appeared out there at all, he'd been stalking her.
She glanced around the small observation room, as if the mere thought of the man
could make his fleshly presence real.
But why would he be stalking you? Isn't that a bit much? A little melodramatic?
That's what her mother used to accuse her of: Stop being so melodramatic, Celia.
Stalking did make her think of bad movies in which women acted as the perfect
foils for homicidal maniacs, but it also forced her to remember the horrifyingly
true stories of women hunted and killed by the crazies of the world. There were
lots of real-life horror stories, though some of them taunted memory more
painfully than others. The grisly photographs of Nicole Brown Simpson's body
came quickly to mind, and Celia shuddered once again over the lesson some men
had learned from that case.
Then she recalled the weird remark Mr. Boyce made when he held the snake, just
before he tried to cut off its head, about not having any patience for the
things that scared him. Was that a coincidence too?
She rubbed her arm again and forced herself to focus on Davy. The boy looked up
as Mrs. Tucker's aide, Allison, started handing out supplies. The teacher's
voice melted into the observation room.
"Now, I want each of you to either write about your family or draw a picture of
them," the teacher said. "You can do either— write or draw— but I want you to do
it about your family."
Davy's eyes followed Allison hungrily until she gave him his paper and pencil.
Celia recalled how as a child she'd also been greedy for her own materials
whenever a new project had been announced.
"This ought to be interesting," she whispered.
"He looks like he might cooperate." As Tony spoke he pulled on his bottom lip, a
nervous gesture that Celia had taken note of only recently.
"Actually, he's been drawing well all week. Today I'll have him do the House,
Tree, Person Drawing."
This news did not rouse any response from Tony, but Celia tried not to let it
bother her.
"I haven't really had a chance to review his work yet. Tomorrow I'll have him do
the Family Drawing, and I'll look them over this weekend. By then I think we
should have all we need for a comprehensive evaluation."
"We've got you on call, right?"
"You do, but Jack's taking off for Trout River for two days, so I'll probably
have some time to work. Frankly, each of Davy's pictures gets creepier and
creepier."
"Creepier?" Tony repeated superciliously. "Now that's a professional term."
She refused to respond. She wasn't going to let him get to her, not this
morning. "By the way, I need to talk to you about something that happened
yesterday."
But Tony already was reading his beeper and opening the door, pausing long
enough only to say, "It's the district office," before disappearing.
She turned back to Davy, who was gazing at a child's picture hanging on the wall
just a few feet from his desk. Tears began to roll down his cheeks. She took a
second look at the picture and saw a roughly drawn woman holding a little boy's
hand.
Mrs. Tucker walked over to Davy and spoke softly to him, too softly to penetrate
the one-way mirror.
As the teacher studied the picture, Davy slowly lowered his eyes to his desk.
His every move appeared to require some effort until he focused on his pencil.
Then, in a sudden flurry of motion, he gripped the yellow barrel and raised his
arm. Celia pounded the glass to warn Mrs. Tucker, but it was too late.
Davy stabbed at his teacher, who surprised Celia— and no doubt the boy as well—
by swiftly deflecting his attack and pinning his wrist to the desk.
Celia exhaled with such relief that she felt empty. She certainly hadn't
expected the stout Mrs. Tucker to react that quickly. But neither Celia nor the
teacher was prepared for what came next.
Davy lunged forward and savagely sunk his teeth into her arm. Even behind the
glass Celia could hear his ferocious grunts as he chewed on the ample flesh just
below Mrs. Tucker's elbow. The teacher gasped and released Davy's wrist, but
that only enabled him to use both hands to hang on to her as he ground his teeth
deeper into her arm.
Celia rushed into the classroom as Mrs. Tucker made desperate and wholly
ineffective attempts to wrench herself free. Celia took hold of her arm and
forced it in the opposite direction— right into Davy's face— which clearly
angered the injured woman.
"What are you doing?" she shouted.
Celia didn't even consider responding because Davy's mouth had begun to open
under pressure, and she saw how she could break his bite. Using both hands, she
jerked Mrs. Tucker's arm down toward his chest, which finally freed her. Davy
turned away, as if in shame.
Mrs. Tucker stepped back and stared at her bloody wound as Celia gripped the boy
firmly by his shoulders.
"Davy, I think we need to go to containment right now."
Curiously, she did not fear Davy at all, not even when he clearly eyed her left
hand. She simply did not believe he would try to bite her after her show of
force. She was wrong.
"Do you hear me?" She raised her voice and shook him gently. She wanted him to
look at her. He wouldn't.
She glanced at Mrs. Tucker. "Please have Allison get one of the child
therapists, and you better get yourself some medical attention."
Davy's teeth had left a clear impression on the teacher's skin, like a cookie
cutter with scalloped edges. He'd drawn a lot of blood, and before Celia turned
back to the boy she saw a stream run down Mrs. Tucker's arm and drip off her
wrist.
Davy did not appear at all agitated by the panic and commotion he'd caused. He
sat unmoving, with his head still turned to the side, as Allison rushed out the
door and Mrs. Tucker moved hastily to the front of the class.
"Davy." Celia stepped around his desk to try to make eye contact with him. "Are
you going to walk out of here on your own or do you want some help?"
He looked at her with a stony expression, hate or fear or something else, Celia
couldn't tell. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Ethan hurry into the room
with Allison, and she heard Mrs. Tucker telling the students in a remarkably
collected voice that she had to leave to see a doctor.
"Allison," the teacher added, "will take over for me."
"Ethan," Celia addressed him without taking her eyes off Davy, "we need to go to
containment right now. We're going to see if Davy will take my hand and walk out
with us."
She released her hold on his shoulders but the boy would not take her hand. She
then tried to guide him out of his seat, but this proved no more productive.
