We all fall down, p.16
We All Fall Down, page 16
After a while, he stepped out of the alley. Did not see them anywhere. He walked slowly toward the video store, looked in the window, using his hand as a visor. Saw them. Jane and the trasher. Was he really the trasher? He squinted, studying the boy. Yes, he was one of them, all right. No doubt at all. The images of the trashers were burned into his mind like with a branding iron. This trasher was not the one with the hammer and not the fat one who screamed loudest of all and not the thin ratty-looking one. But one of them. Good-looking but evil just the same. You can’t judge a book by its cover, his mother always said.
Did Jane know that he was one of the trashers? Maybe she didn’t know. Maybe he was fooling her. Or maybe she knew and didn’t care. He remembered something about a key, a rumor in the neighborhood that Jane had given the trashers the key to her house. He had not believed that for a minute. Now he wasn’t sure. Maybe she had given the key to one of the trashers, maybe to this boy in the store with her. At that moment, he saw the boy join her in one of the aisles. He saw Jane reach up and draw the boy into her arms. He saw her wrap her arms around him, saw her mashing her mouth against his, saw her tongue go into the trasher’s mouth. Revolted, grimacing, he could not take his eyes from them. How could she do such a thing? She should have known when she touched him—with her tongue! her tongue!—that he was one of the trashers. Even if he wasn’t a trasher, she should not be kissing him like that, like some animal.
It was at that moment that The Avenger began to hate Jane Jerome, hate her worse than even the trashers. She was not a nice person, No nice person would do what she was doing in that store with her mouth, her tongue. To a trasher.
Finally, he was able to tear his eyes away from that awful act, unable to look at her any longer, face twisted in agony as if his features would stay frozen like that forever, caught in a storm of emotions he could not suppress or subdue. Flashes before his eyes now. Of Vaughn Masterson’s exploding face when the bullet struck him. His grandfather’s body twisting in the air as he fell.
He ran. Across the street, dodging the cars, knowing that cars would not hit him because he was on a mission. As he reached the other side of the street, he continued running, his mind filled with visions. Visions of what he would do to her. He pictured her sitting in a chair, all tied up—her arms and legs—but her chest free. He did not want to tie down her chest, although he wasn’t sure why. He would not touch her after tying her down. He would play with her as if she were a toy. He would let something else touch her. Like a knife. He would let the knife do the touching like that old TV commercial, let your fingers do the walking. But the knife would do the walking, all over her body and her chest. She would be afraid. He would see in her eyes how she would be afraid. She deserved to be afraid. After what she had done with that trasher. She would be afraid of that knife and afraid of The Avenger.
After making her afraid, he would do to her what he had done to Vaughn Masterson and his grandfather.
First of all, of course, he would have to make his plans. Carefully and cleverly. Must draw her into his trap. Must strike at the right moment.
I am The Avenger, he cried silently, a cry of triumph that soared within him even as he stumbled along the street.
Eleven years old but smarter and wiser than ever before.
Jane had just turned into the corner of Arbor Drive when she encountered Amos Dalton waving to her from across the street.
She waved back distractedly, eager to get home and report Karen’s progress to her parents. In the week since Karen emerged from the coma, she had struggled to speak but had not uttered words that could be understood. Suddenly this afternoon, she managed to say “Hello Jane” not clearly or distinctly and not without effort that bathed her face with perspiration. But saying the words clearly enough to be understood, Hello Jane. Wonderful. Buddy, too, would be impressed He still had not met her. The doctor insisted that only family members visit her during this precarious time.
Amos Dalton had stopped waving and was running toward her now, crossing the street, running awkwardly with three books pressed to his chest.
“You’ve got to come with me, Jane,” he said. “It’s an emergency.”
“What kind of “n emergency?” she asked. Kids were always exaggerating and Amos Dalton, middle-aged kid in his laced-up shoes, was probably no exception.
“I can’t tell you—you’ve got to see for yourself.” His chin trembled, his lips were bluish. “It’s a matter of life and death.”
She hesitated, in a hurry to be on her way but wanting to do the right thing if it was an emergency.
