The sound of Grandpa’s banging, clattering, bone-breaking, crashing descent down those stairs would stay with Buddy for the rest of his life. Grandpa hadn’t screamed or shouted. He’d always worn just undershorts to bed, and tonight he hadn’t even bothered with a robe. He’d landed on his back with his long bare, skinny legs sprawled up the steps. Buddy had slunk down the stairway and looked into his grandfather’s face. The man’s mouth had gaped and his yellowish eyes had been open and unblinking. “Thank you, God,” Buddy had whispered. “It’s finally over.”
Then Grandpa had moaned.
Chapter 5
1
Even now, Buddy shuddered violently at the memory. He’d almost screamed when his grandfather moaned, his body still motionless but a flicker of awareness in his pale eyes. That’s when Dillon had stepped out of the closet not ten feet away. Buddy had nearly screamed again, but Dillon had moved with the speed of a panther, put a hand over Buddy’s mouth, and said, “Don’t be afraid. I’ve been here ever since you were eating dinner.” He’d smiled kindly and said in an almost hypnotic voice, “I wanted to be with you in case anything went wrong. I’ll take care of you, Buddy.”
Dillon had glanced up the stairs. “Where’s your mother? Didn’t she hear the Old Man fall?”
Buddy, trembling and dripping sweat, shook his head no. He had taken a couple of shallow breaths and managed, “Sleeps like the dead.” That did it. He’d almost fainted at using Grandpa’s phrase, but Dillon had shaken him and said, “Hold on. I
need
you.”
Dillon Archer needing Buddy was probably the only thing in the world powerful enough to have made him keep himself from slipping into a peaceful faint. He’d nodded to Dillon and rubbed his wet hands on his pajama bottoms. He and Dillon had leaned over Grandpa and peered into his eyes. The Old Man had blinked, and Buddy rocked back onto his bottom. He couldn’t tell if Grandpa had recognized him or Dillon, but the man’s gaze seemed to shift slightly, fearfully, toward Dillon.
Buddy’s heart had been beating so hard it hurt his ribs, but Dillon seemed unfazed. With remarkable concentration, he had watched a rivulet of blood run from the corner of the Old Man’s dry lips to his chin before he’d croaked, “Help me.”
Dillon had looked at the Old Man calmly and said, “Okay.” Then Dillon had taken Grandpa’s head in his hands, lifted it slightly, and jerk-twisted it so fast Buddy wouldn’t have known what he saw if he hadn’t heard bone snap. “There now.” Dillon had sounded satisfied. “You’re not in pain anymore, Old Man, and you can’t cause Buddy pain anymore, either. I call that fair and square.”
Buddy had been too shocked to utter a sound. He’d sat rigid when Dillon looked directly into his eyes and said gently, “This seals our friendship for life.” When Buddy didn’t answer, Dillon asked louder, “Well, doesn’t it?”
Buddy had nodded.
Dillon was all business. “Take the hemp off the hook and the post. Make sure
every
strand of hemp is off that hook. Then flush it down the commode.
Don’t
forget to flush it—it’s incriminating evidence. Go back to bed. When the cops come, act surprised, but don’t scream and cry and all that crap. Everyone knows you hated him. You’d be overacting and they’d think something was suspicious. Got all that?”
Buddy had nodded again.
“Okay, then.” Dillon had stood up, peeked out a front window, and decided to make his escape. He’d opened the door, stepped onto the porch, looked back into Buddy’s frightened eyes, and smiled. “Remember, this makes us pals for life. Friends
never
tell on each other,” he’d said softly with just an undercurrent of menace. “Don’t ever forget it.”
So Buddy had carefully removed the hemp, checked the hook to make certain he’d left no strands, flushed the twine, gone to bed, and numbly lay awake until his mother screamed. He’d called Emergency Services because Bea was so frenzied she couldn’t put together a comprehensible sentence, and when the ambulance came Buddy had acted shocked but not grief stricken. Later, Grandpa’s death had been ruled an accident, and Buddy Pruitt had lived in fear and guilt the rest of his life.
Now, fourteen years later, Buddy still awakened from nightmares about Grandpa lying stretched out on those stairs saying, “Help me.” No one in town except Bea mourned the old man after his death. Only Dillon had come to the funeral with Bea and Buddy. Buddy didn’t hear a word the minister said. Grandpa’s moan and the sound of Dillon snapping the old man’s neck echoed so loudly in Buddy’s mind he could hear nothing else.
