concern, but he kills people in their homes. So if there's one place proven to be unsafe it's right here at home. I hope this doesn't mean I can't play hockey after school."

Timothy thought his grandma was looking at something behind him, but she was looking through him. She was remembering ghosts from her past, and he wondered if it had anything to do with the story she once told him about the Hunsacker farm.

Still looking through him she said, "Just because that's how he's killed the others doesn't mean he can't do it another way, or won't do it another way. It would allay our nerves if you'd just come home after school. I'm sorry."

He grudgingly agreed to the curfew. Phyllis left the room, closed the door behind her.

### Chapter Thirteen

The following evening Eddie met Dr. Matthew Albrect in the lobby of St. John's Memorial. Eddie had waited for nearly an hour when the doctor finally appeared from one of two elevators. He was scanning the lobby when Eddie stood and gestured at him.

They made a brief introduction. Eddie suggested they go have a seat at the far end of the lobby, away from everyone. Matthew followed his lead.

Upon taking their seats, Eddie said, "What I say stays between us."

"Tell me, what is it?"

"I know about the pills."

"What pills?"

"The ones Mae's mom gave her. For her hallucinations."

Matthew arched his brow, straightened his posture. "How do you know? How are you acquainted with Mae again? You said you were friends with Trent?"

"You never wanted Mae to take them, did you? Rebecca talked you into prescribing them."

Matthew gaped at him. "How do you know this?"

"It doesn't matter. What I have to say—"

"It matters to me," Matthew interrupted.

"What I have to say is for Mae's well being. Her boyfriend is giving her those pills, and we both know she doesn't need them."

"Again, how do you know this?"

"It doesn't matter how, it only matters that I do. What's more, Trent plans on asking you to allow Mae to live with him. Tonight, when you get home from work he'll be waiting for you."

"He's already barked up that tree. She won't move in with him, that's final."

Eddie nodded, satisfied with that. "He'll try persuading you, so hold tight to your position. I know you haven't been getting on Mae to ditch that loser boyfriend because you feel bad for her, her parents being dead and all, but maybe it's time to build a case for disallowing her to go out with him."

Matthew stared dumbfounded at Eddie. How does this stranger know so much about his niece, about their personal affairs? "It's none of your business," Matthew said sternly. "I'll run my household how I see fit. I appreciate you telling me what you have, but I'll handle things my way. Now, unless there's something else..."

"He hurts her, you know," Eddie said tauntingly.

"Beg pardon?"

"He hurts her. Abuses her. Forces her to do things she doesn't want to do."

"You'd better have damned good evidence of this accusation before I—"

"Whatever," Eddie said and stood up. "Do what you want. I was hoping you put Mae's interests above all else. Clearly you don't. She just can't catch a break these fifteen years, can she? Just know that she's taking the pills when she shouldn't be. Later."

"Are you _sure_ she's taking them?"

"One-hundred-percent positive."

"How is Trent getting them? You can't get those without a prescription, and it doesn't seem likely that there's a black market for them."

"I only know what I told you. I'm counting on you to get Mae off those pills. You're smart, fix it."

He left without looking back.

### Chapter Fourteen

True to the young man's prediction, Trent was waiting at his house when Matthew pulled up at a quarter after two in the morning. He parked in the garage having passed the dark Audi in the driveway. The garage door closed behind his Volvo. He took a deep breath as he entered the house from the garage, felt a stress headache coming on. It was utterly dark in the house; he flipped the light switch on his way to the front door, unlocked and opened it in anticipation of his company, and began removing his white-coat. Seconds later Trent stepped out of the shadows inside the house, wiped his feet on the mat like the polite young man he was and greeted his girlfriend's uncle and guardian.

Matthew tossed his coat on the couch-back and looked at Trent wearily; he didn't have the energy for this discussion right now. "Not till she's eighteen," Matthew said off the bat. "That's final."

Trent walked to the recliner facing the couch and sat down, folded his legs, cocked his head at Matthew with a knitted brow. "Not till eighteen what?"

"You want her to move in with you, that's why you're here. And the answer is no. I won't debate the issue." He loosened his neck-tie.

"Why do you think that's my purpose for being here?"

He glanced to the kitchen and dining room and wondered why the lights were off. Typically Mae left them on when she went to bed as a courtesy to him. He took a seat on the couch facing Trent, kicked off his shoes. "Is Mae in bed?" Matthew asked. "Do you know?"

"She's at my place."

Matthew sharpened his gaze on him. "What's going on here," he said suspiciously.

Trent smirked. "Okay, you're right about why I'm here. Mae and I agree that it would be best for her to live with me. The high school in my neighborhood is one of the best in the country. Plus it's safer out there. You got a serial killer hacking people up in this part of town. How could you live with yourself if Mae became a victim of the SacTown Slayer? It would be partly your fault, you know, being that you refuse to let her move away from here."

Matthew's eyes lighted with anger. "How dare you say that to me! My sister and brother-in-law were victims of that lunatic and you know it! I know damned well how it feels to lose a loved one to murder, so have some respect!"

Trent apologized apathetically.

"She's fifteen, that's why she's not moving in with you," Matthew said, struggling to resume his calm tone. "If for no other reason than that. She's a minor. Consider yourself fortunate for not being in jail. I'm not stupid, I know you two are having sex. The reason, the _only_ reason why I haven't turned you in to the authorities, is because it would hurt Mae. You'd better hope she doesn't break up with you, because if she does, my reason for withholding this crime from the police will have ended. Statutory rape is at least a year in jail, maybe more. And you'd be classified and listed as a sex offender for life. Enjoy that on your record. Good luck landing a decent job. And another thing: I pray for your case that you aren't drugging Mae, feeding her pills by force or otherwise, or there's going to be trouble."

"What pills? I'm not giving her any drugs. Why do you think that?"

Matthew judged his candor and was inconclusive. "Because of the late hour, she can stay at your apartment tonight. But she needs to be back by tomorrow evening." Inwardly Matthew said, "I honestly have no idea what she sees in you."

Trent held his tongue. He so fiercely wanted to rip into him, maybe flaunt some of his shared sexual encounters with Mae, but Matthew was right about him being lucky that there wasn't a statutory rape charge against him. Once she was of legal age he thought he might beat the living shit out of Matthew; the thought made him grin.

The grin faded when he remembered what Matthew had just said about Trent feeding Mae pills. If that wasn't proof that he had been reading Mae's diary...

"That's messed up," Trent said. "Reading your niece's diary." Matthew looked stupidly at his accuser. "Don't pretend not to know what I'm talking about," Trent said. "Why else would you think what you do?"

"First of all, I didn't even know she kept a diary and I couldn't care less if you believe me or not. Secondly, someone told me that you're giving her the pills. The same guy who warned me that you'd be here tonight stating your case why Mae should live with you. He also said you're abusing her. And if that's true, so help me God..."

Trent's jaw unhinged. "Who?"

"None of your business. Go on, be on your way now. You've said your bit and I've said mine."

Trent stared coldly at him for a moment before standing. He stepped to Matthew, looked down at him in his seat, and said, "Let's just say for the sake of the argument that you're right, that I do abuse your sweet little niece. When I get home I'm going straight to her in the worst of moods to accuse her of talking shit behind my back, of telling you things she has no right to be telling you. If I'm the kind of man you think I am, imagine how that might play out on poor Mae when I get home, mightily pissed off and wanting answers right damned now." He raised one eyebrow at Matthew.

"Do it and I'll put you in jail with a smile."

"Tell me who told you and you won't have to. Tell me who told you and Mae won't get hurt. _Don't_ tell me and she'll be getting hurt emotionally"—under his breath he added—"at the very _least_ , emotionally."

Matthew gazed vacuously up at Trent, shook his head in his disgust. Thinly he said, "I'm on the verge of forbidding Mae to see you, breaking her heart be damned. You're worse for her than a broken heart could ever be."

"That would be bad, Matthew. Very bad. For everyone. _Every_ one _._ Tell me who told you that shit and Mae will sleep soundly tonight, cozied up in her purple pajamas, sleeping with a slight grin, happy as she can possibly be. Don't tell me and things will be getting ugly in my apartment tonight, and it'll be all on you. It'll be your hands around her neck squeezing until her face turns blue."

"I hope you burn in hell, Trent. Sincerely I do. The guy's name is Edgar, is roughly your age. I don't know anything else about him, his number or where he lives or where he works or anything. But he said that you aren't who you claim to be—I'm not sure what he meant by that, but I don't think he was lying—and said that he was at odds with you."

"Huh," Trent said amusedly. "Imagine that, I have an enemy and don't even know who he is. He probably wants to fuck Mae and I'm standing in his way."

"You've over-stayed your welcome. Get the hell out of my house."

### Chapter Fifteen

Mae had just fallen asleep on the couch, watching a re-broadcast of the ten o'clock news, when her old cellphone (but newly activated) vibrated from the coffee table again. She didn't need to look at it to know it was the guy claiming to be Breuer; it had been him a half-dozen times since Verizon activated her spare phone after the baseball game. At first it was only phone calls and voice messages (which she deleted the moment they landed) but the guy began texting as of late. Texts from Private Caller. His first text message was received just after Trent left for her uncle's and read: _Trent's sneaking you crazy pills_. She didn't believe that for a second. How would he have gotten the pills to sneak to her? And why would he do it? He had supported her aversion to taking the pills from the onset, so why would he have changed his mind? The most recent text came in an hour ago and read _: I'm real, Mae-Vee, not a hallucination_. Mae-Vee was a name only Breuer had called her, and she had written that in her diary. That was Trent's theory, that someone read her diary, and she was now in full agreement. It made perfect sense. That's why this was happening: some guy read all about her and sought to tear her away from Trent for some unknown reason. That she couldn't find the diary upon returning home from Trent's baseball game pointed in that direction. When she went home tomorrow she'd spend more time looking for it, put more thought into the possible location of it, dig through her boxes more thoroughly. But even if she did find it that didn't mean someone hadn't read it.

She had received a few more texts from Private Caller, deleted them unread.

Someone was coming up the apartment stairs. She quickly changed the channel away from the news, surfing over a pair of channels this time in case he pressed Previous on the remote.

The door opened. She sat upright and grinned at her sweetie.

"Well I tried," he said defeatedly. It was a new tone for Trent. He wasn't the type of guy who accepted defeat. "Sorry, baby. We'll give it some time, maybe he'll change his mind."

"You tried your best, that's all we could do." She knew this would be the case, and was happy about it. She'd rather not live with Trent. Maybe down the road, during college, but not now.

She gestured him to come with a flitting of her hands: he swooped down for a kiss, then trailed off into the kitchen to grab a twelve-ounce can of sleep aid, saying, "Do you know a guy named Edgar?"

She hummed meditatively. "No, don't know any Edgar's."

"He's the one who stole your diary and read it, the one who's been calling you. I'd bet on it."

"How do you know this?"

"Doesn't matter." He returned to the living room, sat beside her and opened his beer. He snatched Mae's cellphone off the coffee table and examined recent calls and the texts from Private Caller: AKA Edgar.

"I see your uncle called you after I left. What did he say?"

She cleared her throat nervously. "Basically what you said, that I can't move in with you."

"And what else?"

"Trent?" Her voice registered high, an inquisitive thoughtful tone. "I'm sure you haven't, but have you been giving me those crazy pills?"

His dull gray eyes shifted to her without turning his head. "That's bullshit and you know it. Your uncle gets these ideas, I don't know why. Edgar is probably why."

"I figured you wouldn't. You were more upset about my mom giving me the pills than me, so of course you wouldn't be giving them to me now."

"You have to use reasoning to conclude that I'm not drugging you?" His feelings were hurt. "Seriously? My word should be good enough. I say I'm not and that's the end of it."

"You're right." She patted his thigh. "I'm tired, going to bed. Did you want sex first or...?"

"Nah, not in the mood. I'd rather be pounding that fucking Edgar into the afterlife, but that'll have to wait. Maybe we'll get lucky and the SacTown Slayer will cut his throat."

She frowned at him. "Do you mean that?"

"I do. He deserves it, honey; he's interfering with our lives. Better Edgar than some innocent, wouldn't you agree?"

She nodded but didn't mean it. She didn't want anyone to die, period.

### Chapter Sixteen

_It's just paranoia,_ Gene thought from under his '69 Chevelle Super Sport. Just paranoia animating a sound that didn't really happen. He set the wrench down and whispered to his nearby son, "Sammy, did you hear that?"

"Hear what, Daddy?"

"Never mind. Be quiet for a minute."

Lying still on his back, staring up at the dark big-block engine, Gene listened carefully. There was a low muffled TV barely audible coming from somewhere—the Parcher's, yes from there, his next-door neighbor's. Another minute he lay in wait before picking up the wrench. It was starting to get dark out, another twenty minutes and the starter either needed to be connected or he'd be taking his wife's car to work tomorrow morning. He supposed he could get Sammy to crawl under the car with him to shine a flash light. If it weren't for those son's of bitch upper bolts being obscured from sight and damn near impossible to get to, he'd be cleaning up now instead—

Another sound. Yes, a scream, just as the last one had been. So distant and muted that he didn't blame himself for being uncertain last time. It sparked dread in Gene's heart, this being southwestern Sacramento. A scream couldn't be taken lightly; you had to assume the worst and act on it quickly. If not, the murdering asshole might continue his killing spree endlessly.

"Sammy," Gene whispered.

The boy dropped down to his knees and lowered his head to between the Chevelle's bumper and driveway, "Yes? What is it, Daddy?"

"Go inside the house, make sure all the doors are locked. I'll be inside in a moment."

"Are you done with the car?"

"Do as I say."

"Is something wrong?"

"Didn't you hear it just now? A scream?"

From his expression Gene knew he hadn't.

"Who's screaming?"

"Nobody. Go inside, now."

Sammy did as he was told as Gene scooched his way out from under the car, quiet in his enterprise so that he might hear the scream again. He stood up and looked through the window of his house and saw the blue glow of the living room television. A few seconds later the porch flood-light buzzed on—that was his son being thoughtful. He paced up the driveway past his wife's car, with a ponderous pipe wrench in hand. There was a six-foot-tall brick wall separating his property and the Parcher's, and it got shorter in increments as it neared the street. If the scream indeed originated from the Parcher's, there was no visual evidence of a crime to accompany it. The house windows were dark. He surveyed the homes across the street. He could see through the windows, the brightly lighted living rooms and dining rooms and empty sidewalks and streets. Everyone was inside, probably watching the news. If they glanced outside and saw Gene, they'd probably think he has some screws loose to be out at night by himself. He did have some screws loose... well, bolts, really. But his neighbors would be right in their concern; he hadn't anticipated working till dark. Sometimes time gets ahead of you when you're focused on a difficult task. He felt absolutely alone out here.

The front door of his own house opened. Gene waved his wife to get back in. She didn't, and wouldn't without knowing what was going on. Her face was the embodiment of dread. Dread from her husband walking furtively up the driveway wielding a wrench for a weapon, and searching the neighborhood that had gotten untold hours of national news attention these last couple months. He waved her back inside with a scowl.

"Should I call the police?" she whispered forcefully. "Did you see something?"

He matched her volume. "No I didn't. Get back inside this instant." But she remained.

Gene was now at the sidewalk, looking down the street in both directions. He wished he'd hear another scream now, now that he wasn't lying down under the car and disadvantaged to pinpoint the location of the cry. There were the sounds of everyday life, of a woman scolding some child, of dishes being stacked in a sink, of televisions broadcasting the news.

He went back to his first estimation of the sound's origin: the Parcher's. He faced their house and studied it. Something bothered him about it and damned if he could say why. Full dark was approaching rapidly. The sun had set better than forty minutes ago. So why weren't the lights on at the Parcher's? That's what evoked his unease: they always had lights on at this hour. A porch light, a few inside lights, but not this evening.

_They're probably not home, that's why the lights are off._ That was probably it. Bob Hodges from work had packed up and taken his family to his brother's house in Marysville a couple weeks ago, fearing for his family's safety, and he wouldn't be the only one with that mindset. But the Parcher's were just two middle-aged people, their kids moved out years ago. They wouldn't feel compelled to move away if it were just the two of them. Well that was a presumptuous thing to think.

The night was falling before his eyes. He'd be taking Beth's Ford to work tomorrow, that much he knew for sure. He glanced over his shoulder. His wife stood in the door's threshold, Sammy at her side. He gave her a thumbs-up. Then gestured with a finger that he'd be right back, and walked down the sidewalk fronting the Parcher's home, staring acutely through the black windows. The driveway was empty, the garage door open. He could see the shadowy Cadillac, their only vehicle, parked inside. He heard a car door open and close down the street. Then heard steps padding toward him. There was a man with a ball-cap low on his brow on the same sidewalk, headed his way. Gene looked at the man's hands, half-expecting to see a gun or a knife but there was nothing. If the man did the same to Gene he'd see a large wrench. Perhaps he was alarmed from spotting a wrench-wielding man standing suspiciously before a home and moved to investigate, a champion of the Neighborhood Watch.

The man was only a dozen yards away from Gene when he said, "Is there a problem?"

"No, just thought I heard something and wanted to see what it was."

"I suppose the murders have gotten everyone wound up," the man said, "but I guess you haven't heard the great news."

"Great news?"

"They caught him, about an hour ago. The SacTown Slayer."

It was all Gene could do to keep from throwing his arms around the guy and hugging him. "Oh praise God," Gene said.

"Yes, praise God," the man agreed.

"Who is the guy? It really just happened an hour ago? That's great. I'm going to watch the news." Gene took his first step toward home when the man stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

"Don't bother. It won't be on the news yet. Maybe the ten o'clock edition. They want to be sure before they announce it."

Gene frowned at him. "Then how do you know about it?"

"My brother is a cop. He just called me."

"Oh. Well thanks for telling me. I thought I heard someone screaming and was scared shitless to investigate it. I'm Gene by the way." He offered his hand.

"I'm Trent. Trent Blackwood." They shook hands.

"You have a great night, Trent."

"You too."

Gene walked with a bounce in his step toward home. The stranger was heading in the same direction, back to the car from which he came. At the porch he heard the car-door open and close, but the engine never started. He went inside and told his wife the wonderful news. She shrieked she was so thrilled. Sammy who didn't know much about the serial killer other than there was a bad man doing bad things in town, and that he needed to come home straight after school until being told otherwise, found excitement in the news and thought he'd be permitted to play at his friends after school in the wake of this.

The three took to the couch and turned up the news. Gene mentioned that it wouldn't be on the news probably till ten, and why that was. But he was hopeful and anticipated a breaking news story coming in at any moment. During a commercial he went to the home phone and dialed Bob's cell number, told him the great news, that he could return home with the family now, that the piece of shit serial killer was in custody.

The news ended at nine; still no mention of the killer taken into custody. He told Sammy to get to bed. He turned the volume up just as the ten o'clock news aired. The headlines were given to whet the appetites of the viewership, and none of them were the SacTown Slayer caught. Gene looked at his wife, nodded at her once, encouraging her to be patient, that it really was the case, give it time.

At eleven Gene turned the TV off and said it would be all over the news in the morning. "The guy's brother is a cop, he would know."

They went to bed.

Gene set his alarm fifteen minutes early, and darted out of bed when it went off. Beth never got up at five A.M. with him, but today she did and Gene knew why: she was eager to watch the news.

Together they stood before the television as he clicked it on with the remote. A news anchor was reporting a train colliding with a car in Yuba City, two dead. It was just a couple minutes past five, so this was the story they were leading with. He looked at his wife with a troubled expression.

"Are you sure he said he was in custody?" Beth asked him.

"Of course I'm sure."

At six he left for work in his wife's car. He idled past the Parcher's home, windows dark, garage door still open, the chrome bumper of the Cadillac catching and throwing the first rays of morning sunlight at him. He prayed the news story would break soon.

He returned home from work at four P.M., saw no activity inside the Parcher' home, garage door still open, Cadillac parked inside. Mr. Parcher should be at work, that Cadillac shouldn't be there. And the garage door should be closed, for that matter.

He parked his wife's car in the driveway and went next door, rang the doorbell. No answer, so he rang it more rapidly, added a few sharp knocks into the mix.

"John? Barbara? It's Gene from next door."

He trudged back home feeling out of sorts. The car that Trent Blackwood had come from last night wasn't there. He reflected back to the morning and couldn't recall having seeing it, and wished he had checked.

When the six o'clock evening news aired, Gene felt a little sick. No news of the SacTown Slayer. The name Trent Blackwood cycled through his mind. Why would that young man lie to him? To what gain? That the Parcher's remained unaccounted for made his thoughts darker. At seven he went next door and rang the bell again. He then went around the house to the back door and knocked there, calling John and Barbara's names. Sweat dotted his brow. On impulse he reached for the doorknob and turned it. Unsettling as hell was that the door wasn't locked. Who didn't lock their doors during this time? Nobody with a right mind, that was for sure. He opened the door just a tad, debated entering. He knew damn well he wouldn't be at peace without investigating this further, so he opened the door, took only one step inside when he saw the silhouettes of two people seated side by side in dining room chairs facing away from the table, away from him. Without seeing that they were dead, he knew it.

He sprinted home and picked up the phone.

* * *

After the last class of the day, Sociology, Trent stopped by The Grinder, ordered a sandwich to go, and drove to his Roseville apartment. He parked in his assigned spot. Two spots over was a police cruiser. He got out of his Audi with sandwich in hand, grinned politely at the two officers in the cruiser, and made his way to the stairs, ascended them throwing a glance over his shoulder: the cop got out and approached him, his hand on the revolver in its holster. Trent stopped and waited for them.

"Something the matter?"

"Are you Trent Blackwood?" asked one.

"Yeah, why?"

"We'd like to ask you a few questions."

"Regarding?"

"It will only take a few minutes. We'll give you a ride back."

"A ride back? Just ask me here, now."

"Can't do that." The cop read The Grinder on the paper bag and said, "Bring your sandwich with you, you can eat it at the station."

"Am I under arrest?"

"No."

"What if I don't want to come with you?"

"You have that right."

"And if I use my right?"

"Then Sergeant Jimenez will be here with a warrant in fifteen minutes or so."

Trent's eyes widened. He went down the stairs saying, "Then let's go. I have nothing to hide. It's a mistake, whatever this is."

"I'm sure you're right," the cop said impassively.

* * *

Trent was sitting in an interrogation room, alone, his bagged sandwich on the table. He didn't think this had anything to do with Mae's parents. He had killed them months ago, and nothing could have turned up lately to incriminate him. Plus they would have arrested him, not requested that he voluntarily come in for questioning. He decided to eat his sandwich, even though his hunger was on hiatus. He'd eat it so those questioning him would see that he was relaxed and confident, with nothing to hide. He opened the bag and tore away the wax paper of his pastrami sandwich and took a bite. He looked up at the camera mounted on the wall, wondered if anyone was watching him.

The small room's solitary door opened. A man in a suit entered and closed the door behind him, took a seat at the table across from Trent. He stared stolidly at him for an awkward moment.

"What?" Trent finally said and set his sandwich down. "What is this?"

"Where were you the evening before last, between seven and eight P.M.?"

Trent thought back. "In my apartment. Why?"

"Alone?"

"No, my girlfriend was with me. What's this about? What do you think I've done?"

"Who's your girlfriend? Can she corroborate you being home between the hours of seven and eight P.M.?"

"Mae Clark, and yes she can." Trent fished his cell out of his pocket and said, "I'll call her right now. You can ask her for yourself."

The suit gestured him to put the phone down. "Do you know a Gene Howard?"

"Never heard of him."

"Do you know a John and Barbara Parcher?"

"No. For chrissake, could you tell me what this has to do with me?"

"No. At what time were you with your girlfriend on the evening in question? From when till when?"

"I don't know," Trent said annoyed. "We were together for most of the day. She spent the night. I drove her home yesterday. Whatever you think I did, you're wrong."

The door cracked open. A woman in a pant-suit summoned the interrogator with a finger. He excused himself and stepped outside the room, closed the door.

Trent took another bite of his sandwich, dark ideas whirling in his mind. This had to be about the SacTown Slayer, he just knew it. The cop didn't need to say it, his cold judging eyes were saying plenty. Whatever happened the other night, Trent thanked God that Mae was with him. Alibis are rarely there when you need them, but this one was.

The interrogator returned to the room, his disposition had changed entirely. His eyes weren't cold and judging, but friendly and apologetic.

"I'll give you a ride home," he said.

Trent nodded and stuffed his pastrami on rye inside the bag and followed the man out.

They had only just pulled out of Roseville Station when the man said, "I'm sorry for the inconvenience."

"No problem. Can you tell me what this was about?"

"Someone had spoken with a Trent Blackwood just outside a crime scene. Either he used a fake name or there's another Trent Blackwood unlisted."

"Another murder from the serial killer? How did you find out it wasn't me?"

"The man who spoke with Trent Blackwood negatively I.D.'d you."

"Through the camera in the room," Trent surmised.

The cop nodded, said, "In the event that someone used your name intently to serve some purpose, have you any guess as to who that might be? Any enemies?"

Trent said no, but he sure as shit did have a guess. He clenched his teeth, tightened his fists. Fucking _Edgar._

* * *

Eddie shook his head disappointedly as he re-entered his borrowed Camry, removed the ball cap from his head and tossed it to the back seat where he had found it.

"You're a fucking idiot, you know that?" Eddie said in the dark cabin.

He put the car in drive and with the headlights off rolled forward to the next house and stopped, killed the engine, looked through the living room window. The man who had introduced himself as Gene was sitting on the couch beside his wife in front of the TV, undoubtedly watching the news anticipatorily, expecting a breaking headline of the serial killer caught. That story wouldn't break because it wasn't a story at all. It served a purpose, to send that snooping motherfucker back home. Neighborhood Watch used to mean peeping Tom. Now it was a station taken by self-important, self-congratulating power-trippers looking to flex some muscle they don't have.

