A Disturbing Nature, page 18
“Well,” Mrs. Branch explained with a huff, “Emily says she and some of the other girls went over to confront Mo. He grabbed her hair when they started fighting. Pulled it hard—almost off her head. She came home complaining of a headache.”
He looked at Emily. “Is this true?”
Emily nodded, rubbing the back of her head.
“No, it’s not!” Paul looked to Peter for support. “The older girls were yelling at Mo, and then they jumped on him. Somebody else pulled Emily’s hair.”
“Are you finished, young man?” Mr. Branch said before turning to Mo. The piece of turkey fell to his plate, splattering brown dressing onto Mr. Branch’s white collared shirt. “Explain yourself, Mo.” He smudged the gravy into his shirt with a dinner napkin. “Did you pull Emily’s hair?”
Mo, hands shaking, put down his fork. “I don’t know, sir. I don’t remember.”
“What do you mean you don’t remember?!” Mr. Branch threw down his dinner napkin. “What don’t you remember?”
Mo’s whole body shook. “I don’t know what happened.”
Mr. Branch’s face turned red as a beefsteak tomato from his wife’s garden. “What’s that supposed to mean? You don’t remember pulling Emily’s hair? You don’t remember fighting? What don’t you remember?”
Mo stared at his plate. “I was just standing at the fence when the girls started yelling at me.” He rubbed his eyes. “Then they jumped on me and hurt me, and I went to the nurse’s office with Mrs. Harrington.”
“Janice drove Mo home,” Mrs. Branch said. “She says some of the older girls had to be pulled off him but doesn’t know how the fuss began.” She took a sip of chardonnay. “Emily says he was playing with a second-grader. Looked like Mo was trying to hurt him.” She raised her eyebrows.
Emily nodded. “It’s true, Dad! My friends saw it, too!”
Paul pointed at his older sister. “She’s lying!”
Mo kept silent, his jaw clenched. He could feel his heart beating in his ears.
Pushing his chair back, Mr. Branch rose to his feet. “Silence!” He glowered at Mo. “Is this true?”
Mo looked up at Mr. Branch, struggling to keep his voice steady. “No, sir, I was waiting at the fence like always.”
Mr. Branch slammed his fist on the table. “Mo, tell me what happened!”
Mo focused on Dion, sitting next to Mr. Branch. “I don’t remember,” he said, the pounding in his ears racing the beating in his chest. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember.”
“How?” Mr. Branch roared. “How can you not remember? It just happened today. It’s just not possible.” He shook his head.
Mo rose from the chair, his face red and wet. “I’m sorry.” Turning, he hurried upstairs.
Later that evening, Mr. Branch entered Mo’s bedroom. Sitting at the edge of the bed, he placed a hand on Mo’s shoulder. “I’ve been talking to Paul and Emily. Paul swears you didn’t do anything, and Emily admits she and her friends were pretty far away. I’m going to take Paul’s word and pretend this didn’t happen, but you need to understand fighting or anything else with children isn’t going to be tolerated.”
Surprised by Mr. Branch’s comforting tone, Mo lifted his head from the pillow. “Yes, sir.”
“You have to remember you’re much bigger than they are. You could accidentally hurt them easier than they can hurt you.” Mr. Branch patted him on the back twice before departing.
Mo heard Mr. Branch’s footsteps descend the stairs, replaced by lighter footsteps coming up. He reached over to turn off the lamp.
Emily poked her head in, whispering loud enough for him to hear, “Freak.”
Light evaporated as Mo pulled the sheet up over his head.
Paul entered and shook Mo’s shoulder. “Are you okay?”
Mo pretended he was asleep.
Kneeling along the edge of the water, Mo gets up from the ground with dusk approaching. Checking his wrist, noticing his Timex is wet, he realizes he’s been gone a long time. He sprints back to where he left Carlton and Kay, only to find they’re gone. By the time he rejoins his friends at the picnic area, Mo’s disheveled.
Running up to Mo, Kay holds out her hands, placing them on his shoulders when she draws near. “Are you okay? Did you get lost? Why’s your uniform dirty and your neck all red? Did you fall?”
