Authors: Andrew Neiderman
would chase away flies. Lee shook his head in disgust and directed the
light back to the truck. That was when he saw the blood, large ruby
stains on the street where the man had been hanging upside down.
Jesus, Lee muttered. He turned back to the drunk and searched his body
and face for signs of his wounds, but he found none. He knelt beside
him again. The man had turned over and already was snoring. Lee ran
the light over his neck and head, but he saw nothing. What the hell He
turned back to the stains to be sure they weren't in his imagination.
Confirming them, he began to wonder if there was someone else. He got
up and walked around the truck, directing his light every which way, but
there was no sign of anyone else. Finally he reached in and shut off
the truck engine.
Hey, he said, shaking the drunken man with his foot. Hey, who the hell
are you? Was there anyone with you? Hey? He shook him again, but the
man only groaned. Lee, Jesse called from the doorway. Are you all
right? Yeah. It's only some drunk, he replied.
I called the police; they're on their way.
Good. He scratched his head and looked around again. There was some
other smell here, some horrible odor that didn't seem to be a part of
this revolting scene. It trailed off behind him toward the cemetery.
He lifted the flashlight in its direction and his light illuminated some
of the bone-white tombstones that were close to the road.
Suddenly he thought he saw something moving: a tall, dark shadow. He
chased it with his light, but the flash light was too weak to illuminate
at any great distance and the shadowy figure was gone as quickly as it
had appeared.
Probably my imagination, he thought. Even so, the image chased him back
and he retreated quickly to the house. Jessie had put on her robe and
was waiting for him in the doorway.
What is it? Some guy was drinking booze. He stopped, probably because
he didn't know where the hell he was, and somehow he opened his door on
the driver's side and fell out, only his feet got caught under the
steering wheel, so he was just dangling there. He did me the honor of
throwing up most of what he had drunk and eaten during the last few
hours. Well, where is he?
He's sleeping comfortably on the side of the road, Lee said. I hate to
disturb him, much less touch him, he added. He didn't mention the
bloodstains.
Oh. Jessie turned in the direction of the truck. But I heard such a
loud noise, more like a gunshot.
Since when do you know about gunshots, Jess? You probably heard him
screaming for help or something until he passed out. He had seen a
rifle on the floor of the cab, but he didn't want to mention it. Let's
wait inside, he said. I'll make some warm milk so I can fall back to
sleep after the police arrive.
Reluctantly she permitted him to turn her away from the door and then
she followed him back to the kitchen.
Twenty minutes later the police arrived.
Gardner Town was part of a township that consisted of seven villages and
hamlets. As such it was patrolled and protected by a township police
department, a complement of twenty officers with one full-time
detective. The police department had fourteen patrol cars, but usually
had only two in operation during the late evening hours.
The two officers who arrived were local boys. The driver, Burt Peters,
was a stout six-foot-two-inch man with curly black hair. He had gone to
school in Gardner Town and remained in the community after graduation,
working first as a private security guard and then becoming a town
policeman. His partner, Greg Daniels, was a lean, muscular, six-foot
black man who grew up in one of the neighboring hamlets, Hurleyville,
and had come to the police force directly after his stint in the army.
Lee and Jessie greeted them at the outside door. Lee saw that they
already had picked up the drunken truck driver and placed him in the
back of their patrol car.
He sat with his head against the window.
Sorry you were disturbed, Burt said. It's Tony Benson; he's sorta
famous for this kind of thing.
He doesn't even have a license to drive anymore, Greg added, shaking his
head. Lost that last time we picked him up.
Someone will come by in the morning to pick up the truck, Burt said, and
nodded. The two patrolman started to turn away. just a minute Lee
said. He looked at Jessie and then stepped forward. He had kept it
from her as long as he could. There may be someone else out there.
Sir? Burt said. I saw bloodstains on the street, but I didn't find any
wounds or gashes on the driver. Bloodstains? Greg said. He looked at
Burt, but Burt shrugged. You wanna show us, Mr. Overstreet? Burt
Peters asked. Sure, he said, and led the patrolman off the porch and
down the street to the truck. Their flashlight was a great deal more
powerful than his. It washed the darkness off the pavement. Lee went
to the spot and stopped. He knelt down and felt the road. There was
nothing there. But I saw it, he said quickly, looking up at the two
policemen. You sure it was here, Mr. Overstreet? Greg asked.
Positive. And they weren't little stains either. It looked like gobs
of blood had been spilled.
The two patrolmen nodded sympathetically. Burt ran his flashlight over
the road alongside the truck.
Don't see anything now, sir, he said.
I know, Lee said, standing. I can't understand it.
Well, the night plays tricks on you, sir, Burt said.
Maybe it was just some spilled booze, Greg said.
Both policemen laughed. No, no, this was blood, Lee said, and there was
a stench.
Well, there still is, sir, Burt said. Only we have it in the back of
our car. They laughed again.
No, this was different. It wasn't just the booze and all; it was. He
recalled Jesse's telling him of her smelling something rotten and dead
an hour or so before he had come home from work. This was something
dead. Dead? Burt looked at Greg.. "Well, sir, we don't smell anything
now. Yeah, I know, Lee said. He looked off toward the cemetery. We'd
better get Tony Benson to the station, Greg said. Right. Benson, Lee
said as they turned to go back. The possible significance of the name
had occurred to him.
