The Camaro Murders (8 page)

Homecoming

February 23rd, 1999

Sheriff Hildersham returns to the Mendelssohn farm

Staring at a brass door knob, I'm on the front step of the Mendelssohn farm. My right hand rests on my service revolver while my head is full of indecision. Am I was wasting my time? Am I looking for trouble where there isn't any?

This is ground zero for me. I keep asking myself what I expect to find inside, but I can't say. All's I know is I never did my due diligence the first time around.

The porch is like I left it—leaning and rickety. More of the paint wore off since '87, but that's to be expected. None of Mendelssohn's family, if he had any, kept after the place.

I thumb the key in my pocket. The gal who works at the real estate office—it turns out I went to high school with her daddy. That on top of being Sheriff guaranteed I didn't have to answer questions. She took my word this was official business and gave me the key without any trouble.

The lock sticks, but with a bit of jiggling it gives. My heart ramps up as I step over the threshold. I half expect to see that phantom boy again and chuckle to myself for being so jumpy. There's nothing inside but my imagination.

My first whiff of the place makes me cough; the dust is thicker than I thought it would be. On the wall, the holes are still there, filled with cobwebs. And there's the far corner…

The surprise I felt comes rushing back, the shock of seeing the boy. Any second I expect him to materialize, but he never does. The corner remains empty. It wasn't real, was it? It was so long ago, I don't think I can trust my memory.

I move past the front room and into the hallway. Daylight is a faint glow at the end. It leads me to the rear of the house where there's the dining room, and beyond that, the kitchen. Off to the right is a back room.

The dining room is straightforward with its simple wooden table and chairs. There's a ratty woven rug underneath. No wall hangings. A quick look and I'm sure there's nothing to dig for here.

In the kitchen there're drawers and cabinets to inspect—old white ones with metal handles. I don't find much other than the norm. Chipped plates and bowls aren't telling.

The back room is musty. The ceiling shows signs of leakage; the water stains creep in above the window. Aside from a beat-up couch and a wooden chair, it's another bare room. Mendelssohn led the simple life.

The second floor is next. I make my way along the hardwood to the front of the house, and then I climb the groaning stairs. The bathroom is at the top with a bedroom on either side. Around the corner from the steps is another door—probably the attic.

I start with the first bedroom. The paisley wallpaper is peeling, and what I assume was Mendelssohn's bed is made up nice and neat with a dull brown comforter. A nightstand sits next to it. I rummage through its drawer: a notepad and a pen, reading glasses, and a book of matches.

The shallow closet across from the bed has some moth-eaten articles hanging inside as well as a pair of boots caked with old dirt on the floor. There's a box of shotgun shells on the shelf above the clothing.

I exit and wander past the bathroom and into the next bedroom. It contains about twenty cardboard boxes, all full of yellowed newspapers. The closet has another five boxes crammed into it. The wallpaper is like the first room, except it's in worse shape.

Turning, I retreat back into the hall. It's almost a letdown there's nothing suspect. Not downstairs or up here. 'Course there's still the attic. I expect it will be more of the same.

Turning the knob, the door squeals and I climb the dingy, narrow stairs. They creak even more than the first flight did. Near the top, the wood feels like it'd give way if I stomped hard enough.

The steps lose my focus when I get in full view of the attic. Even in the dim light from the single window, I can make out the chair in the center of the floor, with a shotgun leaning against it.

The cobwebs make the gun and the chair look like they have grown from the floorboards. An open box of shells lies nearby. The items themselves don't seem out of place so much as their position. There's a readiness about the scene, kind of a front-and-center, ready for action feel.

Who knows? This may have been where Mendelssohn cleaned his gun. I navigate around a few boxes and a crooked bed frame to get a closer look. Crouching, I don't want to handle it, but the gun looks like a Mossberg 500—probably a 12 gauge.

I also notice a faded sheet of notepaper on the chair. A few words are inked in neat cursive: “If I've gone through with this, it means the guilt got to me. So all I can say is—just check the barn.”

Check the barn? What in the hell is that supposed to mean? I stand up, wondering about this message and how long it's been here. Surely it must have been Mendelssohn who wrote it. It's clear no one's been up here for years.

There's a barn on the back of the property, and after the disappointment of the house I have new hope. This is another wrinkle. What could Mendelssohn be talking about? What did he feel guilty for? I bound down both flights of stairs, wondering.

This admission of guilt might be the last words of a man who thought he'd die—or to put it more direct, a man who thought he'd kill himself. That doesn't exactly dovetail with what I knew of Mendelssohn. He was supposed to be a man of God. It doesn't add up.

I reach the front door and shuffle down the porch steps. Rounding the corner of the house, the barn comes into view, maybe five hundred feet away. There's no telling what I'll find in there. Not in a million years would I have guessed I'd find anything substantial as a hand-written note in the house, so this could be anything.

The barn is a faded grey, having lost whatever color it was originally painted with. Two boards near the peak lean inwards, smashed. The shingles on the gambrel roof are streaked and rotting.

