Wish Me from the Water

  Ricky nodded slowly back, understanding immediately that he was right about Tommy. He dropped his head down into his arms on the table, trying to hide his tears. He sniffed and looked up at Tommy nodding again. "Why do you think I quit hockey?"

  Tommy shuffled uncomfortably and acknowledged Ricky.

  "I found my own way out, Tommy."

  Tommy buried his head in his hands and began to weep. Ricky stayed sitting across from Tommy, not sure if Tommy was ever going to stop crying. He wanted to comfort him, but he didn't know how and didn't know if he even should. Tommy eventually stopped and wiped at his runny nose.

  "I had no idea."

  "You believe me then?" Ricky had to ask.

  Tommy raised his head up and down in short bursts. He tried to maintain his composure, but the pain he felt was very clear to Ricky. "If I'd known..."

  "So what now?" Ricky asked.

  Tommy just shook his head and shrugged. Uneasiness wafted down between the two boys. They both felt the awkwardness that spread between them from a topic neither really wanted to discuss openly. Tommy's eyes shifted rapidly about the room. His discomfort was evident.

  "I guess I should be going then. I just thought you should know," Ricky mumbled back through soft tears.

  "No! Don't go. Not yet at least." Tommy sniffled some more and wiped his eyes. He tried hard to regain his composure. "Have you told anyone else?"

  "Just Bobby."

  "Bobby? Bobby knows?"

  Ricky nodded. "He knows. I told him about me."

  "You haven't told anyone else?"

  "No one, Tommy. Never. I'm so ashamed of the whole thing. If it ever got out around town what happened to me, I think I'd probably end up joining Tim. I couldn't..."

  "Shush, Ricky! Don't say that! It's not going to get out. I won't let it!" He paused, deep in thought, and suddenly Tommy's expression changed to one of worry. He put his hand to his lips.

  "So it is true then, about Tim?" Ricky asked. "You knew. He did tell you what happened?"

  Ricky could sense Tommy's thoughts were suddenly very far away as if he was reliving some horrid moment. His eyes crawled over Ricky, leaving Ricky feeling slightly disoriented and uncomfortable.

  "No. I didn't know anything. Tim didn't say anything directly to me but just sort of told me that something was going on. I didn't know what. I didn't understand what he was saying until after."

  "And your parents?" Ricky asked. It was a tough question, but Ricky really wanted to know.

  Tommy just shook his head. "I'm not saying anything about that. Not to you or anybody. You can ask me about other stuff, but not that."

  Ricky wasn't about to let up on what he thought was the truth. "I think it was because of Tim. I know the stories went around all over the news and in the papers about him being bullied to death by Doggie and Willie. It is just a bunch of bullcrap. I know it. And you know it too, Tommy."

  "Ok, Ricky. Just listen to me then." Tommy's distraction remained. "I hear what you're saying, but I want to ask you a question. It is about my dad, if that's okay."

  Ricky sat up straight, amazed by Tommy's change of heart to discuss his parents. "Your dad?"

  "Yeah, my dad. In the therapy office out back, during the extra training he gave you."

  Ricky shuffled in his seat. "Okay. What about him?"

  "Did he… record you at all? I mean the training. You know. Power skating on the fake ice, slap shots, wrist shots, that kind of stuff?"

  Ricky frowned and anger set in. "You know he did, Tommy. And don't just beat around the bush with this stuff. What I think you really want to ask me is if he also had the video recording running when he did the other stuff he did. I tried to forget what he did to me, so I don't know. I can't really remember, and I don't want to."

  "I'm sorry, but I had to ask."

  "Why, Tommy? Why did you have to ask that?" Ricky began to tear up again. "Why do you want to know what he did?" Ricky pushed himself away from the table and stood up. He wiped his tears on the sleeve of his coat.

  "I don't want to know. I don't. Honest. It's just..."

  "Then why'd you ask me? What difference does it make now anyway? What's done is done." He shifted on his feet from side to side. He was uneasy and agitated. "I hated him so much, Tommy, and I'm glad you killed him!" he suddenly shouted. "I'm so glad he's dead!" The mother and son stopped their debate and turned to watch Ricky's outburst.

