In One Fell Swoop, page 27
With only eight hundred inhabitants—sorry, eight hundred and six—there really wasn't much need for Tim to be running anywhere. He wasn't very busy. It was mostly Saturday afternoons or evenings when Johnny or Tom the locksmith, or maybe both of them, got into a fight and he had to split them up. That and then the occasional car crash when Melissa, who ran the post office and delivered the mail, had a little too much to drink and ran into a lamppost or a mailbox. Then he would take her home so she could sleep it off and people would have to wait for her to sober up to get their mail. People usually didn't complain about that. They were good like that in Bushlake. They knew Melissa and weren't in a hurry to get their bills anyway.
"I think I'll probably stick to the usual today," I said and walked outside, where all the townsfolk who had attended the service were thanking Pastor Bryan and talking amongst themselves.
"Do you feel it?" Tim said and put on his hat. He was in uniform so he could go back to work right after lunch.
I was in a black skirt and a pink shirt, trying to dress nicely for church, even though I didn't have to. In a town like Bushlake, it didn't matter much. People mostly wore boots, jeans, flannel shirts, and caps anyway, even in hundred-degree weather, so I could pretty much wear whatever I wanted.
"Yup," I said, knowing he referred to the cooler air we all enjoyed so much at this time of year. "We're gettin' there."
"Thank you, Pastor, great sermon," Tim said and shook Pastor Bryan's hand. "Really made me think."
"Thank you. I’m always glad to see you in the pews, Chief, and God bless," he replied.
It was the same thing they said to each other last week and they would probably say the same next Sunday. That was the way it was. Everything in Bushlake remained the same and nothing ever changed.
Except that day everything did change. And it would never be the same again.
I think I was among the first on Main Street who spotted him. He was walking in the middle of the road, his waders making a squelching sound, water dripping from him, leaving a trail on the asphalt.
Except the water didn't come from him, it came from what he was holding in his arms.
"What the…?" Tim said and walked out into the road.
"That's Rooney," Tom the locksmith said.
"What's he carrying?" Rooney's wife, Joanne said.
"It…It…looks like…" Pastor Bryan never finished his sentence.
Rooney James walked slowly closer and, as he approached us, I realized he was crying. His face was torn in the worst kind of terror and pain I had ever seen.
"What is it? What's going on?" Old Mrs. Hanson said, looking terrified to Tim for answers. They were so used to him having everything under control in this town they couldn't fathom that he might be as shocked as they were.
Rooney was sobbing heavily and loudly. I was biting my lip, fighting my urge to cry as well. The sight of this usually proud and strong man, whom I had never seen lose his temper or even show strong emotion in public, was unbearable. Rooney was an army man. We all knew how life had tricked him and knew he was carrying loads of pain, but he never showed it.
Never.
"What's he holding?" Joanne asked again, this time her voice shivering in horror, only expressing what we all felt in that moment. "What's that in his arms? Can someone please tell me what it is?"
We all could. We all knew, even Joanne did—deep down, but no one spoke; no one said anything. Because we all, like Joanne, hoped and prayed we weren't right, that it wasn't what we thought it was, that the body of the young boy in his arms wasn't who we all knew it was.
A scream from someone in the crowd broke the illusion that maybe it was just a dream or maybe we were just imagining things.
It was the very real scream coming from Mrs. Holley. She was elbowing her way through the crowd and approached Rooney in the middle of the street, her sobs and cries piercing through us all. She stopped and put a hand to her chest, then fell to her knees in front of Rooney.
"NO! JULIAN!!! NO!!!"
Chapter 7
October 2016
I looked to Tim for guidance. But he wasn't moving. Like the rest of the townspeople in the crowd, he stood like he was frozen and stared at Julian's aunt, Mrs. Holley, as she cried and screamed. I, too, felt paralyzed. My feet were heavy and unmovable; my body refused to obey. Tears streamed across my face. Mouths around me were clasped, sobs and cries went through the crowd, eyes were covered, heads turned away.