It was full-dark out. Eddie started the engine of the Camry when he saw a dark figure come from the driveway of the Parcher house, looking in both directions before striding in the other direction down the sidewalk. When he heard the engine start, his pace increased. Eddie put the car in drive and idled toward him. The guy looked obliquely to his left at the car now beside him. Eddie humored at the guy's patent nervousness. A suspicious motherfucker if he ever saw one. How in the _hell_ was this guy still on the loose? Or as his adopted dad would have said, still on the lam. There was an answer to that, you bet your ass. This dude might have figured Eddie to be a cop a light-bar switch away from ending his serial killing reign of terror. He lowered the passenger side window and while idling at an even pace with the man clad in black, said, "Get in."

The guy increased his pace, damn near jogging now. Speed walking, that's what he was. That joke of a sport that had a brief stint in the Olympics before people had laughed enough and moved on out of boredom. Eddie laughed out loud, continued idling forward, cleared his mind, took a deep breath to shake the giggles. "For chrissake, Michael, get in the damned car. I'm your friend. Your _only_ friend." As an afterthought and in a kind of sing-song silly tone said, "And I'm a _good_ one!"

Michael stopped and stared dubiously at the stranger. Eddie stopped the car, leaned over and unlatched the door. "Come on, get in. Christ you're young. What are you, nine?"

"Fuck off." He wasn't getting in, but staring undecidedly at him.

"Get in or I call the cops. How's that sound? Would you prefer that? That's the game I'm supposed to play, right? Do it or I call the cops, because I love the cops so much and hate bad guys. _Michael! Get in the fucking car!_ Please?"

Slack-jawed, Michael stared stupidly at the driver before getting in the car and closing the door. Eddie drove off with a smile.

"It's amazing you haven't gotten caught yet," Eddie said more to himself than to his passenger. Then muttered, "And you have no idea that you have someone to thank for it."

"Who are you? How do you know me?"

"It's best you don't know my name. At least not yet. If you get caught for this I don't need you mentioning my name. Who I am is your newest friend. It doesn't matter how I know you're the SacTown Slayer, I just do. I know everything I want to know; it's as simple as that." He looked over at Michael and said, "And you're going to take a request for me. You're going to kill someone. Someone of my choosing, and you'll do it because I said so. I have all the leverage here, not you. I'm the only motherfucker in the world who knows you're the killer. And I swear to God if you kill his girlfriend too, I'll hammer nails into your brain through your eyeballs. She's off fucking limits."

Michael was speechless. He stared at him stupefied. "Why do you want him dead?"

"Because he's been fucking over a friend of mine. Indirectly, but still. The penalty for it is death. Death by your hands."

"Why don't you do it yourself? This isn't how I operate."

"I would if it came down to it." He looked over at Michael, who patronized him with a nod. "You don't believe me?"

"Whatever you say." He looked out the dark side-window.

Eddie chuckled. "You little prick. It doesn't really matter to me what you think. If you don't have the nerve or fail at killing him, I'll do it myself. But not otherwise. You're already a killer; one more won't make your sentence any worse—you'll get the death penalty when you're finally caught. Me, on the other hand, I have a clean record. And it's not just that, Michael." The two met eyes. "Call it poetic justice. Trent should be murdered by the SacTown Slayer."

"Why is that?"

Because Trent killed Mae's parents, and like the chickenshit he is, pinned the blame on the SacTown Slayer, that's why. That's the poetic justice part, but not the reason why Trent needed to die. He was poisoning her mind with drugs. But there was no use in telling Michael that. He didn't want emotions getting in the way of the job. Less information was more. "Don't worry about it. The guy's name is Trent Blackwood. He lives alone in an apartment in Roseville. He's at school in the mornings and afternoons, but home in the evenings, unless he's playing baseball. Give me your cell number, we'll keep in touch."

"What will you do if I refuse to kill him? Call the cops on me?"

"You won't refuse."

### Chapter Seventeen

It was Saturday morning, the one week anniversary of Timothy's acquaintance with Mae at Millie's Diner. He had mixed feelings about Eddie not joining him at Millie's today. It would be great to have him as the catalyst of conversation between he and Mae. Without batting an eye Eddie would invite her to join them at their table, instead of letting the hostess decide their seating fate. The same seating arrangement as last week was unlikely, which meant if Timothy wanted to eat breakfast with Mae he'd have to invite her to share a booth. He didn't think he had it in him. Eddie had wanted to come along this morning but Phyllis had asked him for a favor. She and Phillip found a cheap Corolla with low miles in an ad, and were heading to Marysville to purchase it. Phillip hadn't been behind a wheel since being diagnosed with Alzheimer's, which left Eddie to drive the LeSabre back. From this day forward the LeSabre was a privilege for Eddie to be used at his disposal.

Timothy parked in front of Millie's and checked his watch. Mae's bus should pull up any minute. He was sweating and wondered how the heck he could be more nervous now than every time before. Perhaps because now he'd feel obliged to greet her, ask how her week was, carry on a conversation with ample chances to make a fool of himself. He'd stutter and she'd think he's retarded.

Just then he had an idea how to get Mae to be seated near him, sparing him the terror of her possibly rejecting his booth invite. The beauty of the idea was in its simplicity: he's ask Susan to keep the booth next to his open for her. It would mean confessing to Susan that he had a crush on the girl, but that's a small price to pay for the reward. He'd need to get inside before Mae. He turned the engine off and got out of the car, went inside Mille's.

Susan was at the podium with her proprietary grin, already reaching her hand down to the menus.

"I was hoping you could do me a favor," Timothy said to Susan. "You know the girl who also comes in here every time I'm here?"

Susan became pensive as she reflected.

"You know, really pretty, my age, blue eyes and brown hair. Her name's Mae."

Remembrance washed over her face. "Of course, dear. Prettiest eyes I've ever seen. Is she your friend?"

"Sort of. We just met last week." He lowered his voice. "Between you and me, I have a thing for her. Is there any way you could seat her in the booth next to mine?"

She smiled crookedly, nodded, took a menu. Timothy followed to a table at the far end of the row; there were two empty tables between this one and the nearest occupied table. Timothy smiled appreciatively at her as he took a seat, slid down the vinyl bench.

"Would you like something to drink, sweetheart?"

"Coffee, please."

Mae entered the restaurant. She was talking on her phone. Susan greeted Mae, took up a menu and led her in Timothy's direction.

Susan stopped at Timothy's table, not the table he and Susan had agreed upon. He gave Susan a stern look. Mae was still on the phone, mouthed the words good morning to Timothy. Timothy said good morning. She said something quietly into the phone, nodded, and ended the call. She took a seat at his table without event.

_Well how about that!_ Timothy thought. She took the seat thoughtlessly, as if she belonged there with Timothy. The notion made his chest feel like a thousand moths flitted their wings inside him.

"Coffee for you both?" Susan asked.

They said yes. She departed.

"How are you d-doing today, Mae?" he asked her.

"Crazy day," Mae replied distractedly and began tapping out a text message.

"You look n-nice. I like your dress. The blue really b-brings out the blue in your eyes."

She took pause in her text message to address Timothy's sweet words, smiled at him. "Why thank you. That was a sweet thing to say."

Timothy felt that he was blushing. "How was your w-week?"

She had already returned to her cellphone and didn't catch his question. He decided to let it go. Two coffees were dropped off at the table; Timothy spooned sugar in his. Mae sent her text, set her phone on the table and returned her interest in Timothy. She looked as if she had something to say, something important, but when the phone chimed she picked it back up and tended to it.

Martha stopped by the table for their breakfast orders. Mae held up a finger gesturing for a minute, and began tapping out a text message. Timothy ordered a ham and cheese egg-white omelet with home fries. The corners of Mae's mouth upturned without straying from the task at hand, which was evidently a lengthy text message.

"Make it two," Mae said without making eye contact with Martha.

Martha scrawled the orders and left.

"Crazy day indeed," Timothy said. "You look busy."

"You don't know the half of it." She pressed send and set her phone back down. Timothy envisioned her picking it right back up within the next few seconds.

"How long have you been spending your Saturday mornings eating breakfast here?" Timothy asked her.

"A few months. There's a diner closer to home but I like this one better. Great service and food. How about yourself? I've seen you here weekly for some time too."

"Six weeks." Six _wonderful_ weeks.

They were silent for a moment.

"You almost had the pleasure of meeting my boyfriend," Mae said.

"Your boyfriend?" Timothy repeated, and felt his heart breaking.

She nodded, got to putting sugar in her cup. "He wanted to come, but changed his mind."

"How long have you two been going out?" he asked Mae.

"A few months or so."

"Do you love him?"

She nodded, but there was hesitation there. "Where's the friend who was with you last week?"

"Edgar? He couldn't make it."

Mae's eyes widened, jaw dropped. "Edgar," she breathed.

"He prefers Eddie, actually. What about him?"

She shook her head, took the cellphone from her purse and began a text message, but didn't get very far because her phone began ringing.

"I'm so sorry. I'll be right back," Mae said and excused herself, walked right out of the diner.

_What the heck is going on here?_ Timothy wondered. _Why did she give me that look when I said Eddie?_

He sat there in confused silence for three minutes before his cute breakfast date returned in her blue summer-dress with pink Hawaiian flowers. Her eyes were different now. They were sharp and calculating, conveyed her newfound interest in Timothy. She tucked the back of her dress in and sat across from Timothy.

"So what do you like to do for fun?" Timothy asked Mae.

"Nothing, really. Draw, I guess. I like reading. How long have you known Edgar?"

"I met him the day you did. Why?"

"Just wondering." It wasn't an honest answer, Timothy judged. "I hope you don't mind, but my boyfriend is going to be joining us after all."

"Okay, great," Timothy said with feigned enthusiasm.

"I should warn you in advance," Mae said, "Trent can be a little... abrasive. He might come off as a jerk, but he can be sweet."

Timothy nodded. "Why does he want to join us?"

"I'd rather let Trent answer that."

Timothy was sweating. He had presentiments of this Trent guy being a real prick, and probably accusing him of trying to steal away his girlfriend. And an abrasive jerk, not the kind of guy Timothy was good at dealing with.

"Is s-something the m-matter?"

She gave a half-wince, intimating to Timothy that something was the matter and she felt bad about being responsible for it. That's the impression Timothy got, at least.

"Tell me," Timothy said. "W-what's going on?"

"I got a phone call just before I got here."

Timothy knew she did; she was talking to him or her as she entered the diner.

"I don't want to upset you, but someone was informing me of a man I should be concerned over, and I think it's your friend Edgar."

"Eddie? Concerned over? Nonsense. He's a g-great guy."

"I'm sorry if I offended you."

"Nah, you d-didn't. Who told you that?"

"She didn't say her name."

"She?"

Mae nodded.

"What else did she s-say about Eddie?"

"I'd rather wait till Trent is here."

"That's w-why Trent is c-coming here? To t-talk about Eddie?"

"I'm sorry, Timothy." And she was sorry. Those pitiful blue eyes with amber rings were the embodiment of sorry just then.

"He's a great g-guy, Eddie is."

"Why do you think this girl would tell me differently?"

"No clue."

They sat in silence for a minute. One silent minute became two and three; it was growing awkward and tense at the table. Mae gave frequent apologetic glances at Timothy before looking down at the table. Timothy was suffering conflicting emotions. He couldn't stand that his friend was being implicated in this unfathomable mess _,_ but felt bad for Mae for having to feel guilty about what she had said. And more things would be said about his friend Eddie before this breakfast was said and done, her boyfriend Trent would see to that.

His nerves were on edge and growing worse. He excused himself from the table and went to the restroom, entered the solitary stall and got down on his knees. He knew he'd puke, even if it wasn't quite ready yet. It was best to force it now so he wouldn't be returning shortly. He lifted the lid and gagged himself, vomited in the toilet.

He returned to the table a couple minutes later, apologized to Mae.

A silver Audi tore into the parking lot, tires screeching to a stop. If Timothy was heartbroken before, he was devastated now. The guy getting out of the Audi was very good looking, even more so than Eddie. Sandy blond hair, toned and tan body, definitely a jock of sorts, and had to be worth a lot of money to drive a new convertible Audi. Mae waved at him through the window. He saw the gesture but didn't return it. He hustled to the restaurant and entered.

Mae scooted down to make room for Trent. He had only just taken a seat when Martha came by to take his drink order. Coffee, black. She left.

Trent cordially introduced himself to Timothy and reached across the table to shake hands.

"I'm T-Timothy. N-nice to m-meet you."

Trent looked sidelong at Mae. His eyes might have said, "Friends with a fucking retard, are we?"

"Luckily I was in town," Trent said. Timothy didn't think that was so lucky. "Mae says you're friends with a guy named Edgar," Trent said in an appreciative tone. By it, Timothy surmised that Trent expected to learn a great many things here during breakfast, and that was unsettling as hell.

"Yes. Edgar V-Verboom, but he g-goes by Eddie. Like I told Mae, I only m-met him the other day."

"What can you tell me about him?"

"Not much."

"When he met Mae here last week, did he act strangely? Did it seem to you that he knew who Mae was?"

"Actually," Mae said, gathering fragments of memory and piecing them together, "he did say I look familiar, like he'd seen me before. He even guessed my name. Almost guessed my last name, too."

Trent fixed on her. "Uh huh. So he knew you."

"I-I don't k-know about that," Timothy said, feeling he needed to come to the defense of his friend. Without knowing it, he had a pretty good idea Trent wasn't about to seek Eddie's friendship, but perhaps an enmity. "He only g-guessed her name. He told me later that he d-didn't know her."

"Did you give Timothy or Eddie your phone number?" Trent asked Mae. Mae shook her head. "I wonder how he got your number..." He faced Timothy. "And I wonder how he knows so much about us, like where Mae lives, and where she keeps her motherfucking diary."

"Uh..." Timothy swallowed, feeling the weight of the world on his shoulders. "I th-think there's been some kind of mistake. W-wrong Eddie, I think."

"Yeah, I'm sure," Trent said sarcastically. "Because there are so many Edgar's around, huh?"

_How could you do this to me?_ Timothy asked Mae with his eyes.

Mae mouthed the words I'm sorry to him with a sympathetic brow.

To Mae Trent said, "So tell me what the girl said on the phone about Edgar."

"I already told you everything. She said Edgar's a bad man, likes to start trouble. She said he messes around with his cellphone, texting and calling people, pranking them. The way she described him, and from what he knows about us, I think you're right about him reading my diary."

"Sss-stop saying that!" Timothy blustered. "That isn't t-true! Eddie would never—"

"Let her talk," Trent said calmly. Timothy sensed that if he was told again it wouldn't be so politely.

"That's about all she had to say," Mae said.

"And she didn't say who she was?" Trent asked.

"No."

"How'd she get your number? And how does she know all this about our friend Edgar?'

"I asked her that and she hung up."

"Google her name and number, let's find out more about her."

"Can't. The number's blocked, and I don't know her name."

"Fucking Private Callers and Blocked Calls, what the fuck? Is everyone too chickenshit to identify themselves nowadays? Fucking A." Trent looked at Timothy and said, "Who is this guy? Where's Edgar from?"

"Nebraska. He's a f-farmer. He's a r-really nice guy, Trent. Honestly."

Mae gave Timothy puppy-dog eyes from across the table. Her cheeks were rosy. By her look Timothy had a pretty rotten idea that she wasn't done pissing on his parade. And he was right.

"There was one more thing, actually," Mae said to Trent, but was looking at the frightened boy across the table. "I'm so sorry, Timothy."

"Don't apologize to him!" Trent said waspishly. "This is none of his damned business. Tell me what she said."

"She told me where Edgar lives. He lives—"

"Don't tell him that!" Timothy pleaded. Denizens at nearby tables craned their heads around to see who was violating the cozy atmosphere with bad mojo.

Trent leaned a little across the table, fixed a no-fucking-nonsense glare at Timothy and said, "If I have to ask you to mind your own damned business one more time, you and me are going to have some business to settle outside."

Timothy leaned back in his seat. He felt nauseated again.

"Please don't talk to him like that," Mae said. "He got put in the middle of this, it's not his fault."

"Where does this prick Edgar live, honey," Trent said, and gave Timothy a murderous glowering, daring him to butt in one more time.

"He lives at the Stoddard farm," Mae said. "In the barn."

Timothy slid off the bench to a stand, took his wallet from his back pocket, extracted a ten and left it on the table with his company looking confusedly at him.

"Don't go," Mae said.

He said nothing, avoided Susan's eyes as he passed her at the podium, and out the door he went. In his car he got on the phone, went through Contacts and found Eddie Verboom. Just before making the call he saw Trent coming out of Millie's, striding toward him quickly, not one thing pleasant about his expression. Timothy put the phone down and started the engine, tore off, putting Trent in his rear-view mirror. Trent stood there looking mightily pissed off. He mimed a phone at his ear, pointed at it, pointed at Timothy, then ran a finger across his throat, a gesture of execution. _Call Eddie to warn him and you die._

Timothy drove off, destination home.

### Chapter Eighteen

The deal was made on the Corolla for nine grand, paid for by check and signed by Phyllis Stoddard. She drove the two-year-old car with Phillip in the passenger seat. Eddie was driving the LeSabre behind them, a thirty-minute drive to Sacramento. He could hardly believe they were going from this nice Buick to that cheesy compact car. The Buick only had a hundred-and-twenty thousand miles on the odometer, long from retiring into a junkyard. It was a comfortable ride, all the bells and whistles. Eddie was making adjustments to the side mirrors, the electric seat, steering wheel, and even changing the radio station presets. It was going to be his car, even if the title would have you believe otherwise. On the drive to Marysville the Stoddard's had informed him of that, as long as Eddie continued to work for them, the car was his. He planned on staying with the Stoddard's for a long while. Something better would come around eventually, but for now it was a sweet gig. And who knows, once Trent was dead maybe some good things would come his way. Some really great things. It was a time for optimism, and Eddie's smile reflected that.

The Corolla veered over and took the freeway exit; Eddie followed. They pulled into a Shell station for gas. The Buick had three-quarters of a tank, so he parked away from the pumps and got out, insisted that he pump the Stoddard's gas. He told them to stay inside the car where it was cool. Phillip lowered the window and handed Eddie a credit card for the gas, thanked him for his thoughtfulness.

As he pumped gas, Eddie thought he'd give Michael a call. He worried that the kid would have second thoughts about the proposal. If that was the case, he'd have to threaten him, he supposed. But would he call the cops on him? Really? Nah, he wouldn't. He'd just have to kill Trent himself, but that wasn't how it was supposed to go down. His friend gave him specific instructions, and that was have Michael kill him.

He brought up Michael's name under contacts and waited till the gas-tank was full and nozzle racked before making the call. He waved goodbye at the Stoddard's as he walked back to the Buick. Seconds later the two cars were pulling back onto the freeway. Eddie phoned Michael.

"Hey, it's..." Eddie hadn't told Michael his name the other night, for fear that he'd get caught and implicate Eddie somehow. Being that the SacTown Slayer was still at large, he supposed it was safe to use his name now. "It's your friend from the other night. My name is Eddie Verboom. What's up?"

"Friggin' yard work. I hate Saturdays." He lowered the phone and shouted as his mom no thanks for her offer of iced tea. "What's up?"

"What we talked about the other night. You should come over to my place, we'll go over the details."

"Why should I? I don't know, Eddie, I gave it some thought and I'm not sure I want to do this."

"You don't have a choice."

"I do too. If you call the cops they'll wonder why you've kept it a secret and you'll be in trouble too. Besides, I don't think you'd tell."

"Good. _Good,_ Michael, I'm glad we've arrived at this place in our relationship. Honesty, candor. You're right, I wouldn't call the cops. But you're going to do what I say just the same. Come on over and like Marlon Brando said, 'I'll make you an offer you can't refuse.'"

"I have to do yard work. My dad will be pissed if I don't."

"He'd be pretty pissed if he knew you were the SacTown Slayer, too," Eddie said and laughed out loud.

"Yeah, that's a pretty safe assumption," Michael said and laughed.

"Tell him something came up. Come on, man. I'll pay for your time."

"Oh yeah? I'm only a few minutes from being done with the lawn. Maybe he won't notice if I don't edge or pull weeds this week. Come get me. Do you have something to write down my address?"

"Come get you? Oh shit, you're too young to have a license, aren't you?" Eddie laughed some more.

"I'm glad it amuses you."

"You have to see how it's funny. A serial killer too young to drive legally. That would explain why all the killings have been in the same region of Sacramento: you don't have a car." More laughter, gales of side-splitting guffaws. "Okay, okay," Eddie said and calmed down. "I'll come get you in about twenty minutes. I'll tap the horn."

"Don't you need my address?"

"Nah, I don't. Oh wait..." He patted his empty pockets. "Yeah, I do need it. Just text it to me. See you soon."

* * *

There was no need to honk: Michael was sitting on the patio step waiting. He hustled to the car and got in; they pulled away. Eddie stuck his hand out, Michael glanced down at it before agreeing to shake it.

"How old are you, anyway?" Eddie asked him, turned the radio off.

"I'll be sixteen in August."

"Probably the youngest serial killer in history, huh?" Eddie grinned wryly at him.

"Do me a favor and don't call me that, please."

"Oh? Why's that?"

"I don't like it. When I think serial killer I think lunatic, insane. I'm not either of those."

"No you aren't," Eddie agreed. "You seem down to earth, a good head on your shoulders. Why do you do it?"

He shrugged. "It's complicated."

"I'm sure it is."

Michael looked over at Eddie. "It feels kind of good, that someone knows the truth."

Eddie raised his brow contemplatively, nodded in agreement. "I'm sure it does. If you ever need a set of ears to listen, give me a call."

"Really? Do you mean that?"

Eddie nodded.

"Are you saying that you want to be friends?"

"I'm not saying anything. Just that you can call me. Who needs a label slapped on it. Friends, acquaintances, pals, two guys who know each other, whatever."

"Cool, man. Very cool. So where do you live?"

"Just a couple miles from here. A farm. Just moved there, got a job as a farm hand. I needed a place to stay, a car, and a job; this gig satisfies all three needs. Pretty cool set up. I got the barn to myself, free rent. Nice people living there. The grandson, I met him just after I moved into town, his name's Timothy Stoddard. Stutters like a motherfucker, but he's a cool cat."

It was 9:40 A.M. when they parked in the Stoddard garage beside the Corolla. Eddie wondered if Timothy was still at Millie's, and if so had he gotten up the courage to eat with Mae. They walked side by side out of the garage into the morning sunlight. It was sunny and promised to be a warm one. Philip was coming out of the house. Eddie waved at him. Phillip gestured him to wait a moment, and hurried his aged bones in his direction.

"Son," he said when he was near, "could you do me a favor sometime today?"

"Sure, Mr. Stoddard. What is it?"

"Phyllis thought it would be a good idea for me to go out and buy new locks for the doors. The existing ones are very old. With my arthritic hands it would take all day, and cause me a lot of pain. Would you mind helping me out?"

"I'd love to. I'll do more than help you, I'll take care of the whole thing."

"Outstanding." Phillip put his palsied hand on Eddie's shoulder, grinning broadly. "You're a good boy. I'm headed to the Home Depot for locks. They'll be on the kitchen counter, whenever you get around to it."

"Sounds good. Does Mrs. Stoddard want new locks because of the SacTown Slayer?" Eddie leered at Michael with a concealed grin.

"Yes, that would be the reason. Did you hear there was an eleventh and twelfth victim? Two nights ago, it was."

"Yeah, I heard that," Eddie said. "Mr. Stoddard this is my friend Michael. Michael, Mr. Stoddard."

They shook hands. Mr. Stoddard said, "Please, call me Phillip. Both of you."

Phillip hobbled along to the Corolla. Eddie chuckled as he and Michael made their way to the barn.

"It's bullshit, you know?" Michael said staring at the ground before him.

"What is?"

"Eleventh and twelfth victims. There are ten, not twelve. The seventh and eighth, those weren't me. Copycat killer."

"You don't say," Eddie mumbled. He already knew that. Trent was responsible for seven and eight.

"I don't care if you believe me or not. I'm telling you, I didn't kill them."

"Let's talk about this up in my loft."

Eddie had some Coors Lights in the mini fridge (Ray's Liquor sold to minors upon asking the man at the register if he caught the Devil Ray's game the other night; code, learned information from his ageless friend), as well as Pepsi and a few bottles of St. Pauli N.A. left. He offered Michael refreshment. He'd take a Pepsi. Eddie grabbed a Silver Bullet and Pepsi and closed the fridge, took one of two chairs, faced Michael.

"Not a bad set up at all," Michael said, eying the place.

"Nope." He cracked open his beer and took a sip. "Hey, Michael? Thanks for coming over, buddy. Means a lot to me."

Michael grinned appreciatively. He didn't recall anyone thanking him so sincerely before. Made him feel wanted, needed, though that probably wasn't the case. But maybe it was.

"I'm sorry about being a little rough around the edges the other night," Eddie said. "I needed you to get in the car, so I said whatever I thought needed to be said for you to get in."

"It's cool. Can I ask you a question? Two, actually. How did you know I'm the killer? And when you picked me up you said something about me having no idea who to thank for me not being caught, or something. What were you talking about?"

"The answer to both questions is the same. See that?" He pointed to the jade idol on the dresser beside the TV.

"The figurine?"

"Yeah. That's how I knew, and that's what's kept your ass on the streets instead of death row."

Michael gave him a silly face. "Come on," he said thickly.

Eddie humored. "Not kidding. Everyone's entitled to keep secrets. You, me, everybody. I don't expect you to tell me everything I want to know, just as you shouldn't expect that from me. What that idol there represents is pretty damned special to me. It's mystical. It's a portal, in a way. Because of it I've met someone. That someone tells me things, such as who the SacTown Slayer is." As an afterthought he lightheartedly added, "And who sells beer to minors."

"Bullshit, man." Michael was smiling. "You're fucking with me."

