Mr. 8 Page 9

  He had been doing a steady fifty miles per hour when he passed, but later, when he remembered that moment, it was as though he had crawled past them. Every detail was etched in his mind.

  Even in the dim light, he could see the Radcliff kid standing there. He was talking. The cold made his words rise into the air as vapor. He was wearing a green parka and a black wool hat. Strangely, he was resting his weight against a cane.

  The driver was leaning against the side of the van. He looked as if he were trying to act cool, shoulders slouched and hands in the pockets of his blue jeans.

  Another boy, one Denton hadn’t seen before, stepped from around the side and put a red plastic gas can into the back of the van. He was tall and bulky. At first, it looked as if he had a heavy winter coat on, but when he came out into the open, it was clear that despite the cold, he was only wearing a thick, plaid shirt. Denton guessed he was the person who had been on the porch earlier.

  At the sight of the gas can, Denton’s pulse rose, and he could feel the blood beating in his hands where they clenched the steering wheel.

  There were possibly hundreds of explanations for why they would have a gas can. But only one came to mind.

  He hit the hands-free button, and said, “Call Bill Stahl, cell.”

  It answered on the fourth ring. “Dent, what’s up? We’re just sitting down to dinner.”

  “Look, it’s probably nothing but…” But what? he thought. He’s going to think I’m insane.

  He felt a second of dead air tick by, while he tried to come up with something to say. Finally, he swallowed his pride, and vowed not to let anyone else get killed because of a hesitation.

  “I saw something suspicious: a van out on Federal Road. I’m e-mailing you the license plate number.” He pulled out his phone and started sending the photo, while trying to keep one eye on the road. The Mercedes veered into the oncoming lane, and he had to yank the wheel to bring it back under control. The car began its winding path back down the hill and he glanced back at the screen to locate the send button.

  “You saw a van?” Bill’s voice expressed thinly veiled irritation.

  “It was at 21 Federal. Agatha Radcliff’s son was there with two other boys, and they were loading gasoline into the back. It’s probably nothing, but perhaps you could check it out.”

  “Shit, how do you know about Radcliff?”

  “Long story. I just don’t want anyone else getting hurt. They probably don’t have anything to do with it. But if they do…”

  “Alright, alright.”

  Denton couldn’t figure out if Bill sounded exhausted or fed up. “I’ll call dispatch and have them send a car. Dent, just go home now. I mean it. Stay out of it until I talk to you, okay?”

  “That’s where I’m heading now.” Denton thanked him and hung up.

  For the rest of the ride home, he saw that scene in front of the ranch house again and again, as if in slow motion. It was all murky monochrome: the black sky, the gray shadows, and the white snow. All except for the three flashes of color: the green jacket, the blue jeans, and the red gas can.

  Green, blue, red, why was that familiar? The colors on a TV. Three colors of light that can create any other color.

  Running his hand through his hair, he pushed the thought out of his head. He was merely latching on to meaningless details and trying to impose order on them. It was a rudimentary mistake. He constantly warned his students about doing it. He was supposed to know better.

  He tried recalling more insightful details from the images, but there was nothing new. Perhaps if he had been able to read lips, he might have caught what Radcliff was saying. And why did he have a cane anyway?

  The boy had been walking fine earlier.

  Denton had his house in sight and could almost feel the warmth inside when the memory surfaced. The sudden glint near the boy’s feet. The headlights had reflected off of something metallic.

  It hadn’t been a cane. It had been an axe.

  Chapter 14

  The Eleven O’clock News

  THE KNIFE’S BLADE WAS STREAKED BRIGHT RED. Juice stained the cutting board everywhere it touched. Denton’s fingers were also turning from pink to a deep fuchsia as he chopped the beets.

  He scooped them up and tossed them into the pot of boiling water. Then he tried washing the red off of his hands, but only succeeded in fading its intensity.

  The clock ticked closer to 7:30 while he rushed through the rest of the preparations. Dinner would be late. At least Linda hadn’t questioned him about where he’d been. He really wasn’t sure if he could keep up the lie and he didn’t know how he’d explain the truth.

  His cell phone sat on the counter, and he kept eyeing it, expecting a call from Bill at any moment. As the time passed, he wasn’t sure whether he should be relieved or annoyed by its silence.

  Denton carefully placed the pork chops into the searing hot cast-iron pan, to prevent the oil from burning his fingers, and then went into the seldom used dining room. In the center of the table, there was a plain white, tapered candle, forgotten there after some dinner weeks ago. He lit it and turned down the chandelier’s dimmer switch, until the deep, oriental red wallpaper faded from sight and the table was circled by a small pool of light. Then before running back to flip the meat, he put a Kenny Burrell CD into the small player on the buffet.

  The more he thought about it, the more he felt he had been wrong about the boys. Aren’t serial killers strange loners? He’d never heard of a pack of them before. Charles Manson had a cult. But did three people make a cult?

  There was probably a perfectly reasonable explanation why they were loading the van up with gasoline and a wood axe. Perhaps they were going camping? His doubts answered back: after dark, in the middle of December? And what do you use gasoline for when you’re camping? Well, maybe there was some other explanation.

