Black's Creek (21 page)

‘Oh? Why?'

‘Daylight. I went to talk to old man McGregor during the day, you see. I wouldn't have brought a flashlight with me. Wouldn't make sense, would it?'

‘No … I guess not.'

‘Can you think of any other explanation for how it could have got there? Perhaps between the two of us, we can figure this puzzle out. What d'you say?'

‘I … I can't think of anything, right at this moment, Dad. Too tired.'

‘Too tired?'

‘Yes.'

‘I want you to look me in the eyes, Tommy.'

I reluctantly did as requested.

Dad joined his fingers in prayer mode, and rested his chin gently upon them. His face had the determined look of rolled-up shirtsleeves.

‘I have become utterly mystified at the emergence of this situation, at the dilemma facing us. I need you to tell me if you're in any sort of trouble; trouble that might be heading this way soon. It's always best to be prepared. Can you think of anything coming our way?'

My eyes began watering, I was staring that hard. I thought Dad was trying to hypnotise me. I waited a few seconds before answering. ‘I … I can't really think of anything.'

He sighed. ‘Norman Armstrong was a monster. You know
that. I know that. The entire town knows that. The person responsible for his death probably had a very good reason for doing what he did. But that doesn't make it right. That's why we have the law, Tommy. If we allowed people to take the law into their own hands, we would have anarchy and lynching. You understand that, don't you?'

I hadn't a clue what anarchy was, but lynching was right up my street. ‘Yes …'

‘Okay then. Now, can you think of how that flashlight got there?'

‘I've already told you no. Why d'you keep asking me that?'

‘Because this puzzle isn't going to go away, that's why. Deputy Hillman is pretty good at solving puzzles. He enjoys doing jigsaw puzzles and crosswords. He has great patience. He sits for hours – days even – until he comes up with a solution. Good plans always start with a piece of paper. You add things together; you subtract things that don't fit, and you arrive at your final answer. His sums usually tally up in the end. The flashlight is Deputy Hillman's piece of paper.'

‘If he's so smart, then ask him to solve it,' I said defiantly.

‘Don't get mouthy with me. Clear?'

‘Yes …'

‘We need to keep examining the situation in front of us, before time runs out. We need to come up with an answer that adds up, before Deputy Hillman does. He asks the type of questions most cops don't. That's what makes him
very smart. Once he figures out the motive, he believes the answers will follow like a stagecoach behind horses. Is there anything else you can think of? Something … something he might discover?'

‘Discover …?'

‘Will you think real hard, just for me?'

‘I can't think of anything, right now.'

A little zing of tension entered the room, slipping between us.

‘Okay, Tommy, I want you to listen to what I'm going to say. Listen very carefully. That night you went over to the Coopers, to do Monster Night?'

‘Yes. What about it?'

‘Do you remember all the clothes you were wearing?'

‘I think so. Yes …'

‘I want you to gather them all up for me, tonight – boots, socks, everything. Understand?'

‘Why? What for?'

Dad looked at me as if to say, you know damn well what for. ‘It's best you just do as I say. Clear?'

‘Yes.'

‘Now, this is very important: Is there anything I should know about Horseshoe?'

Horseshoe! I almost burst out laughing.

‘What like?'

I could see Dad consciously controlling his breathing,
doing his best to remain calm. I wasn't helping him by playing dumb. ‘When the police take in a suspect, they usually offer him some sort of deal, provided he's willing to turn against his accomplices.'

‘Dad, I don't know what this is all about.'

‘Enough, Tommy! Damn it!' He banged his fist on the desk. I had rarely seen Dad lose his temper. It made me feel very uncomfortable – and guilty. ‘I think you had something –
directly or indirectly
– to do with Norman Armstrong's death. To what extent, I don't know. I believe your entire gang was somehow involved. Horseshoe, perhaps, certainly Brent Fleming. I suspect Fleming was probably the instigator and brains behind it, and suckered you and Horseshoe into it. Am I right?'

‘No! None of us had anything to do with killing Armstrong. This is all a simple coincidence.'