"No, Michael. I am not," Eddie said sternly. "You know how many cops are in southwest Sacramento these days? You think you could kill and get away with it without help? _Maybe,_ but I doubt it."

"That's bullshit. If someone was helping me, how did they do it?"

"Let's say you are at Point-A committing a murder. What if five minutes before you arrive there, the police get an anonymous phone call by a concerned home-owner, saying they spotted a man carrying a large knife at Point-B? Where might all the cops be during your festivities: Point-A or Point-B? That's just one example. And FYI, I made a couple of those calls."

Michael stared in awe at the idol, wanting to believe what he was hearing, but needed some kind of proof.

"Prove it."

Eddie considered it, then stood up, went to the figurine. "Okay. I'll tell you what. I'm not guaranteeing this will work, but let's see. Go to the Buick and come back. Be sure to get a good look to your left (north) between the garage and the barn. Take this." He handed Michael the idol.

"What am I looking for?"

"You'll know when you see it."

Michael took one step and stopped, frowned down at the statuette, then at Eddie.

Eddie humored because he knew what Michael was thinking, and feeling. "Feel something... different?"

"Yeah. I feel weird."

"Yep. Not very pleasant is it?"

"Not at all."

"And it's not so much a physical feeling as much as it is mental. A sensation of darkness on the horizon, not quite impending doom, but in the ballpark. That's why I don't carry it around unless I need it. I don't hate the way it feels, but it's not something I like to endure twenty-four-seven, if you know what I mean."

"Yeah, I do. I don't blame you. That's so damned odd."

Michael descended the fixed ladder, stopped when he saw Eddie retake his seat. "Aren't you coming?"

"Nah. I'll wait for you."

He nodded and continued down. He crossed the shady hay-smelling barn, tossing the jade carving up in his right hand, catching it in his left, palming it. The barn door was open, he crossed through it. The dewy morning light made you want to shade your eyes. A few fair-weather clouds were high up in the sky. The property gate was closing automatically from when Phillip drove through just recently. Forty yards ahead was the garage, both stalls open. To his left (north) was where several acres of olive trees began. So many trees that he couldn't see but a dozen or so yards into the thickness of them.

"I don't know what I'm supposed to be looking for—" he began saying to himself before freezing in place with a gasp. He clenched tighter the figurine in hand. Twenty yards north was not an olive tree but an avocado tree with what looked like a man picking avocados. But it wasn't his arm reaching up above him to pick avocados, but a thick rope. And the rope was fitted around his neck.

Tentatively, Michael walked toward him. He opened his palm and scrutinized the jade carving. Some demonic-looking thing. Creepy as hell. Was this thing responsible for what he was seeing? Could that be possible? He picked up his pace to a brisk walk and stopped ten feet short of the hanged man. He was black. His trousers were dirty and of an older era, as was his dirty open-throated white linen shirt. He was barefoot, toes just inches from touching the ground. He swayed slightly with a distant breeze; years distant.

"I'll be damned," he mumbled.

He glanced to his left (west) just briefly and consequently his breath caught. Another one. A much smaller one, thirty yards or greater away. It was a black boy, shirtless, tan trousers.

Michael turned and strode toward the barn, having had enough of this black magic. He crossed the barn-door threshold and hurried to the ladder.

"Well...?" Eddie said from above.

"My God," Michael said and mounted the ladder.

"Ah! So you saw him!"

At the landing Michael tossed the jade idol to Eddie, who caught it and placed it back on the dresser.

"Saw _them,_ yes."

"Them? There was more than one?"

"I saw two. Maybe if I stuck around I'd have seen the whole family. A black man and a black boy no older than ten."

"No shit? A kid, too?"

"What kind of witchcraft have you gotten yourself into?" Michael took his seat and opened his Pepsi, sucked it down.

"I'm curious to the story there," Eddie said. "I'm sure there's a great one. White folk hanging black folk. I wonder when it happened? Judging by his clothes, maybe it was the 1800's, or early twentieth century. Maybe Phyllis is a distant relative of them. Anyway, this idol is the answer to your question of how I know who and what you are. You just scratched the surface. There's plenty underneath. The question is how far down the rabbit-hole do you want to go? A better question would be how far down will I let you go. But for now, let's keep things simple. So now that I've satisfied your curiosity, why don't you do the same for me? Why do you do it? Or why did you do it at first? Tell me how it went down."

"Okay. First off, don't take offense to this, but are you gay?"

"I'm not gay. Why, are you propositioning me?" Eddie made kissy lips at Michael, then laughed.

Michael laughed. "Good. I not a fan of gays, because of my past. Maybe I'd be indifferent toward them or even sympathetic toward them if things had happened differently..."

"Ooo, this sounds like it has the makings of a good story. Pray tell, pray tell!"

"The first guy I killed was named Ryan. I was in Yosemite, on vacation. Thirteen years old, and jacking off was new to me. I found a skin mag in the woods and was masturbating when a guy caught me. Ryan. He was with his girlfriend, Emily. He told me he wouldn't tell my parents if I did something for him. He said I had to go down on his girlfriend."

"Damn. Was she ugly?" Eddie asked.

"Not at all. She was gorgeous."

"Wow. Doesn't sound like much of a punishment to me!"

"I know, that's what I was thinking. They had me get down on my knees and close my eyes, open my mouth. She was supposed to step into me, you know? But what was put in my mouth wasn't her, but him. Ryan put his cock in my mouth. So I bit it, flipped out."

Eddie was pie-eyed and open-mouthed, corners of his mouth smiling. "No... way!"

Michael looked down at the wooden floorboard and nodded grimly. "Long story short, I killed him. But he was trying to drown me first, so I guess it was self-defense. But I killed Emily, too. That was less self-defense and more covering-my-ass-so-I-don't-go-to-jail. That's how it began."

"Damn. And you never got caught, huh?"

"Would you believe that nobody has discovered their missing bodies? It turned into a kind of obsession of mine following the incident. I was online checking news in that county. No bodies turned up. That was over two years ago, so they're probably just skeletons now. No DNA to incriminate me."

"How about the others?"

"Believe it or not, all the others I had a reason for what I did. The first couple were Lonnie and Bruce Davidson. They have a kid I go to school with, James. Well, I go to school with him but he's not in any of my classes. He has autism, goes to Special Ed classes. James would sometimes have bruises on his arms, neck, even his face sometimes. There were rumors that his folks beat him. One day I approached him in the hall, asked if the rumors were true, that his folks hit him. He looked away from me and said some shit about how he falls down sometimes, that's how he gets the bruises. Eddie, I didn't have a doubt in my mind that he was lying to cover their asses. He wouldn't look me in the eyes after that. It really pissed me off, man. He was a good kid, likeable. What kind of shitheads would beat their son just because he's a little slow upstairs?

"So anyway, one day I got in trouble at home. I really fucked up; I don't remember what it was, but it was serious. I thought I was going to get spanked, and I would have deserved it. Oh yeah, now I remember: I stole twenty bucks out of my mom's purse. My dad had a sit-down with me and grounded me, said that he and my mom discussed it and decided they wouldn't lay a hand on me, or something like that. It made me remember poor James, who _wasn't_ doing something worthy of getting beaten but got beaten just the same.

"The next day at school I waited outside Special Ed class and told James that I was moving next door to him. He was excited, for no real reason, he just was. I guess when you're autistic it doesn't take much to excite you. He was all, 'Really? You're moving next door? We can be friends!' I asked what his address was and he told me. I said, 'My bad, it's a different street. Never mind. Take care, bud.' I knew his address now.

"I waited a few days, so when questioned James wouldn't mention that he had a strange discussion with me about his address. At night I made a little journey. I had my dad's Beretta, some duct tape, a knife, and two pairs of handcuffs that I had bought at a military surplus store that afternoon. I snuck inside their home—the back door was unlocked; it's as though fate wanted me to kill his lousy parents—and went to James' bedroom. He was asleep with a loud fan blowing on his face just two feet from his head. It was plenty loud. I turned the fan up to high anyway. It was probably loud enough to cover any screams. I went inside Lonnie and Bruce's bedroom. They were sleeping, as well. They also had a fan blowing. I had two pieces of duct tape at the ready. I slapped the first one over the lady's mouth, then the guy's, real fast. They sat bolt upright with wide-eyed terror. By then I had backed away and aimed my dad's Beretta at them, said if either of them made a sound I'd shoot them. I tossed a pair of handcuffs at the guy, told him to cuff his wife. Then did the same to the lady.

"I had them sit at the kitchen table, duct taped their ankles to the feet of their chair. I reminded them that if they cried for help they'd die, then peeled off the guy's mouth-tape. First thing out of his mouth?—guess."

"Why are you doing this?" Eddie guessed.

"Bingo," Michael said and humored.

"If I had said 'Because I can't stand people who abuse retarded kids,' what do you think he would have said?"

"Probably that he would never raise a hand against one ever, that he loves them dearly being that his own son has autism."

Michael humored. "I know, right? I bet he'd have said exactly that. So I played it differently. I said, 'Because I can't stand retards. People who care for them instead of letting them die-off should be ashamed of themselves.' Care to guess what his response was?"

"Sure. Uh... 'We don't care for them! We beat that little autistic shit son of ours every chance we get!'"

Michael laughed. "You're pretty good at guessing stuff. He didn't say that, but you definitely captured the essence of it. He just wanted to come out of it alive, and said what he thought I wanted to hear. But that's _not_ what I wanted to hear. And he was being honest in his disdain toward retards, I could sense that. I peeled the tape off the woman's mouth and let her have a say. She said pretty much the same thing. I asked them if they beat James. They confessed to it. I put the tape back over their mouths so James wouldn't wake up when they screamed. I cut her throat, then his. Lonnie was #1, Bruce #2."

"Technically, Ryan was #1, Emily was #2," Eddie corrected.

"That's right. But that was different, if you know what I mean."

"I do. As far as your serial killing legacy will read, Lonnie and Bruce were your first and second. So what about the others? Also parents who beat their kids?"

"No," he said thoughtfully. "Well maybe two others, yes. It's not like I'm this righteous vigilante offing people who deserve it. I'm no Dexter Morgan. The next murder was a man named Hugh MacIntyre. I suppose it was about a month after the previous two. He was a single father, an alcoholic loser. What a piece of shit he was. The world is a better place without him. The reason I chose him was similar to James. His son is Alex MacIntyre, a bully. Alex kicked my ass once, just for fun. He was a menace to all kinds of kids. Not the biggest bully in school, but one of them. God I hate that kid. At first I thought about killing him, but reconsidered it. Detectives would learn that he was a bully and start questioning those with a motive for killing him, and my name would pop up. I figured if I killed his parents (I didn't know at the time that his mother had divorced Hugh and moved away) that it wouldn't come back to me. And it didn't. I killed him the same exact way. I knew the murders would be linked, and that was okay. Even though there was a slight connection between Alex and me, they'd be looking for a link between the Macintyre's and Davidson's. And they never think a serial killer is going to be my age, so I had a lot going for me. _Have_ a lot going for me. So I killed the dude's dad just to spite Alex. He ended up going to a foster home because of me. I'm proud of that. And I think Hugh deserved to die, but didn't know that when I planned out his murder. You learn a lot about someone in the moments before you execute them. The truths come out, as there's no reason to lie. Once they know they're destined to die, a whole new person emerges, a specimen of perfect honesty, and believe it or not, sometimes tranquility. I never would have thought. They talk a lot about regrets they have, things they would have done differently in life. Sometimes they treat me like I'm a priest and they give confession. I could write a book about the shit people tell me before I kill them. Maybe if I'm ever in jail for my crimes, I'll write such a book. Hugh was a bad man. Not that I'm good, I deserve to die just like the people I killed. But the difference is they got caught, I haven't. Not yet, at least."

"Damn, bro. That's nuts. I thought you were a dumbass this whole time but turns out you're actually kind of bright. And not a bad guy, as far as serial killers go."

"Thanks. The others were a drug dealer who peddled to kids, one pedophile, one guy just annoyed the shit out of me and I wanted to kill him—it's as simple as that. So I'm no saint. But I'm also no psycho. Well, I suppose being psycho is relative. A lot of people will refuse to believe I'm anything but psycho, because a rational person would never kill someone. To each their own."

"Gotcha. So are you going to kill Trent Blackwood for me?"

"I don't know, man. I have a methodology, and you said he lives in Roseville... I don't know. And I have no animosity toward him, don't even know who he is. I don't want random people to die just for murder's sake, just to perpetuate what I am. I happen to like most people. I'm not heartless. When I watch the news and learn some hapless little girl was abducted and murdered, it breaks my heart. And I cry. Not often, but I do weep. I'm afraid I'm going to have to turn you down, Eddie. I feel bad about it, you seem really cool; you're someone I could see myself being friends with. But it is what it is. If your friendship costs the life of someone I don't feel should be murdered, it's too steep a price. You said you'd make me an offer I can't refuse. That is a little intriguing. What is it?"

"You're very sharp and articulate for someone your age," Eddie said sincerely.

"Thanks, I appreciate that."

"The offer you can't refuse... it can be more than one thing. Firstly, how are you on money?"

"Poor. Broke. I get fifteen bucks a week allowance. No job."

"I could fix that, for starters. I know how to come up on cash. It's in the damnedest places. You know those metal detectors people use at the beach to find change? I got that beat all to hell."

"How do you find it?"

"I know where to look," Eddie said and pointed to the jade idol on the dresser. "It's not like I'm coming up on thousands of dollars, but it's something. A ten and a twenty here and there. I once dug up an old coffee tin with a hundred and seventy bucks in it. Once when I was hard up for money I found a diamond, sold it at a pawn shop for five hundred bucks. But usually it's just a single bill I find."

"That's crazy," Michael said, eyes bright with wonder. "Yeah, money would be nice, but I wouldn't kill someone for money. I'm no hired assassin."

"I thought that might be the case. You kill people whom you feel should die, right?"

"That's right. People who the world could and should do without. Could I get another Pepsi?"

Eddie opened the fridge, snatched a can of pop and tossed it at his friend, who opened it and chugged.

"Okay, Michael. The offer you can't refuse... you ready for it?"

Michael nodded, burped savagely.

"It comes on one condition," Eddie said. "You can't ask details. Well, you can safely assume that I know what I know from the idol," he pointed to the jade statuette on the dresser. "But what I say is the damned truth. Do you believe me when I tell you that? Look in my eyes, do you think I'm lying to you?"

"No. I don't."

Eddie nodded satisfied. "Good. Tell me about #7 and #8. The Clark's."

Michael took a deep breath, lips thin and tight, hands curled into fists. "That's a sore subject, Eddie."

"I know it is. The SacTown Slayer killed David and Rebecca Clark on May fifteenth. Tax day."

"The hell I did. Like I said, it was a copycat killer. I'd never kill those two wonderful people. I knew them, they were my neighbors. Sweet as can be, as well as their daughter Mae. Thank God whoever killed David and Rebecca didn't kill Mae, or I don't know what I'd do. Go insane trying to track him down and send him to hell. Mae is the only girl I ever loved, though she never loved me back."

"Even though he didn't kill Mae, wouldn't you still like to track down and kill their murderer?" Eddie said hopefully.

Michael's eyes widened with understanding. "Don't tell me... no way. You _know_ who killed them?"

Eddie smiled. "Trent Blackwood."

Michael stood from his chair, took a step to Eddie and smiled down at him, thrust his hand out: Eddie shook it.

"We have ourselves a deal," Michael said. "I'll kill Trent and you don't even need to dig a hole to find a coffee tin with money for me. Give me his home address, and I don't care if the guy lives three states over."

"Now we're talking." Eddie stood and embraced Michael. "Friends for life?"

"Friends for life."

He released Michael and groped the wallet from his back pocket. "It's not cool that my friend is broke while I have such means." He opened his wallet and pulled out several twenty-dollar-bills, handed them over. "Don't say no, I won't allow it. Consider it money for whatever expenses you might incur."

He took the money, folded it over and shoved it down his pants with a smile.

"One more thing," Eddie said soberly.

"Yeah?"

"If you get down on your knees right now I'll let you see what pussy tastes like."

Michael punched Eddie on the shoulder with a big laugh. "You dick."

"Oh you'd rather learn what _that_ tastes like? I thought you already knew!"

### Chapter Nineteen

Timothy was two miles away from Millie's when he decided to ignore the threat and warn Eddie. Before he could, a phone call came in from a number he didn't know, but it didn't take but a brief glance to deduce who it was. Who gave Trent his number was a mystery. Perhaps he websurfed for it on his cellphone, the White Pages. Trent could have found the Stoddard's home number, conned Phyllis or Phillip into giving up Timothy's cell number. It must not have taken much cajoling, being that he had only left the diner seven or eight minutes ago. Timothy ignored the call; it went to voicemail where the caller chose not to leave a message. A moment later he received a text: _Hey stutter-boy, if you warn Eddie or mention a word to him about me, I'm going to make your life a living hell. Have a safe drive home, mother fucker._

He decided he'd tell Eddie when he got home, threats be damned. Eddie was his friend, he couldn't screw over a friend. And it was likely the threat from Trent was empty, anyway. The guy wouldn't go out of his way just to make Timothy's life miserable.

Timothy pulled his Camry into the Stoddard garage beside the LeSabre. Eddie was leaning against the trunk smoking a cigarette in one hand, tossing up his jade idol in the other, catching it and tossing it again, laughing with some unknown boy. Timothy got out of the car with a sense of urgency, approached Eddie who hadn't a clue the bad news in store for him.

"Eddie, we n-need to t-talk."

Eddie glanced over at him, then to Michael. "Give me a minute?"

Michael nodded.

Eddie mindlessly sat the idol on the trunk of Timothy's Camry. The two sauntered away from the garage side by side, heads down.

"You have an enemy, Eddie."

"Do I? Who?"

"Mae's boyfriend. His n-name is Trent. I don't know wh-what it's about, but he looked pretty pissed. He w-wanted to know everything about you."

"Shit. Did you tell him?"

"No! I w-wouldn't do that to you!"

"Good man."

"But..."

"But?"

"A girl phoned Mae, told her where you live."

"What the fuck? Who is she?"

"I don't know. I d-don't know, Eddie. But Trent says you've b-been calling Mae and r-reading her diary. He's p-p-pissed off at you. I'm afraid he's g-going to do something to you. He kept asking m-me questions, so I got upset, and left. Came s-straight here."

Eddie cupped Timothy's shoulder. "I was right to call you a great friend. You truly are, brother. A great friend." To himself he said, "Who the fuck is this girl who knows about me? I'll have to find out."

Timothy waited for Eddie to look at him before saying, "Eddie, I got a f-feeling back at Millie's. I'm p-probably wrong, but damn if I d-didn't feel it."

"And what is that?"

"That Trent guy... he's bad. Really bad."

"I'm sure you're right."

"No, I mean... I wouldn't be sur-surprised if he... I don't even think I c-can say it."

"Tell me."

"He has the eyes of a m-murderer. If I learned that he w-was the SacTown Slayer, I wouldn't be s-surprised. Stupid, huh?"

"It's not stupid. But I think you're wrong."

Just then a white Corolla rolled over the property gate track. Phillip waved at the boys, who waved back. He stopped when he realized the two-car garage was at capacity. He rolled the window down and said, "I'll just park in front of the house."

"No you won't," Eddie said and hustled to the Buick, pulled out and parked a good deal away from the garage, got out. Phillip pulled in with a hand waving appreciatively out the window.

"We'll talk more about this later," Eddie said to Timothy. "I think we're safe, at least for now."

Timothy nodded.

Michael was pacing around the front of the garage looking mightily bored, greeted Phillip as he got out of the Toyota, asked how Home Depot was.

"Busy! It was a wonderful trip, though. Today was the first day in over a year that I drove! I never thought I'd miss driving!" He chuckled, pushed the fedora down his forehead and headed toward the house, said to Eddie in transit, "Got the locks, son. No rush, whenever you get a chance."

"I'll get right to it." Eddie gestured Michael to come here. "I'll give you a ride home."

"Cool."

"Timothy, be back in twenty minutes. I promised your grandpa I'd install new locks on the doors."

"Okay, cool. See you then."

The two left the Stoddard farm and got down to business. Eddie asked if he had anything to write on: Michael didn't but he had a cellphone with a notepad application, and brought it up.

"Something came up," Eddie said, "and Trent needs to die A.S.A.P. If not, it might be me who ends up dead. He's after me."

"You? What did you do to him?"

"I don't know. Well, I do know but it's personal. Sorry, bud, I can't tell you everything. In time I will, I swear. But for now you have to trust me, Trent wants me dead. Can you take care of him tonight?"

"I'd love to. This will be the first murder I look forward to. Fucking guy killed David and Rebecca... I'm going to take my time on this one, enjoy my work."

"Good. Do me a favor and when you're killing him, tell him Eddie says have a nice eternity rotting in hell."

Michael chuckled. "I will."

"Trent lives alone, so that should make it easy. It's an apartment, second floor. I happen to know that he keeps a spare key under a potted plant on his patio. His address is—write this down—1395 Woodland Crest Avenue, apartment number 215. I don't know what his schedule is on Saturdays, so use discretion. Stake the place out. He drives a silver Audi convertible. If it's not there, go inside and wait for him. If it is there, give me a call and I'll set something up, some kind of trap to get him out of the place for awhile. Go when it's dark."

Michael finished entering the address on his phone. "How would you pull that off?"

Through Mae Clark, Eddie thought, but didn't say it. If he mentioned Mae, he wasn't sure what kind of impact that would have on Michael. She was a volatile subject. He wouldn't be surprised if Michael abandoned his plan in the wake of a revelation as such, the reason being that it would break Mae's heart or something.

"I have my ways," Eddie said. "We'll keep in touch. How soon can you be at that address?"

"Shit," Michael said and palmed his forehead. "How am I going to get there?"

"Shit." Eddie slammed his palms on the steering wheel. "Let's think this through." He looked over at Michael. "How comfortable are you driving a car?"

"Very. I have a driver's permit, drive all the time for my parents."

"Excellent. I won't need the Buick this evening. I'm loaning it to you." Eddie slowed down and made a wide U-turn. "What's tomorrow, Sunday? Just drop it off sometime in the morning, I'll give you a ride back."

"You sure?"

"Yes. It's the only way."

"Cool. I'll drive slow. I won't get pulled over."

"I'm counting on you."

* * *

Timothy stepped into the garage and had a look-see at the new-used Corolla. Wasn't too shabby. Probably got great mileage. The Buick was nicer, he thought. Eddie sure was a nice guy, offering to put new locks on the doors. He hoped Eddie would keep this job for years to come. He wanted to think of him as his best friend. Friends forever. He decided he'd help him out with the locks, too. Truth was, he wanted to spend as much time around Eddie as he could. He hoped some of Eddie's coolness would rub off on him. And Eddie sure was happy with him at how he acted at Millie's, coming to his defense and all. That was the highlight of his week, maybe year. It feels great to come to the defense of a dear friend. Timothy never knew that feeling before today.

He stepped out of the garage and looked back at his Camry. The jade figurine was on his trunk. Eddie's peculiar little statuette. He wondered what Eddie was doing with it out here. He took it off the trunk and examined it closely. It instilled in him a foreboding dread, some dark vibe that was surely all in his head. That silent eternal scream, enormous mouth and long pointed teeth. Evil looking.

_Hey Timothy,_ a voice jeered from somewhere near.

He spun around, almost tripped. "Wh-who said that?"

A boyish giggle. He couldn't pinpoint where it came from. _Whatcha got in your hand?_ The voice taunted. Like the giggle, its origin wasn't anywhere specific. In fact, it seemed to be coming from his head. He looked down at the idol in his hand. Was it from this thing?

He resolved to go up to the barn loft and put the statuette up there, be done with it.

Do you know where people who do things they shouldn't be doing belong, Timothy? Look to your right.

Timothy glanced north and gasped, stood there thunderstruck. A black man was hanging from a nearby tree branch. It wasn't an olive tree, but a... was that an avocado tree?

"Th-this c-can't be real." There were no avocado trees on the farm, which braced his assertion of this not being real. A daydream. An impossibly vivid, lucid daydream.

The dead man swayed from the rope, turned a little with each swing, bringing his lifeless face into view. Timothy couldn't look away. The corpse's eyes were filmy and bulging, his mouth open and tongue lolling out. When the corners of his mouth began curling up to a grin, Timothy screamed and took off in a sprint toward the barn. West of the previous corpse was another hanged man, only this one was too small to be a man. A black boy. He shielded his eyes from the olive grove (which was now an avocado grove) as he ran.

The barn eclipsed the bright sun; rays of sunlight beamed around it in long striated shafts, with dust motes suspended in them. This was something Timothy had observed and enjoyed before, but at this moment the light was different, had altered. There was a greenish hue to the light shafts, and a kind of haze, the way a distant blacktop under an August sun will be hazy from heat.

There was that damned giggle again. And yes, it was inside his head. Eddie would have said it came from behind his eyes. Timothy dashed to the barn, didn't slow as he entered and made his way to the ladder. In the loft he took a few long strides to the dresser and placed it where it belonged, wiped his sweaty hands on his pants and hastily departed, putting any amount of distance between he and the damned idol.

Timothy's subconscious began working on him, wrenching him, shining light on truths that were better left in the dark, those regarding the idol and Eddie's connection to it. The idol was bad, for lack of a better word. Timothy felt it to the core of his being when he had touched it. More than bad, it was evil. It wasn't just seeing the hanged blacks, or the greenish light, the giggle and the voice—those were dreadful, yes—but what bothered him the most was the peculiar sensation it evoked, one of foreboding, impending danger. A bad idol. Why would Eddie possess such a thing if he was good? And Eddie was good, Timothy wouldn't allow himself to flirt with an opposing idea. If it wasn't for the idea that the idol belonged to his best friend, he would have destroyed it instead of returning it to its rightful place.

