The Camaro Murders (6 page)

The Choke

November 29th, 1986

Culver Crisp inside Ezra Mendelssohn's house

“Culver, give me your coat,” my mom says to me. My family has just arrived at Ezra Mendelssohn's house. In the front room, we can smell the roast cooking and hear the voices of others toward the back of the house.

Mom says we're having a potluck. Ezra had been sick in the hospital, and some of the congregation wanted to welcome him home.

The men talk in the front room, while the ladies work in the kitchen. My sister wants to help them, so my mom sends me to play with the other children near the stairs.

I recognize Ted Witherspoon from school. He's kind of bossy, but I don't mind him too much. I don't know the other two boys playing with him, but I think they're brothers. They've got the same curly hair.

All of them brought toys—some matchbox cars and a few G.I. Joe figures. I didn't remember to bring any of mine.

“Hey, Culver,” Ted says. “Wanna play?”

“Sure,” I say. I don't really feel like playing. I'd rather be looking for Starla. I heard there was one more search party going out today, but my mom wouldn't let me go. She said I wasn't allowed to go even if my dad went with me.

“Here,” Ted says as he hands me a car, “our base is up here.” He points to the landing halfway up the stairs.

I follow Ted up the steps and listen to his directions on how I'm supposed to play with the car.

He says I'm not supposed to drive it too close to the edge of the stairs and I have to make all the engine sounds. “Pretend it's real,” he says.

The older of the two brothers joins us after awhile. He says his name is Jim. He's pretty good at playing cars; he even makes gear shifting noises.

Soon the younger brother notices us and follows. He's loud and doesn't know how to play with the cars the way Ted says. His name is Joey.

Ted and Jim aren't happy about this, and so Jim takes Joey back down the steps and distracts him with the G.I. Joes.

When Joey isn't paying attention, Jim returns to the landing. We have a few good wrecks and explosions before Joey is back on the landing.

After this happens a few more times, I start to wish Joey would stay at the bottom of the steps. He interrupts us so much that I feel like we didn't get to play long enough when Mom comes to tell us it's time to eat.

The four of us follow her into the dining room where there's a big table for the grown-ups and a smaller table for the kids. One of the men says the blessing and offers up a prayer of thanksgiving for Ezra's health.

The food is passed around after that. There's roast beef, mashed potatoes and gravy, green beans, Jell-o, rolls, and things like that. Mom makes sure I get a helping of green beans.

I don't say much during the meal. Ted and Jim talk about what they want for Christmas. The grown-ups talk about the weather and the choir at church. No one talks about Starla.

I wish somebody wanted to talk about her. Talking about her is the next best thing to seeing her. I hope she's OK.

My mom cried when she heard Starla disappeared. I think she was thinking about how she'd feel if it was me or my sister who was missing. I didn't tell her that I was in the woods with Starla, but somehow she found out.

My dad wasn't happy when he heard about it. “You know better than that,” he said. “I don't ever want to hear about you sneaking off during recess again. Look what happens when you disobey.”

I knew dad would be disappointed in me, but wasn't Starla more important? I don't understand why it bothers him so much if I “goof off.” He always wants me to be so serious.

The grown-ups are passing the food around a second time when I ask to use the bathroom. I finished my plate and need to go number one.

My mom tells me the bathroom is at the top of the stairs. “Don't forget to wash your hands,” she says.

I shove my chair away from the table and walk out of the dining room. In the hall, I decide I don't like old houses. They smell funny and creak every time you take a step.

The stairs make more noise than the floor does. Past the landing, it's a lot darker than downstairs.

The bathroom is across from the stairs, just like mom said. Inside, there's a big white tub with feet. The toilet sits next to a window on the far wall. It's freezing near the window and I can't see out of it because it's frosted.

I pee and then turn around to wash my hands. There's a little piece of soap shaped like a sea shell in a dish on the sink. The whole room is really plain.

I wipe my hands on my jeans because I can't find a towel. At the bathroom door, the sound of everyone downstairs in the dining room is far away. I stop to listen to them for a few seconds, and pick out Mom's voice from the rest.