‘A simple coincidence? Perhaps I'm not as smart as some people, but in my tiny world, simple coincidences are neither simple nor coincidental, Tommy. This investigation has led me on a very dark journey, and uncovered unpleasant people doing the most unpleasant of acts. One way or another, I'll find a way to see that justice is done.'

‘The way you brought Armstrong to justice?' I blurted out, wondering where the hell I had grown the balls to talk to Dad like that. ‘Perhaps if someone had killed Armstrong a long time ago …' My voice trailed off.

‘Go on. Finish what you were about to say.'

‘I just wish someone had done something to Armstrong after what he did to Joey. Perhaps Devlin would still be alive. Maybe even Jordan. I'm glad he's dead. I hated him.'

Dad looked at me as though I had just plunged a dagger into his heart. I had hurt him, deliberately, by paraphrasing Theodore Maxwell.

‘Okay, Son. Some of what you say could be true. You can blame me for Devlin's death, if that's what you're thinking. To be honest, I blame myself also, for not doing enough.'

‘Yeah, well, it won't bring her back, will it?' I willed away the tears threatening to form in my eyes. ‘Words, always fancy words and sayings from you, Dad. Nothing else.'

Dad could no longer hold my stare.

‘We're both tired,' he said. ‘Let's call it a night.'

I wanted to say something else, something more hurtful, but thought better of it. Nothing would be gained by drawing this out; nothing but implications and questions without answers.

I left the room with a terrible dryness in my mouth, but with the rest of my body soaked in sweat. It would only be a matter of time before Dad – or more likely, Deputy Hillman – proved my involvement in Armstrong's death.

‘E
ither my cooking has turned sour, or you two are keeping something from me,' Mom said, two days after Dad had interrogated me in the hub. ‘Which is it?'

Dad was barely eating, no doubt worried sick at the prospect of Deputy Hillman pulling a rabbit from his wide-brimmed hat. I was a carbon copy of Dad, picking at my food.

‘There's a stomach bug doing the rounds down in the jail, Helen,' Dad said. ‘I probably caught it, and gave it to Tommy as well.'

‘Well, I don't abide by good food being wasted. So either get yourselves over to Doctor Henderson's, or mouthwash with Raid to kill the bugs. And Tommy?'

‘Yes?'

‘I still can't find those jeans I bought you three months ago. Any idea where they are?'

Burnt to ashes, then scattered to the wind, along with socks, shirt, and everything else I was wearing that night
. ‘No … I'll search again for them, later.'

‘Make sure you do. Your clothes seem to be doing some sort of disappearing act, and frankly, it annoys the hell out of me, your careless attitude. Those jeans cost money, you know.'

Yes, I know, because you keep telling me the price of them. You're still looking for my shitty ones too, buried in the garden. Wait until you find out my new winter boots are missing as well! That should be fun.

Mom headed into the kitchen, leaving Dad and me alone with our thoughts. He looked over at me, as if to speak, but stood instead.

‘Helen? See you later,' Dad said, directing his words towards the kitchen. ‘I'll probably be late coming home for –'

That was when I heard the sirens blasting in the distance.

‘Is that Deputy Hillman making that racket?' Mom said, coming in from the kitchen.

Dad's face paled. He looked over at me, at my pale face.

The sirens got louder. My stomach tightened. Body felt weak. I quickly gripped the sides of my chair for support, trying desperately to will away the threatening blackout.

Ominously, the sirens came to a dying screech right outside. A car door slammed shut, followed by the sound of
footsteps on the porch. Someone banged loudly on the front door. Dad jumped slightly. I squirmed on the chair, as if I had just sat on a thumbtack.

‘Tommy?' Mom said, glaring at me. ‘Don't just sit there like a dummy. See who's at the door.'

I moved off the chair, walking towards the door in slow motion. Dad kept looking at me. Mom looked at both of us. I looked at my hand on the handle on the door. It was slowly turning. The door opened. It was an excited-looking Deputy Hillman. He removed his hat and stepped inside, ignoring me.