_Maybe Eddie isn't the good guy you think he is,_ Timothy's subconscious opined. "Yes he is," Timothy argued aloud as he strode to the house. _It's not just the idol, either. Why do you think Mae and Trent have a bone to pick with him, and the girl who called Mae to warn her about Eddie? Who's wrong here, Eddie or everyone but Eddie?_ "Everyone but Eddie," Timothy said firmly. "I know Eddie, know his heart. He isn't bad." _We'll see, won't we?_ "Yes we will. I'm right about him." _You need to destroy that idol, and you need to remove Eddie from your life. He's bad._ "Stop it!"

Timothy went inside the house and locked the door behind him, went into his room and turned the TV on. He needed a distraction badly, and watching TV wouldn't cut it. He switched on his Playstation 2 and played Madden Football. Still, he couldn't get his mind off Eddie and that damned idol.

### Chapter Twenty

Michael glanced at the directions he had entered in his phone as he pulled onto the freeway onramp. He copied and pasted it into his phone's GPS system and was routed. It was 8:45 P.M., according to the Buick's digital clock. There were nervous butterflies in his stomach, as there always were preceding such a mission. But he thought the butterflies might not have been nervous ones but ones of excitement. Countless times he had lain in bed staring up at the dark ceiling ruminating over the copycat killer, what he'd like to do to him if he ever caught him. He concocted all kinds of neat torture devices in his imagination. There was always the accompanying thought that he'd never get a chance at bringing the copycat killer to justice—to borrow a colloquialism that politicians and the media adored. If the man was caught he'd go to jail, and thus escape Michael's vengeful wrath. If he remained undiscovered Michael would never learn his identity, and again he'd escape Michael's wrath. My how his fortune had changed! Thanks to his new friend Eddie. And a wonderful friend he was, arguably the best he ever had—which was a little sad to consider. Not acquaintance or pal or guys who knew each other, as Eddie had said (a little too rashly, Michael thought). They were a special breed of friends, ones who knew the darkest secrets of the other and accepted them unconditionally.

As he drove to Roseville, he reflected on all manner of things, random thoughts and memories. The other night at the Parcher's everything went shitty. The woman screamed (twice!) even after he threatened to execute her if she did. That had never happened before. He had forgotten to don his gloves before opening the window, then forgot to wipe away his fingerprints on said window until he was making his escape halfway across the front yard. Having to go back to wipe it clean could have been the difference between getting away and being caught. That's how killers get caught, imperfections both large and seemingly insignificant. You must be perpetually perfect, make errors never. The other night was one imperfection after the next. And the truth was, he should never have killed them to begin with. Mr. John Parcher was a piece of shit, but his wife Barbara might not have been. She was a victim of circumstance: had she not been married to that fucker, she'd still be alive.

If Mr. Parcher's 'crime' was put before a judge and jury, he'd not have been found guilty of anything, would have walked. Michael, seeing himself as the judge and jury, found John to be anything but innocent. The Parcher's next door neighbor had a fourteen-year-old daughter, Jessica. Jessica sat behind Michael in English class. Last week Michael was pretending to be listening to his iPod and poring over his notes a few minutes before class started, but instead was eavesdropping on Jessica and her best friend Brandy who sat beside her. Jessica was whispering a story to Brandy. It was funny to the girls, not so much for Michael. What she said was this: she was in a bikini in the backyard, suntanning. Mr. Parcher was doing yard work and spied her over the brick wall, said howdy. Jessica said hi back. Mr. Parcher said they have a nice cool swimming pool that never gets any use, and isn't that a shame? He said she ought to come over and go for a swim. Are you sure? Yes, he was sure. So she took a towel, bottle of water, some suntan oil, and relocated next door. She jumped into the pool to cool off, swam for a couple minutes, got out and sprawled out on a towel. Mr. Parcher approached her, offering to rub some oil on her back and shoulders. She hesitated before accepting his offer. He pulled the spaghetti string of her bikini, assuring her it was only to oil her up better. She had always considered him to be a normal nice guy so she wasn't alarmed by the proposition. She hadn't noticed that he took her cold bottle of water and unscrewed the top. He splashed some on her back. The freezing cold water started her: she rolled over and sat up, breasts now exposed. He ogled them. He apologized, said that the oil was water soluble and it worked better being rubbed in with water—even though she was already wet from jumping in. She apologized to _him!_ Apologized for having turned over and subjected him to see her budding little breasts. He said he'd let her be and returned to his yard work, but continued leering at her while he did so. He grew braver and braver, his leers more and more direct. She was a piece of forbidden fruit and he wanted to eat it, no matter the cost.

The next time she jumped into the pool, Mr. Parcher did the same. Once in the water he asked if she'd ever skinny dipped. She said no, and wasn't fond of the idea. It creeped her out, so she got out of the pool, considered going home but didn't want to offend the neighbor who had a cordial relationship with her father, so she figured she'd lay out until she was dry, then head home. A few minutes later Mr. Parcher got out of the pool and he must have shed his trunks in the water, because he was as naked as the day he was born. He walked to her boldly, stopped inches from her side, and casually said, "Want to have sex?"

As Michael sat there in his chair pretending to be immersed in his studies, he was seething mad. His anger worsened when Jessica laughed out loud at this junction of the story, as did Brandy, who was both humored and in disbelief. It was amusing to Jessica, not outrageously offensive, that an old pervert would have the audacity to proposition her like that. Brandy asked if she told her parents about it. "Hell no!" Jessica crowed. "They'd be _pissed!"_ Well yeah, they would, but they had a right to know that their neighbor wasn't who he pretended to be, wasn't a model neighbor but a reprobate who deserved to spend some time looking at the inside of a prison cell.

Michael committed it to memory, every last creepy detail, and would go over them time and time again in the ensuing days (especially at nights in his bed, staring up at the dark ceiling with his hands folded together under his head) until his rage had reached a boiling point, one that always birthed consequences; one that extended the tally of the SacTown Slayer. He would have his next victim.

That night when he had the Parcher's duct taped to their chairs, and duct tape over their mouths, he did what he always did, removed their mouth-tape and threatened their lives should they scream, then asked a series of questions.

"Am I too young to be a killer?" Michael asked them.

"You're just a boy!" the woman said in fearful disbelief.

"Yes, too young to be a killer," Michael agreed. "Too young to do a lot of things, I suppose. Too young for a middle-aged person to have sex with me?"

Neither responded, but looked at him quizzically.

"What if I was a girl, a year younger than I am: fourteen. Would I be too young to have sex, John?"

"What are you getting at?" he said pettishly

"You asked your neighbor Jessica to have sex with you. That's what I'm getting at. She's fourteen."

Barbara looked over at her husband with an expression of disgust.

"Tell her it's true," Michael said. "I take that back. Tell her if it happened or not, and be honest. If you lie, I'll kill you. Keep in mind that I know the truth."

He waited long, too long, before nodding once.

That's when Barbara screamed. Not from fear but anger. Michael threatened her life.

"Go on, John, tell her exactly what happened last week when you saw Jessica suntanning next door. Tell your wife everything. If I feel you glossed over a detail or lied, there are no second chances, I'll kill you and your wife." Michael ran the edge of his knife over his own neck to demonstrate their fate. "Go ahead."

John told the story perfectly. In fact, he added things that Jessica had omitted. Like he had an erection standing there naked before her. Perhaps Jessica was too embarrassed to admit that to Brandy. He also said as he rubbed oil onto her back, he put some on her thighs, and drifted up to her bikini, 'accidently' grazed her genitalia, apologized to her.

That was when Barbara screamed again, and she tried to beat her husband with her fists, but was subdued. A second scream meant this little social experiment was over. He needed to get the hell out of Dodge. He slit the guy's throat first, apologized to Barbara before slitting her throat, said she could thank John for what he was about to do.

Michael strode away from the Parcher house cursing himself for having had to return to wipe his prints, cursing himself for allowing that bitch to scream not just once but twice. As if to confirm he did everything wrong that night, a car started just a few houses down and idled toward him, which hinted at intent. Michael was certain it was a cop and the jig was up. That's exactly how the night was going. He glanced back and saw it wasn't a cop car. Perhaps an unmarked cop car, the jig was still up. Then the damnedest thing happened and the guy rolled his window down and said get in, and wondered how Michael hadn't been caught yet. It was a great question after the night's string of unfortunate follies. Everybody has an off day; in retrospect, that's all it was.

It was both one of the worst days of his life and one of the best. He took a deep satisfied breath as he considered his new friend Eddie. Eddie, who served up Michael's arch-enemy on a platter, garnished with his address and living arrangements.

That jade idol sure was strange. He drove past a sign reading Roseville: 4 Miles. The jade idol, it could only be some kind of hoodoo relic from a witch or something. It made him feel funny when he touched it, but its true magic was granting him visions of the past, the hanged black people. He wondered if they were real, as if they were real victims of a hanging or just hallucinations altogether. He wondered what else he might see with it if he did some traveling... say, to Salem, Massachusetts. Some witches burning at the stake, perhaps? Its powers weren't limited to glimpses into the horrible past, that was a given. It brought Eddie to a coffee tin of cash and a diamond. God knows what else he might have found with that thing's help. How bizarre. He wondered how it directed him to the treasures. Hadn't he said he made a friend through it? Michael would love to hear the details of that. A friend, huh? A person?—a spirit? And where the hell did he get that thing, anyway? Pretty lucky if he just found it.

Michael laughed out loud in the shadowy Buick cabin. The old man Phillip, how about that? He wanted locks to keep the SacTown Slayer out of his house. How funny it would have been for Michael to say, "Don't worry, Mr. Stoddard, I won't kill you and yours. Don't bother with the locks. I'm flattered you think so highly of my cunning."

Eddie, he must have been aching to laugh at that moment. But he didn't. He held his composure like a professional. A true friend, one with brains and restraint.

Michael's parents, they sure liked to give him advice on how to avoid the serial killer. That was just plain odd and unsavory to endure. They put a curfew on him (which he was breaking this very minute, but so fucking what; tonight was a special night). They also bought new door locks and even installed an alarm system on the house. If the alarm system was brilliant enough to detect serial killers, the alarm would sound continually from the minute Michael entered the house.

Michael reflected back to the day he first saw boobs. Sometimes that just happens; he supposed his age and influx of hormones have something to do with it. And not just any pair of boobs, but the best boobs he could hope to see: Mae Clark's, the girl he fell in love with the moment he first saw her, and would never stop loving her. It came at a strange time in his life. He had just killed the Davidson's and was feeling pretty depressed. Not about killing them, but about his life in general. No friends, picked on in school, the only girl he liked (Mae) didn't like him back, and what made that worse is Mae did like Michael's older brother Chris. That wasn't a fact but it might as well have been. Michael had been entertaining thoughts of suicide for the first time in his life. When he was home alone he'd go upstairs into his father's room and take the hunting rifle out of the closet, and the shoebox full of slugs and bullets. He'd put the barrel under the shelf of his jaw, use his toe to pull the trigger. There was no bullet in the chamber, but he didn't know that to be a fact. He assumed there wasn't, just as there wasn't the last time he checked. Had his father loaded the gun between the previous time and this current time, Michael's head would have exploded like a water balloon filled with cherry Kool-Aid. Dark times they were. He had drawn pictures of Mae Clark and himself holding hands, kissing, drawing little hearts on the picture and writing corny things on the page such as 'Mae Clark is in love with Michael Barnett.' He had to hide those drawings, lest one of his brothers or mother stumble upon them. That would be fuel for years of teasing. Under his mattress they went. He hated to admit to himself that it wasn't infatuation of Mae he had been nurturing, but the head over heels in love variety. The worst kind of problem to have when the girl you pine for pines for another. Thoughts of suicide came more and more frequently during that dark time in his life.

But then something incredible happened. One day as he was playing DragonQuest online, there was a knock at the front door and guess who!—it was Mae Clark. Michael said he'd go get Chris and turned away from the door.

"No, just a minute," Mae said after him. He turned around, brow arched. "I'm here to see you."

"Me?"

"Yeah. Want to hang out or something?" she asked.

"Sure. Where at?"

"I don't know, your bedroom?"

"Okay."

Michael could feel his rapid heartbeat in his eyes, throat, and thundering in his ears. It was a dream come true. It occurred to him that it might be a set up, a gag. That suspicion didn't last long: once they were in his bedroom with the door closed, they spoke idly for a minute or two before she invited him to kiss her. He nearly fainted. He did kiss her, and it was as incredible as the thousands of times he had fantasized about it. The kissing grew more passionate, longer and more physical. Their hands started exploring the other's body, and when he went up her shirt she allowed it. He touched her breasts over her bra. Then, being the good sport she was, she took a step back with a wild excited expression, watched him studiously as she took a double-hold of her shirt's hem and pulled it up over her head. She tossed the shirt aside, still watching Michael—his eyes were feverishly on her covered breasts, willing the bra away. She unhooked her bra and let it fall down. His jaw dropped, eyes goggled. She stepped to him, took his hands and put them on her breasts. He began moving them himself before long, so she let go and enjoyed the experience. When he unzipped her pants she allowed it to happen—albeit a little hesitantly. When he put his fingers between her elastic waistband and skin, she stopped him. Oh well, it was a good run! He had never craved someone so badly as he did just then. After some more kissing they chatted for a while, got to know each other. He wondered if she really liked him or was just bored that afternoon, looking to kill some time. She said she had to be going. He was heartbroken, but hopeful that the magical interlude would repeat itself, and soon.

The next day he didn't see or hear from her. The following day still nothing. He couldn't take it anymore so he went next door and knocked. Mae didn't seem overjoyed by his presence, and that pained him. But she let him in, so it wasn't all bad. She led him to her bedroom and they had a good conversation, one that could potentially lead the path to a relationship. What was more than that, she kissed him again. And she admitted to being curious as to what penises look like. She went for his zipper and unzipped, unbuttoned. She couldn't get to his privates due to the belt securing the flap of his jeans in place. He jumped off the bed and in a hurry whipped the belt out of the pant-holes, and in doing so it paralyzed her with fear. It was then that he considered that she was being beaten, presumably by a belt. She didn't admit to it but she didn't have to. Her eyes staring in trepidation at the limp leather belt in Michael's hand told the story well.

Was it David and Rebecca who beat her? Hell no. _Hell_ no. They could have won parents-of-the-year awards. They were awesome. You can sum up the kinds of people David and Rebecca were by this: they volunteered at the local church and didn't boast about it, didn't even talk about it; ditto with a homeless shelter. Need he say more? So awesome they were that Michael was currently driving without a license thirty miles away to murder the guy responsible for their deaths. So if it wasn't Mae's parents who beat her, then who? He never really gave that much thought. He should have, but he supposed his prick was doing all the thinking when it came to Mae. Ever since that bra dropped, those glorious boobs were etched in his memory to forever relive, and relive them he did.

After that day at Mae's, they didn't spend any time alone. He stopped by her house a couple times, but Rebecca said she was out on a date, or at her friend Lisa's. Ah, a date. If she had a boyfriend, of course she wouldn't be over at Michael's letting him feel her boobs. That was the end of their tremendously short relationship, if you could call it that. But it was what the doctor ordered. It snapped him out of his depression. He had something to live for: shared memories with Mae. Better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all, as the saying goes. It _was_ love. It _was._ His first and last love. He wondered what she was up to these days? Last he heard she had moved in with her uncle following her parent's tragic murders.

Michael exited the freeway, made the turns in accordance with his phone's GPS. The digital clock in the car read 9:39 P.M.

He wondered why this Trent Blackwood guy had killed them. To what gain? He'd ask before killing him. He must not forget to ask that. He wondered if Trent was older, and pictured a man in his late thirties, a little overweight and going bald. A real loser. He must be a loser to have copycatted a serial killer.

The apartment complex was on his right. He pulled in and idled around the parking lot, which followed the line of units, bent around the corner. He was looking for a silver Audi convertible, and apartment 215. He made out the apartment number of a downstairs unit: 111. He stopped and squinted up at the apartment above it. He couldn't be sure, but it looked like 211. That would make sense. One-hundreds below and two-hundreds above. That would mean Trent's apartment was near. He parked in a guest spot and shut the engine off. He got out and looked around the lot for the Audi. It wasn't around. With a little luck, he was out getting a late dinner at a fast-food dive and would return shortly. Michael would have a nice little surprise lined up for him when he returned: a Beretta aimed between his eyes with an ounce of trigger-pressure away from settling the score, avenging David and Rebecca Clark.

It was a nice complex. Modern, gray and blue paint with an over-abundance of plants and bushes, trees and flowers. The kind of groundskeeping that demanded large rents. And in an upscale neighborhood, complexes always had pretentious names, such as Forest Pines and Shadow Brook, and Mountain Crest Overlook. The names are never descriptive of the geography. Never. This complex was named Golden Ridge. The cars in the lot were all late-model cars, several German imports. People of means.

It would be Michael's first time at a murder scene not wearing a hoodie sweatshirt. A hoodie to stow his duct tape and knife. Handcuffs were always kept in his back pocket, Beretta in hand. Tonight was different, being that he wasn't the SacTown Slayer, but rather a man out for revenge. There would be no duct-taping his legs to a chair and slitting his throat. Not tonight. He'd simply ask a few questions that needed to be answered, such as why David and Rebecca Clark of all people, and not slit his throat but bury all seven inches of blade in Trent's heart—or shoot him if things got messy; then a quick retreat before the cops came.

The knife was cinched above his belt, the blade sheathed between his pants and hip. The gun was tucked down the front of his pants for now, would be in hand the second he opened the apartment door. He always had pretty good luck when it came to a lack of passers-by when he approached a marked house. Tonight was no different. Nobody in sight. An occasional car zipped by on Manzanita Avenue behind him, but that was it.

He followed the walkway past a cluster of four units. The succeeding four-unit building was the one. The bottom left read 114, the bottom right 115. Bingo. The upper right was the one. There was a shared patio upstairs, and a tall plant in front of 215, its pot invisible behind a stuccoed balcony. There was but one window up there belonging to 215, and it faced the street (and currently Michael). Probably a dining room window or kitchen window. There were blinds, closed. On the edifice twelve feet above ground and above apartment 115's recessed patio were two windows, living room windows. There would be no way to look inside those. However, he could see a blue glow flickering from them, indicative of a television. That was cause to consider. Trent's Audi wasn't here, but the TV was on. Trent might have left it on if he was only going to a drive-through for a burger. Maybe he had a roommate. No, Eddie had said Trent lives alone, and he trusted Eddie. Eddie wouldn't steer him wrong and no way would he lie to him. Not his best friend Eddie. It was left on while he went out, that's all it was. If not, if Trent was home and his car was in the shop or lent to a friend or traded in on another car, then killing Trent would make enough noise to alert the neighbors (the kind of noise that goes bang bang), which he was on board with if it came down to it. A fatal gunshot to his chest, maybe one in his head for good measure, then haul ass out of town. A high degree of risk was involved in such a murder, but it was worth it to bag Trent. And his luck had gotten him this far, he didn't see why it wouldn't take him a little farther.

He went up the stairs quietly, slowly, stealing glances over his shoulder: nobody around. At the top landing he removed the gun from his waistband and unsnapped the safety catch. First he'd try the door, to see if it was locked. If it wasn't, he'd have to dissect the issue before making his next decision. He checked: locked. That was good. It was normal, and he wanted normal.

He tilted back the pot of the plant, swept his fingers under it, felt around for the key. He didn't feel it. He picked it up and moved it over. No key.

Eddie, Eddie... what's going on, amigo? I was just praising you, too. Come on, man...

There was a thatch of decorative moss on the soil of the plant. He lifted it and bingo!—a single silver key. He smiled at it between his thumb and forefinger, thought _This here is the key to your death, you sonofabitch._ He silently slid it into the lock. Before turning it, he pressed an ear against the hollow wooden door—nice apartments, but cheap as shit doors. He could hear a laugh-track, some sitcom show. Even thought the blinds were closed, he could see that it was dark inside. No lights on at all, save for what the TV emitted.

It was go-time.

He didn't want to script what he would say or do. He wanted to operate impromptu. He took a deep quasi-nervous breath through his nose, exhaled with a sly grin. Gun pointed up, he turned the key, unlocking the door. It made the slightest sound, but with the TV on it would have gone unheard. He opened the door fully, stepped inside and closed the door softly, locked it behind him.

There his victim lay, on the couch, oblivious to the serial killer in the apartment.

### Chapter Twenty One

At Millie's diner that morning, after Trent returned to the table from having threatened Timothy should he warn Eddie, he hurriedly browsed the White Pages on his cellphone for Timothy Stoddard. He wasn't listed, but a Phillip Stoddard was, with a Sacramento address. It was either his father or uncle or cousin; whatever the case might be, he'd have Timothy's number.

"What are you doing?" Mae asked him cautiously.

He shook his head at her, brought the phone to his ear and seconds later was speaking lies to an unknown man. Mae was awed at Trent's acumen at fabricating stories. It was second nature to him. She wondered in horror what lies he might have told her, with such perfect ease.

He wasn't on the phone for but a minute, maybe less, when he reached across the table in a hurry and snatched Mae's purse, dug out a pen and began jotting down a phone number on his cloth napkin. Upon ending the call with that man, Trent entered the phone number from the napkin and pressed send. His gray eyes were sharp and fixed unseeingly on the knife on the table. He mouthed the words fuck, rolled his eyes. He sent the same number a text message.

"You won't do anything bad to him," Mae asked Trent, "will you?"

"Timothy? Nah, why would I? I just want to scare him a little so he won't talk to Eddie."

"Not him. I meant Eddie. Will you do something really bad to him?"

"Just rough him up a little. Let him know to stay the hell out of our lives. I guess it depends on what your definition of really bad is."

### Chapter Twenty Two

Instead of taking the bus home from Millie's as was her routine, Trent gave Mae a ride home in his Audi. He kissed her forehead, said he'd see her tomorrow probably. She surprised him by saying she might stay at his place tonight.

"Tonight? Your uncle is home during the evenings on weekends, isn't he?"

"Yeah."

"He won't allow it, and he'll be home to see that you're gone. Remember what he said? He's pretty upset right now; you should stay with him for awhile."

Mae was sure something was up. Trent never turned down the opportunity of Mae staying the night at his place. He was always horny and she was always willing, not for the pleasure (it was too quick to be very pleasurable) but to make her boyfriend happy. And though he was right about Uncle Matthew disallowing her to stay out tonight, she wanted to test Trent, and he failed the test miserably. His response validated her concern. Something was up. And that something regarded Eddie. Trent knew where he lived now. She hoped Trent was being truthful when he said he just wanted to rough him up a little. But in her heart of hearts she wasn't so sure. She didn't think he'd _kill_ Eddie. Trent wasn't that kind of person. But would she be that surprised if he did? Say by accident? Underestimating his own strength? He was insanely strong for a guy his modest size. A baseballer with the strength of a footballer. No, she wouldn't be surprised, not if there was a fight and Eddie pulled a weapon and it came down to either Eddie dying or Trent dying. If that was the case, Trent would kill Eddie. She didn't think for a second that Eddie or anyone could best Trent. He was too smart, cunning, and strong to be defeated in a brawl. She didn't like this situation one bit. Her guts were all in a tangle. She should have minded her damned business at Millie's, should not have spoken of Eddie to Trent. What was she thinking?—telling him where Eddie can be found? Duh! She couldn't believe she could be so stupid, have such poor judgment, and for what? Winning Trent's approval? She had said Eddie probably read her diary. That seemed absurd now. How would he have gotten into her house to read it? And why would he? No, that didn't happen. In fact, now that she was home, she'd find her diary and confirm that.

"Okay," she said. "I'll stay home tonight. Promise me you won't do anything bad tonight. Promise me, Trent."

"I swear."

"Can't you just leave it alone? The whole Eddie thing? I bet he didn't read my diary. I'll find it right now to prove it. Timothy was probably right: this is the wrong Eddie. Don't risk getting hurt or worse over an assumption. Please?"

"Mae," he said sternly, "let it go. You're worrying for nothing. I'll call you later. Bye."

* * *

Mae fixed a glass of iced tea, changed into some sweats and tee-shirt, drew her hair into a pony-tail and cranked the air up, went upstairs to her room. There were still boxes she hadn't unpacked since moving in a couple months ago. She had already checked those for her diary. Weren't there other boxes not in her room? Ah yes, there were. In the guest room, the movers had put some boxes in there. She went across the hall into the guest room. Inside the empty closet were three stacks of three-and-four high boxes. On them were written in Sharpie marker the things inside. She had written those words during the worst time of her life, just a couple days after her parents' murders. She was bawling as she packed. She wouldn't be surprised if she had forgotten to pack her diary. It had been stored under her bed at her old house, in a pink box that once encased some unmentionables from Victoria's Secret when she received them as a gift from her mother. It was her fifteenth birthday, a special year for a girl in some cultures (quinceanera), when the girl becomes a woman. Her mother had given her an assortment of very nice bras and underwear, a little lacy and a lot uncharacteristic coming from her mother, who despised Mae's relationship with Trent—in essence the gift extended to Trent, who was the benefactor of the sexy underwear. The box was so lovely that she kept it, put her life's treasures in there. The magic wand that Breuer had once given her—Breuer who was imaginary, begging the question: who did give her that magic wand? The wand was nothing but a magic trick, held no special powers, though she sure thought it did when she saw Breuer perform the trick when she was all of ten-years-old. There were a couple handwritten letters from Trent in that pink box. She even kept a memento that probably shouldn't have been special to her, but was: a torn-out page from A Tale of Two Cities. On the page scrawled at the top read _I am Mae Clark._ When she got in the car accident that claimed her two kidnappers lives, that page was somehow in her pocket, found by the emergency medical crew and turned over to the police. That piece of paper was responsible for her being reunited with her biological parents, who had been without their abducted daughter for six years. That single page represented her salvation. When she put it that way, it was no wonder why she kept it: it was unequivocally precious. She thought Breuer had written _I am Mae Clark,_ knowing what would happen because of it. She sure didn't write it.

