The Camaro Murders (5 page)

A Haunting

February 20th, 1999

Inside Sheriff Hildersham's bedroom

Life has a way of forging ahead with or without you, but there's something that eats at a man. To some it's the guilt of what they've done, to others it's the memory of what they used to have. For me it's the knowledge of what I witnessed. Sheriff or not, knowing I saw something I was never meant to see is like a cancer in my conscience.

There's something else out there too. It pulls with the same sense of recollection. Like that car in the parking lot tonight, it taunts me. It waits for me to go out on a limb like I almost did when I was a deputy. I'm wary to give in, but I can't hold out forever.

Josie is curled up next to me in the cool of our bedroom. She sleeps easy most nights, especially when it's cold out. Her breathing is calm underneath the down blanket.

Lying on my back, I've got one arm around her shoulder and the other behind my head. Now and then, a short gust of wind makes the walls creak. I didn't get around to winterizing this year, which means each gust is accompanied by a draft. It's not enough for me to shiver but it makes me glad we're on the inside.

It's three in the morning. I've been keeping time with the clock on the dresser, waiting to nod off, but my overactive mind won't allow it.

These are the times I wish my father was still alive. I'd like to ask him what he'd do if he were in my place. We'd sit down over a cup of coffee, and he'd impart some kind of wisdom. He never failed to recount a line-of-duty story that he could apply to the problem at hand.

“Always be prepared,” was his favorite thing to say. For some reason, that's what I keep coming back to. I just don't see how it applies this time.

A man wants simple fruits from his labors, to see his children grow up, to know he's lived an honest life before his maker. That's all I ever prepared for. Everything sort of fell in line after that.

I always knew there'd be the rough stuff when I took a job with the Sheriff's department. The Jenkins girl for instance—most assume she didn't meet a good end. That doesn't sit well with me, but learning how to stomach it is part of the job. So is accepting that I may never know what really happened.

I normally reason that there will be things outside of my control. But this Camaro business—I feel connected to it. It's like I'm the only one who knows how closely it's tied to the whole situation, and it's my responsibility to make it known.

This is why I can't sleep. The onus is on me, no matter how far-fetched my suspicions are. I'm not sure how I'll explain it to anybody without sounding like a fool, but that's got to be better than a body count, assuming the driver is still in the killing business.

I think my father would agree. Accountability is another thing he taught me. It was ingrained into me at a young age. At six years old, I had to own up to Mr. and Mrs. Albright after I stole one of their chickens.

It sounds simple, but that's when I first noticed my father's character. He was accountable as a parent—even if it was embarrassing for him to stand on the Albright's front porch that summer evening and apologize for his son's actions.

That's a terrible example, though. This goes beyond livestock or personal property. I took an oath, which means I'm bound to my duty. It doesn't matter if it's Mrs. Olsen who calls once a month to get her cat out of the tree, or a member of the local posse who thinks the Sheriff's office is the highest in the land; they both expect the same thing. I'm supposed to enforce accountability.

Owning up to my responsibility means I have to consider there might be a murderer out there. No one is going to do anything about it; no one else knows what I know. It's up to me to see this through. Otherwise, there's nothing else to stop him from killing again.

So what do I have? For one, suspicion that the driver of the Camaro kidnapped and/or killed Starla Jenkins. There's a strong possibility that the Crisp boy saw the car…and the chance that the same driver is somehow involved in Ezra Mendelssohn's death.

I hate to venture that far, because it puts me into uncertain territory. I don't have an explanation for the vehicle's appearance and disappearance, or for what I saw inside Mendelssohn's house.

I often forget the last part. It's been so long I almost don't believe what I saw in the front room. And I never understood how it related to anything, so I always set it aside. The car was and still remains the most important piece of the puzzle. There's just too much coincidence for my liking.

Where would I pick things up after all this time? There's nothing the girl can offer, because an empty field offers no evidence. And the boy…I have no idea where he is anymore. I would have to ask around—friends of the family and whatnot.

No, the best place to start is the Mendelssohn farm. I don't know what I'll find, but it's nearby and hopefully accessible. The last I heard, the estate was stuck in probate. That was maybe eight to ten years ago…but I have to start somewhere.

I roll over and throw my other arm over Josie. Sometimes I think she's the only thing that keeps me sane. Still, I'm hesitant to bring her in on this one. She's too grounded to go for phantom cars and the like.

Normally I confide in her just about anything, and she's always willing to support me. But I can't have her questioning my good sense on top of everything else. I don't want to shake her confidence in me. It just won't do.

I close my eyes because I feel like I made up my mind, but there's another gust of wind—and something else. I almost don't hear it and so I listen for it again. There—it sounds like a motor. Somebody's revving their motor outside.

