These Truths

Jake followed Donnell's silver S-Class Mercedes a few miles up the road, towards Burlwood, to a small restaurant called Uncle Jim's Pancake House. He assumed Donnell hadn't sought this particular establishment out, he had simply driven until they were clear of Garthby's Main Street district and then pulled off at the first quiet, backwoods looking diner he spotted.

  This place looked like home, looked like their childhood. Stopping there was like making a symbolic return to innocence, a return to a time and place they had occupied before plunging themselves headlong into adulthood. A time before they dove into the rat race, so eager to take the world by storm and leave Burlwood Meadows behind them.

  In their hearts and minds, both of them wished they could wind back the hands of time... wished they could return literally instead of symbolically to where it all began. Each of them longed for an opportunity to do things just a bit differently than they had, but each for distinctly different reasons. For Donnell, the wish was born of guilt and shame at the things he had done to claw his way out of the gutter, into a better life. Born of regret of the means, even if they justified the end. For Jake, the wish was born of confusion alone. Confusion about where things had gone so wrong, why things that started out so purely had become so tarnished as to be unrecognizable to him now.

  A bell mounted over the door announced their arrival when they stepped inside, a sweet aroma of cheap coffee and high fructose corn syrup masquerading as maple greeting them and calling them to sit. Bacon grease popped and crackled in the open kitchen behind a stool-lined counter, egg whites wheezed and bubbled on a hot plate and grungy looking cooks dipped bread in bowls of batter then sprinkled cinnamon recklessly. The air was full of smoke, the blue-haired patrons all around the place puffing madly on sticks of cancer as they sipped from dark brown mugs with spoons swiveling around the rims.

  All of the pressure and stress melted off their backs as they inhaled the calm air, air that was free of the madness and desperation that permeate the very stratosphere of any metropolis under the sun. Casting their burdens aside like Atlas simply stepping away and standing erect, they chose a booth in the far corner of the diner, as far from the heat of the kitchen as they could get. Jake assumed the seat facing the door, as was his routine, and they settled in the comfort of the plushly padded booth. The tabletop was grimy, sticky with the residue of syrup wiped away with filthy wet rags, leaving the stink of lemon disinfectant and mildew behind.

  Donnell rolled his head around his shoulders, cracking his neck and releasing all the tension of the day, of the week, of the years he had spent living amongst people he did not know and could not identify with. He had been a stranger in a strange land for many moons, but he sat now -- upon torn pleather mended with duct tape -- as the prodigal son returning home, at long last. He melted in repentance into the welcoming embrace of the country, melted and begged forgiveness for having stayed away so long.

  Jake was almost absorbed as well, but as he teetered on the precipice of peace, the balance was disturbed by the appearance of their waitress. The girl sauntered up with natural seduction, a force she was probably apt to wield but which occurred organically, whether she was trying to apply it or not. Her nametag read Nikki, and immediately the voice of Prince was in Jake's ear.

  Met her in a hotel lobby, masturbating in a magazine.

  Prince's description of his Darling fit her perfectly, as did the tight top and skinny jeans she wore underneath the faded white apron, emblazened with Uncle Jim's near her left breast. If asked to describe the girl, Jake's breathless response would've been that she looked like sex... like a connoisseur of it in all of its forms, like a master of it and all of its techniques, like an experienced practitioner who had been around the block and had cul-de-sacs scattered along it named in her honor. She looked like a girl who knew sex well, who thrived on it and sought it out with every breath she drew.

  She was young, maybe old enough to buy herself a beer, which she would never have to do because there would always be some drooling man nearby with a rock hard cock begging to buy it for her. She was petite, maybe 5'2" and an ounce or two over a hundred pounds, if she wet her long black hair and wore heavy shoes, that is.

  Despite her apparent frailty, her body was curvy and an hourglass to perfection. Her perky, firm breasts were obvious but not obtrusive, her waist bold but not overstated, and her juicy little ass -- well, it was equally perfect. Her legs were thin as toothpicks with a wide clearance between them, surely more than adequate spacing to allow for the mounting of any man's saddle, upon which she could ride comfortably and sink in with ease.

  Her face was china-doll white, the skin upon it clear and free of defects. Perfectly applied eye-liner, shadow and mascara accentuated her almost inhumanly smoke colored eyes. She wore just the right amount of blush too, and her luscious lips glistened in a brilliant and glossy red that cried out to be sucked.

  As she approached, menus in hand, she met Jake's gaze and was as visibly rocked in locking eyes with him as he was in seeing her. She stalled mid-stride, a smile she probably greeted any old customer with collapsing on itself and transforming to a gaping awe. The look did wonders for Jake's ego. He knew he was blessed to be an attractive man, but for his appearance to have such a profound effect on someone was still something he couldn't quite wrap his mind around. Nikki was probably used to the roles being reversed -- was probably more accustomed to being the subject of prying eyes than she was being the one doing the prying.

  They exchanged all the secrets of their souls in the moments that they spent with their pupils fully engaged, sharing a spectacular osmotic symbiosis beyond anything he had ever experienced in all the days of his life. He felt her tenderness, felt her passion, felt her lust... felt everything that lived inside her, including -- to his surprise -- a deep and profound intelligence that one wouldn't necessarily expect to find dwelling within a shell that seemed more suited to embracing the pleasures of the flesh than those that could be shared with the mind.

  On the surface, she was shallow. Vain, promiscuous, desperate for attention and affection. Underneath that armor -- that facade -- though, he saw a glimmer of something else all together. Something that he recognized at once. It was a glimmer of understanding... of insight and introspection. A sign that, beneath the mask of sexuality and sleaziness that she wore, she was a highly cerebral creature.

  She was the type that would be stimulated just as deeply by the recited verses of Rumi as she would by a practiced hand gently massaging her clitoris. It was more the former that appealed to him than the latter... though the latter wasn't without its charm.

  Perhaps subconsciously, perhaps intentionally and provocatively, she licked and bit her lower lip. In all likelihood, he figured, this was the side of her that she found most men responded to. It was the ice breaker, the sizzle as opposed to the steak. Most men probably didn't care about the steak at all, that's what it usually boils down to. He wasn't most men, though, not now -- perhaps not ever. If she was absorbing as much of him in their encounter as he was of her, she should've sensed that. The fact that she didn't was a bit disappointing, but he couldn't blame her for defaulting to the lowest common denominator. For succumbing to the standards of society at large, trying to conform to the basic rules of the game, as it's played by most.

  The intensity of her stare and the disappointment in her falling back on physicality jarred Jake into looking away -- into looking toward Donnell. In the corner of his eye, though, he could see her gray pupils scanning down the length of his torso and then further along. Undressing him with her eyes, tracing his form and feeling him up. Suddenly, his left hand was ablaze as her fiery eyes locked on it where it sat atop the table. She was examining it, studying each finger and probably wondering if they were trained and practiced in that secondary stimulation. Eventually, her focus settled on the titanium band he wore to signify his commitment to Tracy Swete and his family.

  Feeling her
dismay at discovering it, realizing that there wasn't much purpose in his wearing it, given the events of late, he snatched both his hands from the sticky table and placed them on his lap -- where things were stirring... things that hadn't stirred at the sight of a woman other than his wife for many years, things that hadn't stirred at all at the sight or thought of anything as of late. Things that certainly hadn't stirred when that chubby woman with the baggie ran her hands across his flesh less than thirty-six hours ago.

  He was embarrassed, was disgusted with himself for having such feelings in thinking of a woman that wasn't Tracy. He had been hers and hers alone, in body and in spirit, since the two of them became one for the first time when they were just sixteen years old. She had been his first, his one and only, and he was proud of that fact. His eyes had wandered occasionally, sure, but never his mind -- never his body. They were soul mates, that had never been in question. They were destined for each other, drawn together and held that way, without remorse or regret, for eighteen years. The thought that all of that was over still hadn't sunk in entirely, and the idea that he should be sitting here -- in a ratty diner -- with a throbbing erection brought on by what amounted to a girl -- one at least eleven years his junior -- was something he just couldn't allow himself to accept. Ashamed of himself, he tried to think of anything he could say to spark a conversation with Donnell. Thankfully, it looked as though he was oblivious to all that was happening, was probably still mulling over the case, which is what they needed to be doing anyway.

  Nikki either registered his discomfort or had become uncomfortable herself for one reason or another, so she seemed to clear her mind and simply strolled to the table, placing the menus down in front of them before reciting the script that she was trained to deliver.

  "Welcome to Uncle Jim's!" she declared in a warm, unintentionally sultry voice. "My name is Nikki, I'll be taking care of you today! What can I get the two of you to drink?"

  "Coffee," Donnell answered swiftly, hardly looking up at the girl and taking no notice of her raw appeal.

  Jake's mind called for a Jack and Coke, his system longing for and missing the influence of the liquor on which it had become dependent in days past. Realizing that this wasn't the time nor the place for such indulgences, that alcohol probably wasn't on the menu anyway, he simply muttered water with no further acknowledgment of the succubus or her charms. She moved away just as casually, Jake's body tense with desire and fighting the temptation to look and study her backside as she went. Overcome with lust and feeling the lack of sleep catching up, he buried his face in his hands and rubbed as though to coax another couple of hours out of his reserve.

  "So," he said, pushing aside the fantasies that tried to hijack his barely rolling train of thought. "Let's talk about how we're going to do this."

  Donnell sighed again, exhaling the last of his pent-up frustration with the fast-paced world of city life. "Before we get into that, Jake, there's something I need to say."

  Jake pulled his face from his palms, lowering them slowly and folding his arms on the table top, the ring he still wore clicking against it.

  "Yeah, shoot," he said.

  Donnell took a breath, long, deep and contemplative before continuing. "When we talked on the phone yesterday, you tried to apologize for what happened last time... for what happened between the two of us. That was wrong -- it's not you who needs to apologize."

  "Oh, Donnell," he objected, "let's just leave that --"

  "No, no," Donnell replied, fanning in full force. "We can't -- I can't just let it sit, not anymore. It's been on my shoulders for almost twenty years, Jake. The memory of that day... the memory of her face... it took up permanent residence in my head, man, I see it every fuckin' time I close my eyes!"

  Jake just stared at him, reluctant to rip off an old scab. Reluctant to open that musty volume of tattered parchment and look upon the words written inside. It seemed important to Donnell, though, so he knew he would have to endure it -- if only for the sake of his friend's peace of mind.

  "It wasn't your fault, Donnell," he said. "It was bound to happen -- had almost happened before you got involved. If not you, it would've been someone else... could've been anyone, had nothing to do with you specifically."

  Donnell's head snapped back, his eyes darting up to the ceiling and burning through the fiberboard like x-rays to expose the heavens and whomever or whatever resides above the clouds. It looked as though he were begging the sky for words... begging for the proper verbiage to articulate his sorrow. To Jake's surprise, a single tear spilled out and plunged dramatically down his cheek. He cleared his throat, choking back suppressed emotion in an attempt to maintain his dignity as he spoke.

  "But it was me, Jake." he said simply. "I was there, I was doing what I did, and I played my part."

  "You don't have to do this, Don."

  A tear fell from the other eye, now, which was one more than he could allow to show through. He wiped the both of them clean, sniffling once -- and only once -- reasserting his control and looking deep into the soul of his friend.

  "I'm sorry, Jake." he declared. "I wish I could take it back... I wish I could take everything about it back -- but I can't."

  Jake raised his eyebrows and they hung high, memories swirling, swirling. Frozen there, he let them remain fixed as he shook his head solemnly. "The genie never wants to go back into the bottle, Donnell." he said, reflecting. "I've let a few of them out myself, I know how it goes. I don't blame you, brother, I really don't. I did at first, it was my first instinct to blame you -- but I didn't know shit back then... didn't know shit about life, didn't know shit about struggle, didn't know shit about what it means to be desperate... to be backed into a corner. We're all just products of our environment -- you, me, Rambo, Chucky -- every one of us. We're just the sum of all our parts. In your shoes, I probably would've done the same things you did... and look what you turned it all into, Donnell, you took a shitty hand and made it pay out in spades."

  Donnell considered this, saw the logic in it, it did make sense. There was no absolution in it, though, no justification for what went down... but there was understanding, and perhaps that was the best that a man in his position could ever hope for. Still swimming in regret, still caught up in the undertow and drowning, he closed his eyes with the hope of seeing something new behind their lids. Nothing had changed, however, and he knew to desire any change, to see anything different, was to make a wish that Jake's genies would never see fit to grant him.

  "Thank you, Darkwing," he answered, grateful for the gesture despite the lack of resolution it provided. "Your mom would be proud of what you've done with your hand, too -- I know she would. She was a good woman, Jake... I'm sorry for the part I played in what happened, for my role in the events that took her away from you."

  This time, it was Jake who closed his eyes. He sought no comfort in the darkness, no change in his perception -- and there would certainly be no tears, that well was just as dry now as it had been during his final flight from Tracy. For him, it was simply an escape... simply a cop out. If Donnell only knew the state his life was in -- if he only knew of the turmoil... he didn't, though... and he didn't need to.

  "She took herself away, Donnell," he said. "She just used you to help her."

  Nikki brought the conversation to an abrupt end when she appeared with one of Uncle Jim's brown mugs and a translucent plastic amber cup of water.

  "Do you take cream?" she asked, clutching a flask of half-and-half in her hand.

  "No," Donnell answered. "I like it black, like me!"

  This made Nikki chuckle, and her laugh was as angelic as her smile. "How 'bout you, honey?" she asked Jake. "Would you like a lemon for that?"

  Jake shook his head, refusing to meet her eyes again for fear of getting lost inside them, as he nearly had before. She asked if they were ready to order, which brought the realization that neither of them had so much as opened their menus.
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  A creature of habit, Donnell simply asked if they served reubens, which they did. He ordered two, putting Jake on the spot to decide what would fuel his body for the remainder of the day. He settled on three eggs, sunny side up, with white toast and hash browns. Nikki asked if he'd like bacon or sausage links for only a dollar more, so he took the bait and specified that he liked his bacon soggy. She nodded silently, apparently deciding that the favor of his dismissive attitude toward her should be returned in kind. Once she'd sauntered away again, the conversation turned to the more pressing matter at hand.

  "Where do we go from here?" Jake asked, his own ideas already in mind. "How do you figure we should go about this?"

  Donnell gazed into his coffee, trying to scry something in the blackness of its depth. The image that came to him was of the Dodge van -- the vehicle labeled Our Mother Of Sorrows in sun faded blue lettering. The answers they sought lie in the physical evidence that could be recovered from inside... the finger prints upon the steering wheel, the stains of blood and tissue cast off by the potentially unwilling passenger, the secret of where it sat in wait and who had put it there, the things they could infer from determining where it had been stashed.

  "Find the van," he answered plainly. "If we find the van, we find the answers."

  Jake nodded, this had occurred to him too. He had a few notions, a few suspicions in regard to where it could be hiding. "If it's gone, though," he propositioned. "If it's been -- disposed of..."

  Donnell considered, calculated. "Without it, without what we could find in it, we might have to rely on tying Billy's death to the deaths of the boys who came before him. I mean, Chucky was just a kid when the others were killed... no one would believe that he was some kind of Michael Myers, racking up a body count when he was no more than a little boy himself."

  Jake agreed. If he could link Billy Marsh's death to that of Gary Duncan... of Joshua Banks, Nathan Dawson, Kirk Wade and all the rest... if he could prove that The Butcher was back on the prowl, that he had returned to continue his reign, that would all but exonerate Ron Boudreaux's chosen fall guy of the more recent crime. There were likely similarities between the way in which Billy Marsh was dispatched and that of the boys who proceeded him in death, there were certainly similarities in how his remains were discovered. Some basic link was evident in the limited details he gleaned from Donnell's recounting of the facts that Louie Rambo had relayed to him.

  The autopsy reports would reveal more, perhaps enough to seal the deal if the stars and planets were aligned just right. Donnell held some of those answers in the packet given him by Rambo -- a packet that would require much scrutiny in the hours and days to come.