"Breuer isn't real, huh?"

Nobody seemed to think he was real but her. There would never be a logical explanation for many things that Breuer had a role in, but such is life. There was a set of diamond earrings in the box that once belonged to her late grandmother and worn on special occasions. There were birthday cards in the box celebrating age 2 and 3, stopping at age 4, and recommencing at age 11. And lastly there was her diary in that box. She was disappointed in herself for having gone this long without seeking out her box of treasures. It felt like an insult to the sweet memories she possessed of everyone associated with the box's contents.

She skimmed over the many scribbled-on boxes and nothing read pink box. She didn't recall packing it, so that kind of made sense. It was probably still under her bed at her old home. No, the bed was moved to Uncle Matthews. She wondered if that old house would ever sell. The poor real estate agent had his work cut out for him selling a house tainted by the SacTown Slayer. Who'd want to live in a house with that ugliness attached to it? The house was worth four-hundred-and-seventy thousand dollars; the real estate agent was asking for three hundred grand. No takers as of yet. When the house finally does sell, the money will go into an account for Mae to be used for college. She didn't expect the house to sell, ever. Where was she?—oh yes, the pink box.

She began taking the boxes out of the closet, setting them on the bed and going through them. She found some things she was happy to be reunited with, such as summer clothing—it had been early spring and chilly when she had packed this stuff away. It was definitely dress and skirt weather now. There were some old but cute shoes, some books she had bought and never got around to reading, and her X-box 360. She'd be playing that again, thank you very much. It would bring a distraction that she shouldn't have been without this whole time. Trent occupied her time and thoughts pretty well; he had a monopoly on her attentions. But things were probably going to be different around here now; overnight visits to Trent's all but gone. Video games would be a welcomed time-occupier. As would be the books. She set them aside and closed box after box, placed fresh new boxes on the bed in their place.

What's the corny saying? It's always in the last place you look? Well yeah it always is because once you find it there is no reason to continue looking, making it the last place you look. But in Mae's case it _had_ to be the last place she'd look because the pink box was in the bottom box of the final row.

She grinned widely as she pulled the pink box out, set it on the lid of another box and swept a hand over the top. It had collected some dust. Might that be proof that it hadn't been read? It had collected dust. Like there needed to be proof, it was in a box in the corner of the bottom row, hidden in a guest-room closet of a house with locked doors and an alarm system and someone home nearly all the time. There was no way someone got to it. She'd sooner believe big foot was real than someone read her diary.

She opened the book the size of a lengthy novel and read the first entry, dated five years ago and some change. She was ten and freshly reunited with her mom and dad. Her entries reflected her newfound happiness, calling David and Rebecca the nicest people she ever met, and the best parents a kid could ask for. She flipped some pages, then some more. Three-quarters of the way through it she found where she met Trent. Boy was she enamored by him. She found the entry made the day she returned from Trent's, having had her virginity taken. More wonderful things said about him. Nothing mentioned about the bruises he gave her. She was too smitten to mention those. She flipped back a bit, read a little, flipped back and back. She finally found an entry that mentioned Breuer. She didn't write much about Breuer in her diary. Maybe she feared her parents would find the book and read it. She didn't want them thinking she was more insane than they already figured her to be. In fact, after they began giving her the 'birth control pills' that were actually a lithium compound, she didn't mention Breuer once. That was by choice. Again, it was to protect herself in case her parents read her diary. Not to mention Breuer had disappeared from her life after she took the pills.

She closed the diary with a contented sigh, placed it back in the pink box. She shrieked and jumped back at the sight of a spider in the box. A little brown thing, scurrying over the folded-over love-letters from Trent. She went to the adjoined bathroom and took the juice glass used for rinsing, scooped up the spider and flushed it down the toilet. God she hated spiders. Trent liked the way they looked. He even said he might get one tattooed one day. He thought she should do the same, maybe get matching tattoos. She had liked the idea of matching tattoos, but wasn't fond of it being a spider. Unless she made it look less sinister somehow, like the way Peter Parker had fashioned his for Spider Man.

The spider reminded her of a thought she had some five or six months ago, following her first date with Trent. His kiss reminded her of a spider's venomous bite. She had likened it to the poisonous bite from the brown recluse or Fiddleback spider, only a friendlier spider such as the non-existing pink recluse.

"Hmm," she mused. The spider she just flushed did resemble a Fiddleback spider. She didn't examine it closely enough to see if there was a fiddle on its back, and it was flushed now so she'd never know, not that it mattered. Interesting though. Maybe a non-sinister-looking fiddleback spider would make a neat tattoo.

She placed her boxes back in the closet, save for the pink box. That she took to her bedroom and placed it under her bed. She'd be making entries in her diary beginning tonight. She went downstairs with her glass of tea and sat before the TV, texted Trent: _I found my diary in a place that nobody could have found. Eddie didn't read it. So don't hurt him, or I'll bust you in the lip (silly face)._

A few minutes later her phone chimed. Trent responded: _Then how does he know so much? If not from your diary, then how? When you eliminate all but one possibility to any problem, the one remaining is the correct answer. He read it._

She had no answer to that so she left it alone. She pictured it all going down in the barn loft. Trent confronting an unsuspecting Eddie with wild accusations that were probably all wrong. Eddie would defend his stance and get a little mouthy with Trent, which is the worst thing you want to do to Trent. He'd punch Eddie. Eddie would punch back, and then what might happen? It was easy to imagine Trent throwing Eddie from the loft, where he'd break his neck on the floor below. Nothing good could come from his going to the Stoddard's. She wondered if there was a way she could interject herself in the matter. Such as go over there. She didn't know the address, but she might be able to find it on Google. But how would she get there without a car? Lisa just got her license and she had an old Mazda Miata that she still loved driving. That was a possibility. But she didn't want to drag Lisa into this. Lisa was nosy and would want to know everything about it, and probably insist she stay there while everything worked itself out. No, that was no good.

Mae brightened with an idea. She could go to _Trent's_ and wait for him. She knew he kept a spare key in the porch plant. If he did something bad, she'd know it the second he stepped foot inside the house. By his demeanor, his argumentativeness, his eyes that wouldn't look directly at hers, his need to wash the blood off his hands, perhaps. She did want to be with Trent tonight, to keep a watchful eye on him. That he didn't want her there tonight made her want to be there all the more. Maybe Lisa would drive her to Trent's. She'd give her ten bucks for gas. It was worth a shot. Oh, but what about her uncle? He would be home from work in two hours. She concocted a plan. She'd have Lisa be here when her uncle got home. And together they'd ask him if she could spend the night at Lisa's. Lisa would have to lie for her. That's what best friends are for, right? Her uncle would allow it, she was sure of it.

She called Lisa and told her what was up, asked for a huge favor. Lisa would do it.

### Chapter Twenty Three

In the dark living room Michael stealthily made his way to the couch, its back facing him. From his angle he could see only a wisp of brown hair. Lengthy for a man. It didn't occur to him that it was a woman. Trent lived alone, Eddie had said, so if someone was here it was Trent.

There was a blanket covering his body up to his face. Michael looked around for a light switch, found one on the wall near the entertainment center. He stepped to it, flipped the lights on (two lamps flickered on) and aimed the gun at his quarry with an _I got you, motherfucker_ grin.

The woman gasped and sat bolt upright, eyes wide with terror. Michael gasped with her, lowered the gun, but only slightly.

"Don't scream," Michael said.

"Who the fuck are you!" She looked behind her to the door, then to the hallway leading to the bedroom. "Trent?"

"He's not here." He lowered the gun. His jaw dropped. "Oh... my... God..." he whispered.

Mae covered her mouth, eyes as bright and round as full moons. In a voice octaves higher than any Michael had ever heard, she said, "Michael? Is that you?"

"Mae, I'm so, _so_ sorry!" He dropped the gun to the carpeted floor, touched the side of his face in his bewilderment.

"What's going on?" She stood up, stepped to him. "What's going on!"

He shook his head, avoiding her eyes. "I need to sit down." He went to the couch and took a seat.

"Why are you here and why do you have a gun!"

"Keep your voice down, please. I... I don't want the police to come."

"Is this a dream or something? Is Michael really here with a gun aimed at me?"

"It's not aimed at you anymore, nor will it ever be again. Mae, it was a huge mistake, a total misunderstanding."

"Explain yourself. Why are you here?"

"I thought Trent would be here. I had no idea you'd be here. I didn't know you and Trent were... whatever you are. Boyfriend and girlfriend?"

She nodded.

Things started to click into place for Michael. "Ah. When you stopped visiting me, your mom said you were out on a date. With Trent, huh?"

She nodded again.

"That makes sense." A horrible fucking realization occurred to him, and there was no way Mae would know anything about it. Trent killed her parents, and his motive was pretty easy to guess at, and simple. To be with her. To get them out of his way. They must have forbidden her to see him, so he remedied the problem.

"Answer me, Michael. What's going on here? You show up to Trent's with a gun? You were going to kill him?" she said incredulously.

"Yes." He couldn't believe he answered that honestly.

She was agape, tears pooled in her eyes. "I liked you, Michael," she said with great pain. "I really liked you. Yeah it ended up being Trent who stole my heart but it scares me to think that it could have been you. _You_ who was about to murder someone! Give me one good reason why I shouldn't call the police this second!"

"There is no reason. I deserve it."

She walked to the kitchen counter, uncradled the home phone. She looked at him. _Well...?_ Her look said.

"I never told you this," he said thinly and evenly, "but I love you. Always have. Not just love you, but in love with you. I adore you. I know that's a corny thing to say, but it's true."

She returned the phone and joined him on the couch, put her hand on his.

"I know you went through a rough time for awhile," she said. "I know you were suicidal—don't ask how I know, I just do. I thought you got over it, but now this. I'm sorry you love me. Really I am. I wish I could return that love. I do like you, Michael. We could be friends or something, can't that be good enough? Is it all or nothing? Did you come over to kill Trent so I'd be yours? That's delusional. That wouldn't happen."

"No. That's not it at all. I can't say the truth. It would devastate you."

"You _are_ going to tell me, Michael. You don't have a choice. I can call the police on you. Or worse yet, I can tell Trent on you. You'd prefer the cops, trust me."

"Yeah? Why is that, Mae?" Michael said rhetorically. "Just why would it be worse if Trent found out than the cops? Trent isn't a good guy, is he?"

"He is," she said unconvincingly.

"Bullshit and you know it. You think it's possible that Trent would kill me if he found out, don't you," Michael asked, a question he knew the answer to.

"Probably not." She looked away. "Well, maybe. I pray I'm wrong."

"I know for a fact he'd kill me. It's either him or me. Either I pull it off and kill him or I don't and he kills me. That was the risk I took in coming here."

"Why would you want to _kill_ Trent! Answer me, Michael! What did he ever do to you?"

"It's not about what he did to me, Mae. It's about..." His gaze drifted down to her mouth. His eyes prickled, and when he spoke his despair seeped through. "It's about what he did to you."

"And what is that?"

"I can't say," he squeaked, and with that he began weeping.

"Tell me," she urged. "Tell me, tell me, tell me. Just _tell_ me already!"

After a sob and a nod Michael said, "Trent killed two people I cared about. Two people he never should have killed. People I sought to avenge tonight, here in this apartment, with that gun." He gestured at the Beretta on the floor.

"Trent?—kill someone?" she said with mingled humor and disbelief. "Ha! Who!"

Michael closed his eyes, displacing tears. "Mae, I swear on my soul. I swear on your soul—you whom I love with every aching fiber in my body. I swear on everything that's holy... you _must, must_ believe that what I'm about to say happened. On May fifteenth of this year, Trent killed two people I had the pleasure of knowing. They were wonderful kindly people. Two people I'll never forget if I live to be a hundred, and that's because they produced an offspring whom I'll never stop loving."

Mae began hyperventilating, tears dripping in rivulets off either jaw. She leaned back in the couch huffing and wheezing. "Leave, Michael. Leave now."

"No way. I can't leave you like this."

She was struggling for breath. "If you... love me... and you swear you do... then leave me now."

He caressed the back of her head. "Could you try to settle down for me?"

"If Trent shows up... you're going to get hurt." She looked down at the gun. "Especially if he sees that. Go. Now. Go."

He stood from the couch. "What happens next?"

"Nothing. I won't tell him about this." A thought occurred to her. "Who gave you this address?"

"I can't say."

"Was it Eddie?"

Michael's eyes widened. He didn't say anything, but he supposed his reaction was affirmation to her question.

"Are you going to tell the police that Trent killed your parents?" he asked her.

"No."

"Seriously? You're not?"

She muttered something that Michael wasn't sure what she said, but it sounded like "I won't be around so it doesn't matter." A damned peculiar thing to say, if that's indeed what she said. Where might she be? Only one answer to the question seemed logical and it scared the shit out of him. And he could empathize with it, being that he himself flirted with suicide only months ago.

"Promise me you won't do anything to yourself, then I'll leave. If you don't, I'm not going anywhere."

"I promise," she said. She answered too readily. It was a lie. He went to the kitchen counter and found a pad of sticky-notes, then a pen. He jotted his phone number down and not his name—in case Trent found it. He gave it to Mae and advised her to keep it hidden somewhere, to call him if she needed to talk, _please_ call him if she needed to talk. She nodded, her breathing steadying a little. Without looking at him she waved him away.

"I love you, Mae."

"Leave."

"Bye."

He stooped down for his father's Beretta, tucked it in his pants and left, using the key behind him, hiding it where he had found it. He was weeping as he got in the Buick, pulled out and drove homeward.

He ruminated over the things Eddie had told him that afternoon, such as Trent lives alone and would be there alone. Did he know Mae would be there? He could have killed Mae very easily; just aimed his gun at the heap on the couch and unloaded his magazine. Bye bye, Mae. The thought infuriated him. He had to have known about Mae, so why didn't he say anything? Is it possible that he wanted Michael to kill Mae and not Trent? It was possible. Everything was lined up perfectly for that to happen. That sonofabitch Eddie. How could he do that to him? Had Michael accidently killed Mae, he didn't want to consider the misery that would follow that tragedy. He'd kill Eddie because of it, that much he did know. And even now the idea of killing Eddie wasn't a horrible one.

He needed to remain clear-headed. Eddie was his friend, they liked each other. He had a candor about him; he wouldn't fuck over Michael like that. It must have been a mistake, it just had to be. "You didn't know Mae would be there," Michael said, bracing that theory. "You fucked up and I can be understanding." Maybe he didn't even know that Trent dated Mae. Unlikely, but possible. He'd have a nice long chat with Eddie tomorrow when he dropped his car off. Eddie better have a damned good excuse why Michael nearly killed his beloved instead of the man he hated. A _damned_ good one.

### Chapter Twenty Four

Timothy was in his bedroom lying on the bed, watching old reruns of Three's Company on his crappy little TV when there was a single knock at his door before it opened partially; Eddie stuck his head in, let his buddy know that he was installing the new locks now, and could use some help. Timothy was eager to assist, shut the TV off, slipped into some sneakers and followed him into the hall.

There were plastic bags on the kitchen counter with new knobs and additional locks, the kind that slide over the door jamb and catch, to prevent an entry if the deadbolt is somehow compromised. There were three new door knobs. The house needed only two. Timothy stepped into the living room where his grandparents were sitting on the couch, his grandpa watching a black and white movie, his grandma knitting a blanket, perpetuating stereotypes. He asked why there were three knobs, suspecting why but wanting to confirm it.

"I figured it would be nice putting a new one on the barn door," Phillip said, "to keep Eddie safe."

Having heard this from the kitchen, Eddie entered the living room to say, "That's thoughtful of you, Phillip. That you'd consider my safety no less than your family's. I'm touched."

"Your sweet to say," Phyllis said, never losing focus of her knitting.

Timothy and Eddie began at the front door. It took twenty minutes as neither knew what they were doing. When they did the back door it took only ten minutes. They mounted the sliding locks on both doors. They took the bag and tools and headed toward the barn. It was a hot, cloudless afternoon. Now that they were distant enough from inquisitive ears, Timothy said, "You left your statue thingy on my trunk earlier."

"Did I? That's right, I guess I did." He looked to the open garage door and the Camry therein. There was no idol on the car. "Where'd you put it?"

"On your dresser." Tentatively he said, "Eddie... I... I carried it to the barn."

"I guess you did. Buddy, I'm sorry you had to do that. I can guess as to what happened."

"Can you? W-what is that th-thing?"

They were at the barn door now. He withdrew a Marlboro from his soft-pack and sparked it up, left it in his mouth as he began taking the screws out the backside of the assembly. "I found it in Nebraska. I don't know what it is. Maybe it was from an old Indian tribe, from a witch doctor or something. What did you see?"

"See? Well... what did _you_ see with it? Outside, b-between the barn and g-garage, over there." He pointed.

Eddie grinned. "Since you pinpointed the location, I can guess what you saw. A hanged man."

"Yes. Scared the b-bejesus out of me."

"Me too, when I first saw it. You know what I think? I think that when you hold the thing, you can see into the past. At some point I think that black man was hanged on this property. There's a boy, too, also black." Eddie refrained from admitting that it wasn't he who saw him, but instead his company from earlier, Michael. "Hanged like the other."

"Yes. I s-saw him, too."

"Creepy, huh?"

Watching Eddie take the old knob off, Timothy drew in a slow deep breath through his nose, let it out slowly through his mouth, which calmed his nerves. It was something he often did when he wanted to avoid stuttering, and it worked more times than not. "The man nearest the garage, his name was Jonah Sotheby, or Big Jonah is what people called him."

Eddie paused installation of the knob, took a drag from his smoke, pulled it out of his mouth looking at Timothy with a single brow raised. "No shit?"

Timothy nodded. "My grandma told me the story. The people who lived here a long time ago raised pigs and grew avocados. The trees burnt down in the forties. The people here had black people living in the barn. That was before there was an apartment loft; they lived like animals down below, used the stalls as rooms. They weren't slaves, being that slavery was illegal, but they might as well been slaves. Treated horribly. This was in the late thirties. It was called The Hunsacker Farm. Dwayne Hunsacker was the owner. He was the one who treated the help like slaves, paid them next to nothing. There were two families who lived in the barn, both were black. They ran the farm entirely. Back then I think the property was a lot bigger. Of the two families, one was the Sotheby's and the other the Goodall's; Phyllis' father was Jonah Sotheby."

"Damn, man," Eddie said. "Your grandma's dad was hanged on this farm? That's who it was we saw?"

"Yeah, it probably was. The Goodall's had decided that enough was enough, and they told Dwayne Hunsacker that they were quitting, going to look for work elsewhere."

Eddie discarded the screwdriver, screw and bracket, leaned against the door frame smoking his cigarette, gave Timothy his full attention.

"The thirties was a horrible time to find work, the great depression and all. Back then it would be easy to replace workers with new ones, since there were so many people unemployed. So you'd think Dwayne wouldn't mind the Goodall's leaving. But he did. It had to do in part with how little he was paying them. I'm sure many people would have worked for next to nothing during the great depression, but Dwayne paid even less than that... like almost literally nothing, or nothing but lodging and food. Plus he was a control freak, and losing his workers meant losing control, and to a lesser degree, them besting Dwayne. So Dwayne didn't want them to leave the farm; he had a good thing going with the next-to-free labor and hard work. He said that if they left he'd spread rumors, and even call the cops on them, say that Thomas Goodall was fucking his pigs, caught him doing it. That would be a serious crime, mostly because Thomas was black. The Goodall's didn't heed the warning, moved out anyway. I don't know if Dwayne ever called the cops or not, or spread rumors.

"The Hunsacker Farm was down to just the Sotheby's, and there was more work than a husband, wife, and five kids could handle. The Sotheby's were forced to pick up the slack around the farm. Worked eighteen hour days, or more. Working that hard for that many hours, something had to give. And it did: Big Jonah fell off a ladder and broke his leg. Because of it he couldn't work. Dwayne threatened him, said to either put a cast on the leg and work like that or find work elsewhere. It was an empty threat. Big Jonah called him on it, said his family would take their chances elsewhere. Dwayne repeated the same threats as he did with the Goodall's, said he'd accuse him of fucking his pigs and stealing avocados. Big Jonah wasn't intimidated or dissuaded: he said they were leaving the next day, and would appreciate his final pay then."

"Phyllis was one of the five kids? How old was she? What you're saying is her account of what happened?"

"She was eleven years old then. For being so young, her account of what happened is pretty detailed, huh?"

"Yeah. Go on." Eddie stomped out his smoke and leaned harder against the door frame, cocked one leg back against it.

"I'm sure I'm missing some things, but I have most of it committed to memory. A terrible thing to remember, but sometimes you have to remember the bad things or it's as if they never happened.

"Dwayne Hunsacker caught Big Jonah and his son Otis stealing avocados late that night, to take with them on their journey to find work elsewhere. Dwayne caught Big Jonah in the act (according to what Dwayne would tell people), and blind-sided him, swung a bat at his h-head, knocked him out. Otis was down a little ways, picking avocados from a ladder. Like his pa, he never saw or heard Dwayne coming until it was too late. Dwayne, with a bat in hand, told Otis he just took it to his pa, and he's going to take it to him next. Otis jumped off the ladder with the intent of running to the barn to warn his family and get help for his pa. Dwayne snatched him up before he could, and beat him senseless. He dragged the boy nearer Big Jonah, so he'd have to see what he had lined up for him. With the help of Dwayne's son Freddy, they strung him up on an avocado tree branch, hanged him dead with Big Jonah watching in horror, busted leg and split-open head preventing him from doing much of anything, although I'm sure he tried his best.

"Big Jonah was next. Strung up and hanged dead. He was of no use to Dwayne with a bad leg, and Otis was just unfortunate enough to be the youngest of the Sotheby' boys, too small for hard labor, which meant he was expendable. It wasn't until early next morning when Big Jonah and Otis were discovered hanging from trees. It was Phyllis who discovered them. I can't imagine the horror, anguish, and anger my grandma must have suffered. It wasn't bad enough he hanged them, but to leave them there long enough for their family to find them like that? Jesus. I guess forcing them to witness it would evoke fear in them greater than burying them and telling the remaining Sotheby's what had happened.

"That left Big Jonah's wife and four remaining kids to work—two boys, two girls, and widow Sotheby. Dwayne threatened their lives, said that if they told anyone what happened, they'd all hang for it. Well they kept the secret. Dwayne died of a heart attack shortly after. If he hadn't I'm not sure the secret would have been kept. I bet Phyllis would have told the cops eventually, especially once the civil rights movement built up steam. At eleven she was too young to get involved, and probably too scared. It's crazy to think that people can be so scared and intimidated that they'd let an act of murder, _two_ acts of murder go without telling anyone. Times are different now, thank God. But that's who we both saw hanging from those trees. They weren't olive trees but avocado trees. It was Big Jonah and Otis Sotheby, God rest their souls."

Eddie picked up his tools and got to swapping out the door knob. "Crazy, man. Yeah, shit was fucked up back then."

Timothy stood there watching his friend work, pensive and locked up with indecision. What finally changed his mind was considering what a good friend Eddie was to him, and how friends should never lie to one another.

"Eddie...?" Timothy said.

"Yeah," Eddie replied, his attention still on the task at hand. He was now turning screws into the bracket.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have lied to you just now."

It piqued Eddie's interest, who once again abandoned the door knob. "What do you mean lied to me just now. That story was bullshit?"

"No. It happened just the way I said, except for one part. Actually it wasn't a lie, but an omission of what else happened. But Grandma made me promise never to tell anyone. So I'm breaking that promise now."

"I won't tell anyone. I swear. What happened?"

Timothy glanced over at the house before delving into what he had omitted. In a lower tone he said, "Dwayne Hunsacker's heart attack was... well it wasn't an accident."

A grin stole over Eddie. _"Ahh._ I like this story, Timothy."

"You have no idea how mad Grandma would be at me if she knew I'm telling you this."

"I bet. Nobody wants their secret of murder getting out. It _was_ murder, wasn't it?"

Timothy see-sawed his hand in a gesture of yes and no. "The Sotheby's weren't going to do anything about the deaths of Jonah and Otis. Grieve, yes, but they had no plans of doing anything to Dwayne. Phyllis and her thirteen-year-old sister Mary were the only Sotheby's who know or knew what really happened in regards to the heart attack."

"Jesus," Eddie said in awe. "Your grandma, at the innocent age of eleven, killed a man?"

"No, she did not. There used to be a church close by—walking distance from here—that blacks went to. It was a time of segregation, so churches were white and black, and this was a black church. Church was the Sotheby's only break from work, aside from sleeping. The four Sotheby kids had no friends other than each other, with the exception of the few they made on Sundays. Phyllis befriended a little girl named Charlotte. They were as close as two could be considering they only saw each other for a couple hours once a week.

"It was almost a month after the tragedy on the farm when Phyllis made Charlotte promise to keep a secret, and that secret was the hanging of her pa and brother. Charlotte couldn't believe Dwayne was going to get away with what he did, said it wasn't right, that something had to be done. Phyllis asked what she proposed doing. Charlotte said she'd think of something. Involving the police, who hated blacks probably as much or more than anyone, was out of the question.

"They parted ways that Sunday, my grandma Phyllis and Charlotte. It was the last time Grandma would see Charlotte at that church for blacks. The last time she saw her, period. But she was seen one last time, and it wasn't at church but on the Stoddard farm. I'm sorry, the _Hunsacker_ farm. It wasn't the Stoddard farm till much later.

"As I said, Phyllis had one sister, Mary, who is no longer with us. Mary was the one who discovered Dwayne dead of a heart attack, found him coincidentally not far from where Big Jonah was hanged. She told her mother of the discovery, who then told the surviving Hunsacker's that Dwayne lay dead out in the avocado grove. His son Freddy suspected the Sotheby's had something to do with it, being that he knew the truth about the hangings—heck, he helped hang them—figured it was an act of revenge. But nothing came of it. After that, the Sotheby's moved off the farm, and the history of the Sotheby's-Hunsacker's came to a bitter end."