‘Hello, Mrs Henderson,' he said, before nodding to Dad.

‘Someone chasing you, Pete?' Mom said. ‘All those sirens. My goodness.'

‘An emergency,' Deputy Hillman said, looking slightly embarrassed and out of breath. ‘Needed to get here ASAP. Sheriff? Can I talk to you, please? In private?'

A worried-looking Dad nodded. ‘Okay.'

They left the house, walking as far as Deputy Hillman's car. Deputy Hillman removed what looked like a piece of paper from the top pocket of his jacket. A warrant! He handed it to Dad.

‘Tommy Henderson!' Mom shouted, making me jump. ‘Stop gawking out the door, and bring the rest of those dishes into the kitchen. Your nose is going to get you into an awful lot of trouble, one of these days. Keep it attached to your own face, and out of other people's business.'

I quickly stacked up the remainder of the plates, while Mom slammed the front door closed. I knew it was only a matter of time before Dad and Deputy Hillman walked back through that door, to arrest me.

‘After you wash those dishes, I want you to –'

Suddenly, Dad walked in, just as I had predicted.

‘Did you forget something, Frank?' Mom said.

In his hand was the piece of paper Deputy Hillman had handed him. Dad looked badly shaken.

‘It's a letter,' he said.

‘A letter?' Mom looked at him, puzzled.

‘From Theodore Maxwell. A confession.'

‘I don't understand, Frank. What sort of confession?'

‘Theodore Maxwell's body was discovered a couple of hours ago. He shot himself.'

My mouth opened, but I couldn't speak.

‘Dear God …' Mom brought a hand to her mouth. ‘How terrible.'

‘He left this letter, confessing to the killing of Norman Armstrong. In it, he explained he was suffering from an inoperable cancer, and that the only thing keeping him alive was the thought of killing Norman Armstrong. He gives details of how he killed Armstrong – details only the killer would have known. He said he acted alone, and wanted to make sure no innocent person was ever charged for what he did. That was why he wrote the confession, apparently …'

For minutes, a tent of silence covered the room. We all stood, not saying a word, until Mom eventually said, ‘I don't agree with suicide, but what that poor man went through with his son more than pays the bill. I sincerely hope to God he rests in peace.'

Dad nodded, and then looked over at me.

‘You okay, Tommy?'

‘Yes … fine …' I lied.

‘We'll talk later. Okay?'

‘Yes.'

‘I've got to go, make a report,' Dad said. ‘I'll see you both later tonight.'

I waited until Dad had left, and then went upstairs to my room. I felt slightly dizzy, and lay down on the bed. Closing my eyes, thoughts of Theodore Maxwell came flooding into my head; thoughts of all that had happened the night I went to kill Norman Armstrong …

That night, as I looked out at Armstrong's trailer, I'd been encouraging myself, bolstering my nerves, by reciting the names of the kids destroyed by Armstrong.

‘This is for Joey. For Devlin. For Jordan. For Joey. For Devlin …'

The trailer waited in the snowy darkness, taunting me to make a move, get on with it. I made my way towards the door,
and just as I was about to step out into the snow, all hell broke loose. I remember hands grabbing me; the terrible streak of fear railing my spine. Blue sparks danced in my brain. Armstrong had outwitted me, waiting like a fox in the darkness. I was so pathetically predictable.

I tried to break free, pulling, pushing and kicking, but it was useless. My feeble struggling only seemed to galvanise him, to make him stronger. His grip tightened on my throat. I couldn't breathe as his filthy murderous hands covered my mouth. I was sinking fast.

That was when I blacked out.

How long I had succumbed to the darkness was anyone's guess. It felt like hours, but was probably no more than a couple of minutes. My neck felt as if it had been placed into a vice and squeezed. I was propped up in a filthy corner of the room, my body shaking. All that lovely adrenaline was long gone. My teeth wouldn't stop making that terrible noise caused by fear and cold.

Somewhere in the heavy darkness, someone was coughing badly.

‘Are you okay, Tommy?' said a gravelly voice. ‘I hope I didn't hurt you, but I couldn't allow you to scream.'