Nathan, whom I knew was Julian's best friend, stood next to me, hand covering his mouth, clinging onto the shoulder of his father, Mayor Simmons, who was trying to cover his son up with his arms and pulling him away so he wouldn't look.
"Oh, my God," Nathan's mother," Mrs. Simmons exclaimed, in a half-choked cry, her eyes wide and scared. "This can't be!"
Finally, my uncle stepped up and moved ahead in the crowd. I followed right behind him. Faces were turning to look at him, all of them searching for meaning, for order in the chaos, in this moment where their entire world of security, church, and Sunday brunches fell crashing to the ground. My uncle represented just that, just the security and safety they needed. At least, he usually did. In this moment, he seemed to be less of a rock than I was used to. His hands were shaking as he approached Rooney and the boy in his arms. I heard him sob several times, then reach out his hand to pull away Julian's hair to better see his face.
Rooney, lost in tears, held Julian in his strong arms like he never wanted to let go of him again. His heavy sobs made his upper body shake and his arms tremble.
Tim was trying to keep it together but lost the fight to the sobs. He stroked Julian's pale cheek slightly, then cupped his mouth in a wail.
"Oh, no, Julian. What have they done to you?"
Having given Nathan into the comforting hands of his wife, Mayor Simmons approached us from behind. He, too, looked like he was struck by terror, but somehow, he managed to keep his cool somewhat. I heard a trembling in his voice, though, and it almost cracked as he spoke.
"We need to get him away from here," he said. "Take him to the station while we alert the county. We have to call in Dr. Watts. He wasn't in church this morning since he had an emergency call to respond to."
"And you have to tell his family," I said, knowing Julian's family was among the few that didn't attend church like the rest of the town.
Tim nodded and hid a sob with a sniffle. "Yes. We have to talk to Michael and Donna."
"Please," Mayor Simmons said to Rooney and urged him to follow him.
As they walked ahead, the crowd split up to let them through. With heavy steps, Rooney followed the mayor towards the police station across the street from the church. I watched their faces as people took a quick glance at Julian, at his gorgeous, yet lifeless face then gasped and turned their heads, but only to turn them again and stare. Some kept glaring like they couldn't stop.
Even in death, Julian caught people's attention, and they were drawn to him like they had been when he was alive.
He was the boy everyone in town adored and had loved since he was born sixteen years ago. His death changed not only the sense of security we had all had, living in our bubble of small town Bushlake, it also changed the way we looked at each other. No matter who I looked at, what face I stared into, I couldn't escape the thought:
Somewhere among us lurked a monster.
Bushlake, July 2014
Monica,
How are you? I miss you. Can you believe I have turned fourteen? I can't. Donna says I am growing up too fast. I guess she is right. It is going really fast lately. But that's good too, right? I mean that means I am closer to getting out of here. I can't WAIT to leave this town. I am so tired of the people and this small town. I mean everyone knows what everyone is up to. I mean, literally, everyone. There is no room for privacy, none whatsoever. There is no room for a boy like me to live an ordinary life. I can't even blink without the entire school, well, the entire town knowing it. I need space.
Anyway, I hope you're doing well where you're at. You were lucky to get out of town. Except when you left, you took away the only sane person in this town. I can't stand not being able to see you.
I had that dream again last night. That's why I am writing you. It scared me. You know the one where I am running into my backyard, to the old magnolia tree. Did you know it is from the eighteen hundreds or something? Yes, it is. And they used to use it for hanging people. Lynching them. Yak! Kristi told me about it when we were kissing underneath it the other night. Maybe she just wanted to scare me or something. She loves that stuff, but it scares me. Oh, yeah, it was our first kiss. I had snuck out of my window to meet with her, and then we kissed. I really like her; I like hanging out with her, even though she is very immature. Not like you at all. At least I am trying, right? To be normal, I mean.