Like now. True, it was almost nine thirty at night on a little-traveled street, but usually when he walked this street at night he could still hear a few birds chirping before they bedded down. Sounds from elsewhere also drifted over—sirens, the whistle of the nine-thirty train, at this time of year stores blasting Christmas carols out to the street. Now there was nothing—nothing except newly fallen dead leaves crackling as the bitter wind drove them over the remains of snow and ice. They sounded remarkably like bones snapping. Like Grandpa’s neck snapping.
Buddy shivered but decided looking around would indicate, if only to himself, that he was frightened. Dillon Archer—damn him—wouldn’t be frightened. Much as he hated it, Dillon was still Buddy’s model of fearlessness and bravura. So, Buddy merely lowered his head and picked up his pace, although his heart beat faster and a feeling of cold, dark dread washed through him.
Suddenly an arm encircled Buddy’s neck, yanked him sharply backward and fiery pain shot up his back. His vision dimmed as the pain branched out, scorching, raging, running rampant throughout his body, sending him to his knees. His skinny frame shook, and something twisted deep within him, tearing organs, grating against his ribs, sending a torrent of warm blood down the flesh of his back and past the belt that surrounded his small waist.
Buddy tried to scream, but the arm held his throat so tightly, all he could do was whimper. That’s all I could ever do, he thought distantly as the gouging and tearing continued inside him. That’s all I was ever good for, he thought with fuzzy sadness whispering through the pain. A whimper.
He felt as if he was being dragged; then someone unzipped his jacket and a hand darted inside, maybe looking for something, maybe leaving something…he wasn’t certain…and then left his jacket partly open. Buddy waited a few moments, then tried to get to his knees, thinking his attacker had left, but the effort was too great and he collapsed. Someone snickered. He looked up and saw no one, but he realized he was beneath the tree that glowed glorious burnt orange in the autumn. He closed his eyes and dreamily pictured his mother’s face—bovine and full of love. Finally someone beside him spoke:
“Say hello to Grandpa, Buddy. He’s waiting for you.”
2
The bedside phone rang and Marissa, hanging on the cliff edge of sleep, groaned and answered.
“You kilt him!” a woman screeched. “You
murdered
him because you always expected him to act like you’re some kind of princess, and when he wouldn’t you
kilt
my poor Buddy!”
Marissa lay in stunned silence for a moment before looking at the caller ID.
Unknown 555-3476.
“Who is this?” she asked.
“It’s Bea. Who else would it be?”
Marissa blinked several times and focused on the clock by her bed. Two fifteen. A woman had a nightmare and simply picked up her phone and began punching numbers, Marissa thought, her shock fading. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I think you have the wrong number.”
“I’m Bea Pruitt and I don’t have the wrong number. It’s right here! He was carryin’ it on a piece of paper close to his heart!” She broke into heart-twisting sobs. “It’s got your name and phone number on it.
Marissa Gray,
it says. I heard when you came to see the sheriff today Buddy made a joke and you threw a fit. You tried to hit him. You threatened to kill him! Maybe he was gonna call and apologize to you or maybe he was meetin’ you and that’s why he didn’t get home in time for our favorite TV show.
“Anyway, I know who you are. You’re that doctor’s daughter who works at the newspaper,” Bea continued. “Your mama was nice to me a couple of times, so he and me went to your mama’s funeral, and I saw you. You’re the mean one with blonde hair that hit him a long time ago. Today he teased you and you got so mad that you kilt him tonight! You’re not as smart as you think you are, though. I watch murder shows, so I know about evidence. You left murder evidence right on him and I’m gonna give it to the police as soon as they get here and then your goose is cooked!” She drew a deep breath and choked out, “My poor Buddy!”
Marissa’s hand tightened on the phone as realization dawned. “Are you talking about Buddy Pruitt?”
“How many men named Buddy did you kill tonight?”
Marissa sat up in bed, her stomach clenching. “My God, Buddy Pruitt has been murdered?”
“Don’t you take the Lord’s name in vain and don’t you even
try
to sound innocent. You can’t fool me. You won’t fool the police!”
For a moment Marissa’s mind went blank. Buddy Pruitt had been murdered? Why? How?
Where?
Finally, she knew what to ask. “Ms. Pruitt, where are you calling me from?”
“I’m with Buddy. I wouldn’t leave him all alone! I’m with him here at his favorite tree. You knew it was his favorite tree, didn’t you? He must have told you sometime. Maybe he gave you a picture of it when it turned all orange in October.”