  "Shh! Sit down, Ricky!" Tommy looked over to the glass. Ricky's eyes followed, and he could see the guard stare in and watch the two closely.

  "I'm leaving now. I just can't do this."

  "Wait!" Tommy called out as Ricky moved to the exit door, tapped on the glass and prompted the guard to open the locked door.

  "Ricky, there's more we need to talk about."

  Ricky turned back and nodded, "I just can't do this anymore today."

  "But you will come back?"

  "I don't know right now. Maybe," Ricky replied and exited the room.

  CHAPTER 29

  Dean stood in the study of the empty Oliver home. The boy's Aunt Meredith had all the furniture and contents packed up and sold weeks ago with the exception of the boys’ personal belongings, which were sent into storage. Cleaning and touch-up crews were readying the house to be sold. The bloody evidence in the hall and study was cleaned away, and the now empty house had a cold, sterile feel to it. Dean's footsteps echoed off the wooden floors and bare walls. The house gave him a chill. Dean thought it was the memory of the horror beset upon this home that eked its way into his bones. It didn't help that the heat was turned down to just warm enough to keep the pipes from freezing.

  There were definitely some pieces of the puzzle missing about the boys’ motives for killed their parents, and Dean was determined to keep digging until he found something. The charges were laid against both Tommy and Jason for first-degree murder. As young offenders, even if convicted, they would do little more than three to five years inside and another three outside under house arrest or at a halfway home. It didn't bother Dean in the least about the sentence the boys would receive. The justice system worked that way in Canada. He only sought the truth regarding why they committed such an act, and he knew he didn't have the truth.

  Dean walked up and set one foot upon the hearth. "Why the hearth?" he questioned aloud. "And why did both of them step up and off?" He set his hand upon the smooth rocks, and he felt the answer lay there in the cold stones. He put his other hand on the rocks and began to feel around. He looked for anything that might have been missed during the original investigation. The rocks were smooth and cleaned of the blood spatter and finger prints. There were no other markings, scuffs or scratches. He wasn't sure what he was looking for, but he again found nothing new.

  Dean strolled about the house and recollected the events of that terrible and long day. He recalled where he was when the call about the murders first came in. "Willie Wahnkman," he whispered. He was in the middle of interrogating Willie about Tim's suicide and the beating he and Doogie administered the evening before. Willie was bad news, but Doogie was much worse. Doogie was destined for time behind bars, and it was likely to be sooner rather than later. He thought about the hype that was in the papers. Tim's suicide was provoked by bullying, and the outcry had spread like wildfire. It made the news in every national paper and in many international news outlets overnight. The news vans were everywhere, and the quiet little town of Bluffington highlighted the evening news all around the world. Another town where bullying had gotten out of hand, and it had ended with another horrific suicide. Many months later, the editorials were still written about this sad, unnecessary suicide with bullying as its root cause.

  The garage and attached physiotherapy office out back were locked up tight. Dean stared out through the kitchen window and tried to imagine one of the boys smashing the headlights and windshield of the BMW wi
th the axe. That was the first act of rage. The evidence showed that the damage was clearly inflicted by the same axe found with the boys in the study. The garage is where the rage started. But why?

  Dean pondered the timelines some more and made a small connection back to Tim. It was just a small link, but it still led back to Tim's suicide. Both boys should not have been home so early from school that day. Tim's suicide occurred early that morning. He believed deeply that the beating and constant physical and emotional abuse from Doogie and Willie prompted Tim’s suicide. But maybe, just maybe, there was more to it. Dean knew there was more tidying up to do on both cases. Did anyone check out the time the boys left school that day? Did any one talk to the boys’ teachers about that day? Were the boys questioned about Tim's suicide in the course of the murder investigation? Dean didn't recall that they were or at least didn't recall seeing any answers along those lines in any of the officers' reports. Could Tim's suicide be the reason they were home early that day? If so, that still didn't explain the rage in the garage or the sudden horror that resulted in the house. Dean pondered the motive once again and dismissed any direct connection to Tim's suicide.