Dizzy from Kay’s flurry of questions, Mo looks down at his knees. “I was looking at some flowers and saw a dead baby bird on the ground, so I buried it and said a little prayer. Then I watched a raccoon for a while. I guess I lost track of time. I’m sorry. I came back as fast as I could.”
“Weren’t you scared it was gonna get dark? We were just heading out to look for you.”
“No, I was okay. There’s a waterfall near the end of the path. I stopped there for a while to enjoy the sound.”
Whatever light remains now seems concentrated on Kay as they head back to the car. A welcome drizzle dots the windshield on the ride home. Kay and Carlton lower their windows a few inches to take advantage of the evening breeze. Having purged himself of the pain he felt earlier in the day, Mo sits silently in the back seat, his mind swirling from a tumultuous twenty-four hours while his body revels in the cool air engulfing him. Sports news on the radio highlights the home team’s lopsided victory. After a difficult start, it has been an almost perfect day.
-32-
WILD KINGDOM
Monday, 8 September 1975
Palmer’s vantage point affords him an unobstructed view of the diners at the trattoria, though there aren’t many at five on a Monday afternoon. He watches with mild interest as a couple is seated. The woman appears much older, possibly twice the man’s age. Though she offers her date a demure smile, Palmer reads much into the way she flicks her napkin out with force before smoothing it across her lap. Her gem-laden fingers and diamond-clad ears are misplaced in this mid-scale restaurant, exposing her intentions. In the grip of a cougar, without a spade sharp enough, her date’s eyes glimmer with fear—the kind of fear a male black widow knows when the post-event feast begins. Unnoticed, his curiosity piqued, Palmer observes their predator-prey dance like an episode of Wild Kingdom.
He motions to Osmond when he sees him walk in.
“Hey, Frankie. Sorry, Humphrey dumped a pile of shit today.” Osmond glances around before pulling his chair out. “Geez, this place is dead.”
“I ordered you a scotch.” Palmer nods to the glass parked in front of Osmond.
Osmond eyes the glass with suspicion.
“Don’t worry. It only cost me a fraction of my paycheck.”
Taking a sip, Osmond nods, an approving smile crosses his face. “Didn’t want to order me any of that bottom-shelf compost you seem to like?”
“The problem with living the high life is going back to the low-rent district.” Palmer points his glass toward Osmond. “Better to just nestle into the bottom shelf. Besides, they don’t have Jack, and I figured you wouldn’t be interested in his Kentucky cousin, Jim.”
While Osmond scans the menu, Palmer eavesdrops on Wild Kingdom’s conversation—a terse exchange over whose watch holds time better: her Rolex or his Timex.
Closing the menu with finality, Osmond breaks the silence. “Well, at least Bachman says the hairs matched one of the victims in Utah. FBI Lab here in Salt Lake says another matches a victim in Colorado.”
Seeing the waitress approaching through the swinging kitchen doors, Palmer glances at the menu. “Yeah, but it’s not enough to hang him—not even enough to show him the gallows. I’m missing something. There’s more to that Beetle.”
The waitress circles their table several times before descending on them like a vulture swooping down for fresh roadkill. With her rehearsed charm, Palmer can feel The Vulture’s talons scratching at his wallet. He regrets ordering Osmond’s scotch.
When The Vulture departs, Palmer lets Osmond control the dialogue while he watches the body language over in the Wild Kingdom.
The Cougar licks her lips with zest between a flurry of words.
Her date tugs at his two-dollar tie in exhaustion.
When Osmond’s diatribe on the benefits of daily fiber is complete, and Palmer’s observed enough nonverbal carnage at the nearby table, he points his tumbler at his partner. “Alright, Harry, I know you’ve got something. Your conversation’s even more insipid than usual. What is it?”
Osmond grabs his tumbler. “I’m heading back to Boston.”
“What? Why?”
“There was a body found in Smithfield, Rhode Island. A girl. Teenager.” Osmond holds up his free hand. “I know what you’re thinking, Frankie, but hold on. They’re treating it as an accident.”
Palmer pulls out a cigarette. “One of the two missing girls you told me about last week from that area?”