"I don't see where you left anything out," Eddie said.

"I'm getting to it."

"Bro, you haven't stuttered that whole time. What's your secret?"

"I know," Timothy said with a grin. "I don't always stutter, you know that. Anyway, Mary told her sister Phyllis what really happened, a secret that they vowed to take to the grave with them. As evidenced by me telling you this story, the secret wasn't taken to the grave with my grandma. Oh well, huh? We're only as perfect as God wants us to be."

"Amen."

"Mary was dishonest to everyone but Phyllis in how she described her discovery of Dwayne. She was sitting on a step of the Hunsacker porch that afternoon, shining a couple pairs of boots that Dwayne and Freddy would leave outside the front door when they wanted the nigger girls (is how he called them) to polish them. Mary sat there shining them up when Dwayne came out the front door, uttered an insult at the thirteen-year-old girl as he passed her. Mary figured he was going to the henhouse, being what direction he was headed. Sometimes he'd go take a hen and kill it for his wife to clean and prepare for supper. Up ahead in the avocado grove Mary spotted a girl who came out from behind a tree, just a few yards in front of Dwayne, stopping him. Mary recognized her even from the distance of fifty yards or so: it was Charlotte, her sister's friend from church. Dwayne was startled by her sudden presence, cursed at her. Mary set the boots down and stood up, watched the interaction between the two. Being that Dwayne had no scruples against hanging children, she worried for Charlotte's fate. She began walking in that direction, figuring if there were witnesses that he might not do anything severe. Instead of running from Dwayne, Charlotte approached him, stopped and stared fearlessly up at him. Dwayne shouted obscenities at her, saying she damn near gave him a heart attack, and accused her of trespassing on his farm, and get the hell off his property before he shot her. Mary was nearly running in that direction at this point, afraid for Charlotte's life."

Timothy looked to the olive grove under the afternoon sun as he continued the story, but was imagining an avocado grove.

"Then something happened. Mary stopped running, froze in place, horrified and dumbstruck. It was impossible what she was seeing, yet she saw it clear as day. Mary would swear up and down to Phyllis that it happened, that she wasn't making it up, not even exaggerating. Grandma believed her. She wouldn't have lied about something like this. And as Grandma says, the eyes tell the truth even as the mouth lies.

"Standing before Dwayne, absorbing red-faced anger and insults, Charlotte..."

"Yes...? Charlotte...?"

Timothy grimaced at the image in his head. "She opened her mouth wide, too wide, like impossibly wide, as if her jaw had unhinged, and screamed. There was no sound, it was a silent scream. None that Mary could hear, anyway. She knew it was a scream by the cords of her neck popping out, and chest heaving. Her mouth continued expanding somehow wider, lips warping and stretching, and... it sounds silly saying this, but I swear it's the truth, Eddie. Her teeth were long and pointy like a wolf's, bulging eyes with no centers, glowing white, _radiating_ white; and her hair... Grandma likened it to the hair of Medusa, how it turned into snakes. Charlotte's weren't snakes, but the locks floated off her shoulders and slithered up all around her head. Her face was the embodiment of evil and terror. Mary saw this and began to scream, shut herself up by clamping both hands over her mouth. Charlotte looked like something belonging in hell. Dwayne suffered a heart attack right then and there, died. Charlotte spied Mary watching her. Her features returned to normal by degrees. Once she was as Charlotte should be, she smiled at Mary, put a finger over her lips as a gesture to keep quiet about it, turned and walked into the avocado grove and that was the last she was seen."

"Fucking A," Eddie said impressively. "That's insane, man."

"I know."

"I know Phyllis would never lie about anything, let alone something like this. So it happened. It really did happen."

"I know it did."

"Freaky. If I saw a black girl pull some shit like that, I'd probably be less fond of African Americans," Eddie said and chuckled. "More like scared of them."

"Remember what I said, don't mention this to my grandparents. To anyone."

"You can trust me, brutha."

Once again Eddie got back to installing the knob.

"What else does that idol do?" Timothy asked. "Anything?"

"No," Eddie lied. "Just that. Let's you see things from the past, I guess. I wished it showed me Charlotte scaring that dude to death."

"Why do you keep it?"

"I like how it looks. I haven't looked into seeing what a museum would pay me for it, but I bet it's worth something. It's old, real old. An artifact of sorts. I just may do that sometime." He'd never do that, _ever._

"Yeah, probably worth something. I'm glad we're putting this new d-door knob on the door. I worry that Trent will come after you."

"Eh, if he does he does. I know how to fight, should it come to that."

"He looks like he d-does, too. Pretty strong. And smart."

"I'm not worried about it."

"Hey," Timothy said, frowning at the garage, "I just noticed the Buick isn't here. Where is it?"

"I let my friend borrow it. Michael. You met him earlier."

"Eddie, I don't know if that's a good idea. It's not your car to lend. It was lent to you."

"Yeah, I'm sorry. I didn't think about that. Won't happen again, I swear it."

"Okay. Come have dinner with us later. Grandma is making rack of lamb. It's the best."

"Will do."

The new knob was installed. It came with two keys. Eddie kept one and gave the other to Timothy to give it to his grandparents. Eddie was going to take a shower and maybe squeeze in an afternoon nap before dinner, would see Timothy then.

### Chapter Twenty Five

Trent left his apartment at just before seven P.M. He tapped a text to Mae as he walked to his Audi, just to make sure all was as it should be, status quo. He said he was going to catch a movie with his friend Jason, then call it a night, go to bed early. She responded _have fun, get lots of rest, then come see me in the morning_. He said he would, he promised. He had expected her to cajole him into seeing her tonight, or insist that she spend the night at his pad. Normally that wouldn't be the case, but he suspected she was on to him. She knew he wasn't going to let Edgar get away with this shit. The fucker was meddling in their affairs and tinkering with their relationship, even got Trent taken into custody, and that was a death sentence if ever there was one. Mae wouldn't consider it that, but maybe a license to bruise him up a little. But no, it was a death sentence.

There were obstacles to overcome. If he killed Eddie, people would be pointing fingers at Trent as the person with the greatest motive. Unless he killed Timothy, as well. And Mae, let's not discount her. If she suspected her boyfriend murdered someone, she _might_ not tell someone, but she may (like her name suggests). He couldn't kill Mae. Well, he could, but he didn't want to. He loved her, and couldn't think of a scenario where he'd take her life. So how would he deal with Edgar? There was only one way: stage his death to look like the SacTown Slayer killed him. That worked like gangbusters with Mae's parents. But Mae might start connecting some dots should that happen. Too big a coincidence. It would appear that the SacTown Slayer had a vested interest in Mae's affairs. It would be best to wait a little while for this to blow over, then Eddie could just go missing never to be found again. He'd be at the bottom of the Sacramento river with concrete shoes shoved up his asshole. Worst case scenario he'd kill Eddie tonight—only if he had no other choice—and hide his body somewhere where it would never be found. Who would care? The guy was a vagrant, moved here from butt-fuck Egypt. Nobody would care. Maybe Timothy would. If he did kill Eddie, he'd need to forge a note for Timothy to find stating that he moved back to butt-fuck Egypt. He was a stuttering retard, he'd buy it.

He'd have to remain cool, not do anything rash. Beat the living shit out of Eddie, extract answers from him one painful finger-break at a time, warn him to stay the fuck out of his and Mae's lives. Maybe he wouldn't need to kill him. If Eddie had any brains at all, he'd do as Trent said and stay the fuck out of their lives.

He entered the address the internet had provided him into his car's navigation and began the journey to Sacramento. He'd be there by seven-thirty P.M.

* * *

He parked his Audi along a dirt shoulder, the Stoddard farm hardly visible from this distance. It was late dusk, the sky purple and just starting to show stars, the half moon low and ascending. He popped his trunk. Under the carpeted lid was a spare tire and tire-iron. He took the tire-iron, closed the trunk. He double-gripped the handle like a bat as he strode toward the farm. It was stout enough to crack Eddie's head open. He'd have to restrain himself from enjoying that pleasure, he reminded himself. A few broken bones, that was all. There were headlights well behind him, a car driving his way. He jammed the tool down the front of his pants and slowed his pace. A few seconds later an old Lincoln drove by.

At the property gate Trent surveyed the property. There was a porch light at the house. Beside the house was a garage with two open stalls, two cars inside. Good. Eddie was probably home. The barn was a massive shadow west of the house by about a hundred yards. Excellent. Plenty of buffer room to prevent a scream from reaching the residents of the house. He wouldn't give Eddie much of a chance to scream, but you never knew. Shit happens. Pretending that it didn't was a sure way to find yourself up shit creek without a paddle. He'd do everything he could to keep things quiet. At the first instance that he suspected a cry for help coming, he'd bludgeon that bastard unconscious.

There were very few lights on the property. He couldn't have asked for a better set up. The property gate would open from a password on a key-pad, a number he didn't know. But that was okay. The wooden fence surrounding the property was low and easily scaled over. He whistled quietly and awaited a dog to come barking at him. It didn't happen. What kind of farm doesn't have dogs? Shit, did it get any better than this?

Trent clambered over the nearest section of fence and hastily made his way to the barn. At the barn he listened with an ear against the rickety unpainted door. It was silent inside. He didn't think any lights were on inside, either. He tried the door knob that looked brand new: it opened. Well how about that? It was as if God was in the mood to listen to a few of Eddie's bones break; and hell, maybe he was. The door squeaked on its old rusty hinges.

"Hello?" Trent said softly but not too softly. He didn't want to sound like someone getting up to no good. He should have stuttered out a hello. If Eddie was inside, he'd assume his stuttering retard friend was visiting. It wasn't too late to implement the idea.

"H-hello, E-Eddie?"

It was pitch black in the barn. Either Eddie wasn't here or was asleep up in the loft. He hoped it was the latter. He closed the barn door behind him. Leaving it open would alert anyone who looked outside from the house. It was possible that Eddie was in the house, maybe fucking his retarded friend. Timothy looked a little like a homo. The pale skinny soft-spoken emotional type, which are always gay.

It was too dark to see where he was going. His eyes had been adjusting to the darkness for awhile now, but it was just too damned dark in here. He shut his eyes and willed his night vision to arrive. A moment later he opened them, and could see slightly better. He could see the darkest of the shadows that were low wooden partitions separating stalls. He could see the loft: another dark inscrutable shadow. He made his way toward it, soon found a fixed ladder. Bingo.

Furtively he climbed it. It squeaked a little under his weight. There was an ass-hair more light up here than there was down below, and that was due to the digital clock, which emitted red neon light. There was a shapeless mass that might have been a bed. He took the tire-iron in both hands and stepped to it. Once his knee tapped the mattress, he chopped down with the tool, thumping the blankets. He was alone in the barn. That was fine. He could be a patient guy.

The fine hairs on his neck suddenly stood on end. Ten feet away, maybe farther, he had seen something fleetingly. There it was again. He couldn't identify it or pinpoint its exact location, but it was something. Maybe it was just the clock. He considered how turning his head might streak the red digital numbers and give the illusion of movement. He remained motionless this time, stared directly at the clock.

_There!_ It happened again and this time he did know where it originated from and it wasn't the clock, but a few feet from it, about the same height of four feet. On the dresser, along with the clock and TV. It was a pulsation of green light, so slight that it easily could have gone unnoticed if it weren't for his keen senses. He stepped to it, felt around blindly. His hand knocked something over. It clanked and rolled a few inches. He felt for it, struck it with his hand, knocking it behind the sonofabitch dresser.

"Mother fucker," he muttered.

Figuring he was safe to make a little light, he got down on his stomach and used his cellphone like a flashlight, shining it under the dresser that stood on four three-inch-tall legs. There it was. What the hell was it? It was milky green, five inches long and carved to be some... he didn't know what. He discarded the tire-iron to reach for it, seized it, brought it from under the dresser. On his knees he shone the light on it to get a better evaluation. It was pretty awesome looking. Sinister looking, a maniacal scream and sharp pointy teeth. Maybe he'd keep it. With a hand on the dresser he pulled himself to a stand, killed the light on his phone, returning the barn to darkness.

It wasn't just the fine hairs on his neck bristling this time but an icy finger running the length of his spine. And this time there was a more tangible reason for it. When the cell light blinked off, light remained up in that loft, and it was behind him. A soft yellow light. His nerves were made worse when his shadow on the dresser shifted to his right from movement not his own.

His neck had never been stiffer than when he turned his head around. Trent was anything but a coward; a more intrepid man there was none. He was suffering the most fatal dread he had ever known; impending danger, demise even. His breath was hitched as he looked over his shoulder with lidless eyes.

He shrieked like a prepubescent boy, backed himself into the dresser which thudded into the barn wall from the force, dropped the cellphone from his right hand, the idol from his left, and clutched at the dresser top with white-knuckled hands. With the release of the idol the ghostly image of a little girl, whose eyes were glowing white orbs and mouth a gaping black hole with long sharp teeth, dissolved by degrees, leaving behind a yellow hazy light that dimmed for seconds before becoming pitch black. The fucking thing had been stepping purposefully toward him.

"Wh-what the fuck," Trent stammered.

He stood motionless, heart exploding in his chest. He waited a terrifying moment before bending over to scoop up his phone. He contemplated finding a lamp and turning it on, turning every light switch on in the joint. He shuffled his feet when turning to stoop, inadvertently kicked the cellphone or idol (he wasn't sure which); it skidded across the wooden floor, was silent for two seconds, then a thump down in the barn below. There was no glass-crunching explosion, which he had anticipated; he guessed it landed on hay.

"Mother fucker..."

What the hell was that thing, a specter? A real live fucking _ghost?_

Trent ruminated over the green idol. It wasn't until he held it that he saw the girl; when it dropped, she vanished. That's no coincidence. He looked to the invisible floor, searching for faint green pulsations of light. He wished never to touch that infernal thing again. But what if it was the idol he kicked over, and his cell lay by his feet?

Even though Trent wouldn't handle that wicked thing again, someone else _was_ handling it. It was Eddie's property. Could it be some extraordinary thing that provides a benefit to Eddie? Mae was adamant about Eddie not reading her diary. If that was the truth, how did he know what he knew? Like Trent had dwelled on earlier, even if Eddie had read the diary he couldn't have known Trent was sneaking her the pink pills, yet Eddie _did_ know that was the case. Was the idol responsible for this?

He needed to know if it was his cell or the idol that was kicked off the loft. He used a foot to sweep the floor before him. He hit something. Something large. It was the tire-iron. He picked it up and tried again. He nudged something. Then again, harder this time. It rattled the sound of a rock, not a phone skimming the floorboard. It was the idol on the floor. He decided to sweep it under the dresser. When he and Eddie got into a brawl, it would be best for that thing not to be accessible to him, just in case it benefited him in some inestimable way.

He got on his knees and felt his way toward the step-ladder. Carefully he made his way down. At the bottom he began the daunting task of searching for his phone. There was hay in two stalls below the loft. He climbed on it and felt around, fruitlessly, both stalls. Damn it all to hell. He'd have to do without it.

_That fucking ghost,_ Trent cycled in his wary mind. _There are no such things as ghosts, are there? I don't believe in ghosts. Have I always been wrong about that?_

He needed to push that shit right out of his mind. Now wasn't the time to dwell on it. He willed the idol out of his head and began focusing on the task at hand: Eddie. How would he defeat him? He'd wait in the barn, club the sonofabitch when he entered. It was simple and effective. Too bad there wasn't a window in the barn he could peer out of, watch the Stoddard home for Eddie to come out, if he was indeed there. He probably was. It was getting late and the garage was full. He was probably there for dinner.

He settled on an idea. He'd leave the barn door cracked open and would watch the house from it. The second the house door opened, he'd close the barn door, then wait. When Eddie opened the barn, Trent would brain him with the tire-iron; if it killed him, oh well. Better than oh well, _good._ It would be a nerve-racking wait, knowing that he shared this barn with some unliving thing. _No, don't think about her. Remember? Focus on the task at hand._

### Chapter Twenty Six

The three Stoddard's and Eddie were eating at the table, the rack of lamb every bit as good as Timothy had said it would be. Twice Eddie's cellphone rang at the table; he didn't answer it or even see who it was. On the third attempt he figured it must be important. And being that Michael was killing Trent hopefully this very second, he'd better take the call. He excused himself, said he had to take this, walked out the front door and closed it behind him. It was Michael calling, as he suspected. He was a little nervous, prayed for good news. He answered before it went to voicemail, and stepped away from the house to ensure privacy.

"What's up, man?" Eddie said spiritedly. "You got good news for me?"

"I'm trying to keep calm, that's what's up," Michael said through gritted teeth.

"Did you get him? Trent?"

"No I didn't. Trent wasn't there. Would you care to guess who _was_ there?"

Eddie didn't like his tone one bit. He was pissed off. Michael wasn't the type who got pissed off. He had a hard time imagining how he'd look right now.

"Trent lives alone there," Eddie asserted. "Nobody should have been there but him, buddy."

"Yes, that's what you said. But that wasn't the fucking case, _buddy."_

"Whoa, what's the matter? Who was there and why are you pissy with me?"

"Because I almost killed the very last person on earth I'd want dead! Mae Clark! You fucking son of a bitch, I could have killed Mae!" Seething fucking mad, he was shouting into his phone. "You said Trent would be there, never mentioned that Trent's girlfriend is Mae Clark, even after I fucking told you I loved Mae! Why didn't you say anything? Your fucking little jade doll tells you things, huh? Well it sure as shit didn't tell you that Mae was going to be at Trent's when I came in to stab the motherfucker in the heart, did it?"

"Michael," Eddie said flatly. "Calm down for a second."

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't kill _you!_ I'm wondering if it wasn't your intention for me to kill Mae all along! I swear to God, Eddie, had I killed her, I would be on my way to torture you to death right fucking now!"

"May I speak yet?" Eddie said, calmer than ever. "Are you done?"

"Yes. Tell me no lies or may God have mercy on you, because I sure won't."

"Mae lives at her uncle Matthew's. Matthew recently told both Mae and Trent that she wasn't allowed to stay at Trent's apartment anymore. I'm shocked she was there. If you don't believe me, call Matthew Albrect, I'll give you his number, ask him yourself. I promise you he'll be livid when he hears that Mae is at Trent's. That wasn't suppose to happen. I swear to you, I wanted nothing else but for you to kill Trent. Not Mae. Jesus, Michael, Mae is the reason why I want you to kill Trent! So get off my nuts about it! She's the fucking reason I'm in California, the reason why I'm working this shit job in a shit town getting paid jack shit! I'm here to have you kill Trent so he'll stop feeding Mae the fucking lithium pills!" Eddie's rage was causing him to speak a little too loudly. He hoped the Stoddard's didn't hear any of it. Christ, that would be bad. "I didn't tell you that Mae was Trent's girlfriend because I worried that you'd let emotion interfere with the job. That's all."

"Just why is it that you care so much about Mae?" Michael asked with bald suspicion. "Why have you gone through all of what you just said to cut Trent out of her life?"

"I can't say. There's a reason, that's all you need to know."

"Well shit, Eddie." Michael exhaled loudly into the mouthpiece of the phone. "I just don't know. I'm pretty pissed off right now."

"Yeah, I gathered that much."

"I ain't killing Trent. If you want him dead, it's in your hands now. Your mistake cost you that."

"Whatever. If you're too much of a pussy to do it, I'll do it myself. Give me my fucking car back."

"There's something you might like to know," Michael said baitedly.

"Yeah? What?"

"Mae knows you sent me here to kill Trent. How much you want to bet she told Trent already? How do you think Trent will take that? We both know he's capable of murder, as Mae's parents could attest to if they weren't so fucking... what's the word I'm looking for... oh, _dead!_ Sleep well tonight knowing that." He hung up.

Eddie cursed, stuffed the phone into his pant pocket. What a fucking mess. "Great." That lunatic bastard knows where he lives. He glanced over at the barn and damned if he didn't see the slightly-open door nudge closed before his eyes!

"No fucking way," he whispered.

The door had been cracked open, and now it was closed. He couldn't be sure it had been open, being so dark out, and how dark inside the barn was, but he was fairly certain. Better than fifty-fifty. If someone was in there, who else would it be other than Trent? It was him. _If_ someone was in there.

He plodded back to the Stoddard's feeling like shit, let himself in.

He retook his seat at the dinner table and probed around his plate a little. Phyllis was telling Timothy a story about the time she met Martin Luther King Jr. It was only a handshake and a greeting, but it was one of the most memorable moments of her life, and she had told the story dozens of times to Timothy.

Phillip reached mid-table for the platter of rolls, put one on his plate and offered them to Eddie, who refused absentmindedly.

"Eddie," Timothy said with an excited gleam in his eye. "Did you know grandma met Martin Luther King Jr?"

"No, I didn't. Very cool. Look, sorry to be a downer, but my stomach is hurting a little. If you don't mind I think I'm going to call it a night, go home."

"Aww, sweetie," Phyllis said, "are you going to be all right? I might have some Pepto in the medicine chest. Would you like me to get you some?"

"I appreciate it, but I'll be okay."

Phillip asked if he could wrap up Eddie's dinner to take with him. Eddie refused.

"Is it hot in here?" Phillip asked nobody in particular. "Boy's sweating." He was referring to Eddie, who was indeed sweating.

"Not really, no," Timothy said with a worried expression. "Eddie, you look ill. It's just your stomach?"

"Yeah. Would you do me a favor?"

"Sure," Timothy said. "Anything."

"Would you come with me back to the barn? I'd feel better if you did."

"Of course. May I be excused Grandma and Grandpa?"

They excused him.

"I'll be back in a little bit to do the dishes," Timothy said.

"Don't worry about it, son," Phyllis said. "I'll do them. You go and take care of your friend. You're a kindhearted boy, I love that about you."

"The best grandson we could have hoped to have," Phillip said with a sincere grin. To his wife he said, "To think we could have picked any number of boys that day, and the one we ended up with was the golden ticket."

They had watched Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory earlier that day. It was their son Charles' favorite movie growing up. They'd take him to see it in the theater several times whenever it showed.

Phyllis began singing in her aged scratchy voice: "Cause I've got a golden ticket, I've got a golden twinkle in my eye..."

It made Timothy teary eyed. Not the song but their sentiments. "I love you guys."

They both said they loved him too at the same time. Phyllis hoped Eddie would feel better soon. Phillip said if he needed some time off work, all he had to do was ask.

"Thanks again," Eddie said. "Goodnight, guys."

Eddie left the table, opened the door and gestured Timothy to go on ahead of him. He closed the door behind himself and together they ambled toward the barn a hundred yards away.

The thought Eddie mulled over on the walk toward confrontation with Trent was _Why didn't I bring that fucking idol with me to dinner?_ Like he could have known this would happen. Bad judgment. He knew Trent had learned his address, that should have been all the reason he needed. He guessed that deep down he thought Michael would be slitting Trent's throat this very minute. That fucking useless serial killer. With the idol he'd know if Trent was on the other side of the barn door. If he was on the other side, he'd deal with Trent. If he wasn't, things would work themselves out with a little planning and help from his friend. The friend behind his eyes, as he once said. His friend who hadn't a name, insisted that Eddie name him what he'd like. The name Eddie chose was Jackson. Jackson because that was the name of the best friend he ever had: a black Labrador retriever. Jackson died of a tumor in his stomach when Eddie was eight years old, just a month after his father had been crushed to death by an incorrectly felled sequoia. What a rotten time that was in his life. Eight years of age is rather young to remember a pet, but God how he loved Jackson. He'd never forget him. So Eddie named the friend behind his eyes Jackson. The reason for it was a little odd to admit, even to himself. Attaching a name that represented something so kind and gentle and loving toward Eddie would make this new friend in his life just those things. Idiotic, yes, but that's why he named him that. It was idiotic because the man doesn't become the name, the name becomes the man. And sure enough when he thinks of the name Jackson he remembers the jade idol and the entity channeled through it, not his old dog.

When Eddie had said he'd like to call him Jackson, the voice didn't question him, wasn't curious who Jackson was. It already knew. And the damned thing was, the friend behind his eyes laughed over it, and openly wondered why everyone wanted to name him after a damned dog. Apparently someone else had named him after a dog. Maybe several had. That was when Eddie learned that he wasn't the first person to come across and befriend Jackson. Jackson had once spoken of a girl whom he described as, "Special beyond the boundaries of special. A true and marvelous enigma." He loved her unequivocally. Eddie knew nothing else of her, including if she was even human—he assumed Jackson was inhuman: he was awfully vague (more like secretive) about who he is and where he came from.

They were halfway to the barn. Timothy slowed his pace to match Eddie's, who trudged along as if he had leaden feet, and progressively slowed with each step.

"Are you going to throw up?" Timothy asked him.

Eddie gestured him to shut up with a finger over his lips. Timothy furrowed his brow at him. Eddie didn't elaborate, but signaled him not to stop.

They had arrived at the barn. Eddie was genuinely feeling nauseated. It was bullshit what he was about to do to his friend, he really did like him, but better Timothy than himself. Eddie nodded at his friend to go on in. Timothy entered without reserve.

The door creaked open. Timothy took his first step inside when from behind the door a man wielding a blunt weapon clubbed Timothy over the head. It made a sickly sound that Timothy never heard. He hit the ground like a sack of bricks. He was dead, in a coma, or if he was lucky, knocked out.

Eddie capitalized on the moment and lunged at Trent, who was in a compromising position having just swung the tire-iron. The two collided in a tangle on the dusty wooden floor, rolled around muscling one another, gritting and baring their teeth as they grappled and jabbed, bit, spat, and head-butted. Trent yanked free his right hand, poked Eddie in the left eye with a finger and didn't let up, pushed his eye farther and farther into its socket. Eddie yelped, used his free hand to seize the fucking finger and bent it back just short of breaking it. Trent kneed Eddie in the stomach, stealing both his wind and the grip on his wrenched-back finger. Trent grabbed either side of Eddie's head and head-butt him in the nose, busting it wide open with a loud crunch. Warm blood spurted onto Trent's forehead, running down his face in a thick ooze. He bit Eddie's cheek all the way through, spat out a piece of flesh. Eddie yowled.

