Black's Creek (20 page)

I
t was four days before Christmas when the town learned the news of Armstrong's body being found at his trailer by old man McGregor. Raccoons had gotten in to the trailer and feasted on the corpse, paying particular attention to the face. People in town said Christmas had come early – especially for the raccoons – and that kids could now go to bed feeling safe. According to reliable sources in the media, Armstrong had ‘received three shot wounds to the genital region'. We were further informed that ‘… in all probability he had lived for hours, before bleeding to death. Most certainly, he'd have been in terrible agony while he lived.'

The media speculated that the number of times he was shot was deliberate, a symbolic punishment for the number of victims known to have suffered at his bloody hands.

I'll always remember the look of relief on Dad's face, when he phoned Mom at Aunt Katherine's to tell her the news.

‘Armstrong's gone, Helen. Gone forever …'

Mom returned home early on the day before Christmas Eve, looking relieved to be back. I hoped it was because she had missed me, but more than likely Aunt Katherine had drained her. The news of Armstrong's death probably played the biggest part in her return.

Dad was clearly happy to see Mom home, and vice versa. The boil of tension between Mom and Dad had finally been lanced.

Mom also brought back a couple of Christmas presents from Aunt Katherine, one for Dad and one for me. It was the first time Aunt Katherine had given either of us anything for Christmas. Mine turned out to be a book about New Jersey's history. It smelled faintly of cat piss and the edges of most of its pages had been gnawed by what looked like cat teeth.

‘It was the thought that counts,' Mom said, seeing the look of disappointment on my face.

Dad's present was pipe tobacco – though not the brand he smoked. It looked like a bunch of old withered leaves, wrapped up in a dirty polythene bag.

‘It was the thought …' Mom said, reflecting the look of amusement on Dad's face.

‘Well, you can say that to me after I make dinner.' He kissed Mom on the cheek, and she smiled. Warmly. Everything was good again. A Norman Rockwell painting.

After dinner, we all sat down with popcorn to watch It's a Wonderful Life, Mom's favourite Christmas movie after White Christmas. Near the end of the movie, George Bailey finds a gift from Clarence the guardian angel – a copy of
The Adventures of Tom Sawyer
, with the inscription:
Dear George: Remember no man is a failure who has friends. Thanks for the wings! Love Clarence.

Dad stopped eating his popcorn, and looked over at me. He seemed embarrassed. Probably thinking about that time he had called himself a failure. I was just about to say something to him, when Mom spoke in a calm but chilling voice.

‘Sometimes justice takes time, but when that time comes, it sure as Hell takes. Norman Armstrong was pure evil. He destroyed many families. Murdered and abused children. I hope he's burning right now, and if it's a sin to think like that, then God forgive me. May he burn in Hell for all eternity. Amen.'

‘Amen,' Dad and I said in unison.

The three of us went back to eating popcorn and watching the movie.

T
wo days after Christmas, I went over to Horseshoe's. We were in his room, finishing off the last of the chocolate Santas, and drinking Coke. Normally, the post-Christmas conversation would be about comparing gifts, but Horseshoe only had one topic in mind.

‘He did it, Tommy,' Horseshoe said, looking terrified as well as excited.

‘What? Who did what?'

‘Brent. He actually did it!'

‘Brent …?'

‘He shot perv Armstrong. He really did it.'

I was stunned at Horseshoe's speculation.

‘It's … it's very important that you don't talk about it,
Horseshoe. You understand that, don't you? You don't want trouble coming to our doorsteps, do you?'

‘Of course not.'

I wasn't convinced by his assurance.

‘We're still blood-brothers, Horseshoe, the three of us. You haven't forgotten the oath, and what will happen to the person breaking that oath?'

Horseshoe looked uneasy. He nodded. ‘Shovelled in the ass by Old Nick's dick …'

‘Worse than that can happen. A whole lot worse.'

‘What could be worse than a flaming ass?'

‘Could be a big muscular con in Sing Sing, dinging you in the ding-ding, three times before breakfast. And that's just for warm-ups.'

‘What the hell's that suppose to mean? We didn't do anything that would make them put us in jail.'

‘Think so? We can be done for conspiracy. Big time. We agreed to go along with Brent's crazy plan, remember? Withholding information on a murder can get you twenty big ones in the big house with all the big cons. Once they've finished with you in that place, your ass'll have more holes in it than a bowl of Cheerios. You wouldn't be able to sit down for the rest of your life.'

Horseshoe grimaced in a painful way. I pictured him pulling in his butt cheeks.

‘That isn't funny, Tommy.'

‘You can say that again. Think of spending
one day
in a place like that, never mind twenty years.'

He looked petrified. ‘Okay, I get the message. I won't be saying a word to anyone. Trust me on that.'