Osmond finishes off his scotch. “No, it happened sometime this weekend. They’ve already identified the body. It’s not one of the missing girls. For the time being, they’re just keeping us informed. With all the mass murderers in the news, every barracks is on high alert. Right now, though, this one’s just speculation.”
Palmer exhales smoke to the side. “Sounds like heavy speculating. But not enough for you to be called back. What else you got?”
“Humphrey didn’t have much. They just discovered the body this morning. He’s supposed to get more background information on all three this evening.” Osmond stares into his empty glass. “Oh yeah, and Murphy’s back in the hospital.”
Palmer raises his eyebrows, says nothing.
“I guess they found some stuff on the tests they did last weekend. He went in last night.”
Palmer waves him off. “Dick will be fine. I’ll bet he’s pulling some theatrics to get sympathy from his wife; make sure none of us forget about him in retirement.” He takes another drag. “When you flying back?”
“I’m headed out tomorrow morning. I assume you’re coming with me?”
“Not a chance. I’ll head out Friday.” Seeing their food carried over by The Vulture, he stubs out his cigarette. With a couple of shots of cheap bourbon in the tank, her blond curls and pillowy lips look appetizing. Palmer’s no longer sure what he ordered from the menu. Wishing it were a Saturday, he takes a bite of saltimbocca, placing his hopes on this meat satisfying him tonight.
After slicing his meatballs into quarters, Osmond looks up. “I can’t direct you, Frankie, but you’re authorized to come home earlier than Friday. Why don’t you fly back with me tomorrow?”
Palmer sits back, looks past Osmond. “Thanks, Harry, but I still got some sightseeing to do here in Salt Lake.” He smiles. “Never know who you’ll run into.”
“I know what you’ve got your eye on, but I think your time would be better spent coming home. Murphy would appreciate the visit.”
“I’ll phone him tomorrow. Be back before you know it.”
Studying Palmer, Osmond sighs. “You do what you need to do. Just know sometimes the sights ain’t worth seeing in place of friends.”
Palmer nods, knowing he’s dodged a disagreement.
Plates cleared, drinks drained, and belts loosened, Osmond drops enough cash to cover the bill. “Give me a ride to the airport?”
Palmer nods.
“Stay out of trouble, Frankie. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Lurking just above, The Vulture lunges over Palmer’s shoulder and clutches Osmond’s cash, releasing a soft, raspy hiss as she departs. Osmond’s never been a great tipper.
Watching Osmond walk away, Palmer lights another smoke, wallet unscathed. He hears the conversation escalating in the Wild Kingdom, listening to how it clashes with the lounge music playing in the background. He cycles through Osmond’s words to drown it all out: Murphy’s in a Boston hospital, a young girl’s had an apparent fatal accident in Smithfield, and Ted’s got a tail eight hundred miles long, stretching from Salt Lake to Seattle. Murphy and the girl are back home. Not much he can do about them. But Ted’s right here—here in Salt Lake City. Palmer’s here, too. And he’s not ready to go home.
Wild Kingdom rises to leave. The Cougar dusts her dress and slides into the arms of a fur coat, held in hopeful anticipation by a willing partner. Palmer smells her Chanel Number Five and her companion’s Aqua Velva, sees her lavish Italian heels and his worn dress shoes, and knows they’re both hunting tonight. Sometimes, he thinks, predator and prey become indistinguishable, and the harm they do is self-inflicted. When Wild Kingdom departs, and the show is over, Palmer’s focus shifts. He’s on the prowl for a different kind of predator—an indiscriminate monster.
-33-
MRS. HARRINGTON’S OBITUARY
Tuesday, 9 September 1975
Mo enjoys raking, the smell of fresh bark, and Tuesdays. This morning is perfect bliss. Under cloudy skies, with the promise of an early autumn whispering in the breeze and rustling through the first layer of leaves, Mo spreads mulch, listens to his coworkers’ excited voices, and inhales the aromatic bounty of late summer in New England. It’s Tuesday morning, and all the Bryant groundskeepers look forward to lunch.
