Bad Man_A Novel

  50

  Curving trenches of rich dirt scarred the grass from Clint’s hasty departure. There was a hollowness in Ben; he felt he might fall over at the polite insistence of the gentle winter wind. Each step felt unnatural in his legs, as unnatural as the thoughts in his mind.

  The covered windows. Ben’s breath shuddered. The padlock. Didn’t he see it? Cool air stung his throat. His lungs quivered, wheezed. He saw it. He saw it and he didn’t do a goddamn thing. Pebbles skipped into the grass as his aching legs carried him across the road. Frustrated at his own body, Ben cursed and bent, squeezing his knees in his palms. A screaming child who missed his toy rhino.

  White pockmarks danced in his vision, lingering even when he closed his eyes.

  Ben knew that he needed some sort of plan. What he would say. What he would do. But each time he tried, he couldn’t see it through. He’d imagine himself walking up the steps, and then he’d be in Marty’s home. He’d be at the front door, and then he’d be tearing a padlock off another one. There’d be no noise at all as he moved through an empty house. He needed more time to think.

  The Cotter girls chased each other in their yard, stopping to look at Ben as he studied Marty’s house. Chilled wind scuttled around his body. Ben saw the two little girls whispering to each other before he turned to face the silver windows. The glass felt like ice against his hands. His palms squeaked on the stubborn and slippery window. It wouldn’t budge.

  With hurried steps, Ben moved back to the porch. Grunting faintly, he squatted and scraped his fingers against damp soil and old stone until they dislodged one of the buried bricks at the foundation of the steps. Clutching the brick in one hand, he returned to the window and pressed his ear against it. Inside, he could hear the subdued murmurings of a small voice.

  Ben turned to the sisters and waved them away. Jessica pulled little Ellen across the yard; they both disappeared around the side of their home. For a moment, Ben bobbed the brick in his palm, feeling the weight of his decision. He thought of the shattering glass and how it would spray on his baby brother.

  He dropped the brick. Returning to the porch, Ben’s hand hovered near the battered wooden door before falling back to his side. The porch bent under his shifting feet like a diving board. They wouldn’t let him into the house. He knew that. Could he just force his way in? Ben’s fingers grazed the brass doorknob. It shifted loosely in its socket as he enveloped it in his hand. His heart jackhammered in his chest when the knob turned freely.

  The door opened with a groan into an empty room. There was music pumping from somewhere in the house, but nothing else. Everything was almost as quiet as Ben had imagined in his grasping visions of a plan. For a moment, the draft on his back called to him. He could walk out. He could leave. No one had seen him except for the Cotter girls. Was he alone? The old house creaked under his weight as he entered. He gently closed the door and stood in breathless silence. One step. Then another. The smell of mold burned in his nose, and a floating shape in his peripheral showed him that he wasn’t alone at all.

  “What ’n the hell’re you doing in here?” Darlene snapped, standing in the doorway to the kitchen, a cigarette burning between her fingers.

  Ben’s words were choked in his throat. Say it to her. Tell her just what in the hell you’re doin in here.

  “You hear me?” She took a step toward Ben. “What’re you doin in my house? You can’t just come in here.” Her nose scrunched in confusion at Ben’s silence, and she spoke in a soft voice, like she was talking to a duckling who’d wandered into her path. “Go on. Get the fuck out then.”

  For a little while, Ben and Darlene stood in silence. Ben’s tongue sat like concrete in his mouth. The Cotter girls squeed outside, and it seemed to Ben like that might go on being the only sound there was for the rest of time.

  Tim appeared next to Darlene and looked at her uneasily. “What’s going on, hon?”

  “He just walked right in.” Darlene laughed with frustration. “I told him to get out, and there he stands.”

  “You’re a friend of Marty’s, ain’t ya?” Darlene’s boyfriend said. “He’s sleepin right now. Go on home, and we’ll tell him that you come by.”

  Ben could feel his heart beating. His lungs made his chest heavy.

  “Bit slow?” Tim whispered to Darlene.

  Ben heard the house creaking behind him. When Ben turned and saw Aaron’s confused stare reaching out through his sun-colored hair, he felt a wave of heat break across his back.