‘I trust you, blood-brother.' Now I did. I forced a smile. ‘Look, if it makes you feel better, I once heard my dad saying that snowflakes are one of nature's most fragile things, but just look what they can do when they stick together. That's all we've got to do. Stick together.'

‘I hope you're right. Will you be telling Brent the same thing, if you see him?'

I had never told Horseshoe about the knife attack. It would have led to other questions being asked; questions I wanted to avoid. At the time, I had quickly fed Horseshoe the same story I had fed Dad. The difference being, Horseshoe believed me.

‘I'll not be going near Brent again, Horseshoe. Ever.'

‘Oh …' Then, as if hit by a revelation, he said, ‘Of course! I get it. Someone might be watching. Right? See you two together, and figure you'd something to do with it?'

‘I … right. That's it. Too dangerous to be seen with him – ever. You'd best do the same. I'm not telling you what to do, just giving you some good advice.'

‘I probably won't be seeing Brent anyway, even if I wanted to.'

‘Oh?'

‘I meant to tell you, Tommy, as soon as you got here, but …'

‘Tell me what?'

‘We're leaving Black's Creek.' Horseshoe looked crestfallen. ‘Dad got a promotion. We're moving to New York City.'

Before I met Devlin, Horseshoe's news would have devastated me. But I had changed, seen wider horizons. In a way, it was a relief to hear that Horseshoe would no longer be here. The further away, the better, for all our sakes, lest he let something slip.

‘That's great, Horseshoe. You'll be able to walk right into Marvel's office in downtown Manhattan. You might even get to see Spider-Man webbing his way across  all those skyscrapers.'

‘Yeah, how cool would that be?'

We both laughed. Kids again, if only for a few precious moments.

‘If I were you, Horseshoe, I'd go speak to Stan Lee. Show him your art. It's good enough.'

‘Stan Lee?' To Horseshoe, Stan Lee – the co-creator of a million superheroes and villains – was a member of the God Club. ‘You really think so?'

‘Big time. He'll see what a great artist you are,' I smiled, but there was sadness in it. ‘I'm gonna miss you doing all those sketches of Spider-Man.'

‘Hopefully, I'll be able to come back, every now and again. It's only a train journey away.'

He was lying, probably, about coming back. Not maliciously. Just not wanting to hurt my feelings. I'm sure he was glad to be getting out of here, away from Brent's uncontrollable rage
and madness, away from this town of monsters, bogeymen and strange happenings.

‘I'm gonna miss you, Tommy,' he said.

I believed that part.

‘I'm gonna miss you, too, Horseshoe. This town is gonna be one lonely place without you.'

I returned home that evening, having said my farewells to Horseshoe and his parents. Just as I got a foot in the door, Dad popped his head out of the hub.

‘Tommy? I need to see you. Up here, please.'

I tried to read the expression on his face. It was a blank page. Paradoxically, Dad's blank page usually had trouble written all over it.

‘Close the door, Tommy,' he said as I entered.

‘What is it, Dad?' I tried to sound casual.

He went behind his desk, sat down, picked up his pipe and a box of matches. He struck one of the matches along the top of his desk, leaving a thin, ice-skate mark embedded into the wax. The match's strike was as crisp and bright as the flame.

‘Sit down, please,' he said, lighting the pipe.

The aroma of burning tobacco filled the room, as the smoke formed a thin cloud on the ceiling. Normally, it had a calming influence on me. Not this time. I suspected Dad was merely
using it as a prop, hoping to catch me off-guard. I sat down on the leather chair, but not before unbuttoning my heavy winter jacket.

He looked straight into my eyes.

‘Is there anything you would like to say to me, before I continue, Tommy?'

‘Say? What … what about?'

‘Have you been in here, when I'm at work?' he asked, stretching his legs out onto the edge of the desk.

I shrugged my shoulders. ‘Sometimes.'

‘Good. Not good you disobeyed me by coming in here, but good you're being honest. I respect and admire that. It takes courage to tell the truth, Tommy.'

I nodded, not knowing what to say. I left it to Dad, hoping he'd do all the talking.

‘When you come in here, Tommy, what is it you do?'

I shrugged again. I was getting good at that. ‘Nothing … I just look about. Sometimes, I look in your crime mags. Sometimes I just sit in your chair.'

‘I see,' he said, bringing the pipe to his mouth and taking a long steady draw. He had yet to take his eyes from mine.

‘Can I take my coat off?' I said, trying to deflect the stare.

‘Of course. Hot in here, isn't it?'

I suspected he used that line when interrogating suspects. I quickly removed my coat. It did little to ease the rising temperature in the room.

‘I have a little book, Tommy. A very private little book. Some people call them diaries. Some might call them journals. I just call it my book. Ever see it?'