  "Make sure you get those papers scanned and sent to me ASAP," he said. "I'll dig into them as soon as I get them, perhaps consult with Clyde Rambo about them."

  "Yeah," Donnell concurred, "I'm sure he had his thoughts about the identity of The Butcher, and we know what his relationship with Ron Boudreaux was like... I'm sure he's not intimidated or a subject to the tyranny of the man, if I know old Sheriff Rambo at all."

  "I guess that's the foundation, then," Jake surmised. "Look for the van, find the link that relates Billy Marsh to all the others... figure out who was stalking the cradle back in the day, and put this one on his ass just the same."

  "If we can get that done, we're home free," Donnell concluded. "Sounds easy to sit here talking about it, but I doubt it will be that way in practice."

  Jake shrugged. "Well, I'm game. With the two of us working together, I'm sure we can run the table pretty quickly. I'll work the van, you get on the old cases and --"

  "Wait, wait, wait," Donnell interrupted. "Jake -- you don't think I can stay here, do you?" he asked, perplexed. "I mean, we're not little kids with nothing better to do anymore, you know that, right? You know I can only help from afar this time?"

  "But --" he began, confused. "I thought that's why we came? I thought we were here to clear Chucky, to figure out what we couldn't back when we were kids? What do you mean you can only help from afar?"

  Donnell shook his head as he said "It's not like it was before, man! I'm not on the run from my parent's trailer, free of responsibilities and eager to get out of the house! I have a practice, Darkwing, a heavy load of cases pending -- a bunch of people counting on me to help them out just the same as Chucky. I came here to represent the man -- pro bono, no less. That's gonna be tough as it is, putting time in for nothing at all... I've got bills, man! That's all I can commit to do, to represent him! I can't go galavanting around Burlwood, digging into shit like it's nineteen ninety three and I'm a twelve year old Launchpad McQuack who doesn't have obligations and children to raise! I mean, I'm here to help you out -- I want to help you out -- and I'll do what I can... but I have to do it while living the rest of my life, I can't just turn my back on everything else and dive right in!"

  Jake seemed dissapointed -- was disappointed. He had hoped to take the town by storm, the Burlwood Boys -- reunited and coming to the defense of one of their own. He was supposed to be the leader, the one to call the shots just as before -- not to be a solo act. He expected more of Launchpad, expected a full partner in this affair. The revelation that this wasn't in the cards changed things... made things that much more difficult.

  Let down as he was, he understood Donnell's plight. The fact that he, Darkwing, had no irons in the fire -- had no greater calling beyond double indemnity -- didn't mean that everyone else's circumstances were the same as they had been so long ago. Launchpad had a career, so did Louie Rambo... Chucky was in bondage and Timmy Lane -- well... Timmy was indisposed.

  There was no Burlwood Boys anymore, that team was now defunct. There was only him... there would be only him. He would bear the full weight of the cross. He would have to shoot the moon, to go it alone and hope he held enough trump to turn the tricks. He held neither of the bowers, no one to his left or right anymore. There was no partner across the table, no table talk to make in earnest whispers, no signals to be flashed in inconspicuous hand gestures. It was Jake Gigu?re against the world -- against Ron Boudreaux, against The Butcher... against the odds, and against time itself.

  When was the insurance premium due? Tracy didn't even know about the policy, she wouldn't pay the bill, wouldn't receive a paper statement anyway.

  How long was the grace period?

  When did double indemnity lapse, how long could he dedicate to this solo venture?

  The food arrived, Nikki delivering it with loaded arms and suggesting that they enjoy.

  How could they enjoy?

  How could he enjoy? He wasn't capable of enjoying, not anymore... not like before, not now... not ever again. That ship had sailed... oh merciful Lord, that ship had sailed and gone away.

  They ate in abject silence, Donnell certainly realizing that Jake was disappointed... was angry at him for speaking his peace, for speaking the truth as it was in this time and place. When they finished, Donnell paid the tab. As a token of appreciation, Jake insisted on covering the tip. Feeling guilty for having essentially ignored Nikki after their initial exchange, he left a healthy twenty-eight percent -- just to prove he wasn't a total and unconditional dick.

  Three hundred and fifty seven dollars, that was the figure he was left to contemplate. Three hundred and fifty seven dollars to cover the rest of his expenses... not a good look.

  Wishing Donnell well and reminding him to scan and send the packet from Rambo as soon as he could, he climbed into his Malibu and drove back to the Best Western. He was feeling the strain of over thirty hours without sleep on the heels of a dreadful hangover, so he collapsed directly into the foreign queen sized mattress once inside the room.

  The emptiness of the space to his right weighed heavily on him as he lay there, much more so than he would've expected. He'd slept alone before, in hotels much like this one, when a long-distance case took him far from home for a night or two here and
there. The vacancy beside him hadn't seemed so big a deal back then, perhaps because he knew it was only temporary... that Tracy would be at his side, draped across his naked body, when his business was concluded and he found himself back in the familiar comfort of the luxurious colonial ranch they shared between them.

  Knowing now that he would never feel the plush memory foam of their King Koil Supreme beneath his back again tugged at the strings of his fatigued heart. Knowing that he would never feel Tracy's warm breasts pressed against his chest made him want to throw in the towel immediately, with extreme prejudice.

  How am I supposed to live without you, now that I've been loving you so long? How am I supposed to carry on, when all that I've been living for is gone?