There are two rooms with open doors on each side of the bathroom. One looks like a bedroom. It must be Ezra's. The other is filled with cardboard boxes and piles of newspapers.

There is a third room but the door is closed. I didn't see it at first because it's around the corner from the stairs. The door has a keyhole in it like the others, with a skinny metal key inside.

I wonder why this room is closed. All the other rooms in the house are open. Maybe it's a closet. The light from the bathroom window falls at the bottom of this door and I can see there's something small underneath.

On my hands and knees, I find that it's the edge of a pink ribbon. I pull and the rest of it comes out from under the door. A pink ribbon…why would Ezra Mendelssohn have a pink ribbon? Pink ribbons are for girls. Starla wore her pink ribbon the day we went into the woods. Starla…

“What're you doing, boy?” It's Ezra standing behind me. There are brown blotches on his head and saggy skin under his eyes.

“Nothing,” I say. I didn't hear him coming up the steps. The ribbon is still in my hand and I feel like I've been caught doing something I shouldn't.

Ezra looks at my hand and says, “Why don't you give that to me.”

My mouth won't move even though I think I should say sorry. I hand the ribbon to Ezra without looking at him.

“It's not polite to be snoopin' around other people's houses,” he says.

I'm afraid he'll tell my dad I wasn't minding my manners. “I'm sorry,” I say, mumbling.

Ezra doesn't say anything else so I walk past him and down the stairs. I can feel him staring at me the whole way. There's a lump in my throat like I'm going to cry, and I don't want to be here anymore.

Everyone is done eating when I get back to the dining room. It feels really hot, and the skin on my back is tingling. I must look like something is wrong because Mom asks what the matter is.

I don't know what to tell her because I don't know what to think. Was that Starla's ribbon? It couldn't be, could it? Why would Ezra Mendelssohn have Starla's ribbon? What if…what if
he
took her? Ezra. Ezra Mendelssohn took Starla. No, that's not true.

The lump in my throat squeezes tighter. I feel like I'm having a bad dream and that everything isn't real. Should I tell Mom? How would I say it? Ezra has her ribbon. Doesn't that prove it?

“Culver,” Dad says. “Mr. Witherspoon is taking the boys on a hay ride on the tractor. Do you want to go?”

“No,” I say. My voice sounds small. I sit down in an open chair next to Mom instead.

She puts her hand on my back and rubs it a few times while she talks to some of the ladies at the table.

Ezra steps into the room and sits down at the other end. He stares at me but doesn't say anything.

I look away and try to sit further back in my chair, but he can still see me.

A few of the ladies start to get up.

Mom turns to me and says, “Honey, I have to help clean up in the kitchen, okay?”

I nod and watch her leave. Dad is already in the front room with the other men, and I don't want to stay in the dining room with Ezra. So I go to the back room to watch Ted, Jim, and Joey from the window.

The three of them climb on the back of the wagon and Mr. Witherspoon starts the tractor with a jerk. They're all smiling and having fun, and soon they disappear heading toward the back of the property.

I can't have fun right now. I just want to leave. Could Ezra have taken Starla? I'm scared if he did. My parents won't know about it. Nobody will.

There's a couch across from the window. I sit down on it, and it's lumpy. This whole house makes me afraid. I'm not used to the way it smells or anything in it. Hopefully my parents won't want to stay much longer.

I'm alone for a few minutes before Ezra is standing in the door. I turn to watch him come into the room and sit down in a wooden chair next to the window.

He doesn't say anything; he only looks at me. The sun is going down, and it shows the fuzz on the top of his head. His little mouth is like a bump with a line drawn in it.

I want to look away but there's nothing else to look at. I can't pretend to look out the window because I'll just see him, hunched over and not moving.

Ezra's eyes never move away. They're so mean like they hate what they see.

I feel a hot tear roll down my cheek. Should I run? What would I say to Mom and Dad? What would Ezra say? Does he know what I'm thinking?