It keeps up and gets louder, almost like it wants to be noticed, and I know I've heard that sound before. I slip out of bed, not believing what I hear. It can't be. Through parted blinds, I confirm the worst.

The Camaro is out on the road, rocking with each thrust of the engine. The exhaust is drifting across the yard. God bless it! I've got to get my gun.

No—there's no time. The tires smoke and the car drifts forward, the rubber waiting to catch. Then, howling like the motor is going to blow, the car is gone.

I feel my sanity drop like dead weight. “It can't be,” I say to myself. “It just can't.”

“Eustace?” Josie sits up in bed; I've woken her. “What's the matter?”

“Nothing, honey. Go back to sleep.” I can't tell her. I won't.

The Driver's Bequest

October 30th, 1986

The Driver keeping watch

The little girl on the cot is silent, curled up in the fetal position. The last of the daylight is waning through the cottage's only window and falls near her feet.

I have a lot to explain to her, but I don't know where to start. A year ago I found myself on one of the cots like her, and Jasper was sitting in the folding chair like I am now. The role reversal doesn't make it easier.

It doesn't matter that they tell you not to watch the first time, because you know what's coming. You know what's going to take place in a bedroom, an alley, or some desolate field.

A life will be taken by force, and however it comes to be, you will watch with the fascination of a child seeing something hideous, twisted, or gross for the first time. By then it's too late to look away.

They warn you for good reason. What unfolds is often brutal. The first time, most usually double over and retch, and then wait for the bile and stomach juices which never come. Protests go unheard; screams are in vain. The most dangerous thing is to pity or empathize with the victim. This is the mistake I made with the girl.

“I saw you running through the woods, and then out into the field,” I say to let her know I was there. She needs to understand it wasn't a dream. “The biting air and rapid breathing stung your throat, and your vision blurred as your eyes began to water. But you didn't cry, even though you were scared.

“He was following you; you could hear his gasps as he pursued you. The sky was like the pale water colors you painted in class. Could he hear your heart beating? It must have been so loud. It was echoing in your head.

“You wondered why your legs wouldn't move faster. They were short, moving as fast as they could. And your little black shoes, they weren't made for running—weren't made for escaping.

“The ribbon in your hair came undone. It looked so cute that morning, but you thought it was probably lost in the brown and gold of the field. You thought he would trample it as he got closer, smashing it into the mud with his desperate stride.

“Then the tree line disappeared as you squinted, running with all your might. The creek was beyond the trees. If you could make it across the creek…just across the creek!

“That's when he got close. You leaned forward, because you feared he was grasping for you. But you lost your balance. You fell, and he was on top of you. You could smell him: his acrid breath, the perspiration in his musty clothes. Then you found you had not lost your ribbon after all; it was only tangled in your hair.

“Jasper and I drove you away from there, not wanting you to look back at the field. You didn't need to see what was left behind.” I pause and wonder if the girl would cry if she could. She only slept for a day here in the cottage.

Jasper said this was a good place to hide souls while I piece together new bodies for them. It's where he hid me. Now this place is the closest thing to feeling like home in the Territory, probably because it's what I knew first.

When I woke up, I spent a few days listening to Jasper, who came and went at odd hours. The measurement of time became less and less frequent when I found I didn't need to sleep. It's only necessary at first to recover from death.

Jasper explained what he could, at least what I could initially digest. He'd stroke his beard and place his other arm across his substantial belly, recounting his own murder. He also told me about mine, but he never talked about it again unless I asked.

That's why I won't speak of this girl's demise anymore. Her murder is now hers and hers alone. What she'll do with that isn't clear. She has yet to speak let alone react to what I've told her. Her mind is still very immature.

If at first she doesn't find her ghost, she might choose to join the Fold and help others find theirs. This is the best I can hope for her if she never finds that fleeting image of herself.

Tonight, it's just the girl and me, and I'm restless. Before he left, Jasper said this is just the business we're in, trying to justify it. That doesn't sit well with me. There's no consolation in what the Fold has asked me to do. Nothing can replace what's taken.

Maybe the mental nausea will subside. This girl is my first, and there may be others before I find my ghost, but for now I'm filled with utter disgust at what I witnessed in the field.

That filthy old man…why did he do it? His motions continue to replay in my mind, and I can't shut them off. Every detail is there—the dirt beneath his fingernails, the spittle in the corner of his mouth, the way his face strained and contorted. I'd vomit if I could.

I thought for sure I could handle it. When Jasper and I first went to seek out a harbinger—the phantom that told us the girl would die—I didn't lose my composure. When some of the wanderlings followed us to Graehling Station, their little forms didn't cause me to dwell on the girl. Not until we were in the field did I understand how hard it would be.

Jasper and I looked on and did nothing to stop it. He said we weren't allowed to interfere and looked ready to hold me back once or twice. His burly hands would have met their match that afternoon had I not exercised restraint.