I tried to focus my eyes, but they seemed fogged.

‘Who … who are you? What do you want?'

‘I want to save you from doing something you'll regret for the rest of your life, while rotting in prison.'

The voice sounded familiar. The words, despite the continued coughing, were clear and forceful, just like its owner. I could see him now, despite the darkness shrouding that intimidating face. His skin was pale, like bleached bone, his eyes the colour of dead coffee. He looked lost, like a mourner at the wrong funeral.

‘Mister Maxwell?' I said.

The coughing started again, and then slowly faded.

‘I need you to listen very carefully to what I'm going to say, Tommy. I need you to go home. Forget about vengeance. Leave that to the old and to the dying … especially the dying.'

‘I can't do that.'

‘There's no can't about it. You're going to do it, one way or the other. Things happen, sometimes in a complex pattern of events called destiny. And that is what we have in our hands at this very moment. Destiny. Everything in its place, a place for everything.'

‘But Armstrong … what about him, all the kids he murdered and … done things to? He'll keep doing the terrible things if he's not stopped.'

‘You don't need to worry about Norman Armstrong any longer. He's dead.'

‘Dead …?' The word caught me like a meat hook to the throat. ‘But when … how …?'

‘Oh, he doesn't know he's dead, just yet, but he will. Very soon. I've waited the last three nights for him to show up at
his trailer. He has to come back to it, eventually, just like a dog to its own vomit.'

‘I … I wanted to do this for Joey,' I said. ‘For letting him down.'

‘You didn't let him down, Tommy,' said Theodore Maxwell in an almost affectionate voice. ‘Others let Joey down – myself included – but not you. Always remember that. I'm indebted to you. And I'll never forget what you intended to do, here tonight, for Joey. For the other children, murdered and abused.'

‘Can't I at least do something else to help? I can be a lookout. Something. Anything.'

‘You can help by leaving, right now. Quickly. I'm sure your mother and father will discover you missing very shortly, if you don't make it home in time. Your father, in all probability, will send out a search party, and they might just come here. They would find me with a loaded and unregistered gun, and no explanation. That would give Armstrong a warning that something was coming his way. You wouldn't want that, would you?'

‘No, sir. I wouldn't.'

‘Then you'll do as I ask?'

I nodded. ‘If … if that's what you want.'

‘It's what I want. It's what –' He began coughing violently. Quickly held a handkerchief to his mouth. Spat into the cloth. ‘It's what Joey would have wanted.'

‘The … the Luger? I need to put it back where I found it.'

‘A beautiful weapon for ugly deeds, eh? I have a better idea. I think it best that I dispose of it, someplace where it'll
never be found
– or used. Are you in agreement with that?'

‘I suppose …' I wondered what would happen if Brent went looking for it?

‘There's doubt in your voice. Doubt is the gate through which slips the most deadly of enemies. Trust me. Better for all concerned that this gun no longer exists after tonight.'

‘If … if you think that's best, then it's okay with me.' I stood, wiped the dust and other pieces of crap from my clothes.

‘Thank you, Tommy, for everything,' Theodore Maxwell said, extending his hand.

I reached and shook it. His grip was iron, but despite that, something wasn't right with Theodore Maxwell. All that coughing. He looked pale. Gaunt. Seeing him in the stark light, heavy coat buttoned to his neck, eyes expressionless, made me feel nothing but pity for the man, something I once would have thought impossible.

‘You haven't told me not … not to tell anyone, of … of what you're gonna do,' I said. ‘Aren't you afraid that I might say something to my dad?'

For the first time since I met Theodore Maxwell, I saw a smile on his sad face.

‘You won't. Goodbye, Tommy. Get home safe.'

Later, when I was back, warm and secure in Horseshoe's room, I thought of Theodore Maxwell, biding his time in that freezing old building. Waiting there patiently, alone with just his thoughts and demons. Horseshoe's dad had been right: ‘Better to fuck with the devil, than with Theodore Maxwell. He neither forgives nor forgets …'