  He had no answers, no plan in mind for that... he had no desire to consider it, no desire to acknowledge that her intent to leave him was real and true. It was a published and filed fact, though, spelled out in plain English on the petition for divorce he had crumpled and pitched into his backseat.

  Irreconcilable differences... that's what stood between them. That blanket excuse, that one size fits all complaint. Irreconcilable differences and double indemnity... a marriage made in heaven, a perfect pair, perfect pattern.

  Expelling those thoughts from his mind, he reminisced about the moment he shared with Nikki. Trying to feel the comfort and longing he caught a glimpse of, tasted a sample of in her gray eyes. When he brought it all back to the surface, he allowed himself to imagine her sprawled out beside him. As things started to stir, as blood started to flow, he briefly considered masturbating. There was no time for that, though, no energy to see it through. In all the hate he felt for himself, now, he had lost sight of even the most primal urge... even the most basic desire... even the most natural instinct to partake in physical pleasure, the motivation to jack himself off and achieve a measure of spiritual release.

  He didn't deserve it anyway...

  He went to sleep instead, and his sleep was filled with the dreams of better days gone by... of a time when Tracy Swete still loved him, still cared about him -- still wanted him.

 

  FIFTEEN

  Ricky Marshall

  April 3rd, 1993, 4:00PM.

  Burlwood, Indiana

  The civic center was filled beyond capacity with a good percentage of the three thousand residents of Burlwood Township gathered there, called to an emergency meeting organized by Sheriff Clyde Rambo. The auditorium they crowded into generally received only a dozen or so diehard denizens for the quarterly meeting of the township board of trustees. It was not designed to host, nor prepared to accommodate, the number of people that turned out to hear from the Sheriff this evening.

  Volunteers and Deputy Boudreaux raced to keep up with the crowd, bringing in folding chairs, constantly feeding a popcorn machine and mixing batches of orange drink to fill almost perpetually empty dispensers. Bagels and donuts donated by a local bakery had long since been exhausted, leaving only dwindling sleeves of Chips Ahoy and the small sacks of popcorn to compliment the libation being sucked down by the masses.

  Darkwing, Launchpad and Chucky were there, hanging out in the back corner of the room with Timmy Lane, their new friend. Louie Rambo was there too, wandering around trying to acclimate and familiarize himself with his new community. His mother, who raised him in Ohio, had recently decided she didn't want to be a single parent anymore. Resolving to change her life, she had flown the coop and moved to California -- dropping Louie off with his overworked father and vowing never to return to claim him. He was ten, just two years younger than Jake and Donnell, the same age as Timmy.

  Eager to assimilate, he lingered around the boys and tried to hear what they were saying. They were wary of him, at first, because he was the new kid on the block and was unfamiliar to them. They didn't know who he was, weren't aware that he was Sheriff Rambo's son. Shy and feeling isolated, he listened to them from a distance.

  "I think we should look in Booger Woods," the older looking of two blackhaired boys suggested. "Since he was swimming at the trailer park pool when he went missing."

  "That's fuckin' dumb," a black kid replied. "Why would The Butcher hang around the place where he took him from, knowing people would be looking for him? He would take him somewhere farther away! We should look around the horse track or down Main Street, that would make more sense."

  "I'm not going in Booger Woods, guys! I told you I won't go in there!" the oldest looking one insisted, his voice a little slurred. "And the track is too far away, how would we get there?"

  Listening intently, Louie wondered if the boys were making plans to look for Ricky Marshall. Surely, they knew that the police were on the case -- that his dad was on the case. Why would they look for him when the police were already doing it? How could they possibly help? The police were grownups and had all of the resources and information that was available -- these kids didn't. There was also a new dog, one who was specially trained to smell for dead bodies. A cadaver dog, that had already done its job for the missing boy.

  The idea that a group of kids could investigate a murder or a kidnapping was crazy to Louie. They didn't know what they were doing, didn't have any experience or training to know how to do it... but boy, did it sound like fun!

  "Are you guys talking about Ricky Marshall?" he asked shyly, keeping his distance.

  The boys all stopped talking and looked at him, examining him. For a moment, no one said anything. He wasn't sure whether that was because they were irritated that he interrupted their conversation, or if they just thought he wasn't cool enough to be a part of their group and planned to simply ignore him altogether.

  "Yeah," the older black haired one finally answered. "Why?"

  "He's dead," Louie declared plainly. "My daddy found his body, it was in a culvert off Route 4 -- up by the butcher shop."

  "Is that what that smell was?" the youngest one with black hair asked. "We smelled it this morning, when my dad and I opened the shop. It smelled awful! We thought somebody ran over a raccoon or something and left it by the road to rot."

  "My dad says it hadn't been there for long, it was probably put there sometime last night." Little Rambo explained.

  The group went silent, as though they were trying to solve a riddle in something he said. They looked to the older black haired one, the one that seemed to be the leader, and waited to see if he would ask the question they were all considering.

  "Who is your dad?" the boy eventually asked.

  "Clyde Rambo," Louie answered, proud to declare it.

  "Sheriff Rambo is your dad?" the black kid asked. "Oh shit, that's cool!"

  Suddenly, the group warmed up to him. They were excited to meet the son of a police officer, the son of Rambo. Smiling, they introduced themselves.