“What tree, Ms. Pruitt? Where is the tree?”
The woman began talking vaguely, recalling the earlier hours of the night. “When he didn’t come home tonight and our TV show was on, I knew somethin’ was wrong. I waited till after midnight and then I came out lookin’ for him. I don’t usually come out at night—I get lost. But I had to find Buddy. I walked awhile and then I thought about his favorite tree here on Oak Lane.” Ms. Pruitt sniffled. “I found him layin’ almost right beside it in the big mess of moldy leaves mixed with snow where you’d tried to hide him. So we’re here. Just me and Buddy by his tree,” she ended miserably.
Marissa’s mouth had gone dry. She asked gently, “Ms. Pruitt, are you using your cell phone?”
“No. I don’t need one of those. I’m usin’ Buddy’s. It was layin’ a ways from him, but I found it. Then it took me a while to figure out how to use it even though Buddy’s shown me a bunch of times, but I finally called nine-one-one like Buddy told me to do if there was ever any trouble. And then I found that piece of paper with your name and phone number—” She choked on more sobs. “That paper’s got blood—my Buddy’s blood—on it, but I could still see the writin’. You didn’t count on me havin’ such good eyes, did you? But it’s too late for you just like it’s too late for Buddy.” Bea’s voice trembled. “The police are on their way!”
“I’m certain they are. You stay put, Ms. Pruitt. Don’t wander off—stay with Buddy.”
“Don’t wander off! You think I’d leave my little boy all bloody…and dead…in a mess of leaves…. He’s so cold…. He was comin’ home to me, but before he could get there—”
Ms. Pruitt broke the connection. Marissa drew a deep breath, reached for the glass of water she always kept by her bedside, and drained it. By this time, Lindsay had jumped up on the bed and, sensing Marissa’s tension, had brought her a toy rooster for comfort. Marissa put the rooster on her lap and pulled Lindsay close to her while she dialed 911. Marissa identified herself and explained the situation, verifying that a woman had called for assistance on Oak Lane and an ambulance should arrive shortly.
Marissa then called Andrew Archer, editor of the
Gazette,
and gave him the information. “I’ll go immediately,” he said, and Marissa heard his wife, Tonya, protesting in cranky sleepiness. Andrew seemed to ignore her. “You stay home, Marissa. You don’t officially begin work again until tomorrow.”
“It
is
tomorrow, Andrew, and I’ll meet you on Oak Lane.”
Twenty minutes later, wearing jeans, a heavy sweater, boots, and a down-filled coat, Marissa left a note for Catherine, who’d apparently taken the phone extension out of her bedroom and hadn’t heard the call. Marissa simply wrote:
There’s been an accident on Oak Lane. Andrew and I are going to the scene. I’ll be back as soon as I can.
She picked up her notebook, tote bag, and tape recorder and turned on a living room light, although a family room lamp burned as well. Maybe the lights wouldn’t fool anyone into thinking people at the Gray house were sitting up alert and prepared to face down a killer, but she didn’t want to leave Catherine obliviously asleep and alone in the house. Lindsay was not a trained watchdog, but Marissa knew she would begin barking if anyone tried to enter the house. Marissa locked the front door and dashed to her rental car.
Ms. Pruitt had said she and Buddy were at his favorite tree on Oak Lane. Marissa had no idea which tree on Oak Lane was Buddy’s favorite, but as soon as she turned onto the narrow street she saw the swirling red lights of an ambulance and a police patrol car. She parked half a block away from the scene, not wanting to get in anyone’s way or call attention to herself and be ordered to leave.
Marissa carefully walked on the dirty ice and snow, not yet removed by street cleaners because of Oak Lane’s nearly non ex is tent traffic. As she neared a patrol car, she heard a woman’s wails cutting through the noise of police speaking loudly and chatter coming from official radios.
“No, I
won’t
let go of him. Don’t you even
try
to make me let go of him! Didn’t you hear me? He’s my boy—my Buddy! My poor, poor little Buddy!”
Portable lights turned the scene a startling blue-white. Two police officers drove stakes into the cold ground and attached yellow tape, but their efforts to preserve the crime scene were useless. A plump woman Marissa knew must be Bea Pruitt crawled frantically on the bloody snow around her son, pulling down the tape, scuttling back to the body, clawing and swatting at anyone who came near, ignoring pleas for her to let officials examine Buddy for evidence.