Anyway, in the dream, I am running into the yard, my feet are bare in the grass, and ants are crawling on my legs, but they don't bite me like they do in real life. They tickle me and I laugh. I sit on the swing, you remember the two swings Donna put up for my sister and me when we were younger, right? Well, I sit on one of them and start to swing. It tickles in my stomach and I can't stop laughing. I feel so warm, but that's usual here in Florida, right? You're so lucky you got to move away, to the ocean, where it is cooler. Okay, back to the dream. It's while I am on the swing that I see him. He is standing in the yard, holding an umbrella. The shade from his umbrella covers his face and I can't see who he is. I can't stop thinking that it is silly to be under an umbrella when the sun is shining and there isn't a cloud in the sky.
The figure is just standing there, even though I yell at him and ask him his name and why he is there. He doesn’t move, but I get the feeling he is watching me. And I get the feeling that he wants something from me. He keeps appearing night after night, just standing there, watching me. What do you think that means?
Anyway, now that I am writing to you about this, it doesn't seem so scary, so maybe it is just me. I am sorry to keep telling you my dreams, but you're the only one who understands how real they are to me, how real they feel. Others might think I am crazy, but who decides what they dream about, right? It feels sometimes like my dreams are taking over me, and then I am afraid I might be going crazy like Delaney. I told you about her, didn't I? She completely lost it and now she lives at the mental institution outside of town. I can't believe what happened to her. She was in my class! Did you know she just disappeared one day? Her parents freaked out completely. Two days later she was found in Minnesota! She had no idea where she had been or how she had gotten there. It was all very strange. They say she went crazy.
Anyway, hope you're doing great. I miss you sooo much and hope you're happy where you're at. Just wanted to say hi, smiles.
Love,
Julian
Chapter 8
October 2016
The Longs lived in one of the oldest houses in Bushlake. It dated back to 1890. Tim once told me it used to be the biggest house in town and that the people that built it used to own all the land surrounding it, and that it used to be an orange farm. Today, the land was all sold and smaller houses surrounded it, but the yard was still big enough to fit three or four more houses.
I had never been inside the old house and it was quite impressive to me as Tim and I walked up towards the entrance. He had asked me to come along. He didn't tell me it was because he was afraid he wouldn't be able to do it alone, but I knew he was worried. He was an emotional man and right now he was a mess. I managed to keep my cool since I had been away for so long; I hardly knew the boy.
The house was very poorly maintained, the white wood dirty in many places, moss and plants were growing on the porch and on the railings. Dirt and dust were everywhere; an old chandelier on the porch had almost rusted away. The yard was completely overgrown; the huge trees with the moss hanging from them like long crooked fingers reaching for you made it look eerie. There was an old burnt out car in the yard, almost rusted away, and old tires that almost disappeared in the high grass.
The wooden steps leading to the porch creaked as we walked on them and a few birds took off from the treetops. One of the windows had plywood in front of it that looked like it had been sitting there for a while. It was obvious it had once been a beautiful house and estate, but many years of no one taking care of it had made it wither and fall apart.
"You ready for this?" My uncle asked me right before he opened the screen door and knocked. I knew he was the one who was worried about having to do this and he was just trying to make himself feel better by worrying about me. I was the one who had experience covering murder cases in Orlando, whereas Tim had never had to deal with anything like this before. Still, he acted like I was the one who needed his help. I let him.
I hadn't seen Michael Long for many years but had heard the rumors about him. Julian's mom left when Julian and his twin sister, Mary, were five years old. Later, Michael married Donna, the owner of Donna's Farmer Supply on Main Street.
It was Donna who opened the door. She was wearing a white T-shirt and looked sleepy, her hair messy and eyes blinking in the bright sun. She looked surprised.
"Chief Boulder?"
Tim took off his hat. His eyes were red from crying. He bowed his head. I could tell he was fighting the tears. Donna looked at me, still in my Sunday clothes.