‘No,' I said, too quickly.

He reached into the drawer, and produced the accursed diary.

‘This is it. Nothing fancy. Normally, I keep it hidden in an old hollowed-out bible.' He held the diary in his hands, and flipped the pages with his thumb. Then he held it out to me. ‘Here. Take a look inside.'

I edged away from it.

‘I don't want to look inside.'

‘No? Why?'

‘Because …'

‘Because isn't an answer.'

‘I … because … because it belongs to you.'

‘You mean it's private, and should not be read by anyone without permission?'

I nodded. ‘Yes …'

‘Do you know what killed the cat?'

Was this a trick question? Had a cat been killed, and he suspected me?

‘No,' I said.

‘Curiosity. Prying. Inquisitiveness. Take your pick, only never –
ever
– steal people's private thoughts by reading their private things. No one likes a snoop. Clear?'

Chastised, I surrendered without a fight. ‘Yes …'

I stood to leave, glad the verbal reprimand was over.

‘Sit down. I have something else I need to discuss with you.'

I slowly fell back in the electric chair.

‘I never got to ask you how Monster Night went, over at the Coopers' house.'

‘Monster Night …? Oh, it went great. Just great. Mrs Cooper filled us with so much food, I was nearly bursting.'

Dad smiled. ‘Great people, the Coopers. I spoke on the phone to Mrs Cooper about an hour ago. Told me they're leaving town in a day or two. Off to live in the Big Apple. A pity. This town needs good people.'

I nodded. ‘I'll miss Horseshoe. He's my best friend.'

‘I think you were upstairs with Horseshoe when I called, to thank Mrs Cooper for having you over. She said you and Horseshoe had a great time on Monster Night. She said you and he went to bed almost immediately after the show.'

‘That's right. We were both kinda tired.'

‘That's exactly what Mrs Cooper said. She even checked in on the two of you, a few times during the night.'

Shit!
My stomach became a bucket of rats. ‘She did?'

‘Well, you know, with all that's been going on, parents are nervous. I suspect
all
parents in Black's Creek were checking their kids at night, just to make sure they were safe.'

‘Oh …' This train of conversation was speeding down the wrong track, and I needed to get off quickly before Mister
Conductor asked for a ticket I didn't have. ‘That … that was real nice of her, checking to make sure we were safe.'

‘It sure was. She said each time she looked into the room, you were both sleeping like babies.' Dad grinned at that.

‘Babies? Is that what she said? Sleeping like babies?'

Dad nodded. ‘Her exact words.'

‘That's embarrassing.' And comforting. Thankfully for me, Mrs Cooper's powers of observation did not match the power of her motherly instinct. Thank you, Mrs Cooper!

‘Tommy, have you ever been to Johnson's Timber Store?'

I shook my head. I'd never heard of the place. ‘No.'

‘You're sure?'

‘I've never even heard of it, never mind been to it.'

‘It's no longer a timber store now, of course. Just a dilapidated old building, directly across from Norman Armstrong's trailer.'

Numbness began pulsing down from my neck, spreading out in waves to my shoulders. My entire body tightened; ribs crushed against lungs, making breathing difficult.

‘Are you okay, Tommy? You look a bit pale.' Dad's legs dropped down from the desk, springing the rest of his body forward towards me.

‘I'm … okay. Just tired.'

‘Myself and Deputy Hillman were up all morning at Armstrong's trailer, checking out the scene of the crime, hoping to discover some clues as to the killer's,
or killers
', identities.' Dad
reached beneath his desk, and produced a large plastic bag. ‘Deputy Hillman found this. Ever see it before?'

Shit!
Inside the bag was a smashed flashlight. It had once been perfect, until I decided to crown a rat with it. With all the shit and nerves at the time, I'd forgotten to bring it back, smashed or not.

‘Looks like a flashlight,' I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

‘It
is
a flashlight, but not just any old flashlight. If you look carefully at the rim, you'll see my faded initials written on it. Here, take a look; only keep it in the bag. That's evidence now.'

‘Evidence?'

‘That's right. Probably got fingerprints all over it. Somehow, that flashlight walked all the way from here to Johnson's Timber Store on the night Norman Armstrong was killed, and splattered itself against one of the walls. How do you think it got there?'

‘I don't know.' Sweat was trickling down my arms, pooling in the palms of my hands. All Dad had to do was look to see the sweat dripping onto the carpet. ‘Maybe you had it the night old man McGregor reported the scuffle outside Armstrong's trailer, and you dropped it.'

‘
Hmm
. That sounds feasible. Let me consider that scenario for a moment.' He rubbed his chin, nodded to himself, shook his head, nodded some more, and mumbled a bit. He seemed to be debating with himself, weighing up possibilities. ‘I'm afraid that doesn't work.'