  The leader said his name was Jacob, but that everyone called him by his nickname, which was Darkwing. The black one, who looked about the same age as Darkwing, was named Donnell. His nickname was Launchpad, but he insisted that Louie should not call him that. The youngest one, who looked a little like Darkwing, said he was Timmy Lane -- the son of the man who owned the butcher shop. He explained that the boys called him Drake, which was the real name of Darkwing Duck on the Darkwing Duck show.

  The fourth boy, the one who seemed to be the oldest, looked a little strange to Louie. There was something about his face and eyes that made him seem -- defective. Louie figured that was why he wasn't the leader, since it's usually the oldest member of a group that takes command.

  Louie looked at him, waited for him to introduce himself as well, but he just stood there seeming shy and nervous. Darkwing spoke up and said that his name was Chucky, and that he was sometimes scared of strangers -- but would be friendly, once he felt more comfortable.

  "We call ourselves The Burlwood Boys," Darkwing said. "We're kind of a club, I guess."

  "A club that investigates things that a
re speficious!" Chucky blurted out.

  Launchpad shook his head and covered his face with his hands, as though he were embarrassed.

  "He means suspicious," Darkwing explained.

  "So -- what?" Louie asked. "You guys search the town and try to figure out who The Butcher is?"

  "The butcher is my dad, silly," Timmy laughed. "We try to figure out who the killer is... try to find clues and put them all together."

  "That sounds like fun!" Rambo added. "Can I join?"

  The Burlwood Boys looked at each other, checking with one another to see if adding a new member was a good idea. After a bit of whispering, they turned to Darkwing for his decision.

  "If you want to!" he said enthusiastically. "We could use someone who knows a real cop -- who can give us information we don't already have!"

  "Great!" Louie exclaimed in celebration.

  "We'll have to get you a nickname," Chucky said. "Do you have any idea what kind of nickname you might like?

  "Well, I dunno..." Louie said. "I've never really thought about it."

  Darkwing asked what his real name was, suggesting that they might choose something with the same initial or basic sound. When Rambo told them it was Louie, Chucky's face lit up.

  "Cool!" he exclaimed. "That's just like Scrooge McDuck's nephew! There are three of them, they're called Huey, Dewey and Louie! That's what his nickname should be -- Louie! Like Louie McDuck!"

  That seemed odd to young Rambo... the idea that his nickname would just be his real name. Nobody else seemed to have any other suggestions, though, so he accepted it at face value and simply said sure.

  "Awesome!" Timmy -- or Drake, actually -- added. "Now that Louie's in the club, we'll be able to know everything the police know!"

  "Well," Louie replied, "probably not everything. My dad doesn't talk about work a lot, only when he's giving me advice on how to stay safe. I'll tell you anything he does say, though... that will help us investigate."

  Chucky looked like he was thinking, looked disturbed about whatever it was that he was considering. When he finally summoned the courage to ask, his voice was raised with fear. "Was Ricky all torn to pieces too? Like Gary Duncan, Joshua Banks, Nathan Dawson and Kirk Wade?"

  Louie lowered his head, knowing what he was going to say was bad. "Yes, he was," he explained. "And he was sodomized, too... just like all the other kids."

  There was another moment of silence, the Burlwood Boys looking at each other, puzzled. None of them had ever heard the word sodomized before, except for Jacob. He heard it when the news reporter was outside Booger Woods after they found Joshua Banks, and also on the TV every time a new body was found. He didn't know what it meant, though, he just assumed it was a word used to describe that someone had been murdered and cut into little pieces.

  Louie hadn't known what it meant when his father first said it, either. He explained that he couldn't play outside alone because there was a maniac on the loose that kidnaps, sodomizes and kills little boys.

  When Louie asked what that word meant -- what being sodomized was -- his father blushed. He explained it gingerly, not in too much detail... just enough to make Louie understand.

  "I don't get it," Launchpad said, breaking the silence. "What does being sodomized mean?"

  Louie felt a blush come over him, just like his father had, and tried to recall the words as they were told to him, "It means..." he began, hoping no grownups would hear him say something he shouldn't. "It means somebody had butt sex with him."

  The other boys flinched when he said it, with the exception of Timmy. His dad hadn't told him about the birds and the bees yet, so he had no idea what sex was at all. The other boys, the ones who did know what sex was, were surprised to find out that it could be done that way... that a boy could do it with another boy, and that it would involve someone's butt. It was a new concept, a disgusting idea that they had never considered.

  To think that The Butcher wasn't just killing children -- to think that he was having butt sex with them too -- made them all feel a little sick. It was a new dimension to add to the nightmares that already plagued their sleep at night. Being caught by The Butcher was no longer just a sentence of death and dismemberment... it was something more. Something disturbing, something beyond anything else they ever imagined. This made their fear even greater, made the threat of being a victim even more horrific.

  Rocked with this new knowledge, the group went silent completely -- each of them processing things in their own way. The conversation died like Ricky Marshall had, like all of the others had as a result. Darkwing was the first to walk off, heading toward the refreshment table for a drink to rinse the bitter taste of new ideas from his mouth. The others followed, and when they arrived Deputy Ron was filling the Gatorade cooler with the latest batch of orange drink. They fell into a single file line and each took a small paper cup to fill from the spigot.

  Darkwing would be the first to have his chance, just as soon as a blonde girl in front of him was finished. When she had taken as much as she wanted, she turned to see who had come up behind her.

  Jacob felt butterflies dancing in his stomach when he realized it was Tracy Swete, and the butterflies danced a jig when she swiveled around and met him with her beautiful sapphire blue eyes.