Before I make up my mind, Ezra stands and moves toward me. His eyes are bright but everything else about him is dead. He doesn't move his mouth or make a sound as he falls on me. His hands are reaching out.

I sink back into the couch and try to stop him, but I can't hold him off. He grabs at my neck with his bony hands. The sleeves of his sweater are itchy on my chin.

There's no way I can scream, so I try to pull my head from side to side. It doesn't work, and I swing my arms harder. A few times I hit part of Ezra's face, but he continues to squeeze. He's stronger than he looks.

Mom! Dad! I'm so sorry. I'm sorry for not minding my manners. And I'm sorry for going into the woods with Starla. I don't want to die! God, I'm so sorry. Please don't let me die!

The room gets darker, and I can't make a sound. I reach up one more time to grab anything I can. My thumb lands on the soft part of Ezra's throat, the place beneath his Adam's apple, and I press.

There's a popping sound. His skin is soft like a wet paper towel. This surprises me because I don't feel like I pressed that hard.

Ezra lets go and falls to the floor. His eyes are wide like he can't believe what happened.

There are footsteps coming down that hall as I stand and move away from the couch. What have I done? What will I say to Mom and Dad?

In Defense

November 29th, 1986

Inside the Driver's Camaro

It's morning and I'm parked in the Camaro, waiting for Jasper outside a brick, three-story structure. It's how an apartment building might have looked when I was alive. I'm told it's another waypoint for travelers.

The street is clear except for a run-down school bus parked at the curb. On either side, there are drab, cookie-cutter bungalows and vacant storefronts without a name. They sit in silence, all devoid of life.

There's a numbing quality in the way the sun comes up. With the driver-side window down, I expect it to be accompanied by faint warmth, but I'm fooled. There's no sensation on my arm. Another reminder that I'm dead…

Today Jasper and I will cross over into the physical world…it will be my first assignment. He'll stand nearby in case I need help, and to make sure I actually go through with it. Otherwise, I'm on my own. There won't be anything between me, the boy, and his murderer.

The car idles for two minutes before Jasper emerges on the front step, his complexion ruddy. He lumbers down the walk and wedges himself into the car with some effort.

“What's with the bus?” I ask.

“There was a fellow in much the same predicament as you. He found his ghost yesterday, and left the bus behind. I snagged it because it makes getting around easier.”

I nod and wait for him to indicate we should begin, to say something full of purpose.

Instead he turns to me and says, “Are you ready?”

“Yeah, I think so.” I put the car in gear and steer away from the curb, disappointed there's no pep talk. I guess there's still time for that, between here and where we'll cross over.

We're heading for the fog again. There are pockets of it all over the Territory, and hidden within are a countless number of “sleeves.” These are the windows between the Territory and the physical world. Jasper made me practice going in and out of them; I found it easy after awhile.

Hoping to ground myself in something familiar, I grip the wheel with both hands. The street is bereft of traffic, and I haven't seen anyone since arriving in this neighborhood which belongs to someone else.

The overgrown structures are evidence of other people's memories. Scenery appears when someone's been in the Territory for too long and starts to decay if there's no one around to remember it. It's unsettling, like I'm wearing someone else's skin.

Out of habit, I alternate between the road and the rearview mirror. When I check the rearview for the third time, I hear Jasper swear. I turn my eyes back to the road to see a figure standing in our path about two blocks ahead.

“It's Tickseed,” Jasper says. “Gun it—don't stop.”

“What?!”

“Run him over!”

I floor the accelerator, and the transmission drops a gear in response. The car closes the distance between us and Tickseed in a matter of seconds.

Tickseed's grin is all I see before we connect with a “whump.” He rolls up and over the roof of the car.

“Don't stop!” Jasper is manic.

Confused, I obey and glance in the side mirror to see Tickseed is already on his feet, running after us.

He's transformed again like he did that day in the field, blackened and wolfish. Somehow he's gaining, as if we're slowing down.

Jasper looks over his shoulder to see Tickseed's loping strides. “You know what to do. Just keep on heading towards the drop-off point; I'll try to slow him down.”

