The shoebox was on the nightstand, just where Trey had left it. Ben stared at it, cold fingers of fear stroking the back of his neck. How had it gotten there? Not by his hand. He’d destroyed the box, he was sure of it.
Maybe you didn’t, he told himself. Maybe you only think you did. But maybe you packed it along with your sweaters and your ties.
He looked at the box again. Maybe he had saved it after all. He glanced at the bedroom door. It was still locked from the inside. No one could have gotten in. But in his dream, it had been open.
Because you imagined it all, he admonished himself. Trey wasn’t here.
He touched the shoebox hesitantly, stroking the surface with his fingers. It was real. He wasn’t imagining it. Turning on the light, he picked the box up and sat in the chair. He held the box in his hands for a long time before removing the top.
Inside were newspaper clippings. They had begun to yellow. Looking at them, Ben felt a sense of dread filling him. He didn’t want to look at them. He’d read them all a thousand times each, trying to make sense of what had happened. He didn’t want to relive that again.
Yet he found himself picking up the first clipping and looking at it. PREP SCHOOL MATH TEACHER ACCUSED OF MOLESTING STUDENT, the headline read. Beneath it, a picture of Trey. Ben read the text, reciting most of it from memory.
A popular math teacher at prestigious Cole Academy was arrested today after a student accused him of making sexual advances during after-school tutoring sessions. Trey Middleman, 33, was picked up by police without incident while exiting the school. His accuser, an unnamed 16-year-old, alleges that Middleman exposed himself and suggested that the boy could receive a passing grade in the class if he performed oral sex on him.
Ben put the clipping down. He knew the rest. The mention of Trey’s “homosexual partner,” the suggestion that there might be more than one “victim,” the quotes from concerned parents expressing their fears that a gay teacher might be preying on their sons.
He knew, too, the name of the unnamed 16-year-old. Peter Ellis Lipton. Pete. He had been one of Trey’s favorite students, a nice kid with a great sense of humor. Then something had changed. Pete had become sullen, withdrawn. His grades had plummeted. Trey discovered that Pete’s parents, stars in the firmament of New York society, were divorcing. He took Pete under his wing, offering to help him with his studies after school.
And then came the accusation of molestation. Trey had been stunned. Of course he hadn’t done it, would never have thought of doing such a thing. But Pete’s father and mother, reuniting for the battle over their son’s innocence, had pulled strings in the DA’s office and ensured that the case was given top priority. Charges were quickly filed, and Trey had found himself facing a lengthy and very public trial.
Ben riffled through the collection of articles, looking for one near the bottom. He knew what those would say as well, in headlines even bigger than the ones announcing Trey’s arrest. He found one and unfolded it. ACCUSED PREP SCHOOL MOLESTER COMMITS SUICIDE.
He didn’t need to read the article. He’d been the one to find Trey, the evening before his first scheduled court appearance. Ben had opened the bathroom door to tell Trey that dinner was ready. He’d found his lover resting in a sea of pink. His wrists, held below the water, had been neatly slashed. The blood had long since drained from his body, and Trey’s head had fallen to one side, resting on his shoulder. The razor blade, a red thread glistening on its edge, sat neatly on the edge of the tub.
There had been no note, no last declaration of innocence or plea for forgiveness. This, more than anything, seemed to enrage those who had already convicted Trey of the crime. It was as if he had robbed them of their rage, taken away their chance to sacrifice him by doing it himself. Even Ben and Trey’s friends hadn’t understood. “Why would he do something like that if he was innocent?” one had asked.
Ben understood why, but he still blamed himself for not saving Trey, for not loving him enough to somehow make facing the ordeal of a trial endurable. If he’d just been a little stronger, he thought, things might have ended differently. Instead, his lover was dead and he was alone with his guilt.
He crumpled the article up and dropped it into the shoebox. Had he really brought the box of memories with him? It didn’t matter. What mattered was that they had returned. But why, he wondered, had Trey told him to remember? Why would he want to stir those ghosts from their graves?
So that you can redeem yourself, a voice in his mind answered. To give you another chance.
Ben looked at the shoebox. That was it. He understood now. He hadn’t been able to save Trey. But perhaps he could save someone else, someone else who was innocent of any crime. Someone Titus Durham wanted to kill.
Chapter Fourteen
“Mr.Hodge? I’m Harris Finch.”
Ben stood and took the officer’s extended hand. He was seated in the police chief’s office, a small room at the rear of the Creaverton police station.
“Can I get you some coffee? A doughnut?”
Ben shook his head. “No, thank you.”
“You said that you have some information about the Paul Mickerley case,” the officer said, sitting down.
“I think I might,” Ben answered. The chief was looking at him expectantly, and suddenly he wasn’t sure that he could tell him what he knew, at least not without editing it somewhat to leave out the more outrageous parts.
“There’s a man,” Ben began. “His name is Titus Durham. I think he might have something to do with the boy’s death.”
Officer Finch wrote something on a pad on his desk. “What makes you think Mr. Durham is involved?”
“He said some things that make me think he is,” said Ben.
“Things?” the officer said. “What kind of things?”