The door is only loosely secured and swings open with a good shove. Inside, it's damp and cold. Sunlight splinters in through cracks between the boards.

An old tractor rests just within the door, faded red with rusty spokes. A few tools line the wall behind it. There's nothing in the hayloft above…a pitchfork to my left. I keep moving.

Mixed with bits of hay, the dirt floor is soft and giving. A rodent darts out of my path as I pass empty stalls, but has nowhere to go as it comes to the end of the barn. It burrows into the corner as I stop and turn in a semi-circle, let down. There's nothing worth seeing in here.

Wait—I didn't see it before, but a shaft of light catches it just right. There's a trap door near the stalls, probably for a cellar. I hustle over and kick away the dirt and straw to uncover the rest of the door.

With some prying, the iron latch breaks free of its rusted position. I heave back the door, inhaling damp earth and musty air. I grab the small flashlight on my belt and head down.

The steps are shallow and steep, hurrying me down. At the bottom, I swing my beam around. The cellar isn't very big at all; it's more or less a hole in the ground. In the corner there's a small mound with a shovel beside it. A shovel…

This is it. This has got to be what Mendelssohn was talking about. He buried something out here…or someone. No, that can't be. There's no way. Not Mendelssohn.

I put the end of the flashlight in my mouth and grab the shovel. The moist earth gives way as I start digging, frantic. My teeth soon hurt from biting into the metal, so I put the flashlight at my feet, pointed at the hole I've begun.

The next shovel-full reveals what I don't want to see—the edge of a rotting garment. I dig with care now, easing and skimming around the little body that starts to form out of the dirt. In a minute I'm looking at the remains of a little girl. It's clear from what's left of her dress, tattered blue with a dingy white collar.

I step back. What if this is Starla Jenkins—the girl who went missing that fall? The shovel drops to my side with a dull smack, the damp earth a simple answer to my question. We should have been after Mendelssohn. He killed that girl—or some girl…but why?

I've got to call this in. I grab my flashlight and hustle back up the stairs. New questions pop into my head with each stride. If the body is Starla Jenkins, how does the Crisp boy fit into this? How is the Camaro involved? And if Mendelssohn killed Starla, who's driving the Camaro?

I reach the barn door. The fresh air is welcome but doesn't help to clear my head. Outside, I half-jog toward the house, thinking about how I'll explain what I found. Then as I come up alongside the house, I hear a motor running out front. Who could be here? Someone must have seen my car in the drive…

Rounding the corner, I stop dead. It's the Camaro, idling alongside the road. The sight of it makes my throat stick, and my knees wobble like a schoolboy's—but that's the least of it.

The damnable thing, the thing that halts the flow of blood and pushes my eyes to the limits of their sockets, is the small girl in the passenger seat. Her blond hair peeks over the door as she smiles and waves at me.

Habit kicks in and I reach for my holstered sidearm, but I catch myself, hand wavering. The Camaro and I stand each other down for a few agonizing seconds. Then it takes off down the road, rubber screaming and its motor pummeling out the howl I know too well.

Stepping back, my head is swimming as I all but collapse on the porch's bottom step. For a minute or two I'm in a fog, and I don't know what to think. How did I get here? How did I end up on this very porch thirteen years later?

A missing girl—that's how this started. Then there was the boy who drew the pictures, and then Mendelssohn's death. All bound by that phantom car—I fear it's going to haunt me forever.

The late afternoon shadows fall long across the porch. I'd like it very much if someone would tear this place down, and take some of this insanity with it.

Still, peace of mind may be too much to ask for. All I know for sure is the past doesn't always stay put. Maybe that's one of life's hard-knock lessons. Or maybe it's just bad luck.

The Sore Road

February 10th, 1999

August Burroughs somewhere in the Upper Territory

A few twigs scrape across my face as Halfacre and I move through the forest, but they don't hurt. It's just an annoying tick. I'm getting used to not being able to feel the same things I did when I was alive.

Every so often we stop on the trail and look behind, but all I see are flecks of moonlight and the early morning sky. Still, I know Tickseed is following us.

We were a few hours into our trek when I first spotted him. He's kept his distance since then, skulkin' behind trees and grinning like he knows something I don't. He hasn't tried to stop us, but I'm waiting for him to.

Halfacre stays close by my side and keeps a watchful eye. The trail isn't well-travelled or well-marked. I expect stiff joints or achy legs after awhile, but there's nothing like that at all…just stone and dirt.

The Driver wanted us to use the trail since we'd be on foot, and because it's a good distance from the commune. It's supposed to take us to the drop-off point where we'll cross over to the real world.

I keep calling it that—“the real world.” I guess this place is just as real, but I have problems looking at it that way. With only half my senses, I feel like I'm dreaming most of the time.

Now with Tickseed following, I wonder if this is a mistake. I was ready to leave both him and the Driver behind. Getting involved was never part of the plan, but in the end I had a gut-check. I didn't want it hanging over my conscience that I was partly to blame for whatever bad things Tickseed was going to do.