The momentum was Trent's. He took advantage of his injured quarry by rolling on top of him, straddled him, threw a blind punch at his head. He thought he may have knocked Eddie the hell out, wished it wasn't pitch black so he could confirm that. The second punch proved otherwise, because the son of a bitch ducked his head out of the way, driving his fist into the unyielding floor with a splintering crack. He cried out in pain. If he survived this night he'd be wearing a cast on his right hand.

It was Eddie's turn to take advantage of the momentum change. He pressed a thumb into the soft spot of Trent's lower throat with all his might, collapsing his wind pipe. Reflexively Trent backed off of him to escape the agonizing pain. Eddie brought his legs around and under himself, pounced at Trent, driving him squarely on his back. Trent rolled over to his stomach with cat-like agility and hammer-kicked a foot up into Eddie's ass. Eddie reached back with lightning-fast reflexes of his own and snagged hold of the hammering foot, secured his grip with a second hand and wrenched it clockwise against the resistance that was ankle bones and tendons. With a surge of summoned strength Eddie cracked the mother fucker, broke his ankle in multiple places. Trent screamed in agony.

On the brink of victory Eddie grinned, blood covering his upturned lips, a blood goatee, blood-soaked shirt. He rolled Trent over to his back, took a fistful of Trent's shirt and pulled his torso off the floor, drew a fist back and punched his nose with all his strength, splitting it open.

"Break _my_ fucking nose," Eddie growled, his tone flattened from his mangled nose. "Broke yours right back, mother fucker."

Eddie threw another punch, a whopper of a blow connecting with Trent's chin, and felt the mandible dislocate, or with a little luck, break.

"Like that? Huh?" Eddie said with a maniacal bloody grin.

Eddie put his hands around Trent's neck and throttled him with an unwavering determination to force that prick into hell, where the asshole belonged. Trent made gurgling sounds, sputtering incomprehensible words. Suddenly a hand gripped his genitals and squeezed. Eddie released his quarry's neck in favor of clawing at the hand on his crotch. It was too late, something in his scrotum gave way, and never in his life had he felt pain remotely so savagely cruel. He'd take a hundred, no a _thousand_ of those nose breaks before enduring this one insufferable injury. It shut him down like a flipped switch. He tipped over to his side and dry-heaved.

Eddie lay there trying to draw in a much needed breath, kind of hoping he'd die to escape this blinding pain.

Trent wasn't attacking him. He was in a world of hurt himself. For minutes the two lay on the barn floor in utter darkness, panting and moaning and sobbing, saying not a word.

There was a chime coming from one of the stalls, then another. The LCD screen of a phone glowed bright.

A silhouette filled the open barn door. There was an audible click: both Trent and Eddie knew that foreboding sound well: the cocking back of a gun's hammer.

### Chapter Twenty Seven

Michael tossed his cellphone to the passenger seat. Jesus did he lose his temper. Never had he gone that ape-shit before in his life. The worst part of it was nothing had been resolved. He still didn't know if Eddie was bullshitting him or not. He sounded sincere but that could be an act.

"Fuck it," he said and rolled down the window, feeling the wind of passage buffet his face. He had been driving to the Stoddard farm, his intention to give this car back to that asshole and be done with him for good. Actually, he'd have Eddie give him a ride home first, then he'd be done with him for good. But after that phone call he wasn't so sure he'd be getting a ride. He could just go home and deal with the car tomorrow. But even then he'd be stuck at the farm. Eddie would be bitter about him reneging on the deal, would probably say something like, "Tough shit, loser. You should have thought about that before you pussed out and quit."

Either way, whether he return the car tonight or in the morning, it would come to the same thing: he'd have to call for a cab. Luckily Eddie gave him cash earlier or he wouldn't be able to afford it. He continued in the direction of the Stoddard farm.

He was shaking from the emotion of it all. All he could do was thank God that he didn't shoot Mae. He nearly did. That trigger was just a half-ounce of pressure away from discharging the Beretta and sending Mae to her parents.

Michael wondered once again why it was that Eddie wanted Trent dead so damned badly. Why did it matter to him? With Michael it was obvious why he wanted Trent dead: he killed Mae's parents. He killed the parents of the woman who owned his heart. But why the hell did Eddie want him dead? He'd learn the truth, tonight. He'd do so with his father's Beretta aimed at Eddie's heart. Tell me or die, he'd threaten. Maybe he'd even go through with it.

He turned onto Road 171, just a quarter mile away from the Stoddard farm.

"Oh shit..." Michael muttered as he decelerated past a silver Audi convertible on the shoulder of the road, just before the property. There was no driver silhouette in it. He parked in front of the gate. He didn't know the password, wouldn't enter it if he did. Something was going down here, and there would be blood spilled.

He killed the headlights and shut off the car, quietly closed the door behind him. The knife was left behind. It wasn't a night for knives but one for guns. He wedged it in his waistband before climbing the nearest section of fence. In the distance he could see the barn door wide open. He made his way with silent footfalls.

What would he do when any number of scenarios presented themselves in the barn? He supposed the safest thing to do was draw his gun and put Eddie and Trent in a state of submission instantly, and take it from there. His recourse would occur naturally then.

He came in at an angle, gun drawn and at his side, stopped just outside the door and listened. Crickets stridulated, otherwise it was quiet. That could mean they were inside the house. It could mean one of them was dead in the barn. Or both. It was completely dark inside. Without a light it wouldn't do much good to go in to investigate. He could use his phone as a weak flashlight. Just as he remembered leaving his phone on the passenger seat of the Buick, he heard a cellphone chime inside the barn. Someone got a text message. Then another. He stuck his head inside and saw a glow in one of the stalls. The loft was above it. Likely it fell down below, probably a result of brawling.

Someone groaned. Then there was a miserable hiss. He didn't think it was issued from the same person. He estimated that it came from farther down in the barn. He pieced it together: they beat the shit out of each other, both were still alive and in a world of hurt. He couldn't have wished for a better scenario. He stepped inside the doorway and clicked back the hammer of the Beretta.

He couldn't see shit. Not even shadowy masses that might pass for a person. The cellphone's screen was still glowing from the seconds-old text message. He could use that as a flashlight to find a light switch. He hurried across the barn before the light shut off. His foot clipped something and someone cried out in severe pain.

Inside the stall he lumbered up a mound of hay and snatched up the phone through a thin overlay of straw. Not two seconds later the screen went black. Great timing. Michael pressed buttons on its sides until the screen lit up. It read Text Message (2) Mae.

"Well-well, what do we have here?" Michael said with intrigue.

"Michael?" Eddie said hoarsely. "Is that you?"

"It's me, all right. Happy to see me? I take it Trent is somewhere around here as well?"

"Fuck you," Trent grunted.

"Where are the lights around here."

"At the door," Eddie said.

Michael used the glow of the phone to find the switch, turned it on. A couple overhead fixtures buzzed to life. It was so bright that the three of them squinted. There was a fourth person here, unconscious on the floor.

"Oh shit," Michael said in awe. "Damn, you guys really went to town on each other, huh?" He chuckled, pocketed the stolen phone. "Who's that guy?" He pointed at the kid lying face down by the door, his hair pasted to the back of his head with blood.

"Timothy," Eddie said. He tried to sit up, it was a painful event. He winced and hissed as he sat upright. The front of his face was covered in blood from the broken nose down.

Trent reached down to his backward-facing left foot and compressed it with a rueful expression. His nose resembled Eddie's, only flatter. In fact, the two looked a lot alike right now, if you discounted hair color—Eddie's dark, Trent's light. Trent's jaw was askew. Fuck that must hurt.

Michael stooped down to the tire-iron on the floor, flung it deep inside a stall. He went to the barn door and closed it shut, locked the brand new lock. Ironically, the lock was bought to keep the SacTown Slayer out, and instead it was being used to keep the SacTown Slayer's victims in. Michael humored silently.

"It's shaping up to be a good evening after all," Michael said with a lingering smile. "Looks like I have the winning hand here. It's a good feeling, wish you guys could experience it. Hey Eddie, you got a smoke I can bum?"

Eddie nodded. He fished a pack of Marlboro's out of his pocket laboriously and flung them at Michael, then his silver Zippo. Michael lit himself a smoke. Feeling magnanimous he lit another and tossed it at Eddie, who put it in his mouth and took a deep drag.

"Thanks, buddy," Eddie said and exhaled smoke through his flattened nostrils in two jets.

"Buddy, am I?" Michael said amusedly. "I can see why you'd want to say that right now. How about you, Trent? Have any sweet things to call me?"

"Fuck you. Who the hell are you?"

"Michael. And is that any way to win me over?" Michael giggled. He was loving this, feeling immensely powerful. "I'll tell you who I am. I'm the guy who was at Woodland Crest Avenue, apartment 215 earlier. Sound familiar?"

"The fuck?" Trent wiped his bloody face with the back of his hand, looked up at Michael with an incensed glare. "What the fuck were you doing at my apartment?"

"I was there to put six inches of steel in your heart. I should probably mention who else I am. I'm the SacTown Slayer."

"Bullshit."

"Eddie, am I the SacTown Slayer?" Michael asked.

Eddie took a drag of his smoke with a little grin. "Yes. That you are."

"What's going on here?" Trent asked.

"That's to be determined," Michael said and took a drag off the smoke. He coughed a little. Smoking wasn't his thing, but he liked it right now. "Trent, I'll be honest with you, I can't picture a scenario where you come out of this alive. How do you feel about that?"

"You'd better kill me, because if you don't, I'll kill you."

"Ballsy answer," Michael said with a raised brow. "Don't you think, Eddie?"

Eddie nodded. "Just kill him already. Use the tire-iron. The Stoddard's would hear a gunshot and come investigating. Knock Trent's block off, we'll bury him in the olive grove together. I'll help you, busted up as I am. That's what friends do."

"And you're my friend," Michael half asked, half stated.

"Of course, buddy. Forever, like we said."

"Yes, forever like we said. I'm not so sure, Eddie. Let's get Trent's opinion, should we?"

"No," Eddie said, as Trent said, "Yes."

"Trent," Michael said and began pacing with the gun at the small of his back. "Eddie here gave me your address, wanted me to execute you. I gladly accepted the offer because I've long wanted to kill the man who murdered Mae's parents and pinned the blame on me."

"Are you really the SacTown Slayer? No shit?"

"No shit. That was fucked up, to kill them and make it look like I did it. What was more fucked up is you killing two wonderful people who didn't deserve that shit."

"Why do you care?"

"Because I was Mae's next door neighbor. I've loved Mae since the day I saw her. You broke her heart by killing them, and that's not okay with me."

"You're in love with my girlfriend?"

Michael nodded, continued pacing up and down the barn. "So Eddie informed me of who it was who killed David and Rebecca Clark: _You."_

"How did you know?" Trent asked Eddie.

"I'm doing all the questioning here," Michael said. "Ignore him, Eddie. Where was I? Oh yeah, so I learned who killed them, and Eddie set me up with your address and living arrangements. Very thoughtful of him, eh?"

"Fucking prick," Trent muttered.

"So I showed up, found the key in the pot just like Eddie said it would be, and inside I went. I had my gun aimed at whom I thought was you, but it ended up being Mae."

"Mae is at my apartment?" Trent said doubtfully. On the heels of that thought was how could Eddie know there was a spare key in the pot? He'd bet it had something to do with that damned green idol.

"I told you she wasn't supposed to be there," Eddie said.

"She is, and I nearly blew her head off," Michael said. "That's just the thing, you see, Trent? Was Eddie sending me there to kill you? Or was he sending me there to kill Mae? I really want to believe he wouldn't send me out to kill the girl I love with all my heart."

"I'd never do that!" Eddie blustered. "I wanted you to kill Trent!"

"Fuck you," Trent said to Eddie.

"Yes, I'm starting to believe that," Michael said. "I believe you wanted me to kill Trent, not Mae."

"Good. I'm glad you understand that," Eddie said. "Because it's the truth."

"But why? That's the million dollar question."

"Yeah, why?" Trent asked him. "You have a hard-on for my girl, too?"

Michael heard Trent's words, but they didn't sink in. They were just words a pissed off guy about to be executed might say. But they'd sink in soon enough.

He swaggered over to the guy by the door and knelt down, checked his throat for a pulse. He looked back at Eddie and said excitedly, "Guy's alive, how about that? You wouldn't guess it by looking at him."

He went to the stall with the tire-iron and picked it up, shoved the gun down his pants, took a two-handed grip of the ponderous tool. He positioned himself between the two beaten-bloody guys and wound back the weapon a little. Trent and Eddie stared dubiously up at him, their expressions identical.

"One of you is dying tonight. Heck, maybe both of you. The question is, which one?"

"Him," Eddie said.

"Fuck you. Kill that asshole," Trent said.

"Yeah, I'm afraid we won't be getting anywhere this way."

"Do what Mae would want," Trent advised. "You love her, so do what she'd want. You have my phone in your pocket; go ahead and call her, let her make the decision."

"Oh..." Michael said, remembering the phone in his pocket. "Let's see what Mae texted you. Did I mention that I told her who killed her parents?" Michael chuckled.

"She won't believe it," Trent said. "Even if she does I can convince her otherwise."

Michael shrugged. "Not my problem." With the tire-iron in one hand, he took the cell from his pocket in the other, tapped the screen a few times and there it was, Mae's recent texts.

He was still smiling when he began reading them. His smile slackened, the tire-iron slipped out of his hand, clanging on the floor. His lips parted, water formed in his eyes.

"No..." he breathed. "No!"

Trent was eying the tire-iron on the floor. He was going to die tonight unless he capitalized on some opportune moment such as this one. With a disregard of his broken ankle and the pain it caused him to scramble forward to the weapon, he lurched forward and was on his hands and knees when Michael mindlessly withdrew the Beretta from his waistband and aimed it at Trent, eyes still focused on the cellphone. Trent eased back to his previous position.

"Fuck!" Michael cried. "This can't be happening!"

"What did she say?" Trent asked.

Michael looked up from the screen, fixed on Trent. He repeated from memory: "I forgive you for killing my parents. I'll be where you gave me the bracelet."

"That's it?"

Michael shook his head, tears now streaming down his cheeks. "She then texted..." He sobbed. "She said to have them play Little Wing at her funeral. "

"Fuck..." Trent said, and it pleased Michael to see his pained expression. "Come on, let me call her!" He gestured Michael to give him the phone.

Michael tossed him the phone. Trent called her. He anxiously pounded the floor with his other hand. "Pick up the damn phone, Mae," he muttered. When voicemail answered he dropped the phone to the floor and pressed a thumb and forefinger into his eyes and rubbed.

"Where did you give her the bracelet?" Michael asked him.

"There's a place a couple miles or so from where I live. A meadow by a creek. She loves that place. We drive there sometimes, hang out."

"Do you have any weapons that she could use to kill herself?"

"I have a gun, but she doesn't know where I keep it. She doesn't even know I have it."

"How do you think she'd kill herself?"

"I know exactly how," Trent said solemnly, and gazed down blankly at his lap. "Overdose. I have a bottle of GHB; she knows where it is. If she takes it all, she'll overdose."

"Hopefully she won't take it till she gets to that spot a couple miles away. Does she have a car or access to a car?"

"No."

"Great. How far is it from your apartment by foot?'

"A twenty minute walk, at least. No, it would be more like thirty. Two or three miles. Walking at about four miles an hour. What is that? Thirty minutes, at least."

"It's a thirty minute drive," Michael said. "Could you call nine-one-one and accurately describe where the place is?"

"It's in the middle of nowhere: they'd never find it till it was too late. You have to let me go, it's the only way."

"He's full of shit," Eddie said. "He just wants a way out of this."

"Yeah, so!" Trent returned. "Doesn't change that I want to save my fucking girlfriend, does it!"

"Just call nine-one-one," Eddie advised. "She's probably in his apartment. You can't fuck around, Michael, you have to call them or she'll die."

Michael glared at Eddie as he considered something that had escaped him earlier. Subconsciously he began drifting the gun in his direction, not yet aiming it at him.

What was it Trent said earlier about Eddie's motive for wanting Trent dead? Michael recalled, 'You have a hard-on for my girl, too?' Was that it?—Eddie's motive for wanting Trent dead?

He reflected back to the night he met Eddie, when he was picked up just after killing the Parcher's. He had said:

And you're going to take a request for me. You're going to kill someone. Someone of my choosing, and you'll do it because I said so. And I swear to God if you kill his girlfriend too, I'll hammer nails into your brain through your eyeballs. She's off fucking limits.

Wasn't that exactly the thing he'd say if he loved Mae? And then earlier today he said something else:

Something came up and Trent needs to die ASAP. If not, it might be me who ends up dead. He's after me.

_You?_ Michael had said. _What did you do to him?_

I don't know. Well, I do know but it's personal. Sorry, bud, I can't tell you everything. In time I will, I swear. But for now you have to trust me, Trent wants me dead. Can you take care of him tonight?

Trent wanted him dead because Eddie was going to steal away Mae. That _had_ to be it. And what rewards would Eddie reap from having Michael kill Trent? For one, Trent would be out of the picture, freeing up Mae, making her newly single and available once again. All Eddie would have to do then was rat out Michael for killing Trent (or drop the dime on who's the SacTown Slayer), and then he'd be in jail. Eddie would be all who remained in the fucked up love triangle. Love _square._

"You little mother fucker," Michael whispered, glowering at Eddie. "That was your plan all along, wasn't it?"

"What are you talking about?"

Michael wound back the tire-iron and stepped to Eddie, swung it ferociously at his head. Eddie was dead before he hit the floor.

"Fuck yeah," Trent said. "You did the right thing."

"Fuck you, Trent. You should be dead, too."

"You need me, man. And I have to get going right fucking now if Mae's going to survive this."

Michael grudgingly nodded. "Can I trust you to go get her, take care of her?"

"Dude... I love her, of course I will."

He nodded again. "I believe you. I don't know if you're a man of your word, but I'm a man of mine. Let's strike a truce. You go your own way, I go mine. We both know each other's secret: you killed Mae's parents, and I'm the SacTown Slayer. I'm only doing this because Mae comes first, and I believe you have the same mentality."

"Absolutely."

"All I ask of you is that you call me later tonight to let me know that she's all right. Or, God forbid, if she isn't. Will you do that?"

"Swear on my soul."

"Shake on it. Not just the phone call, but everything I just said. We're enemies no more. Truce."

They shook hands.

Michael recited his cellphone number for Trent to enter under new contacts. He offered his hand to help Trent up.

"Do me a favor?" Trent said.

"What."

"Check Eddie's pockets for his cellphone, and hand it to me. Please."

Michael did, found it in his left pants pocket and set it in Trent's hand, who immediately went to recent calls and scrolled down. Sure as shit, there was Mae's phone number. Several calls, several texts.

"That mother fucker. I knew it was him." He put the phone in his pocket and put an arm around Michael's shoulder to keep his weight off his broken ankle, and the two slowly made their way out of the barn and toward the Audi.

"I don't know how you're going to get over this," Michael said at the fence.

"Won't be a problem. Just get on the other side and help me down."

Michael did, and helped Trent ease himself over the low fence. Together they hobbled along to the Audi. Michael helped him in, closed the door. The window rolled down. Trent extended his hand, said, "I appreciate this, Michael. I admit I would have killed you five minutes ago, but you're reborn in my eyes. Doing this erased every bit of animosity I have for you. _Had_ for you."

Michael shook it. "I can't say the same about you. You killed her parents for your own selfish reasons. But that's in the past. They're dead and that can't change, but you can help Mae and be good for her." He pleaded with Trent with his eyes. _"Please_ be good for her."

"I will."

"Haul ass, Trent. I Mean it, drive a hundred and ten. If a cop should pull you over, he'll take one look at your face and know you're on your way to the hospital. Hurry."

"Will do. Call you tonight."

"Wait. Shit... how are you going to get to Mae with a broken ankle? It's out in the wilderness or something, didn't you say?"

"A meadow, yeah. I'll drive across it, fuck it. It's not too steep a grade, should be all right. And Audi's have Quattro: all wheel drive. It'll be okay, trust me. As long as I get there in time, she'll be fine."

Trent threw the car in drive and punched it. It screamed at high RPM's as the car distanced itself from Michael.

"What did I just do..." Michael muttered, watching the Audi trail away. "What the hell did I... just... do." He wasn't thinking about the situation with Trent and Mae. He did the right thing there. He would rescue her if rescuing her was at all possible.

"I might have just fucked up."

Michael had just killed his best friend, a deciding factor being that Eddie had an agenda to win Mae's love. That's why Trent was after Eddie, because he was in love with his girl. But... but didn't Trent just recently ask Eddie, "What, you have a boner for my girl, too?" How could he have missed that? If Eddie had been in love with Mae, Trent was unaware. There was no reason to kill Eddie, as there was a reason to kill Trent. Why was that so clear to him now?

"Oh well," he whispered, and turned around.

### Chapter Twenty Eight

The bottle of GHB was in the top drawer of Trent's desk. Mae had never tried the stuff before, didn't condone drugs. Trent used it sparingly, and on occasion. The bottle was a vial the size of a sample perfume vial. She put it in her jeans pocket, stepped into the kitchen. She wrote a note to leave on the counter. It simply said _I forgive you. Please change. If you can, please change. Goodbye. Mae._

She left the kitchen light on and the door unlocked behind her. She descended the stairs wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her sweatshirt, sobbing hysterically. She could hardly see through her watery eyes. A runner dashed by her on the sidewalk, stared at her curiously as he went, had opened his mouth to ask if she was all right, but closed it.

_Because of me you guys are dead,_ Mae thought, remembering her parents. _If I would have listened to you guys in the first place about Trent being bad for me, this never would have happened. It's all my fault! Please forgive me, Mom. Please forgive me._

Tears dripped onto the sidewalk as she padded along Manzanita Avenue. She'd walk a block and turn down another residential neighborhood, stay the course for a mile or so.

_Breuer, if you're real and can hear my thoughts, I hate you. I hate you! You led me to Trent!_ You _did!_ "Oh God... I'm such a shit..."

She considered her uncle briefly. He'd be hurt over this, but he'd get over it soon enough. Other than he, nobody would lose sleep over her passing. Well, Trent would. But so what. She really did forgive him. She was taught to forgive, and didn't want to end her life hating someone. She supposed she shouldn't hate Breuer then, either. But he wasn't real.

When she finished that mile-plus stretch down the residential street, she turned south and began a three-quarter-mile stretch in that direction. She stopped pining over her parents long enough to think about Michael.

_Were you really going to kill Trent... for me? For having taken my parents? What a beautiful thing to do._ Maybe she had misjudged him all along. Maybe it should have been Michael she dated. She had enjoyed making out with him, and more than that she enjoyed getting to know him during those few days before Trent stole her heart away. Had she not met Trent it was likely that she'd have been Michael's girlfriend. How might that have gone? For one, her parents would be alive. Actually, nothing else mattered than that.

_Why can't we get do-overs?_ She'd need only one do-over to make her life good. One simple fucking do-over would fix _everything:_ don't go to the baseball field the night she met Trent. Such a small seemingly-insignificant action, resulting in a lifetime full of regret.

The street was at a dead end. She crossed over a low dirt berm and began descending a mild embankment. It was dark, the ground choppy. Fortunately the moon was somewhat bright, because there would be no more street lamps to assist her vision. She moved along at a leisurely pace for five minutes.

The terrain, consisting of grass, weeds, and dirt, evened out. It was now an area dense with trees, and they cast thick shadows. She walked for ten minutes through the dark, slowly to avoid tripping on the invisible earth or rolling an ankle on a rock.

Up ahead was a little ravine with stagnant water. There was a series of rocks crossing it that someone had once placed. The water was only five or six inches at the deepest, but who wants to get their socks and shoes wet? In the minute she spent staring at the ravine, twice she brushed mosquitos away from her face. She didn't recall her favorite place on earth being infested with blood-sucking mosquitos. Their presence was probably due to the stagnant water.

On the other side of the ravine was heather grass. She was at the meadow. She didn't know why it was so much nicer on this side of the ravine, but that was neither here nor there; nothing mattered anymore. There were little flowers dotting the knee-high grass, and she had loved how they looked the several times she visited here. In the morning the yellow flowers looked golden; now, under the moon, they were gray.

The earth sloped down and continued descending until it reached a moving stream. There were tall spiky rushes all along the bank on either side, with an occasional bald gap. One such gap was where she was heading, a place she and Trent had picnicked a handful of times. There was a boulder half submerged in the stream that was just perfect to sit on and enjoy the panoramic view. It was flat-topped and large enough to make love upon: they had done that twice, the second time getting caught by a couple teenagers hiking with bulky packs on their backs. It was both embarrassing and exciting. The kids, a boy and girl, had hooted and hollered, finally leaving them be, probably to enjoy the same naughty activity themselves. Mae had wanted to stop having sex the moment they were spotted, but Trent wouldn't think of it. If they wanted a free show, they'd give it to them.

It was a beautiful place, really. It was as good a place as any to take her life. The view wasn't spectacular at night. It was still pretty. Starry sky, gentle breeze rustling the heather grass, a heady aroma of flowers, the soft babble of moving water, a cricket's serenade.

She kicked off her shoes and climbed onto the rock, sat with her legs outstretched. She removed the vial from her pocket and examined it closely in the moonlight. Her death lay inside this little container. With the thought came fresh tears. She hoped dying wasn't painful, or scary. But if it was, she deserved it.

"God, if you can hear me, please forgive what I'm about to do. And please lead me straight to mom and dad."