  “Where’d you take him?” Ben heard himself say. Aaron disappeared down the hall, and Ben felt his legs twitch. “Hey!” Ben shouted. He might have followed, but Darlene yanked on his arm until he turned to face her.

  “You need to get out of my house, boy. Right now,” she snarled.

  Ben turned back toward the hall, and she turned with him, blocking his path. When he took a step forward, Darlene struck him in the chest with her palm.

  Footsteps thudded in the hallway. “Ben, what’re you doing here?” Marty said. His tired eyes whipped across and then beyond Ben. When Aaron reappeared, Marty tucked the boy behind himself, and everyone was quiet for a long while.

  Ben knew that this was it. More than anything else—more than coming into the home uninvited; more than what little he had said, incomprehensible as it was—this was his last chance to just walk away. And he could do that. He could just walk right out, same as he had walked right in. That’s what it seemed like everyone wanted. Marty stared unblinkingly, his eyes no longer tired but wide and fearfully eager, like a child who’d lost count of how long ago an M-80 had swallowed its burning fuse.

  Aaron peered out from behind Marty’s arm. Ben could see Aaron, see him leading Eric by the hand down the dead road, glancing at the lost boy through his fair hair and telling him that his other life had been nothing but a dream.

  “I want you to open that door,” Ben finally said, pointing through the wall.

  Marty glanced down the hall. “What? Ben, I don’t know what you’re—”

  “Yeah you do.” Ben’s voice was resigned, almost defeated by his own words. “They seen him with Aaron.”

  “What? What the hell are you talking about?” Marty glanced at his brother. “Seen Aaron with who?”

  “They seen him walking down the goddamn road,” Ben bellowed, “with a kid with yellow hair.” Ben grabbed at Aaron, and Marty shoved against his friend’s large body. “It was Jacob that seen you,” Ben said to the boy. “Where were you takin him?” He grabbed at Aaron’s arm.

  “You get away from my boys!” Darlene shrieked.

  “Ben, what the fuck is wrong with you?” Marty grunted through scarred vocal cords, pushing against Ben’s chest.

  A scree erupted from down the hallway, and Ben felt his stomach roll. Marty shoved harder into Ben’s chest, and Ben brought the palm of his hand hard against the side of his friend’s face.

  “What are—what do you think I did? I didn’t do nothin!” Marty howled as Ben hit him again.

  Frail fists collided with Ben’s midsection. “Don’t you touch them!”

  Ben turned and pushed Darlene away like a small dog.

  “Tim!” she cried. “Do something!”

  “I’m comin, goddamnit!” Cabinets slammed and dishes crashed in the kitchen.

  At the back of the hallway, Ben could see the padlock resting against the door’s molding. “He’s been here the whole time? You said you’d help me look for him.” There was a buzzing in Ben’s skull. “You wrote in Beverly’s file! What’d you even take me out to Beverly’s for? For a joke?” Ben’s voice quivered. “Because I’m so stupid? You never called nobody.” A river of salt water merged with the snot under Ben’s nose. “You took his toy from my house.”

  “He’s killing him! Tim!”

  The world seemed to be moving so quickly to Ben, who was only now beco
ming aware of a squirming movement in his aching hand. The black scab on Marty’s neck felt rough against Ben’s thumb as he squeezed. He could pop it, squeeze just a little harder and it would cave in like the inside seal of an asprin bottle. Ben watched with casual detachment as Aaron yanked and pulled on his arm, dragging his eyes to Marty’s face as if he were changing a television channel. Marty struck Ben in the arms and chest. His face was a summer sunset just before dusk.

  “I’m sorry,” Marty rasped. Ben opened his hand and Marty collapsed onto the stained carpet, coughing and gasping. Ben looked at Marty uneasily. Pity flashed in his heart. He felt an impulse to help his friend, as if he had been harmed by strange hands. Sweeping Aaron aside, Ben pounded down the hallway. “Nothin’ for Nothin’ ” by Cinderella played from Marty’s stereo.