  Maybe it was about the money after all. Maybe after Tim's suicide, the boys thought that this was the perfect time to act. A spur of the moment decision to act at the moment when Tim's suicide would provide some deflection away from their crime. He thought about it some more. He pulled out his note pad and reminded himself to drop by the school in the next few days.

  CHAPTER 30

  An endless consumption of alcohol numbed Gerald as he recovered from rolling his truck three weeks previously. He had taken off work because he was unable to walk after the incident. His ankle was twisted and very swollen, but he had since recovered nicely, regardless of the amount of alcohol he put back each night. Gerald was now able to move about easily with only minor pain, which was more irritating than painful. The swelling had gone down, and Gerald focused his thoughts on what to do next about Sarah.

  Gerald was certainly not finished with Sarah. He was now even more determined to track her down. His little stint in Ratskeller's Bar and the subsequent crash and loss of his truck was just more fuel thrown onto the rage-fire. This was all her fault. The charges laid by the police were her fault too, and he saw this with vivid clarity through the drunken craze he put himself in every night. There was no option but to find Sarah and finish what was necessary.

  It was a Sunday, and there was a cool, dry chill in the house. Another light dusting of snow fell overnight, adding to the many inches of snow that now rested on Gerald's driveway and sidewalks. Gerald had not shovelled since he rolled his truck, but not because his ankle was sore. He simply couldn't be bothered to keep the sidewalk clear for others to walk safely. Christmas was only a few days away and Gerald didn't give a shit about it. "The snow can sit and stay right where it fucking wants until spring for all I care, and Christmas can take a fucking giant leap into my ass!" he thought to himself.

  Gerald finally discovered Sarah's spare set of keys a few days ago, and he knew he would have to drive her vehicle if he wanted to go anywhere. He wouldn't be happy driving Sarah's foreign vehicle, but it would have to do. Gerald hated all foreign vehicles. "Bloody Korean's and Jap's coming over here taking away all of our automotive jobs," was a common Gerald rant.

  Gerald was sober this morning, but the rage that usually only surfaced when he was heavily drunk now seemed to be a semi-permanent state. It lingered just under the surface, ready to break through at the slightest annoyance.

  Gerald grabbed the keys to Sarah's car, slipped on his boots and coat and headed out the front door. Sarah's sister’s house would be a good place to start. He would make a quick drive by, and maybe he would even sit and watch her place for a while. It had been a long time since he was invited out that way, but he was sure he could remember how to get to her place in the south west part of town. He was only out the door a few steps when his neighbour's sixteen-year-old son, who was out to scrape the snow from their drive, looked over at Gerald and offered some advice.

  "You better shovel your walk soon. The city's going to give you a ticket if you don't," young Aaron Phelps said pleasantly. "I saw them go by earlier looking at all the snow on your sidewalk. My mom said that it's the law to keep your sidewalk clear of snow."

  The thin layer of reason that kept Gerald's anger at bay suddenly split open. To Gerald, Aaron’s words sounded like a threat. A devastating eruption of uncontrolled fury released itself within Gerald. He turned sharply towards young Aaron and stomped headlong through the snow until he stood inches away from him.

  "What the fuck did you just say to me?" Gerald shouted at Aaron.

  Aaron's mouth dropped open, and he cowered back a step. He let the shovel slip through his fingers to the ground. He couldn't speak and just shook his head from side to side. He desperately wanted to run away. He pointed to Gerald's sidewalk and forced himself to utter a few more words. "The snow. On your sidewalk," he cried out meekly.

  Gerald snapped out his left hand, grabbed Aaron by his coat and pulled him forward before he could run away.

  Aaron shouted back and tried to free himself from Gerald's grasp. "Let go of me! What's wrong with you?" he shouted, but it was no use. Gerald fist closed tighter, and crushed the fabric tight within his clenched fist. Aaron squirmed and grabbed onto Gerald's hand with both of his hands and tried to break free of Gerald's grip.

  Gerald swung his muscular right arm hard. It caught Aaron in the side of the cheek and nose and knocked Aaron sideways off his feet, while he still held Aaron's coat with his left hand. Aaron screamed out in pain, and pulled his hands up to cover his face in case Gerald took another swing.

  "Don't you ever fuck with me, you little shit!" Gerald shouted. He let go of Aaron, and dropped him to the ground. He turned and stomped through the snow over to Sarah's car and hopped inside. He started the engine and glared with furious anger at Aaron lying in a heap on the snowy ground next door. Gerald was satisfied to see the little bugger writhing on the ground in agony. He deserved it for provoking him. He quickly drove away and left Aaron to get to his knees on his own. Aaron howled in pain, and as Gerald left, a few drops of blood fell on the snow beneath him.

  It wasn't long before Gerald found Carolyn's house. He decided he would stay a while, and parked the car across the street a few doors down so he could watch the front drive of the two story home. He wasn't sure what he was going to do. He studied Carolyn's house, noting especially the Christmas lights and decorations that embellished the house, trees and hedge so abundantly. He felt his anger rise again at the useless waste of time and effort that went into such decorations. He pushed the thought aside. His purpose for being there was very specific. He searched for Sarah, and he was going to find her. He waited and watched. Hours passed as he sat in the cold. He started the vehicle up periodically to get some heat back. The afternoon wore on, and the soft clouds covering the sky soon darkened. Many vehicles came up and down the street, but none stopped at Carolyn's home.

  Gerald put his right hand on his breast to feel through the fabric for something he had completely forgotten about until now. He smiled. He reached his hand into the inside coat pocket and pulled out a Mickey of Whiskey. He often kept one inside his coat pocket these days for occasions such as this. He twisted off the cap and slugged back some of the devil's fever. It felt good, and over the next hour, he pulled out the bottle repeatedly. The burning warmth settled itself deep inside him and brought with it a darkened clarity of his purpose for waiting there.

  It was moments after the Christmas lights came on in the darkness that a black Subaru slowed and pulled into Carolyn's drive. Gerald suspected the lights were on a timer. Gerald sat up, eager to see who would soon step out of the vehicle. Would they be alone?

  The driver's door opened and Gerald was pleased. Carolyn arrived alone. She reached back insid
e the car, pulled out a small bag and closed the door. With some quick energy in her gait, she headed up the steps and inside the house, leaving Gerald to wonder exactly when he should make his move.

  CHAPTER 31

  Nothing new was happening for Tommy and Jason. The Spy Hill routine took over, and the boys politely went along with all the processes and procedures that accompanied nearly every activity. Even going for a whiz in the washroom had its restrictions and routine.

  Christmas was only days away, and although Tommy and Jason both felt that longing to be back, huddled around the fireplace and sipping a hot chocolate with their parents, neither let it show. Family members visited other inmates and eagerly shared exciting tidbits of what was happening back at their homes as Christmas drew even closer.

  The Oliver boys suffered great internal pain. They deeply missed both their mother and father. While the other boys spoke fondly of their memories of this festive time, the conversations awoke memories that the Olivers had tried hard to suppress. Christmas had always been a special time for the Oliver family. The outside activities waned and being together became the focus. It was about sharing quality time over dinner, playing games, watching movies and socializing. That happy image was forever obliterated for Tommy and Jason. The two remained ensconced behind the firewalls they each erected to protect themselves from collapsing in grief and longing for what they lost. Although the boys appeared to be lacking in compassion, a part of each of them accepted the consequence of having to sever memories in order to survive.

  This time was hard for the other inmates who wouldn't be home for Christmas; they each had their own strong attachment to the outside: to home and the hope that everything was alright and was going to still be alright once the time inside was sorted and served. Tommy and Jason could only watch and listen with great angst as the others dreamed of the home to which they would one day return.

  Words of promise and a future from those outside the barbed wire walls never came for Tommy and Jason. They had killed their parents, and other than their counsellors and lawyers, they only had the odd visit from Bobby to look forward to. Even Aunt Meredith kept her word, and she was still hoping they had already begun rotting in hell.