  "Hey Jacob!" she smiled, her brilliantly white teeth catching the light and glimmering.

  "H--hi," he replied nervously.

  Much time had passed since he'd watched her and her family moving in to the pink trailer up the road from Chucky's. The two of them sat next to each other in Misses Brault's sixth grade English class and, in his mind, they talked the entire period away from bell to bell. They spoke about themselves, about their lives, about their feelings for each other. When the class would come to an end, though, he would realize that they hadn't said a single word to each other the whole time.

  There was so much he wanted to say to her... so many questions he wanted to ask her about herself, so many things he wanted to know about her life and her family. He wanted to share his thoughts with her, too, and to grow closer to her in the sharing. He wanted the two of them to be best friends, to be boyfriend and girlfriend, even -- but he could never summon the courage to say anything more than hi to her, and he usually stuttered and stammered just to get that much out.

  Every time the class bell rang and he left his desk without having grown a spine and tried to engage with her, he would vow to man up and take action next time... that he would make his fantasies become a reality by simply opening the flood gates and letting his words spill out when he had another chance to do so. He never did it, though, because every time he found himself in her presence -- when he found himself face to face or side by side with her -- all of the words that he had spoken to her in his daydreams left him. His mind went blank, his preconceived talking points fleeing like mourning doves taking flight and sailing away into the expanse of the horizon on the wind. Their verbal exchanges were always limited to the same hi and bye, stuttered and stammered, no matter how determined he was to make it more.

  Occasionally, though, when he was struggling with an answer on a quiz or homework assignment, she would tap his arm with the eraser of her pencil and slyly tilt her paper. With a smile, she would let him take a peek and copy. He always felt a warmth sweep over him when this happened, because it meant that she must be watching him... must be looking at him, realizing he was stuck on a question.

  Gosh, she was looking at him... the way he often looked at her. The difference was, of course, that she wasn't spying on him -- spying like he did on her, with binoculars, from Chucky's porch. Since she had moved to Burlwood, he made a point of spending even more time than before at Chucky's, just so that he could have a chance to watch her playing outside.

  What would she think if she knew about that? About his spying on her? What would she think of him then? That was something that a creep would do... something that someone bad
would do. If she knew that, maybe she wouldn't be so nice to him anymore... maybe she would think he was weird, or some kind of stalker. That would be terrible, but he just couldn't resist... couldn't keep his eyes off of her, so long as she didn't know.

  If she did know he was looking -- if he tried to look at her while they were in class -- he would freeze. He would lock up, be unable to speak... just like he was now, as she was staring into his eyes with her orange drink clutched in her sweet little hand.

  "Okay, honey," a kind and feminine voice called from behind her. "It's time to go sit down now."

  Jacob pried his frozen eyes away from his crush and looked up to the woman, looked to see who it was standing behind Tracy. She looked like Helen Hunt, the actress in Mad About You, a show his mother watched all the time. Jacob thought Helen Hunt was beautiful, and he felt the same way about the woman standing behind Tracy now. Examining her closer, he realized that the woman looked a lot like what a grownup version of Tracy might look like, too.

  "Oh!" the woman said, taking note of Jacob. "I see you're talking to someone! So sorry to interrupt!"

  "It's okay, mom," Tracy said. "We were just saying hi!"

  "I see! Tell me, sweetie, who is this good looking young gentleman?" her mom asked gleefully.

  "It's Jacob!" Tracy explained. "He sits next to me in Misses Brault's class!" She looked to Darkwing, then motioned her hand towards the Helen Hunt woman. "Jacob, meet my mommy!"

  "H--hi, ma--ma 'am," he stuttered in reply.

  She smiled, and as she did a friendly looking man approached the two of them and wrapped his arm around her.

  "Are we ready, babe?" he asked before realizing he had barged into their conversation. When he figured out what was happening, he looked down at Jacob as well. "Oh! Who's this?" he asked.

  "This is Jacob," Tracy's mom said, smiling. "He sits next to Tracy in English class!"

  The man gave Darkwing a once over with his eyes, scanning him up and down with a glimmer of recognition showing in them.

  "Ohhhhh," he said. "This is Jacob... the boy with the binoculars!"

  Mortified, Jacob froze. How could her dad have seen him? Had he only seen him once, or did he know he did it all the time? Was he going to be angry? Was he going to yell at him, tell him to knock it off? To stay away from his house, from his daughter?

  "Well, it's nice to meet you, Jacob!" he said, warmly and with a smile. "If you're ever in the neighborhood," he continued, emphasizing this, "feel free to drop by and say hello! Tracy hasn't made a lot of friends since we've been here -- she would probably like someone to hang out with from time to time. Maybe we can have you over for dinner one night or something?"

  Tracy's mom raised her eyebrows. "Over for dinner?" she asked, slyly. "A boy?" she paused, feigning surprise. "I dunno, Bob, this boy looks like he could be trouble!"

  "No sweat!" Bob replied. "I've got my rifle, if I need it!"

  The both of them chuckled and smiled, Bob ruffling the hair on Jacob's head with his hand.

  "Seriously, Jacob," Tracy's dad said. "It was nice to meet you. Please, don't be afraid to swing by. We'd love to have you, you're welcome any time!"

  Tracy smiled at this, then smiled at Jacob. His heart was afire, even though he was irritated that his hair was messed up now. The three of them walked off as he watched, walking hand in hand like the happy family they were. He wanted to go with them... wanted to be a happy family, like they were... to be together with Tracy, and to be a part of a happy family.