  His hands fumbled with the padlock. Darlene yelled from the living room, but Ben could hear only sounds, not words. Bracing his shoulder against the door, Ben pushed and felt a bit of give. Ben smacked his palm against the wood and called his brother’s name. His blood ran faster at the wailing cries that answered him. Again and again, his weight slammed against the door. A crack. Splitting wood. The latch burst from the strike plate and the door lunged forward, held shut by only the padlock now. Soft light seeped through the narrow opening. The rich smell of pine wafted into Ben’s nose as he pressed his face against the molding, his eyes darting across the slivered glimpse of the room beyond.

  Something cold and hard pressed against Ben’s neck. “Don’t you move an inch—”

  But Ben was already turning. The gun’s muzzle scraped across his cheek, and Ben’s hands were on it before he could even contemplate what he was doing. Tim grunted and cussed. Darlene screamed. Marty rushed Aaron into the kitchen. Ben’s hand wrapped around the barrel, the fingers of his other hand slipping against Tim’s. Panic was setting into Ben’s extremities now. Groping and squeezing, he wanted to let go. He wanted to let go and run and leave, but he couldn’t.

  “Don’t,” Ben snarled. Tim heaved his body into Ben’s, and the two collided against the door. Another crack. More splitting wood.

  “Kill him!” Darlene shrieked from the hallway. “Kill him!”

  Ben’s arms felt weak as they wrestled with Tim’s. Something moved in Ben’s hands. Ben flinched at the explosion, and suddenly the tension was gone. Tim took a step back, the pistol still trained on Ben, though his eyes were vacant. Ben’s ears rang. He felt nauseated. He patted his hands against the spot on his body that held Tim’s gaze but could feel nothing, could see nothing. From what Ben could tell, Tim seemed to be unharmed. At least clean of blood.

  “Tim!” Darlene yelled.

  Ben shuffled slightly to the side, but Tim’s floating eyes sat in his skull unmoved. He’s not looking at me. Ben turned. What’s—

  In the wall, just a few inches from the door, soft light poured from a jagged circular hole. The lock and its metal strap hung limp and useless on the molding, uprooted during the scuffle.

  “What happened?” Darlene cried.

  The door swung open with a gentle push from Ben. A desk lamp’s yellow glow washed into the hall. Ben wrapped his arms around himself and buckled, bracing himself against the doorframe.

  “No,” he whimpered.

  51

  It felt to Ben like it was taking a long time for the police to arrive. Still scattered in the vast woodlands beyond the edge of town, they’d be searching for Eric for a while longer. Ben supposed he could leave. He could just walk right out. But he didn’t. There would be no point to it, really. So he sat slumped with his back to the wall opposite the battered door. His jaw ached, and he rubbed it absently with the tips of his fingers. Marty had hit him several times. Now Marty, Tim, and Darlene were arguing in the living room. Darlene smacked Marty more than once. Aaron stared from the kitchen.

  In front of Ben, fidgeting in a tall chair with a wicker back, sat a boy. He couldn’t have been more than eight, maybe nine. In truth, it was very difficult to tell. His jaw strained and rocked from one side of his skull to the other, aligning with his upper teeth only when he would swallow forcefully. The old chair creaked and crackled as the boy rolled his head in vast, swooping motions. Sometimes, at the gesture’s apex, he would moan or bleat. Bending and curling his fingers, he tried passively to move his arms about, but instead they flapped like chicken wings, pivoting near his wrists, which were bound to the armrests. His smile was wide and constant, but devoid of joy. Beside him, on the floor, was the cake plate that Ben had brought to Marty’s house on Eric’s birthday.

  Ben could see daylight shining through the far wall of the boy’s room where the bullet had passed through. An ineffective rustling in his legs urged Ben to move. But he just sat there. At that moment, Ben thought that would be okay, to just sit there forever, until time blew him away with the rest of the weathered building.

  The voices quieted. Footsteps swept against the stiff carpet. Ben stared at the spot between his feet.

  “I seen this tape in Palmer’s office. Right after what happened with the baler. He had these videos and one of ’em was from the day that Eric went missing. And it was…it was me on that tape. I was…pullin on him, yankin on Eric’s arm. I don’t remember doin that. I don’t remember it at all.” Ben looked at Marty. “I…misunderstand things sometimes. I got this wrong. They seen Eric today with a boy with yellow hair. Jacob did. I’m really sorry, man. I got it wrong, and I’m sorry.”