I watch in disbelief as Jasper opens the door and hurls himself into the road. In the rearview, he rolls three times before coming to his feet. He meets Tickseed head-on with surprising quickness, and they collide into a mass of swinging limbs.

Stopping to help Jasper never occurs to me. The pedal is as flat as it will go, and I continue on, desperate to reach the drop-off point. I want to get this over with. No stalling.

Both sides of the street are a blur, and I'm reacting faster than I ever thought possible. The car seems to respond to my sense of urgency. I can't tell what speed I'm going, but somehow I'm traversing miles when I should only be traversing feet. I see where I've been and where I'm going at the same time.

Soon the city is gone and the fog engulfs the car. Visibility decreases and motion comes to a crawl when the hood hits the sleeve. Inside there's darkness. This is the time to focus.

I picture a farm like the one Jasper told me about. On the northern end of town, there are empty fields and long stretches of road, gradually rising and falling. The scene forms in my mind before I find myself slowly cruising past the actual farm.

I made it. I crossed over. Firm pressure on the brakes brings the car to a halt along the shoulder. Can anyone see me? This is my primary concern, and I refuse to get out of the car at first.

Panicking, I struggle to recall everything Jasper said about staying out of sight. He said I have to hold myself in like I'm holding my breath. It's the only trick that will work. No one will see me then.

I exit the car, determined not to be seen, pretending not to be seen. The house seems like it's a mile away. I force myself to walk and I feel closer to implosion. I must be a freakish sight, dead and moving across a never-ending yard.

Jasper said to go to the rear of the house, where I can expect to find the boy in the back room. I pass the cars in the driveway, and count steps to calm myself. There's still time to turn back even as I round the corner of the porch.

In the side yard, I'm afraid to peek in the windows. I'm also afraid to run. So I'm deliberate in my movements, focused on holding in, trusting that no one will see me. Invisible strides, invisible placement of my feet…

The back yard comes too fast. A decaying barn sits at the rear; behind it are fields choked by weeds. I feel stark against them, like I'm made of something less substantial. The urge to turn and run is at its peak, but in all my wavering I decide I have to stay.

I said I'd do this. Jasper can trust me. My word is solid, and I won't break it. I turn and face the house, the unwelcome sight it is. The faded white paint and empty windows impress upon me the filthy work at hand.

With caution, I traverse the few feet between me and the rear of the house. I flinch as my foot passes through wood and plaster, dissolving into it like salt in water. It's easy, just like Jasper said it would be. I don't feel anything as I move my leg, then the rest of my body through the wall.

On the inside, I find myself in the back room. The afternoon sun is filtered through dingy, yellow drapes. There's a couch, drab and threadbare…stained carpeting…a stage for murder.

The boy is squirming on the couch, like he's trying to sink into it. His wet eyes are pleading.

A gnarled man stands across from him, his back to me. He advances toward the boy as I slowly walk around, wanting to see his face, to understand him.

No…no, no, no! Not this man. Not him. The discolored blotches on his forehead make him seem so frail, but I know better. I've seen the hellish strength in him once before. I watched what he did to the girl in the field. And now he'll kill this boy.

There's no way I can do this. I know better than to just stand here and let this happen. But Jasper—what would he say? I'm not supposed to interfere…

The man is on top of the boy now. He forces his hands past the boy's flailing arms and grasps his throat. There's no expression in his features as he squeezes.

I shake the unwillingness from my mind. All I have to do is reach for the boy's spine near the base of his neck, and I will receive his soul. It's that simple. I don't have to watch—just receive. It will be over soon.

No, this is insane—how can I not watch? This is as real as it gets. The shivering boy, the old man's grip, it's too much to ignore. I'm ashamed yet keyed up. I know I shouldn't be so intent, taking in every detail, but there's a rush from all of this.

The high doesn't last. It boils over into something different—a twinge of disgust, a sensation of superiority. This is my breaking point. I block out everything but the boy's gurgling. Instead of reaching for his spine, I guide his hand to the old man's throat and help him to press.