  Meanwhile, Timmy Lane ended up as the last in line. As he stood waiting patiently, he felt a leg crash against him from behind. It was a long leg, this he could discern, because he distinctly felt the knee strike not far below his buttocks.

  "Oh," a deep and gravelly voice said after the collision, which almost knocked Timmy down.

  Staggering to catch his balance, he felt the dry and rough skin of a hand grasping his shoulder firmly and tightly. Once recovered, the boy turned and tilted his head far, far back to meet the face of a stranger who was reaching out to help steady him.

  "I'm sorry, son!" the man said.

  He was a black man, very tall and lanky. He towered above Timmy, like a giant sequoia over a bonsai tree. His eyes were a thick burnt sienna, even the scleras looking tan instead of white. They were warm and kind, even though their darkness was intimidating.

  His head was bald and egg shaped, curving up from his chin and then rounding out around his ears, rising in an ellipse at the crest of his great height. The tight and bumpy flesh of his cocoa colored brow was cleft almost perfectly in twain, a long and depressed scar originating just below where his hairline would be and diving down vertically until it was interrupted by his nose, From there, it diverted to the left and continued almost all the way down to his thick upper lip.

  It was frightening to Timmy... ghastly and horrific. It looked like it should hurt, like whatever happened to make it had probably hurt really badly.

  "Are you okay, son?" he asked softly, warmly. He had a mild accent, one that Timmy didn't recognize. It smoothed the coarseness of his voice, but did nothing to temper Timmy's fear.

  Timmy didn't respond, his mouth agape in shock at the sight of such a menacing person... such a frightening scar. The man smiled in response, trying to soothe the child with a display of kindness and friendliness.

  Deputy Ron, who was stirring up more orange drink, turned when he heard them and looked up. He recognized the voice of the man, one that was an old acquaintance of his.

  "Well I'll be damned! Sarge!" the Deputy exclaimed, interrupting the stranger's attempt to make a friend of Timmy.

  "Ron!" the man responded. "Long time, no see, my brother!"

  Launchpad, who was just in front of Timmy, took note of the exchange. Looking to the adults, he wondered if they were really related or if this was just a term of endearment. He decided that they couldn't be family, because Deputy Ron wasn't black -- just olive skinned. He wasn't what his father would call a brotha' at all, so he was utterly confused about what Sarge meant. He decided it was just an expression of fondness, because Sarge seemed like a kind and friendly man to him.

  "How the hell ya' been, buddy?" Boudreaux replied, reaching out a hand to shake enthusiastically.

  "I've been good brother, life is good!" Sarge answered with a glowing smile. "I'm afraid I almost knocked over this little boy, though!"

  Timmy was still in shock, still staring at the scar on the man's face. Boudreaux looked at him and laughed, finding the expression of terror humorous somehow.

  "Relax, Timmy!" he said. "This is Mister Simmonds -- everybody calls him Sarge. He's a good guy, I promise!"

  This didn't ease Timmy's anxiety at all. He was still frightened, still transfixed.

  "They been treatin' you okay over to the downs?" Deputy Ron continued, turning his attention back to Mister Simmonds.

  "Yeah, they treat me fine!" he replied. "Keep me workin' like a dog, though, keep me doing my thing! Even in the off season, they keep me runnin'!"

  "I've been meanin' to get down there and play the ponies myself, but it seems like every time they're runnin' there's somethin' else I got to tend to, some business I've got to mind instead!"

  "The trotters are runnin' tonight, brother, I'm absconding as we speak!" Simmonds replied. "Be headed down there after this, though, you should tag along!"

  "Ya' know," Boudreaux replied, "that might not be a bad idea at all! I'll have to ask Clyde, of course, but it's not out of the question! A man deserves a break, once in awhile, right? Tell me, though -- If I do go -- what's the smart money bet, in your expert opinion?"

  "Well," Simmonds chuckled, "you know they won't let me bet, seein' as how I'm on the rolls. If I could, though, there's a colt on the loose that I would pick to win every time!"

  "Which one is that?"

  "His name is Sweet Peter Jeeter, and he's got the heart of a champi
on, so far as I'm concerned. Won his first four starts, lookin' to make it number five! It's like he's made to pull the sulky! Strong legs, solid hooves, and I put the shoes on him myself -- so you know he can get on the good foot and go!"

  "Is he runnin' tonight?"

  "Number six in the third race!"

  Boudreaux smiled, already counting his winnings. "If I make it down there, I can put a bet in for you by proxy if ya' want!"

  "Oh no!" Simmonds laughed again. "I'm not tryin' to get caught up in any trouble like that, it's just not a good idea! Keepin' my nose clean, brother, it's the only way to go! Tough enough out here as it is, I don't need no trouble like that!"

  "Well, if there's anything I can do for you, Sarge, you just let me know!" Boudreaux replied.

  "Will do, friend, will do." Sarge answered. "Say, have you seen Rusty Parker running around here anywhere? I've got a question for him, if I can find him in this crazy mass of folks."

  The other boys had filled their cups, now, only Timmy was without orange drink. He just kept staring up at that scar on Simmond's face, like he was in some kind of trance. Realizing this, Jacob drew a cup of drink for him and grabbed an extra sack of popcorn before taking his hand and pulling him away. Everyone else was taking their seats as well, because the meeting was about to start.

  SIXTEEN