"Stephanie? What's going on?"
Tim searched for words, but couldn't find them. I had to take over. "Can we come in?"
Fear struck Donna Long's face now as she stepped aside. "O-o-of course. Has something happened? Has one of the kids gotten themselves in trouble?"
"We need to see Michael too," Tim said as we stepped inside and the screen door slammed shut behind us.
"Michael? Uhm…"
I grabbed her shoulder. "It's important, Donna."
"He doesn't usually want people to…you know, see him."
"We know, Donna," Tim said. "But we have to talk to him."
She looked like she wanted to argue, but the look in our eyes told her there was no way around it. "All right, he's in the living room," she said. "On the couch. I have to warn you, though. He's not in good shape."
"We know," I said.
Tim walked ahead of me into the living room. It was dark in there, shutters covering the windows keeping the light out. Donna hurried in front of us and moved a bag of chips and an empty bucket of fried chicken so I wouldn't step on it.
"I'm sorry," she said.
I smiled and nodded and took one more step inside, where I spotted Michael on the couch. It was impossible to say if he was lying down or sitting up. I could hear his heavy breathing and panting, like being on the couch was an effort on its own, which it probably was. As far as I knew, he hadn't left the house in three years. Simply because he couldn't get down the stairs leading from the porch to the yard. It looked like he could hardly get up from the couch anymore and I wondered how long he had been like this. By the smell of it, I guessed it was a very long time. I had heard rumors that Donna washed him with a cloth while he remained on the couch, lifting up the layers of fat to get all the sweat and dirt out. But maybe those were just rumors.
"Michael?" Tim asked and walked in front of him, hat between his hands. I could tell by the sound of his voice he wasn't winning the fight against his tears.
I stood beside him, ready to take over if it got worse.
"Michael?" he said again.
A set of eyes behind the big cheeks finally looked at him. Michael was breathing heavily.
"Tim?"
Michael was Tim's age. They used to be close friends in high school. Tim swallowed hard. He was biting his lip.
"I'm sorry," he said.
Michael stared at him, like he was wondering. His breathing got slowly worse, heavier, more strained. He was soon gasping for air, and I realized Tim didn't need to say more. Michael knew. When he spoke, he didn't scream or yell like others had, but I could tell by his breathing he was highly agitated.
"No," he simply said, hyperventilating, his massive body moving on the couch, the floor creaking underneath it. "No. No. No. Not Julian. Julian?" And then the sobbing began. The couch underneath him sounded like it could split in two any minute. "Noooo. My baby."
A scream came from behind us as Donna fell to her knees. "Noooo! Please, tell me it's not true. It can't be! It can't be!"
"He was found this morning," I said, trying to elaborate, holding tears back myself. Tim had given in to his. "Rooney James found him in the swamps and brought him back."
"NOOOO!" Donna cried.
Michael was sobbing, bouncing his massive body up and down on the couch, which was squeaking and creaking underneath the weight.
A face appeared in the doorway. It was Mary. She was the less fortunate of the two. Where Julian had been the looker, the breathtaking young man that people adored so deeply, Mary was the odd one, the one who was cross-eyed, who was into computers and coding and stuff. I had heard she was very smart and had tested at the high end for giftedness at an early age, but people still looked at her as if she was a little dumb because her social skills weren't like her brother's. She wasn't the popular kid, she wasn't the one that people invited to go drinking in the swamps with the other teenagers, she wasn't a girl the boys liked; she was a loner and a little odd. To be honest, that made me like her better than her brother. Maybe because I myself had always been the odd kid in town, back in my high school days. Not many knew this about me, but I was actually quite skilled with a computer and could hack into almost anywhere. I hardly ever used it, since it was quite illegal, but I could if I needed to.
No one but me noticed Mary and I had a feeling that was the story of her life. Michael and Donna were devoured by their grief; Tim was out of it and unreachable too, so I was the one who approached her and grabbed her hand in mine.