  When the food was on the table, and the wine was poured, Linda looked at the spread in mock surprise. “What’s the special occasion?”

  “Nothing. Just thought it would be nice.” He avoided the fact that he was compensating for the lateness of the meal.

  After a few bites, she said, “Good stuff,” and took a sip of wine.

  For most of the meal, they ate without speaking. Only the sound of the music kept the silence from becoming tense. Denton cast about for something to say, but except for his preoccupation with what he saw out on Federal Road, he could think of nothing they hadn’t already discussed in the car earlier.

  “The news is really freaking me out.” Linda laid out her feelings like a wounded bird that flapped about the table in anguish. It wasn’t anything Denton wanted to deal with, but it was too important to Linda to ignore. “Eight people killed. I just can’t believe it.”

  “It’s freaking me out too.” In his head, he corrected her, Eleven people killed.

  “Maybe you should talk to Bill. See if he knows what’s going on—find out how close they are to catching this monster.”

  Denton kept his eyes firmly on his hands working his knife and fork. “He’s not going to tell me anything. It’s probably all hush-hush police business.”

  “You never know. You are friends after all, and you did help them out that time. So it’s not like Bill hasn’t told you about his work before.”

  He tried hard not to fidget in his seat. “I’ll see if I can talk to him tomorrow,” he said non-committedly, scratching the nape of his neck.

  For a few mouthfuls there was nothing but Burrell’s timeless, mournful guitar on “Soul Lament.” Then Linda asked, “Do you think you could do it again?”

  “Do what?”

  “Help them catch this guy?”

  Denton briefly wondered whether he should come clean, but the lie had grown too big to even know where to begin.

  “I’m sure they don’t need me poking my nose around.”
He wound out the rope that would hang him a little more. “Besides, unless they found the killer’s house, what could I do?”

  Linda seemed to think about this for a moment.

  Denton thought about it too: Was I in the killer’s house today? If he had been, he never guessed it while he was there. He had only examined Agatha’s belongings. Could that kid have really killed his own mother?

  He tried to remember the brief look he had at Edward’s bedroom. He had been into fantasy when he was younger. It had to be at least ten years since that movie had been in theaters, making him ten or twelve when he put up the poster. Around the same time Agatha must have painted the dragon for him. He had left both up, which might indicate that his tastes hadn’t changed too much, or that he was too apathetic about his surroundings to care what decorated the walls.

  In either case, it was unlikely he had a girlfriend or dated very much. If he did, he would have displayed more age appropriate art and maybe even tidy the room a bit. Odds were the boy was socially awkward and possibly even a loner. Although he did appear to have at least two friends.

  He’d been drinking, possibly drinking in bed. Not the healthiest of activities, but not necessarily a sign of alcoholism. He was likely just handling his grief poorly… or his guilt.

  “I just hope that they find him soon. The quicker he’s behind bars, the better.” Linda absorbed herself with getting the last of the meat from the chop. She ran the steak knife along the bone with more vigor than was necessary.

  Denton wondered what was happening with the van. Had the police stopped it? Did they find anything? Was there anything to find? Or were those boys off somewhere burning a new corpse at that very minute?

  It was a grim thought, but his only other hypothesis was that they were building a bonfire. Somehow, every time he called the image of them standing around a blaze, it failed to seem innocent. These young men setting fires could not help but turn into something sinister in his mind.

  Linda put her cutlery down on the empty plate and swirled the Merlot around in her glass. She sat there with it raised, poised for another sip. “So what did you buy me?”

  Denton was pulled back to the dining room and out of his vision of a strange witch’s Sabbath in the woods, with crackling flames and necrotic odors. He looked up at Linda with confusion clearly written on his face.

  “When you were out earlier?” she said pointedly. “C’mon, I know I’m not Mr. Deductive like you, but I’m not stupid. You didn’t go all the way to Westfield for washer fluid. And really, you were looking at tools? I don’t think so. So what did you buy me?”

  “You’ll just have to wait and see.” A twinge of guilt entered his mind. Not just because of the new lie, but it was almost Christmas and he still hadn’t bought her anything. He just might have to pay Caldwell Jewelers a visit.

  Later, when they were getting ready for bed, Denton checked his phone for the umpteenth time: no missed calls, no e-mails from Bill, nothing.

  Linda was in the bathroom brushing her teeth and washing her face. He turned the TV on and switched over to the news.

  “…authorities have refused to release the names and insist that they are not suspects in the Aikman Field killings. This was the scene earlier tonight at the BPD press conference.”

  Denton looked up to see the image of the anchor woman being replaced by footage taken outside of the Police Station. The man Denton had seen giving orders during the Biscamp investigation was standing on the steps in front of the main doors. There were several other policemen next to him. Bill was off to the right, half out of the frame.

  A graphic at the bottom of the screen identified the man in charge as Lt. Patrick Draper. He held up his hand until the reporters were quiet. There were far more press in attendance than Denton thought Bexhill could possibly employ. But then he realized that the story had probably spread beyond the borders of the small town. With eight burned bodies and rumors of a serial killer, it may have even gone national. The public’s appetite for misery and horror never ceased to amaze him.

  “Excuse me. I will not be answering any questions at this time. I have a brief statement.” He paused, pulled out a sheet of standard white paper, and cleared his throat.

  “At approximately 8:00 p.m. this evening, three individuals were brought into the Bexhill Police Department for questioning. It is believed that these individuals may have some information related to the bodies discovered last night in Aikman Field. They are not suspects and no charges have been filed with the State Attorney’s Office. These individuals are people of interest and their involvement in this investigation is completely voluntary. We at the Bexhill Police Department would like to assure the public that we are doing everything in our power to bring about the apprehension of the person or persons responsible for the mass killing that took place in our community. There will be another statement, once more information is available.”

  Lieutenant Draper quickly turned and went back into the station house. The reporters yelled out an incomprehensible garble of questions, and the camera lingered, as if it carried some hope that there might be something more from the BPD spokesman.

  The screen returned to the anchor.

  “If you’re just joining us,” she said. “There are new developments in the shocking killings of eight Bexhill residents. Police are questioning three men about the gruesome discovery made last night of eight bodies, including that of Margery Biscamp. A source within the Police Department has informed us that the men were approached by police after an anonymous tip. We’ll be right back with more details about this horrific murder spree that has shocked the community, right after these messages.”

  Linda stood in the bathroom doorway watching the screen. “Persons of interest.” She snorted in disgust. “Why don’t they just say they’re guilty?”

  Chapter 15

  Mister Nine

  REFLEXIVELY, LINDA CROSSED HER ARMS. Her wide stance blocked the entire doorway, in spite of her slight figure. Her eyebrows scrunched together, in a way Denton had seen many times before.

  He looked back down to finish untying his boots with his numb fingers, waiting for her to say what was on her mind.

  “What do you mean they just let them go?” It was a demand more than a question.

  “Bill said they didn’t have enough evidence.” Denton continued to fumble with laces.

  The snow he had tracked in was already beginning to melt into the carpet, around him. At first, the small, hot vestibule was welcoming after being out in the cold, but now he was feeling uncomfortably humid under his coat. Linda had waylaid him the second he was through the door, wanting to know what he’d learned.

  “What else did he say?”

  There was little question she was upset with the turn of events. It came out as irritation bordering on anger, but also a small hint of the child she once was snuck into her voice. Denton didn’t judge her. When Bill had given him the news, he had paled, and the pit of his stomach had dropped, sending a tremor through his body.

  “It’s not like we had a choice,” Bill said, walking quickly down Kipling Street. “There was nothing to hold them on.”

  Denton took hurried steps, trying to keep up with him. The pace was faster than he was used to, and combined with the frigid air, he became short of breath. Bill had no problems, as his legs moved briskly with short, confident strides. He even took puffs from his cigar without pausing.

  “There was nothing tying them to any crime. We searched the van and their houses.”

  “So they’re innocent?” Denton asked, following Bill around the corner, onto Sycamore.

  “I didn’t say that.” Bill slowed slightly. “There’s something up with those three. But we had nothing to charge them with. And it didn’t help they’d lawyered up so damn fast.”

  If Denton had gotten up early, he would have seen the icy fog that had filled the pos
t dawn. It had long since dissipated, but the morning had remained damp and bitter. Both men huddled in their coats. Bill had on a black, down jacket that looked police issue. Denton wore his wool overcoat. He kept the lapels shut with a gloved hand to try and keep the wind from attacking his neck. When Bill had suggested the walk, Denton had foolishly left his scarf on the hook in the hall.

  He had been anxious to meet his neighbor and got ready in a rush. The way Bill had spoken on the phone suggested that what they were about to discuss was too private to take place in either of their homes. The faint promise of answers had driven all other concerns from his mind.

  Bill flicked a large chunk of ash into the gutter. “I have to hand it to you Dent, it was a good call. Even if it didn’t turn up anything on them, they’re now on our radar.”

  A woman was getting a couple of bags of groceries out of her car. Both men smiled and waved to her.

  “Mrs. Wiley, so nice to see you,” Bill said. “Weather’s turning.”

  Denton had seen her around but had never heard her name before. Linda always referred to her as The Church Lady. He had no idea if she called her that because the woman helped out at Bexhill First Congregational, or because Linda felt that she was overly judgmental. It certainly wasn’t because she bore any physical resemblance to that old Saturday Night Live character.

  She smiled back but didn’t say anything, before slamming the car door and heading into the warmth of her house.

  When she was inside, and they were alone again, Bill said, “Hard to believe that little fuck, Eddy Radcliff, had something to do with offing his own mother.”

  Despite being the one to report him, Denton found it hard to believe too. Or more likely, he didn’t want to believe it. The boy at the house had seemed worn out and lost. He was more of a victim than a killer. But that had been in the house. It was a different story out by Federal Road.

  “How could there have been nothing in the van? I saw them put a gas can in there. And I’m pretty sure Radcliff had an axe.”