  “That’s a great story,” Marty said flatly. “Tell me if you heard this one. You said that you couldn’t do this alone no more, and so I tried to make it so you wouldn’t have to. I tried to help you, Ben. I wanted to. But you’re a piece of shit. A worthless fat fuck.

  “I ain’t gonna say that I hope you never find your brother. But I feel bad for him if you do. I feel bad for anyone that has to know you. That’s it, though. We ain’t got no more to say to each other. You can leave.”

  “I’d just as soon get picked up here. Spare my folks—” Ben scraped his tongue against the roof of his mouth to clear it of his bitter words.

  “We ain’t calling the cops.”

  Ben looked to Marty. The words seemed compassionate, but there was nothing but disdain in his eyes. “What’s wrong with him?”

  “He’s autistic.”

  “Is he okay like that?” Ben asked, wringing his own wrist in his hand while staring at the boy.

  “He hits himself. The doctors said it’s something to do with stimulation.”

  Ben looked to the limp lock dangling from the doorframe. “The Cotter girl?”

  “Walter didn’t mean it. But they took him away anyhow, to that place where he got touch—” Marty’s face tensed. He rubbed the wetness out of his eyes.

  Ben looked at Walter, who chomped his teeth like a nutcracker and writhed in his restraints seemingly without being aware that they were there at all. He yelped painlessly, smiled, and rolled his head.

  “Go on then,” Marty said.

  From the moment Ben stood to the moment he sat back on his bed, his legs trembled. His stepmother had closed the door to Eric’s room. Ben could still hear her through the wall, her muted song punctuated by sobs. Relics of a past life lay scattered at his feet. He clenched his teeth and felt a sting in his jaw.

  Gripping the edge of his trash can, Ben walked to his dresser and rifled through the contents of the bottom drawer, where he retrieved the doctored flyers he had produced. He rolled the stack in half and plunged it into the trash can. Ben pulled the card sleeve out of his back pocket. Old creases made a jigsaw of his brother’s face. After a moment of consideration, Ben tossed the picture into his treasure box.

  Handful by handful, Ben separated his books from his clothes from his CDs, stacking and folding and filing, returning everything to where it had been. His treasure box. Beverly’s Bible. He wanted to stop; there was really no point in making hi
s room look nice. But he couldn’t find his sketchbook.

  It had been hours since Jacob had put the day in motion. They were still out there, still wandering through the endless woods, calling out for a boy who would never be found, while Ben had been burning a friendship to the ground. Clint would be home eventually. Ben wondered what the man might tell Deidra. Then he found himself wondering how many times she might have watched that last tape of Ben and Eric.

  The feeling of malaise wouldn’t leave him, even when he found what he’d been looking for—a kind of goal that feels empty once you reach it. Ben set the sketchbook on his bedside table, then changed his mind.

  All these addresses, these records. Ben squeezed his hand on the well-worn paper, tearing it from the spine, crushing it into a soft ball. Page after page wadded in the palm of Ben’s large hand. Doodles. Drawings. That fucking symbol. Even as he tore and crushed the sheets, he knew that he shouldn’t, that he’d regret it later. Maybe even as soon as he was finished. But he didn’t stop. Gritting his teeth, Ben ripped and tore and squeezed until he reached Eric’s portrait. And then his hand finally stopped.

  “Fuck,” he said, trembling.

  The lump in Ben’s throat made it hard to breathe. His hands shook as he cradled the book. “Eric, Age 8.”

  “Fuck,” he whimpered again.

  Eric’s eyes were gone, voided and cratered with dark, heavy lines, like balls of pressed black straw. The mouth was a scribbled frown with no contours or care, a jagged ink gash that spoke into bubbles like a comic-book child, saying one thing and one thing only.

  Ben knocked the sketchbook off his lap, but the page didn’t turn. The book didn’t close. Eric’s drawing just kept staring at Ben through its scratchy eyes, kept speaking to him through its centipede frown.

  HI BEN

  “Don’t k-kill me!” sssaid the good thing.

  “Kill you?” asked the buh-bad man. “No. I juh-just don’t want yuh-you to run.