Ben hesitated. “He told me that Paul Mickerley was killed by a man named Wallace Blackwood,” he said. “But Wallace Blackwood died more than twenty years ago.”
“Blackwood,” the chief repeated. “Why does that name sound familiar?”
“It’s the name on the gravestone that Paul Mickerley was found near,” Ben said.
Officer Finch eyed him cooly. “And how would you know that?” he inquired.
“I went there,” said Ben. “Titus told me to.”
“He told you to go to the cemetery?” the officer asked.
Ben nodded.
“May I ask why?”
“I believe he wants to be found out,” Ben said. “I believe he needs help.”
The chief put his pen down. “Mr. Hodge, the graves in that cemetery are nearly two hundred years old. How could Titus Durham have killed someone who was dead centuries before he was even born?”
“He didn’t kill that Wallace Blackwood,” Ben said. “He killed another one, the one who was the librarian in Downing. They must have the same name. I think placing the boy’s body on the grave was supposed to be symbolic.”
“That’s where I know the name from,” the chief said. “Blackwood. Wrote a book about the Downing child murders.”
“Yes,” Ben said, relieved that the officer was connecting his story to actual events and people. “That’s him.”
“You think Mr. Durham murdered Mr. Blackwood?” asked the officer.
“I think he did,” Ben replied. “And I think he murdered Paul Mickerley and put him in that cemetery.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Because he thinks Wallace Blackwood was responsible for the Downing child murders,” said Ben. “He’s obsessed with the idea. I think he killed Paul Mickerley as a way of getting revenge on Blackwood.”
“Revenge?” the officer said. “Revenge for what?”
Ben paused before answering. “I think he was molested by Wallace Blackwood,” he said. “I think this is his way of dealing with what happened to him.”
The chief sat back in his chair and sighed deeply. “Mr. Hodge, do you know how this sounds?”
“Yes,” Ben said. “I do.
But I believe it’s the truth. I think Titus Durham was molested by Wallace Blackwood when he was a boy, and that first he killed Blackwood and now he’s recreating the crimes he thinks Blackwood committed.”
The police officer looked at him without saying anything. Ben met his gaze. If you think this story is unbelievable, you should hear the one Titus gave me, he thought. He tried to imagine what Harris Finch would say if he was told that vampires were mixed up in the case he was investigating.
“Let me ask you something,” Ben said after a minute. “Do you know yet how the boy died?”
The chief hesitated.
“His blood was drained somehow, wasn’t it?” asked Ben.
Finch gave a start. “How did you know about that?” he asked. “Nobody was told that.”
“Titus Durham believes that he’s a vampire,” Ben said, watching the expression on the officer’s face go from one of surprise to one of outright shock.
“There wasn’t a drop of blood in that boy,” said the chief softly. “Not one. The coroner had never seen anything like it.”
“Talk to Titus Durham,” Ben said. “Ask him about it.”
The chief nodded. “I will,” he said. “But I still don’t understand why Durham would tell you any of this.”
Ben shrugged. “I’m new in town,” he said. “He saw me regularly at the library. I think he’s a very disturbed man.”
Finch nodded. “Well, thank you for coming in, Mr. Hodge. I’m sure you and I will be speaking again. I’ll need to get an official statement from you if this leads to anything.”
“You can reach me at the Downing Public Library,” Ben told him as he stood up to go.
“Oh, and Mr. Hodge?”
Ben turned around.
“If you see Mr. Durham before we do, don’t do anything foolish.” It’s too late for that, Ben thought as he walked out of the chief’s office.
He left the police station and got into his car. Once inside, he breathed a sigh of relief. The weight that had been bearing down on him for days had been lifted, at least a little. Now that someone else knew about Titus, Ben didn’t feel all alone. Hopefully the police would deal with the matter quickly and he wouldn’t have to worry about Titus Durham anymore. Then he could get back to starting his new life in Downing.
He drove to the library. What, he wondered, would happen to Titus now? Surely the police would speak to him as soon as possible. But what then? Would he be taken into custody? Would he admit to his crimes? And if he did, what would become of him? The man was clearly insane. What would happen if he told investigators that he was a vampire who needed to sting himself with bees in order to keep from killing?
That’s not your concern, Ben told himself. You did what you had to do. That, at least, was true. And he was proud of himself for doing what he’d done. Maybe if someone had done the same when Pete Lipton had manufactured his lies against Trey, things would have ended very differently. How ironic, Ben thought, that his life had been irreparably changed by a boy whose claims of impropriety were nothing but fantasies designed to get the attention of his parents and now he was helping stop a man whose own mistreatment had led him to abuse others in the most tragic way possible and create even more elaborate fantasies to cover up his actions.
It was one of life’s neat little surprises, he thought bitterly as he parked his car in front of the library and got out. But if he could save another young man from the fate suffered by Paul Mickerley, perhaps it was worth it.
“It’s about time you got here.”
Steven Settles stood up, brushing off the seat of his pants. He’d been sitting on the library steps. “I’ve been waiting forever,” he said dramatically.
“Sorry,” Ben apologized, giving Steven a smile. The sight of the boy cheered him considerably, and he was glad Steven was there. If nothing else, it was a distraction from his more depressing thoughts.