“Please,” he begged. As he shifted his position the books spilled to the sidewalk, “You’ve got to come.” Not moving to pick up the books. Amos Dalton: book lover, not picking up his books. He must be desperate. Turning away, he took a few tentative steps, calling over his shoulder: “Come on…
“Hey, how about your books?”
“The heck with them,” he said, hurrying away. “Please come …”
“God, this must really be important,” she muttered, picking up the books as she began to follow him. Two paperbacks, Stephen King kind of books with gruesome covers plus a copy of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer.
“Where are we going?” Jane called as Amos Dalton stretched the distance between them.
“Not far. But we’ve got to hurry.”
At the corner of Arbor Lane and Vista Drive, Amos Dalton gave her another quick over-the-shoulder glance and plunged into the overgrown pass and shrubs of an empty lot. The tall grass almost hid a sign: LAND FOR SALE. She barely saw Amos Dalton’s head above the wild growth.
Stopping at the edge of the lot, she called: “I’m not going in there unless you tell me what’s going on….”
Amos Dalton paused, his face barely visible above the thick undergrowth. “It’s Artie.” His voice cracked a bit. “Something’s the matter with him.” Desperate suddenly.
“Why didn’t you say that in the first place?” she said, alarmed, remembering Artie’s nighttime terrors. She threw aside all caution along with her fear of snakes which might be crawling around underfoot and followed him into the abandoned lot. The grass, damp from a recent rain, brushed moistly against her legs, a slimy feeling that made her shudder with distaste.
Amos Dalton thrashed his way ahead; she almost lost sight of him. She dropped one of the books and said, “The hell with it,” walking unsteadily through the growth, like trying to walk in a foot of water. At length, the growth dwindled into a crooked path that led to an abandoned part of the neighborhood, woods where kids played their mysterious games. She saw a shed with sagging roof and boarded-up windows, set against a stand of pine trees. She had never explored this part of the neighborhood. This was a kids’ kind of spot, just the sort of place Artie and his brat pack would choose for their fun and games.
“I hope this isn’t a trick,” she called to Amos, a bit of anger diluting her fear for Artie’s safety.
“It’s not a trick,” Amos said, halting now and facing her, perhaps ten feet away. Then pointing toward the shed: “He’s in there …”
She, too, stopped. The area was still. No birdcalls. No barking dogs. No wind rustling in the trees. “Artie,” she called. “Are you okay?”
No answer. She took a few steps forward.
“In here,” a voice reached her from the shed. A muffled voice, full of anguish, pain maybe. Could be Artie’s voice. “Hurry …” The word strangled, fading into a kind of gasp.
She ran instinctively toward the shed, knowing that if Artie was in trouble or some kind of danger, she simply could not turn away or abandon him. In her peripheral vision, she saw Amos Dalton scooting away, stumbling and tripping in his haste to leave, raising her suspicions but not compelling enough to make her change her course.
Out of breath, sweating now, aware of perspiration moistening her body, she arrived at the door. “Artie,” she called. “Are you in there?”
The door swung open, revealing Mickey Looney, grinning at her, but a grin she had never seen before on his face: cunning, triumphant, his eyes wide and gaping.
He held a rag in his hand. A peculiar smell emanated either from Mickey or the rag or the hidden shadows of the shed itself. He stepped toward her as she stepped backward, stumbled, almost fell. Mickey came closer, moving more swiftly than she had ever seen him move, menacing, grabbing her, the rag in her nostrils, the sweet, cloying smell overwhelming her. She flailed about, trying to escape Mickey’s grasp and that sickening rag over her face. Just before she slipped into blankness, as if sliding down a long dark chute, she heard Mickey’s gleeful voice saying:
“The Avenger strikes again.”
She woke up suddenly, flashing into wakefulness, and found herself tied by clothesline rope to a chair, a foul-tasting rag stuffed in her mouth, her lips sealed with some kind of adhesive tape, Struggling to move, she realized she was helpless, wrists bound to the arms of a sturdy, thronelike chair, her ankles tied to its legs. The gag in her mouth threw her into a panic, threatening her with either suffocation or choking to death. Trying to calm herself, she squirmed to see how tightly she was secured. The rope chafed her wrists, dug into the flesh of her ankles. Breathing through her nostrils, she inhaled the smell of decay.