She uncorked the vial and sniffed it. No scent. Before she'd start having second thoughts about what she was doing, she drank the contents of the bottle entirely, tossed it in the stream.

"That's it," she whispered. _There's no turning back now._ The tears stopped. She laid prostrate on the rock and stared up at the night sky. The dose she took was so high that it took seconds instead of minutes to feel the effect. She was getting high, and it didn't feel so bad.

"Oh my darlin', oh my darlin, oh my darlin' Clementine. Thou art lost forever...drowned... grow and twine. Oh my darlin', oh my darlin', oh my darlin' serpentine. Once..."

She wondered if she'd make it to heaven. Heaven, with angels and streets of gold and Mom baking cookies, letting her lick the tarantula after. The sparantula. Spatula. Oh crap, her cat Pancho. _I hope you take good care of her, Uncle Michael. Will he miss me?_

She yawned.

"Trent, I should probably be heading back soon. Mom will get mad. She's going to feed me another pill, I just know it. Have you seen my...? What was it I was looking for...? Who said that? Where... am... I?"

She drifted into unconsciousness, her heart beating ever-slower.

### Chapter Twenty Nine

Michael had just returned the shovel to the shed, and was sweating like a pig. It was the hardest work he had ever done. He'd have liked to dig the hole deeper, but digging a grave took a hell of a lot longer than he would have guessed. Wasn't easy dragging Eddie's body so far into the olive grove, either. He'd have loved to use the front-loader to excavate a hole, but he didn't know how to use one and the noise would have waken the old people in the house.

He was optimistic that this wouldn't come back to nail him—unless Trent ratted him out, which he wouldn't do. That would be mutually assured destruction for the both of them. Eddie was a vagrant, basically. Who'd miss him other than Timothy? Probably nobody. That wasn't true: Michael would miss him. He regretted doing what he did. But one of them had to die. Had he left them both alive, they'd come at each other until one of them was killed. And though he preferred Trent to be the one who died, he needed Trent to rescue Mae; Eddie was worthless to that cause. Maybe everything worked out for the best. But damnit he would miss Eddie. Admitting that to himself ushered in torrents of guilt and self-loathing, but it was the truth. He was the only real friend he ever had, and probably ever would have.

His shirt was dirty, pants dirty, body dirty. How did every square inch of his body get dirty? It's not like he was rolling around in it. He was using a damned shovel. He yearned for a shower. Actually, there was a shower in the barn. And fresh clothes up in the loft: Eddie's. Michael's parents were undoubtedly awake and waiting for him to return their scores of missed calls and texts, and come home already. They would be worrying their asses off, a worry compounded ten-fold during this reign of a serial killer, the worst Sacramento had ever experienced. He felt bad for them. He wished he could say something to put their minds at ease.

If he came home looking like this, they'd demand answers. It was best to shower, get changed. Hopefully Eddie had a pair of blue jeans. Michael was wearing a plain white tee-shirt. Hopefully Eddie had one of those, too. If not, he doubted his parents would remember what he had been wearing earlier today.

He returned to the barn and observed Timothy lying unconscious on the floor. He checked his pulse: still alive. Good. The gash on Timothy's head was congealing, which pleased Michael. Contrary to what some might think in the media, he didn't wish death on everyone. The kid had the look of a nice guy. A nerd and a dork, sure, but so was Michael. He hoped the guy wouldn't awaken during his shower. As Ricky Ricardo would say, he'd have some _'splaining_ to do. He'd make the shower quick.

It was a two minute shower, just enough to rinse away the dirt. He entered the barn stark naked from the little bathroom. He hustled up the ladder to the loft. In the dresser he got underwear and luckily there was a pair of jeans. Although they were two inches too long in the inseam, and an inch or two loose in the waist, he's make them work. In the closet was a white tee-shirt with some little yellow logo centering it. He turned the shirt inside out, bit the tag off, and put it on. The outfit was sure to fool his parents.

He was heading down the steps of the ladder when his eyes happened to catch what was under the dresser. It was shadowy under there, but one shadow stood out in relief, was about five inches long, a couple inches wide.

"What do we have here..." he drawled with a wry grin.

He ascended the steps and reached under the dresser, snatched the jade idol. He went back down. He examined the area where Trent and Eddie had brawled, and there was blood. Blood from innumerable injuries. Most of it was from their broken noses, Michael surmised. It wouldn't do to leave it. He set the idol on a six-foot-high stall partition, went outside and scooped up a double fistful of dirt, sprinkled it over the blood. He repeated the action a few more times. He raked with his foot the blood and dirt together, spreading it thin. He took some hay and did the same, left a little on the floor to further cover it up.

He stood back and evaluated the area. Not bad. It would pass. Especially being that nobody would be searching for Eddie, in the formal sense—he hoped. That gave him an idea. He needed to make it look like Eddie moved out, or the Stoddard's might wonder if something happened to him. What a pain in the ass. He hauled ass up the ladder and gathered all Eddie's clothes, stuffed them in an Army green duffle bag, and went back down. He'd have to ditch the bag somewhere.

_Well shit,_ he thought. If he left the Buick here, they'd wonder how he skipped town. He'd need to take that, too. Heck, it would spare him ten dollars for a cab ride. But where would he ditch that? He'd think of a place. The best thing to do was to take it home, park it a couple houses down. In bed he'd think of a fine place to dispose of it.

He took his wad of clothes from the bathroom and stuffed them in the duffle bag. On second thought he pulled the jeans out and removed the Buick keys and his sixty-bucks cash, transferred them to his new jeans.

He looked around the barn one final time. It looked as it should, with the exception of the boy on the ground.

Before he turned and exited the barn, he remembered his newest and greatest acquisition: the jade idol. Ah yes, let's not forget that. He stepped to the center stall wall and snatched it, turned and put the idol in his pocket as he made his way out of the stall, stopping almost immediately with a chill running down his spine. He looked to the opposite stall, which was empty save for a low mound of hay. Because he hadn't looked in that stall directly until now, he couldn't be sure, but damned if he didn't catch movement in his peripherals. A person, a small person. His memory of what he'd seen was waxing, and now sharp enough to further describe the small person, though it may have been all inside his head. What he saw was a fair skinned young girl with white hair. And what he saw was a ghost. Or his imagination.

He got the hell out of the barn.

### Chapter Thirty

He drove a ways before stopping at a house with a pair of trash bins out for the collector. He got out and opened both the lids. One was full, the other three-quarters full. He stuffed the white plump bags down farther in the emptier of the two, making room for what he was going to add. He put Eddie's duffle bag on the heap, closed the lid.

He got in the car and drove away. He wondered if he could sell the idol. Might be worth something to a museum, or a collector of fine antiquities. But maybe he'd keep it. It had some mystical aspects to it. He'd like to explore that a little more. He hadn't considered it till now, but when he saw the girl in his peripherals, wasn't he touching the idol then? Yes, he was putting it in his pocket. That was an interesting phenomenon. And why shouldn't he see something as such? He had seen the hanged black man and kid when he had touched the thing earlier that day. He turned on the overhead cabin light, withdrew the idol from his pocket and examined it as he navigated the Buick.

"Too cool," he said.

He didn't look over his shoulder at the back seat at that moment, might have had a heart attack if he had. What he had earlier struggled to paint from memory staring at him from the opposing stall in the barn, would be suddenly brought to life.

He set the idol on the seat beside him, turned onto the next street. He cursed when he looked down at the gas-gauge. It was dead on E. Below E, actually. It was damn near resting on the peg. He only lived a few miles from here, but with an empty tank he'd break down before making it home. He couldn't let that happen. He needed a good place to ditch the car, and the shoulder of a busy road wasn't that place.

A couple blocks ahead was a Veneco station. Luckily he had some cash. He might have saved ten bucks on a cab, but he'd lose half that amount putting a gallon or so of gas in the car. What choice did he have?

He pulled up to the pumps, killed the engine. He walked inside the shop pulling bills out of his pocket. The smallest bill he had was a ten. He gave it to the clerk and said five bucks on pump four. The clerk made change rolling his eyes a little. _Can't spring for a full ten bucks of gas, huh? Cheap ass._

Michael thought the dude might not have just rolled his eyes if he knew that he and the SacTown Slayer looked an awful lot alike. Identical twins, you could say.

He pumped his gas, didn't take long. In the short time it took, he considered the jade idol, wondered if it possessed other cool abilities. Eddie had said it led him to some money. It was hard to believe, but what if it did? He'd be rich! What else might it do? He had said something about how he had a friend through it or from it or something; he couldn't quite remember what Eddie had said. Maybe Eddie was a little nuts. Michael had all the time in the world to find out, though. He racked the nozzle and rounded the car, got inside, fired up the engine and pulled forward, up to the street. He glanced left and saw a little girl in a white dress, forty of fifty feet away and walking away from him. She made a sharp turn off the sidewalk into a barren field where she disappeared behind a large bush. Michael thought little of it, other than what kind of parents let their little girl walk around the streets at this hour, and turned right onto the street.

Seven or eight minutes later he was parking the Buick a few houses down from his house. He got out, patted his pocket to feel the bulge of the wonderful jade idol. It wasn't there. His breath caught, heart sank. He exhaled with relief when he remembered putting it on the seat beside him. He looked over and saw it wasn't there.

He'd spend twenty minutes tearing the inside of the Buick apart before giving up. The idol was gone. An image replayed in his mind over and over, and that was of the girl in a white dress walking away from Veneco. A girl with extremely light-colored hair, of a height and daintiness that was familiar to him.

His phone rang. Trent. News from Trent.

"God, let her be all right," Michael said before accepting the call.

### Chapter Thirty One

Just before turning in to bed, Phyllis asked her husband to check on Timothy, because she hadn't seen him since he went with Eddie, and that had been hours ago now. Phillip knocked on his bedroom door, then opened it. He wasn't there. He met up with his wife in the restroom, where she was brushing her teeth.

"He's not there."

"That's what I thought," Phyllis said. "He must be enjoying Eddie's company in the barn. It's midnight, he should be in bed. I'll call him on his cell, tell him to come home."

"I could just go on over and get him. Maybe Eddie will show me what he's done to the place. I haven't seen it yet since he moved in. Have you?"

"No. All right, sweetheart, go on ahead. Don't forget to lock the door behind you."

"What for? This is a safe neighborhood." Phillip was Stoic as he said it, which saddened Phyllis. That damned disease. Phillip chuckled and said, "What... do you think I have Alzheimer's or something?" She smiled at him and slapped his shoulder. "I won't forget to lock the door. Be back shortly."

The barn door was open, lights on inside. Phillip noticed the Buick wasn't here. Odd. Maybe the two drove to McDonald's or something.

He rapped on the open door and stepped inside, nearly collapsed in horror at what he saw: his grandson unconscious on the floor, the back of his head a bloody mess. He was by the ladder, must have fallen off of it.

"Son!" Phillip ran to him, dropped to his knees and touched him, checked his pulse. He was alive, praise God.

"Phyllis!" Phillip shouted. "Phyllis!" He shouted again, louder this time, as loud as his aged vocal chords could. He didn't have his phone on him. He reached inside Timothy's pockets and felt a phone, extracted it. He dialed 9-1-1, stated the emergency to the operator. Help was on the way. He then called the house phone.

"Yes, Timothy?" Phyllis said upon answering it.

"Hun, it's me," he said in a panic. Her panic matched his from tone alone. "Timothy's been hurt, bad. I called for help. Come to the barn."

"On my way."

Phyllis and Phillip stood over their adopted son's still body. Phillip wanted to roll him over to his back but she wouldn't allow it. She insisted they not touch him, in case he had a broken neck. It was the most terrifying fifteen minutes of their lives, waiting for an ambulance to arrive.

"Where the heck is Eddie?" Phillip said inwardly.

"Buick's gone," she said.

"I know. I hope... I hope..." He couldn't get himself to say it. His wife, having known Phillip for over fifty years, knew what he was thinking to such a degree that he might as well have said it.

"Eddie didn't do this," she said adamantly. "He's a good boy. He'd never hurt our Timothy. It was just an accident."

* * *

The sun was just coming up, daylight beginning to filter in with the fluorescent lights of the hospital room, and Timothy finally awakened. Bleary-eyed and confused, he gazed around the hospital room, saw his grandparents sitting side by side in chairs facing him. Grandma wasn't sleeping, but her eyes were closed as she leaned her head against Grandpa's shoulder. Grandpa was looking at charts and posters on the far wall. He looked over at Timothy and alerted, beamed, shot out of his chair.

"Son!"

A Doctor came in and evaluated him, performed simple tests on him before being satisfied enough to give the three Stoddard's privacy. Once they were alone, Phillip apologized to him for this having happened, took full responsibility.

"If I fell off the ladder like you said, it's not your fault but my own."

"Oh sweetheart," Phyllis said and hugged him on the bed. "You scared us half to death. What would we do if we lost you?"

"I don't remember falling off the ladder. I don't remember... the last thing I remember was you telling me the story of Martin Luther King Jr at the dinner table. Where's Eddie? He didn't want to come?"

"Son," Phillip said. His expression said a lot more, those low brooding eyes. "I pray I'm wrong, but I think he moved out."

" _What?"_

"The Buick is gone. And I went up in the loft on a hunch, and sure enough all his belongings are gone, too."

"No!" He began weeping. "Why would he do that!" His grandparents wept for Timothy. "He's my best friend. My only friend." He sobbed. "He'll be back. Maybe something came up."

His grandparents exchanged a sorrowful stare. He wouldn't be back, their eyes said. Their poor grandson. They let him cry himself dry without saying a word. They stood beside the bed holding one another's hand, just heartbroken for him.

It was a few minutes later when his crying was under control. He lay there in deep reflective thought as his grandma ran her fingers through his hair, and grandpa held his hand. "Maybe it was my fault," Timothy finally said. "Why he left."

"Honey, don't say that," Phyllis said.

"I might have scared him off." He met eyes with his grandma. "I told him your story. About the Sotheby's and Goodall's, the Hunsacker farm. About how Big Jonah and Otis were hanged here on our farm. It must have spooked him pretty good."

"It probably isn't a good story to tell people, dear," Phillip said.

"I know. And I'm sorry, Grandma. I'm sorry for breaking the promise I made to you."

She looked sternly at him. "Did you tell him about how Dwayne died?"

"I did. I'm so sorry. Please forgive me."

"Of course I forgive you. Maybe you did spook him. I doubt he believed what you said."

"Oh he believed me," Timothy assured her. "I could tell. I told him everything. I told him about the black church you used to go to, and your friend Charlotte. I told him Dwayne met up with Charlotte in the avocado grove and opened her mouth real wide, eyes glowing and all that. The hair and everything."

Phyllis shook her head at the thought. "That's a horrible story to tell someone. How did he react? About what Charlotte did to him."

"Bear in mind that Eddie is not a racist. Is definitely _not_ a racist."

"We know that," Phillip said. "That boy doesn't have a racist bone in his body. One can tell having dealt with racist people as long as we have."

Timothy nodded in agreement. "He said if he saw a black girl do something like that, he'd probably be less fond of African Americans." Before his grandparents could remark, he added, "But it was a joke! He didn't really mean that."

"Honey," Phyllis said with a knitted brow, "why do you think Charlotte was black?"

"She wasn't?"

"No. I never said she was black."

"Oh. I guess I just assumed she was. She went to your black church."

"She did. But there were a couple white folk who attended that church. Charlotte was one of them. White as can be. Blue eyes and hair so light it was like gossamer."

"Oh. I didn't know that."

### Chapter Thirty Two

The next day Timothy was watching the street hockey game. He wasn't familiar with being on this side of the game. He had always played and wished he could now. But not today. He didn't get much grief over it from the guys, either, being that his head was bandaged. Eighteen stitches it took. At least it was only a hairline fracture in his skull and not something worse. A concussion was the worst of it.

God, he wanted to play. So badly he wanted to play. But his grandparents thought he shouldn't so soon after his accident and they were probably right.

There was a loud metallic clang as his friend Jordan scored a goal. Several people along the sidewalk cheered; Timothy was one of them.

"N-nice shot, Jordan!"

Jordan glanced at him with a beaming smile.

Timothy thought of Eddie. He wished Eddie was there with him to watch the game. He bet Eddie would be great at hockey. He was probably too old to be allowed to play, but still: he'd be great at it. Maybe it wasn't such a bad thing, as Eddie's greatness would probably overshadow Timothy's.

The game went on for another thirty minutes. During that time Timothy took frequent glances up and down the street, remembering the time he saw Arabella here, and wished she was here now. Now that Eddie was gone, he sure could use a friend.

* * *

On Saturday morning Timothy woke up earlier than usual, butterflies in his stomach. He took a shower, shaved, did up his hair just right (had taken the head dressing off last night), put on his best outfit, and killed a little time watching TV before heading out. The news was boring, which was a good thing. Nothing new on the SacTown Slayer. Hopefully he'd get caught soon, if for no other reason than having a curfew was pretty lousy.

On the drive to Millie's he considered all the ways to greet Mae, things to say to her in the way of petty conversation. He had been seated at a booth with her twice now, so he didn't see why today wouldn't make a third. Last week was a little odd, being that he stormed out of there when Trent began making accusations about his friend Eddie, but he didn't think Mae would hold a grudge. He'd apologize for it—he made a mental note.

As he entered the diner, he wondered if Trent would be here today. He never had before (with the exception of last week) so he didn't think he would. In fact, he only came when Mae texted him news of Eddie. He was in the clear, he thought.

Susan asked how he was doing today, and Timothy said just great. As he took his seat in the booth, Susan noticed the back of his head, the centipede of a stitched scar crawling on it.

"Ooo, honey," she said with grave concern. "What happened?"

For a second Timothy didn't know what she was talking about. He touched at the back of his head and grinned shyly at her. "Just fell. It's nothing. Coffee would be fantastic, thanks. Oh, and could you do me a favor?"

"You bet."

"When Mae comes, which should be any second, could you sit her with me? If she allows it?"

"Which one was she?"

"Blue eyes with an amber ring around them. Beautiful girl."

"That's right. Sure thing, sweetheart. Denise will be by for your order shortly."

"No Martha?"

"She's taken the day off."

Timothy rapped his fingers on the table, stared blindly out the window. In his mind's eye he saw Eddie come ripping across the parking lot with a green duffle bag slung over his shoulder, smoking a cigarette. Such a short time he had with Eddie. What an unfortunate thing. He hoped the best for his friend, wherever life might take him. He was a good, honest guy. He deserved the best. It's just too bad he and his grandparents couldn't make him happy enough to stay. To each their own.

"Well hello there, you," a girl said affably and slid onto the bench seat opposite Timothy.

How could he miss her arrival! Boy did she look amazing today, more than usual if that was possible. A cute little light-blue cardigan sweater, black skirt, brown hair gleaming wet even though it was dry.

"Mae! I'm g-glad you came!"

She didn't respond to him. She didn't need to. Her sweet smile said more than words ever could.

"How are you d-doing?"

"Pretty darned good, Timothy, considering the week I had."

"Oh?"

"Yep. I'd rather not bog you down with my issues, but I'm doing well, thanks for asking."

Timothy noticed she had a band aid over the top of her right hand.

"I had an int-interesting week, too." He turned his head to show her his stitches. "Eighteen stitches. Fell off a ladder."

"Aww, I'm sorry to hear that."

He pointed at her band aid. "What happened?"

She peeled it off and put it in her pocket. "Don't need that anymore. It was for an I-V."

"I-V? What did you need that for?"

"Eh, nothing."

He frowned. "Couldn't you tell me? Please?"

She considered it for a moment, studied him, curious to his intentions. Was he just being polite or was he sincerely wanting to hear her story?

"I was in the hospital," she said.

"Really? What for?"

"It's a little embarrassing to admit."

"Please tell me. Please, Mae?"

"I took too much of something. Luckily my boyfriend found me and got me to the hospital or I wouldn't be here having breakfast with you."

Denise stopped by the table and greeted them. On this rare occasion Timothy was a little ill-mannered with his waitress, waved her away. She walked away glancing back over her shoulder with a disapproving frown.

"Took too much of what? Caffeine or something?"

"I wish. Don't think less of me, please, but it was a drug."

"Oh," Timothy said softly, his surprise showing in his expression.

Mae didn't like that expression. He was jumping to conclusions, thinking she was a druggie. "I don't do drugs, Timothy. It's just... well," she looked away and said, "I can't believe I'm telling a near-stranger this." She resumed eye-contact with Timothy. "I feel comfortable talking to you, though."

"Good. I w-want you to."

"Maybe you won't believe it, because I can hardly believe it myself. I swallowed a bunch of a drug called GHB. Heard of it?"

"No."

"It's used to party with, but also used as a date rape drug."

"Date rape?"

"Yeah. Because when you take it you oftentimes get amnesia, temporary amnesia. You black out."

"Why'd you do that?"

"I wish I knew. I don't remember taking it. I don't remember any of that day at all. I woke up in a hospital. Trent told me what happened. I wouldn't believe him if the evidence didn't support what he said. I swallowed a full vial of it, enough to kill me two or three times over. Like I said, luckily Trent got to me in time."

"Where were you, home?"

"No, I don't keep drugs at home, I don't do them, like I said. I was at Trent's when I took it. He came home and found me on the floor. It's the damnedest thing. I just can't believe I'd do it. I'd never take GHB. And what was I thinking taking a whole vial!"

"I h-hope you didn't t-take it to... you know..."

"Kill myself? That's what everyone thinks. Nobody takes that much without doing it for a reason: namely, to kill themselves. But I'd never do such a thing. Especially for no reason. But anyway, I'm fine now." She smiled brightly at him.

"Thank God you are."

"Trent was in a car accident the night I overdosed. When it rains it pours, I guess. He was riding with a friend, who crashed his car. Trent broke his nose, his ankle, some other minor injuries."

"Oh wow, sorry to hear that."

"You shouldn't be. Trent was pretty rotten to you last week."

"Yeah but I can understand w-why. I don't know the whole mess that it came from, but you and Trent should know that you d-don't have to worry about Eddie anymore."

"Why is that?"

"He left. Gone. Just p-packed his things and took off without telling anyone, no note or anything. He took my grandparent's Buick, too. They aren't r-reporting it stolen though, since it's a clunker. Even though he b-bailed on us, they still wish him the best, and if the car will help him out, then all the b-better."

"I'm glad he's gone. Hopefully he leaves me alone. It was Eddie who's been calling and texting me, from what Trent learned." Her brow drew in as she looked away, a frown that wasn't the least bit unbecoming; not to Timothy it wasn't. Soliloquizing she said, "It's just so damned odd that he could have known about Breuer. The things he said, how could he have known?" After meditating briefly, she said, "Oh well." She returned her gaze to Timothy and grinned at him. "Your grandparents sound like nice people."

"Oh they are. Very nice. I know you have a b-boyfriend and all, but d-do you think that maybe we c-could hang out sometime? As f-friends?"

She bit her lip, restrained a smile. "The more nervous you get, the more you stutter, huh?"

"Yeah," he said abashedly. "You sh-should have heard me call this girl Nichole the other day. She th-thinks it's cute, though."

"It is cute. That's cool, congrats on calling a girl; I hope it works out for you, I sincerely do. Yeah we can hang out, sure. As long as you understand that my heart belongs to Trent, and we'll only ever be friends. If you're okay with that, then sure."

"That would be just great, Mae. That would be just perfect."

### Epilogue

Arabella could see Michael at the register inside Veneco, she'd need to hurry. She went through the door of the Buick and went to take hold of the jade idol: it went through her hand. She shook her head at herself. She manifested inside the Buick, took a hold of the idol, opened the car door and got out, closed it behind her. She strode to the sidewalk, then headed in the direction of the Stoddard farm, several miles away. Down the road she threw a glance over her shoulder and saw the Buick pull up to the street. She increased her pace, cutting sharp left and out of sight of Michael. He'd notice his treasure was gone soon enough, if he hadn't already.

She ran through a field, into an alley and continued on the dark alleyway. Not the place you want to be if you're a pretty little thing all of eight (in appearance, at least). If someone should affront her, she'd simply have to vanish, have to drop the idol. That wouldn't happen if she could help it. But if it did, and the person picked the idol up with every intention of absconding with it, well... she'd have to get a little nasty with them.

She made all the right turns, caught the attention of a person or two walking the streets, and eventually turned onto a scarcely traveled road, and from there it was a straight shot to the Stoddard's.

At the farm she walked toward the olive grove between the garage and barn. There was a man hanging from an avocado tree. West of him she saw a boy hanging. It was the boy to whom she walked.

She stopped just a foot before him, looked into his lifeless eyes. His body swayed with a distant breeze, decades distant, rotating by degrees. He faced her now, almost seemed to look into her eyes.

"Long time no see, Otis." It was intended to be lighthearted but came out sounding offensive, if only to herself. "Sorry. I miss you."

She dropped to her knees and scrabbled at the dirt, slowly making a hole. It was four inches deep and six inches long when she dropped the idol into it, replaced the dirt, patted it for good measure. She stood up and stared at the empty air below an olive tree.

Arabella disappeared.

# # #

If you enjoyed the story, check out the author's other works. You can contact him at jeffvrolyks@gmail.com, where he eagerly awaits your comments and vows to email you back!

About the author:

Jeff Vrolyks lives in Simi Valley, California. He is a new writer, in that he recently discovered a passion for writing and hasn't stopped since. He was in the Air Force for a four year stint, worked in the beer beverage industry, automotive industry, and in the oil fields on drilling rigs. His turn on's include thunderstorms in the forest, rainy sunsets at the beach, and glowing reviews from you. His turn off's include driving in Los Angeles, working-out in an over-crowded gym, and receiving scathing reviews from people intolerant of foul language and violence.

Some of his best friends are those whom he found through the conduit of his writing, from emails. So please drop a line, it'll make his day. Also, Jeff is an independent author, so if by some miracle you know a publisher or an agent, and feel there might be some chemistry there, let's work something out!

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