“You were right about Half Magic,” Steven said as Ben unlocked the library doors and they went inside. “I really liked the part where they wished for something exciting to happen and the house caught fire.”
As Steven ran to the children’s room and started browsing the shelves, Ben turned the lights on and went into his office. Sitting on his desk was a Miracle Whip jar. It was filled with bees. They were climbing the sides, crawling over one another as they looked for a way out. Their buzzing filled the room.
“What’s that noise?”
Ben whirled around, half expecting to see Titus standing behind him. Instead, he found Steven there, a book in his hand.
“It’s nothing,” Ben said, putting his hand on the boy’s shoulder and steering him out of the room. “Just some bees that got in through the window. But you need to leave so that I can clear them out.”
“But I haven’t checked out the book,” Steven protested.
“That’s okay,” said Ben. “I trust you.”
He led Steven to the library doors and walked him out. As the two of them stood on the steps, a police car drove by slowly. Ben watched it roll past. As it did, a figure in the back turned and he saw Titus’s face through the glass. He looked directly at Ben and Steven for a moment, and then the car was gone, leaving Ben with the sound of buzzing in his head.
Chapter Fifteen
“How did Wally die?”
Martha Abraham repeated the question that Ben had just asked her. They were seated in the chairs on her screened-in porch, sipping gin and tonic. Beyond the screens, fireflies flickered in the gathering dusk, their lights sparking as they flew among the flowers in Martha’s garden.
“Do you remember?” asked Ben.
Martha gave a little laugh. “Isn’t that funny?” she said. “I can’t say as I do.”
“Was there a funeral?” Ben inquired.
“No,” answered Martha. “Now that you mention it, there wasn’t. I believe his body was sent back to his family.”
“But last time we spoke you said he had no family,” Ben reminded her.
“Well, it was sent somewhere,” said Martha. “I forget where. Why are you suddenly so interested in what happened to Wally?”
“Just curious,” Ben answered. “I’ve been reading his book.”
“Best to let that hour in Downing history rest in peace,” said Martha.
“I understand it was painful,” Ben said. “But I find it interesting.”
Martha took a sip of her gin and tonic before answering. “Curiosity’s what killed the cat,” she said firmly. “It doesn’t do to spend too much time dwelling on such things as what happened here that summer. Look what it did to those boys over in West Memphis.”
“The West Memphis Three?” said Ben. “You mean those teenagers who were convicted of killing the three little boys?”
“They didn’t just kill them,” Martha said, her voice filled with simmering anger. “They sacrificed them. Satanic worship.”
“Actually,” said Ben, “there was no evidence of that at all. In fact, most people believe those boys were innocent and that the father of one of the victims committed the murders.”
“They found Wally’s book at the leader’s house,” Martha countered. “He’d studied it. Underlined whole passages.” She looked at Ben. “They used that book as an instruction manual.”
Ben didn’t reply. Clearly Martha had her opinions on the guilt of the three young men who had been the victims of the West Memphis witch hunt. Arguing with her wasn’t going to help him get any of the answers he was looking for.
“I don’t know why people are so fascinated by evil,” said Martha, sounding less agitated than she had a moment before. “They should turn their backs on it, not study it like a painting, looking for the meaning.”
That’s why you hid all of Wally’s books in the basement, Ben thought. You thought that if you buried them, people would forget.
“Wally was a good man,” said Martha. “But he spent too much time in the dark. I think in the end it’s what killed him.” Her voice had taken on a slight s
lur, as if the alcohol in her drink had finally taken command of her thoughts. Ben looked at her. She was staring out at the yard, a look of sadness on her face.
“I’m thinking of holding a weekly story hour at the library,” Ben said, trying to change the subject. “I’d love it if you would help out. You know, come read to the kids.”
Martha nodded, as if she’d only half heard what he’d said. Ben started to speak again when suddenly a shout broke the silence of the evening.
“Steven!” It was a young man’s voice, loud and annoyed.
His call was joined by that of a woman. “Stevie?” she called, her cry a question instead of a command. “Stevie? Where are you?”
Ben saw two figures approaching the house, walking quickly down the sidewalk. From time to time they stopped and called again, their voices filling the air.
“Who is it?” Martha asked. “Can you see who it is?”
“No,” answered Ben. “Wait here. I’ll go ask.”
He left the porch, the screen door banging shut behind him as he jogged across the lawn toward the two figures. When he reached them, he recognized one as Darren Settles.
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
The woman with Darren turned to him. She appeared distraught, and she looked at Ben with frightened eyes. “Stevie,” she said. “My son.”
“We can’t find him,” Darren clarified. “He went to the store to pick up some milk, and he never came home. That was two hours ago.”
“He probably just got distracted,” Ben said calmly. “I’m sure he’s around somewhere.”
“Stevie always comes right home,” Mrs. Settles said. “He’s a good boy.”
“I know he is,” Ben replied, smiling and patting her arm. “And I’m sure we’ll find him. I’ll help you look.”
He ran back to Martha, who was now standing in the doorway of her porch, watching the proceedings as well as she could in the gloom.