The sun slanting through a crack in the roof faintly illuminated the shed in which she was held captive. The shed was cluttered with debris, rusting tools, boxes stuffed with old rags, newspapers piled up in tottering stacks. She hated to look too closely at her surroundings, afraid to see rats scurrying around the floor or spiders crawling up the walls.
The door swung open and a slash of sunlight burst against her eyeballs. A dark bulk filled the doorway, blocking the sudden brightness. When the door closed, she saw Mickey Looney through the sunspots that danced in her eyes.
Instinctively, she tried to talk but emitted only strange animal-like sounds, the effort gagging her, making her retch. Afraid to choke, she fell silent.
As Mickey waddled toward her, she blinked with surprise, as if seeing him for the first time. He was fat but not really fat. Bloated, really. Bulging stomach, bulging cheeks. No eyebrows, which made his eyes unusually large, as if they’d pop out of their sockets if somebody squeezed his head. He was bareheaded—and bald. She had never seen him without that old baseball cap. He grinned at her, coming closer, bending over and peering down, curiously, as if she were a specimen in a laboratory or a strange animal in a zoo. The grin was not the old Mickey Looney grin but a leering evil grin, not the Mickey who mowed lawns and fed the birds.
Then the grin was gone and he was like the old Mickey Looney she knew, who patted kids on the head and tipped his cap to everybody.
“Are you all right, Jane?” His eyes studied her, roaming across her body. She tried to twist away from him but was helpless to move.
Once again, she tried to talk. Tried to say: Why are you doing this? But could only make weird sounds. And was still afraid of choking.
Still regarding her curiously, he said: “I can take that rag out of your mouth if you promise not to scream.” She nodded vigorously, “Even if you scream, nobody will hear you and it will make The Avenger mad.”
She remembered that he had mentioned The Avenger when he had slapped that terrible rag across her mouth and nose. Who was The Avenger?
Still nodding vigorously, the tried to make her eyes say what her mouth could not.
He tenderly pulled the adhesive bandage from her mouth, tugging at it gently. His gentleness encouraged her. Her mouth was finally free. She tried to spit out the taste of foulness. Her teeth ached.
“Why are you doing this, Mickey?” she sputtered at last. “What’s the matter with you?”
“Nothing’s the matter with me, Jane,” he said, stepping backward, hands on his hips, eyes still popped open. “It’s you. Something’s the matter with you.”
“What are you talking about?” Her voice rising, anger overcoming her fear of this crazy situation.
“Don’t yell—don’t scream. If you scream, I’ll have to do to you what I did to Vaughn Masterson and my grandfather.” He put his hand to his mouth, and giggled. “Of course, I’m going to do that to you anyway but not right away.…”
She did not have to ask him what he had done to Vaughn Somebody-or-other or his grandfather. She could easily guess from the look on his face, the matter-of-fact way he spoke. More chilling than ghoulish laughter.
“Why, Mickey? Why?” she asked again. No other question mattered at the moment. If he answered that question, she would know the answer to all questions.
“Because you were with him,” he said, petulant, a child suddenly.
“With who?”
“With your boyfriend.”
“Buddy? Buddy Walker?”
“Is that his name? I don’t know his name but you were with him. You were holding hands with him. And …” Now he frowned, a strand of spittle at the corner of his mouth. “You kissed him. You put your tongue in his mouth …” Spitting on the floor now, as if to rid himself of something vile and foul-tasting.
“You’re angry with me because I have a boyfriend and kissed him?” she asked, astonished.
“No, no,” he said, shaking his head. “You’re pretty and you should have a boyfriend.”
“Because I kissed him?” Trying to recall his exact words. “Because I touched his tongue with my tongue …”
“That wasn’t nice,” he said. “But if you wanted to do it, you could do it …”
“Then why are you so angry?”
“Because it’s him!” Loud, shouting, stamping his foot, his jowls moving like Jell-O in a bowl.
Struggling against the ropes, ignoring the painful chafing her struggle caused, she raised her own voice. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Her anger buoyed her, gave her hope and confidence. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“You shouldn’t swear, Jane,” he said. “Nice girls don’t swear.” Shaking his head sadly. “But you’re not a nice girl anymore, are you? You were with him so you can’t be nice …”
She sagged in the chair, as much as the ropes allowed. She could smell her own perspiration, her hair was damp, a lock fallen across one eye. She blew air out of the corner of her mouth.
Mickey reached out, pushed the lock of hair away.
“Him,” he whispered, face close to hers now. The word imbued with all the hate one small syllable could convey. “Him, Jane. Your boyfriend. One of them. One of them in your house that night. I saw them, saw him, wrecking your house. I was at the window and watched them. They didn’t see me but I saw them, all right And he was one of them.”
Buddy? In her house?
“They were like animals,” he said, drawing away, speaking quickly now, his eyes bulging even wider. “Breaking everything. Running through your house, screaming and laughing. Like animals.”
Shaking her head, she heard herself saying: “No, no, no.” Denying what this crazy person was saying.
“I saw Karen come in and they grabbed her.” Then whispering: “The lights went out …”
A final gasping “No,” a harrowing scream of a word torn from her throat in a spasm of denial.
“Yes, yes, yes, yes,” he said, leaping in the air, dancing, his lumbering body shaking the floorboards, “And the other day you held his hand and I saw you. You looked at him like you loved him. In that video store, you put your lips on his lips and put your tongue in his mouth.” The dance over, breathing heavily, standing before her, rivulets of sweat pouring down his cheeks. “That’s why I have to do what I have to do, Jane. I am The Avenger and I must avenge your house.…”
The nausea engulfed her stomach so suddenly that she gasped in surprise as the vomit erupted from her mouth, burning her throat with acid, gushing through her lips in a sickening torrent. Her body responded painfully, her stomach stretched beyond its limits because she could not move, could not bend forward to ease the flow of vomit and for an eternal moment, the vomit blocked her throat and she coughed, choking, panic rushing through her, until it gushed forth again, spewing out of her mouth, spilling on her blouse, her skirt, splashing to the floor.
Mickey Looney leaped out of the way but flecks of vomit, pink and orange, splashed on his trousers and he cried out, “Oh, oh,” again and again, “Oh, oh.” Then stood fascinated, watching her retch.
Wrists and ankles stinging with rope burns, stomach heaving, the taste of foulness in her mouth, the smell of her own vomit filling her nostrils, Jane sank into an abysmal despair that made the nausea and the stench of vomit pale by comparison. Buddy a trasher? One of them? Her Buddy? Whom she’d love with a love that was bigger than her own life. Buddy who had kissed her and caressed her, held her breasts so tenderly.
Mickey was dancing around again, a dance of desperation now. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he said. He found another rag and began to wipe her face, her chin, dabbing at her chest, his hand lingering on her breast.
“Now can you see what I have to do?” he said, leaping away from her, his face flushed, avoiding her eyes.
She did not ask what he had to do, still stunned by what he had said about Buddy, trying to deny the truth of his accusation. Mickey gazed at her breasts and looked away again. Would he rape her?
“I have to remove you from the world, Jane.”
The thought of Buddy fled as she realized what he was saying. “You mean—kill me?” she said, aghast, the terrible words blazing in the air. She was immediately sorry that she had said the words, as if speaking them made them real.
“That’s the only way, Jane. I have to do it …”
Her mind raced, seeking arguments, anything to stave him off. “Why me, Mickey?” Needing to stall, play for time. Had to use everything at her disposal. Including Buddy, guilty or not. “Why not my boyfriend? He was one of the trashers you said. I didn’t trash my house—he did.” Felt like a traitor to Buddy now, even if he did trash her house. Yet, a small part of her denying that Mickey would actually kill her or Buddy.