So I met the Driver at the end of town like he said. He was creepy as always, staring off into the distance a lot. And I didn't expect the bruiser he brought with him.

This guy was a big dude…probably weighing about three bills. He never said anything; he just stroked his beard while the Driver explained what would happen next.

I didn't think I could weasel my way out of anything with that guy standing there, so I had no choice but to go along. Even with Halfacre's size, we somehow piled into the Driver's Camaro and drove to where we picked up the trail.

The bruiser didn't come with us. He stayed behind to make sure no one followed. I didn't see how, because it's not like there's only one way to get around the Territory, but the Driver said the bruiser would have help. My guess is he meant the wanderlings.

The conversation during the drive was mostly one-sided with the Driver telling me what to expect. He built it up, but when we got to the beginning of the trail, I saw it was only a gravel road.

When the Driver let us out of the car, he said we might run into wanderlings along the way but didn't expect we'd see anyone else between there and the drop-off point. “Just stick to the road and follow it as far as it goes,” he said. “And remember what we talked about.”

Then he left. No “Good luck,” or “See ya later.”

Well, I've been thinking about everything we talked about and I'm still trying to make sense of it. The first thing the Driver explained was how Halfacre and I would cross over. This was confusing as all get out—supposedly we'll run into one of those patches of fog at the end of the road.

Somewhere in that fog, it will get real dark, and we'll hit what the Driver called a “sleeve.” He said it will feel like squeezing through a narrow opening, almost too narrow to fit; but so long as we keep stepping into it, it will eventually catch, and we'll cross over.

The important part is that I have a clear picture of our destination in mind as we go through. Otherwise, we won't end up in Graehling Station, which is where we need to be. The other important thing is that I make sure I have a firm hold of Halfacre.

Getting to Culver's soul will be even harder. It's not like I can just ask him for it. I'll either have to convince him to give it up, which isn't likely, or I'll have to take it by force.

The Driver suggested trying to convince him first, but not to waste much time if that doesn't work. I'm supposed to spend two nights in his dreams to try and make headway; otherwise, it's go time. Take no prisoners.

I decided that after this is over, I'm done. I'm going as far away from here as I can, whether I find my ghost or not. Part of me doesn't want to find it anyway, because then I'll have to leave Halfacre behind—maybe to die. If it's even possible to die again…

Reaching out, I grab a handful of Halfacre's fur and give it a good scratching. I'm still thinking about dying when there's a rustle in the trees a good distance back.

Halfacre stops and looks up to me, uneasy.

“I know, pal. We've got to keep moving.” I give him another tousle and we start off again, ignoring what's behind.

The threat of Tickseed making a move is always gnawing at the back of my mind. And I really don't know what I'll do when we cross over. The Driver made it sound easy, but something tells me it won't be.

I'm ready to curse the Driver when up ahead, the trail begins to brighten. A few hundred feet further and I can see a clearing and traces of mist. We pick up our pace.

At the edge of the clearing, the forest opens up to a field so wide I can't see where it ends. The fog is just beyond, hovering over dead weeds and grass.

Again there's rustling behind us, but closer this time. It's only a few feet away. Halfacre and I both stiffen. There's breathing, thick as gravel.

Halfacre spins around with a growl. The hair on his neck is bunched up and his head hangs low. Teeth barred, he looks ready to lunge.

I turn the rest of the way to see Tickseed, or who I think is Tickseed. I barely recognize him.

His skin is brindled like fur, and he's even taller and skinnier than before. There's something wrong with his face too; it's like he has a snout, but something's missing.

I'd give anything to be back at Grandma's right now. All her carrying on wouldn't bother me none. Instead I'm going to find out whether I can die again.

All wiry and black, Tickseed hunches over. “You will rot,” he says.

Then something breaks the surface underneath Tickseed's feet. Crawling bodies reach up out of the dirt and grab hold of his ankles and legs.

I can tell it's a group of wanderlings by their weird little kid bodies, but they look different somehow. Their skin is like charcoal and their bodies bend at funny angles. One second they move in slow motion, groping for a hold on Tickseed; next they're twisting around him lightning-fast.

I take a step forward as they start to pull pieces from Tickseed, tossing them aside like scraps of paper. Soon they've completely covered him.

Tickseed's scream stops me in my curious tracks. He can't seem to swat away the wanderlings. Falling to his knees, he twists back and forth.

Barking, Halfacre dances around the mess of bodies like he's egging on the wanderlings. He circles, stops, circles, stops.

One of the wanderlings falls behind and starts to head in my direction, and then like fast-forward, it's standing directly in front of me before I can react.

It's all sooty, like it's been crawling around in a chimney. There's a slash above the chin where it speaks from. “Run,” it whispers.

I stumble backwards, wide-eyed and numb. Halfacre barks and races back to my side. We turn and run into the fog, and I can still hear the nightmare whisper to me. “Run. Run. Run.”