He wouldn't have a teenage son in Gardner Town High, would he?
Yes, sir. Paul Benson. Great little play maker on the basketball
court, Burt said.
Say, Greg said, pausing, you wouldn't be the new coach, would you?
Yes, I would, Lee said. That's Paul's father? he asked, shaking his
head. No wonder the boy is the way he is, he thought.
Yes, sir, Burt said. He wasn't always like this, though. Oh? went
downhill after his wife died. He happens to be an excellent carpenter,
only I don't think he's held on to many jobs lately. Burt Peters
smiled.
Small town, sir.
Everybody knows everyone's business. Sorry you were bothered. Thanks
for calling us. The two policemen got into their vehicle. Lee watched
them drive off, Tony Benson still not moving in the rear. He turned to
look back at the truck and then he joined Jessie, who waited in the
doorway. Why didn't you tell me about the blood? she asked as soon as
he stepped up.
I didn't want to worry you. Fortunately I made the right decision. What
do you mean?
There weren't any bloodstains. I guess I imagined them, he said. I
would have worried you for nothing.
How can you imagine bloodstains, Lee?
I don't know, honey, he said, although he couldn't understand it. He
had knelt down and confirmed it the first time. But what other
explanation was there? They weren't there now. I got down on my hands
and knees to check again. But I heard a gunshot, she insisted.
Jess, its late as hell. I'll he as limp as a wet noodle as it is.
She nodded and they headed back to their bedroom.
Just after he put out the lights and joined her under the covers, she
turned to him sharply. Lee? What now?
How could old man carter sleep through all this?
He didn't come out; he didn't try to find out what was going on. I
don't know, honey. Maybe that's a benefit in being old. You don't hear
all the nonsense that goes on around you and you have a good night's
sleep.
Boy oh boy, Lee added as he turned over, and here I thought life in the
rural world was going to be too peaceful to stand.
He closed his eyes. He knew Jessie was lying there thinking, hut he
couldn't stop her.
He couldn't even stop himself, for over and over he saw the image of
that dark shadow threading itself around the bone-white tombstones
before it disappeared into the depths of the cemetery.
He fell asleep when he finally concluded that the night was a magician
casting out illusion after illusion, overwhelming him and making him a
victim of his own imagination.
Lee sat in the physical-education office thumbing through Kurt
Andersen's old purchase orders and correspondence. Despite the warm
welcome he had received from most of the staff, he couldn't help feeling
like an intruder. His predecessor hadn't had time to clean out his
personal things and no one had bothered to do it for him and his family
afterward.
Andersen's entire career history still lingered on the walls in the form
of congratulatory letters and plaques, as well as pictures with local
dignitaries and school personnel. The correspondence in the files
included many personal letters from other coaches, parents of former
students, and former students themselves. After Lee had perused some of
this, it was not hard for him to understand why the man had been
something of an institution to the people of Gardner Town.
From the letters Lee could appreciate how much personal interest
Andersen had taken in his students. Some had kept in touch with him as
long as fifteen years after graduation, and many had still been asking
his advice as recently as a week before he died. Obviously he had had
more than their respect, he had had their affection, too.
As Lee read through a dozen or so of these letters, he began to
experience the particular sort of nostalgia only someone who had been
teaching a long time feels.
Without ever having had these students, he longed for the likes of them.
From the tone of the letters and the references to events and memories,
Lee conjured up a picture of an altogether different sort of school and
community. There was a closeness, a comradeship, a sense of extended
family that simply didn't exist today.
He had to smile at what the boys in the letters considered their
difficulties. They were mostly insignificant compared with what
occurred in present times. Absent were any references to problems with
drugs and alcohol.
Only an occasional letter here and there mentioned a broken family.
These letters were written before the age of divorce.
Apparently Kurt Andersen had had a nice singing voice and, especially
during his younger days, had often been persuaded to sing at school
dances. Lee was sure Andersen had had far more than his share of
teenage girls with crushes on him, but even back when he was a young
teacher, he had probably handled the problem with a fatherly maturity.
Lee saw it in the way the girls had written to Andersen years later,
thanking him for his advice and his sensitivity.
What large shoes to fill, Lee thought; and yet Kurt Andersen had been
the kind of teacher Lee had always wanted to be. From the records on
Andersen's discipline problems and the way he had handled them, Lee
could surmise that he had been a firm man, but a fair man. Not that he
had had many problems up until the last year or so. About then there
was a dramatic change.
The file marked Discipline was much thicker for the last couple of
years, and the problems cited were far more serious. Andersen had
caught boys selling dope in the locker rooms; he had caught boys
stealing, not only from each other, but even from him. Reading the
report on one such episode, Lee could sense Andersen's shock and
outrage. Students were crossing lines heretofore thought inviolate.
When Lee reached the record of the last six months, he noted an
increasingly frustrated Andersen, frustrated not just with his pupils,
but with his administration, especially with his principal. The
correspondence between them had become quite heated. Andersen was not