Even when Mo works alone, he never grows tired of raking leaves, enjoying all the uneven shapes and vibrant colors. It reminds him of the Southern live oaks strung along the Rappahannock behind the Branch home; how they dropped their leaves even in early summer. Working alongside Jake and Peter, he’d rake them into a pile before tossing handfuls into the river to watch them float, bright and tangled, atop the rushing water. From a book Grandma Cleveland had him read, he’d think about Huck and Jim traveling down the Mississippi, wondering what it would be like to float on a leaf raft with Sam on the Rappahannock and what adventures they’d have.
Mo looks to the wrought-iron archway on the other side of the pond. As he stares at the black oracle, his thoughts wander. Would walking through the archway bring him back to the shore of the Rappahannock? Back to raking leaves with Jake and Peter? Or back to sitting on a rock with Dion? Would it bring him back to fishing with his father under Kelly’s Ford Bridge near Tinpot Alley? Back to sharing lunch with Sam separate from his father and the other workers? Or back to the smell of rotting carcasses floating downstream after a flood? He wonders if he could graduate from school here so that he could see his future. For now, he rakes and wonders but does not think he wants to pass through that archway. Not without knowing what he would see from his past.
When lunchtime arrives, King rides to Tony’s Pizza in Griffin’s pickup. There’s nothing Mo can do about that. He peers back, not understanding why Juanito, Theo, and Sprinkles get enough room to line dance in the rear seat of the crew cab while he’s wedged between Flatbush’s biceps and Sarge’s barrel belly up front. Despite the cramped space, driving with the team has its advantages: getting closer to his coworkers; its rituals: the radio loud enough to drown out Sprinkles and his endless chatter; and its challenges: being jostled around while Sarge and Flatbush alternate between jazz and flamenco stations before settling on pop as the truck pulls into the restaurant parking lot.
Once inside, Mo’s surprised to see Langford sitting with Griffin.
Looking up, Langford smiles. “Hello, Mo! Derek invited me to join you guys for lunch. How was your weekend?”
Mo takes a seat next to his friend. “Hi, Mike! It was good. I went on a picnic with Kay and Carlton on Saturday. Then, I went to church with Kay’s family on Sunday.” Mo’s eyes bulge. “Their church is huge. It’s all made of stone. They could probably fit all the wooden churches in Fauquier County inside. Afterwards, I got to watch the game on the giant TV at Kay’s parents’ house. Mr. Thompson really loves the Red Sox.”
“Sounds like you had a wonderful time. Red Sox holding up pretty well?”
Mo taps his fingers on the table. “They’re doing okay. They’ve got a six-game lead, but it was eight last week.”
“It’s great how much baseball you’ve picked up in just a few weeks. You’re such an enthusiastic fan now.” Langford slides a napkin back and forth on the table. “So, are you doing anything Friday night?”
“Not really. I’ll eat at the dining hall while I do my laundry. It’s also payday, so I’ll walk to the store if it’s not raining and buy some baseball cards so I can trade with Trevor.”
Langford’s eyes follow his napkin. “Fun. I’m having a small party with some friends for dinner on Friday night. I was wondering if you’d like to join us. I can pick you up after work, say five thirty, and we can stop by the store on the way so you can buy your baseball cards. Interested?”
Mo rubs his chin. “I’ll have to wash my uniforms Thursday night, but that’s okay. I’d like to meet your friends.”
“I’d like for them to meet you, too.” Scrunching the napkin into a ball, Langford tosses it in the direction of a nearby trash can. “Alright then, I’ll see you Friday.” He doesn’t stay for pizza, apologizing to Griffin for having to leave. Picking up his wayward napkin from the floor, he drops it in the trash, waving to Mo as he exits.
Mo sits undisturbed, watching his fellow workers drink their beer and converse. He’s thankful for his new job, new home, and, most of all, new friends. And he’s curious about Langford’s friends. Will they be like his coworkers? Will they be like his housemates? Will they be like his father’s workers? Will he eat with them or at a different table in a separate room? Will he eat alone, or will Mike eat with him? When the pizza comes, he waits for everyone else to take a slice before he grabs one for himself, hoping Mike’s party isn’t like his housemate’s party last Friday.
Returning home from the Shed at the end of the workday, Mo swings by the Unistructure and collects the mail, finding a letter from Jake. In his bedroom, he tears the envelope open. Once again, there are two documents inside: a letter from Jake and a cutout from the newspaper. He unfolds the letter first:
