The Caterpillar King

This book is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of
the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance
to actual persons, living or dead, events, is entirely
coincidental.

All rights
reserved.

Copyright © 2014 by Noah
Pearlstone

Cover design by Rebecca
Fels

Originally published by
Smashwords.

Noah Pearlstone

1.

There was a girl down the street. She had
legs, and I liked watching them. Every day at 4 PM, the bus left
her in front of my house. The bus left a lot of kids in front of my
house, but I wasn’t complaining. The girl would trail behind the
others, following the line of them just like a little duck. One by
one, they’d peel off, head their separate ways, until it was only
her. She’d stomp across the street toward a sorry little shed she
called home. Then she’d disappear inside. She didn’t know how to
use those legs yet, but she’d learn. They always do.

I began my observation a week ago. The
Little Duck lived under the rule of a tyrant she called Mom. Mom
spent her days drinking and her evenings screaming. The Little Duck
took the abuse without a word. There was courage in her silence.
Once Mom passed out, the Little Duck would open her window and
crawl through the gap. Then she’d wander off into the darkness, all
alone.

A few nights ago, I was feeling reckless and
stupid. I followed the Little Duck to the neighborhood playground.
She sat on a swing, head down, body completely still. It looked
like she could use a push. I just wanted to help.

Maybe I pushed her a little too hard. Maybe
she fell on her arm. It’s hard to say.

“Oww oww OWWW,” she said. She clutched at
her wrist. “What was that for?”

“Swings are meant for swinging,” I said.

“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” she
said. “Like a retirement home?”

“I like coming out here. It keeps me
young.”

“My Mom told me about people like you,” she
said.

I laughed. “I bet she did.”

She looked down at her wrist again.

“You broke it,” she said.

“Let me see.”

She pulled away. “Look,” she said, “Are you
going to give me some money or what?”

“I know a guy. He’ll fix you right up,” I
said. I reached into my pocket. “Here’s my card.”

She took the card. She handled it like it
was a dead rat.

“Castor Blue?” she said. “That’s your
name?”

“Depends on who’s asking,” I said.

“OK…weird,” she said. “Weird.”

What a vocabulary. She looked over the card
again. “It says you’re a ‘private investigator,’” she said. “I’m
pretty sure that’s not a real thing anymore.”

“That’s great,” I said. “You sure know a
lot. I wish I knew as much as you.”

She turned the card over in her hand a few
times. It didn’t light up or play music. She seemed disappointed.
“I don’t think I really believe you,” she said. “I mean, what do
you do? Solve mysteries? Catch criminals?”

“I investigate things,” I said. “But I don’t
talk about it much.” I leaned in and spoke in a whisper. “You see,
it’s private.”

She glared up at me. For the first time, I
got a clear look at her amber eyes. I wished I hadn’t. They were
hard and unreachable and held the sadness of a thousand lifetimes.
They were the kind of eyes you could fall in love with, but they’d
never love you back.

“Weird,” she said.

“Look. You can sit on the ground all night,”
I said. “But I’ve got a better idea. Here, I’ll help you up. Come
on.”

I reached out to her. I shouldn’t have. She
scared easy.

“I’m going home,” she said.

She ran past me, legs and all. She took my
card with her, but I wasn’t expecting a call anytime soon. I’d
missed my chance. It was back to square one. I needed to collect
more information. I’d be better prepared the next time.

I spent the next three days observing her.
It wasn’t a bad three days. On the fourth morning, she woke up and
turned the light on at 5 AM. Early for her, late for me. At 8, she
escaped for the school day. Mom hurried her out the door with a
solid shove in the back. The Little Duck got on the bus and sat by
herself three rows from the front. That didn’t sit right with me.
There were rules on buses and those rules never changed. Old in the
back, young in the front. She was no spring flower, at least not
compared to the other passengers. But there she was, next to kids
who were just out of diapers. She was either an outcast or she was
avoiding someone. That much was clear.

After the bus drove away, my observation
stalled. Eight hours crawled by, slow and poisonous. I stared out
the window and waited. I was real good at that. At 4 PM, the Little
Duck came back. She got off the bus, plugs in her ears. She went
straight to her room and took a place at her desk. I had a front
row seat to the best show in town. With my binoculars in hand, I
could see every freckle on her cheeks. She took out a pen and a
notebook and started writing. My instincts told me she was writing
something private, important. My instincts were usually right.

At 7 PM, the real entertainment began. Mom
came into her room and said a few words. There wasn’t much to it
and the Little Duck didn’t react. She kept on writing. Mom didn’t
take too kindly to that. She came closer and expanded upon her
point. The Little Duck let a few words escape from the corner of
her mouth. That’s when Mom lost it. She grabbed the Little Duck’s
notebook and flung it across the room. She screamed and shouted for
the whole neighborhood’s benefit. The entire time, the Little Duck
sat there just like a statue. You’d have thought she was posing for
a portrait, the way she looked. In the end, Mom screamed herself
tired and let the girl be. It wasn’t a bad strategy by the Little
Duck. No one can fight with a brick wall for very long.

After the assault was over, the girl stayed
stoic, focused. She picked up her notebook and scratched out a
quick letter. The letter went on her desk, while the notebook went
in her backpack. I caught another glimpse of her eyes. Something
was different this time. Something within her had been broken.
Without any hesitation, she slid open her window and crawled right
out, backpack and all.

The Little Duck strolled down the street,
right past my house. Now the way I saw it, I had a choice to make.
I could let this girl go gently into the good night, and there’d be
no guarantee of her return. Or I could put myself between her and
the edge. Truth is, it wasn’t much of a choice at all. I headed for
the door. When I got there, I had to pause and collect myself. What
if this girl took me with her into the darkness? No matter.
Darkness was my old friend. I looked good in the dark. I pulled the
door open, and it creaked stupid and loud. Outside, the wind was
howling. The sound of sorrow was in the air. I locked up, checking
the door once, twice, three times. Bad people are out there, and
you can’t be too careful. In the distance, I heard the Little
Duck’s footsteps stomping away. I took off after her.

2.

I wasn’t the only one following the Little
Duck. To my right, footsteps echoed on the asphalt. I dove behind
some shrubs for protection. Across the street, a small figure
stalked the girl from about ten feet away. It looked like a threat.
I don’t take too kindly to threats.

They both passed under a streetlamp, one
after the other. The stalker was a boy. He looked skinny and weak
and undeveloped. He had on a hooded sweatshirt, and he carried a
stupid-looking backpack. It was anybody’s guess what was inside.
Probably not math homework.

The stalker’s shoe came untied. He stopped
to tie it. That was a mistake. I saw my opening and I went for it.
I jumped him, covering his mouth with one hand. The other hand was
for his throat. I decided not to break his neck. At least not
yet.

The boy didn’t let out a sound. Smart kid.
Just in case he thought about getting clever, I whispered some
advice in his ear. The Little Duck kept on walking, fading into the
darkness in front of us. I redirected the stalker to my house.

He was cooperative at first. He walked nice
and steady, and I got a little careless. He made the most of it.
The kid bit me. He sunk his teeth into my hand like a rabid, filthy
dog.

“Punk!” I said. I pulled my hand away from
his big trap.

“AAAH!” the kid yelled. “I’m about to get
raped and dismembered!”

I covered up his mouth pretty quick after
that, and I gave his neck a nice, solid squeeze, too.

“You’ll get a lot worse than that if you
keep it up,” I said.

We came near my house. I took him around to
the back entrance. We stumbled down the steps like two drunken
fools. At the bottom, I opened the heavy steel door. It led right
into the basement. My favorite place on this miserable planet.

The basement was divided into two parts: the
workshop and the cave. The workshop was where I planned. The cave
was where I worked. For now, I kept the stalker in the workshop. It
was a 15x15 cement square with no windows. There were two chairs,
some rope, a shovel, a bucket, and a sink. Some people might call
it a prison. But for me it’s a sanctuary.

I dragged the kid to one of the chairs. He
knew better than to try to escape. I pulled his hood off and gave
him the twice-over. He had hair that stuck out like a frayed broom.
His dull brown eyes masked pure evil. He needed a trim and a
shower. I needed a bottle of aspirin.

“You should let me go,” he said. “You’re not
a bad person.”

“Don’t be so sure,” I said. I grabbed the
rope. It was the kind of rope you use to tie people up. It worked
real well for that.

After I got him comfortable, I started with
my questions. I threw him a softball first.

“Name?” I said.

“I forget,” he said.

“Smart guy, huh?” I said. I closed in on
him. “
Name
.”

“Guy,” he said.

“Guy what?” I said.

“Guy Smart,” he said. “You almost had
it.”

“That’s it,” I said. I picked up his chair
by the legs and flipped him upside down. I held him there, his head
dangling above the concrete. Lucky for him, I knew how to tie a
rope.

While I had him hanging there, I saw his
backpack. He’d left it right behind him. I must’ve been having too
much fun to notice it. I put the kid down, rightside up.

“Let’s see what you’re hiding, guy.”

I tried to unzip the pack, but it was a
piece of trash. Just like its owner. No matter. I tore into it at
the seams and ripped it open. When I emptied it, a wallet and a
notebook fell out. I checked the wallet first. 18 dollars and a
school ID. I pocketed the money. I felt like I’d earned it.

The ID said, “Ned Kunkle,” and it had a
picture of the little stalker right in front of me. It looked like
Mom had fixed him up real good that day. He had on a sweater and
glasses. It was so precious I wanted to puke.

I flashed him the card. “That must make you
Ned from Dark Hollow Middle School.”

“That chin must make you Jay Leno,” he
said.

I pounced on him. “See, here’s the thing,
Ned,” I whispered. “I’m not joking.”

I let him think about that. I went to get
the notebook. It had the word “SCIENCE” written across the cover in
big, bold letters. That turned out to be a lie. But I guess that’s
why they call it a cover. On the inside, someone had written the
name, “Madeline.” Inside the notebook, there were little sections
of writing that had been arranged into stories. I’d save it for my
bedtime reading. There was only so long I could keep Ned around
before someone came looking.

“Madeline,” I said. “You writing a diary
under the pen name Madeline now?”

“She’s my feminine side,” he said.

“That’s real funny,” I said. I circled
around him, nice and slow. “Because I’ve got a working theory. That
girl you were following tonight, the Little Duck? Her name’s
Madeline, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he
said.

The kid was slimier than an eel.

“Oh, you will,” I said.

I grabbed the metal bucket and hauled it to
the sink. The water rained down, spastic and unsteady. Once the
bucket was full, I carried it back to my new friend. I put it down,
and some water slopped over the sides.

“What?” said Ned. “Are you going to
waterboard me?”

I laughed. “Do I look like the CIA?” I said.
I flashed my pocketknife, and pointed it at the bucket. “That’s for
cleaning up the blood.”