"Ethan," she said in the same authoritative voice she'd been using all along,
"would you help me take Davy to containment?"
Ethan moved swiftly to the other side of the boy's desk, and the two of them
shifted his chair all the way back to the wall with the one-way glass. As they
did this Davy locked his hands on the plastic seat. They quickly unpried his
fingers and picked him up. Ethan held Davy's legs, and Celia stood behind him
and wrestled her arms around his upper body. He chose that moment to strike a
second time, baring his teeth so suddenly that Celia had to thrust his body to
the side and pin his arms tightly behind his back to avoid being bitten. But
this time he did not make any noise, no groans moans or utterances of any kind;
and when she foiled his attack he ran out of steam and hung between them like a
clothesline.
They carried him out of the classroom as the other students and Allison looked
on quietly. They negotiated the cement walkway back to the main building, where
they carefully descended the stairs to the containment room.
Celia freed her hand to open the door, and the awkward threesome entered the
room. They lowered Davy to the dark sponge mat that covered the floor. Every
surface of the eight-foot-square room had a cushioned covering.
The boy tensed as they laid him down between them, but made no attempt to break
free. They continued to hold him as they began to breathe together audibly.
After about a minute Davy started to relax. Celia watched Ethan as he looked
intently at the boy, and wondered what kind of a father he'd make. A good one,
she decided. Despite his dark humor, he was kind to kids.
She spoke in a soothing voice:
"Davy, everything is okay. We're going to keep you safe. This is a safe place
where you can't hurt yourself or anyone else."
She stroked his head as she talked, and when her eyes indicated to Ethan that he
could leave, he mouthed, "Are you sure?" She nodded.
He released Davy's feet, and the boy immediately drew them up to his body in a
protective posture. He lay still as Ethan walked out of the room.
Celia let her arms go limp, though they remained draped around Davy's chest.
"Davy, let's try breathing together, okay? I'm going to take a deep breath, and
you see if you can do it too. Then we'll blow it out slowly, okay?
One-two-three."
She drew in her breath in a deep, exaggerated fashion and exhaled in the same
manner. Then she did it again. A second or so later he joined her.
"That's good. Now let's do it together. One-two-three."
She felt the boy breathing with her, and after a few moments he rested his head
against her chest. She craned her neck around his head and saw for the first
time that he appeared calm. She leaned back against the padded wall, and a smile
spread across her face.
*
Davy let her take his hand as they left the containment room, and he held on to
her all the way upstairs to her office.
"Go ahead, grab a seat," she said cheerily.
He settled in the child's chair by the big table where he'd been drawing all
week long. He looked at her openly and expectantly, and when she spoke he
watched her keenly. For the first time since meeting Davy she sensed that he
wanted to be at the Center, and maybe even with her. She was surprised by how
much this pleased her.
She handed him a pencil knowing this was a calculated risk after his attack on
Mrs. Tucker, but she wanted to rebuild trust with him as soon as possible.
Besides, he'd made his preference for pencils clear during every drawing
session. As she handed him a sheet of blank paper she told him to think about
the place where he felt safest.
"Whenever you're scared, like you were in that classroom, or whenever someone's
mean to you, I want you to think about the one place that you'd like to go
because it feels safe. Got that?"
Davy didn't reply, of course, but she talked on as if he had.
"Good. Now I want you to draw that place, Davy. It's important."
He moved his head up and down. She thought he might have been nodding, but
couldn't be sure. Then he leaned over and went to work.
26
Chet heard the chain saws and knew that if he started cutting, the loggers would
hear him too. Too bad. A whole string of stumps all lined up by the side of the
road waiting for him. Just waiting. And he couldn't cut them. Look at that one,
all fat and round and standing there saying, Cut me, cut me, like some dumb-ass
hitchhiker with sweat meat stacked up all over her body. Come on, get in. You
need a ride? Yeah, sure, I'm going that way. He'd picked them up...and dropped
them off. One, two. Maybe more. You lose track. Once they're gone, they're gone.
No use to remember.
He'd have to move on, get away from the sound of those saws. He thought he
should do that with Davy, too. Leave Bentman. Get the hell out. Every goddamn
day he's drawing pictures— of what? What's he saying? It's like he's talking
Russian all of a sudden. They don't mean shit to me but they could be saying
anything to her. Everything, even. There's no telling with that kind of talking.
But it doesn't matter, he told himself. Doesn't matter one bit, not if she's not
listening. And if she straightened out her thinking, she won't be listening. And
if she didn't? Hell, then she won't be listening either. He'd given her life. It
was His to take away.
The dirt and gravel road curved to the west, and when he spotted the long
driveway to his left he smiled without knowing it. He realized with a start that
he'd driven up the county road the back way and hadn't even known where he was.
He sure as hell did now. The name on the fence post saying to all the world
"Griswold," like she didn't have a thing to be afraid of.
He pulled on the parking brake and let the truck idle. He walked up the drive
till he could see the house. He had time for a good long look. Nice. He'd burn
it down if he had to. He could see the flames licking the walls, cedar turning
black as night, crumbling and falling on top of her, a huge smoking mess, the
flesh roasted right off her bones. All the evidence burned away, her blood
bubbled to ash. Go ahead, find the cuts. Like finding the white when the snow
melts.
His smile spread till he felt it all the way down to his crotch, rich and thick
with joy.
He turned away and started back to the truck. He stopped at the fence post to
look at the sign. It had been there awhile; he could tell by the rusty nails
holding it in place. He pulled and felt it start to give. Then he jerked it hard
and split it right down the middle, right where those nails were. The only part
still hanging was the "Gris," and even the top of the s was missing. He liked
the way it dangled there, like it might not last for long. A hard wind could rip
it right down. It could. It could.
27
Stevie bulled his way through the kitchen door of the Center and headed straight