My thoughts return to the girl, and I walk over to kneel beside her. She doesn't shy away, so I hold her hands in mine and say, “I'm so sorry. I wanted to do something…to stop him. You didn't deserve this.”

She doesn't respond and looks away.

“You're going to have to be strong now. You can do that, can't you?” I say. “There are more of us. We'll help you. And I promise…” I stop to make sure she's looking at me. “I promise no one will hurt you again.”

I'm not sure what I've committed myself to, but I don't know what else to say. She's so helpless and confused, and I begin to worry about her safety once out in the Territory.

Jasper says there are some who work against the Fold; their allegiance is only to themselves. They target vulnerable souls like the girl to see if they can use them. I'll have to make sure she doesn't have to walk alone.

Maybe Conrad can help—him or one of the other wanderlings. They would be willing to accompany the girl for as long as it takes.

I first met Conrad in the woods surrounding this cottage. He was so innocent, so oblivious to the raw deal he'd received. Yet I was struck by his loyalty and protectiveness. If he only knew the truth of why he was here…

I turn my attention to the window. The sun is going down and the wanderlings will be searching for hiding places along the fringes of the Territory. From there they will watch people's dreams during the night. I'll have to look for Conrad in the morning.

The Wolf

November 26th, 1986

Inside the Driver's Camaro

The tires resist before grabbing the pavement. From there, the Camaro's exhaust lets loose its discontented moan. There's no one to complain about my driving on this back country road, so I don't moderate my speed. I need to get back to the cottage soon.

I don't like leaving the girl alone for long. I have visions of someone stumbling upon the cottage and finding her inside. The worst would be someone ready to do violence for no reason—like the man called Tickseed.

Last week Jasper and I found ourselves in the same alleyway as he. Our encounter was brief. Tickseed was well-spoken and harmless in his mannerisms—almost old-fashioned—but Jasper hurried us along as if Tickseed was leprous.

Later Jasper explained the atrocities Tickseed was willing to commit in order to survive in the Territory. He cautioned me against even conversing with Tickseed.

This seemed silly at the time—almost childish. I'm confident I can handle myself should our paths cross. As the car goes up and over the next rise, I realize I'll get a chance to test that theory. There's a figure further up the road, maybe ten feet from the shoulder. Somehow I know it's Tickseed.

He's bent over, struggling with something near the trees. Whatever it is, it's giving him a fight, but he continues to choke it.

I slow the car to an idle to get a better look, and then bring it to a full stop when I see Tickseed has hold of a harbinger.

Its wraith-like form thrashes, but without arms it can't fight back. I want it to scream or make some kind of protest, but it remains silent while Tickseed struggles to keep it under control.

Tickseed turns when he hears the tires skid in the gravel. “Your sense of timing is…unfortunate,” he says, dropping the harbinger like a dog whose lost interest in its toy. He takes a half-step towards my position on the road and says, “Come here. I want to show you something.”

“That's OK. I think I'll stay here,” I say from the Camaro's open window. I'm not going near him.

“Too busy playing hero, are we?” he says with venom. “You and your stupid car…” Leaning against the tree with his hands in his pockets, he tips his head a bit, almost as if to watch for my response.

“Playing hero?” I ask as the harbinger darts away and dissolves into mist.

“Don't play dumb, my friend. I know how you spend your nights.” He snickers like he's trying to incite a reaction from me, then he continues. “I know you've been haunting the boy at night when he dreams. You know he's going to be killed, and now so do I.”

I feel my resolve start to slip. It's true I've been looking in on the boy. I can't help it. After seeing the girl die…I feel helpless because I know what's going to happen to him. Secretly, I want a way to warn him.

And now I know Tickseed has been tracking me. It's my fault—I've been reckless and brash, howling through the most populous areas of the Territory. The wail of the car has become the juvenile symbol of my anger and frustration. It's clear the harbinger told Tickseed the rest.

Tickseed allows a slight grin. “Was it hard the first time? You watched, didn't you? Do you think you can make a difference with the boy? You know you can't interfere. That's the madness of it! Those images will stick to your soul forever. He'll be just like the girl.”

I swing the door open and step out of the car. “Don't talk about her. You know nothing.”

“It's no big loss,” Tickseed says with a chuckle. “She would have been a whore anyway.” At that, he grins from ear to ear.

I curse at him and lunge for his throat.

Laughing, Tickseed braces himself as my forearm pins him against the tree. “Don't worry,” he says. “I won't interfere. I just want to watch. Oh, pleeeaaase can I watch?” he begs in a mock childlike voice.

“Shut your mouth!” I say. I don't recognize what's welling up inside of me.

“I want to see the look on his face—and yours,” Tickseed says, laughing.

“I said shut it!” My forearm digs harder into his skinny throat, and then I give him the backside of my fist.

Despite Tickseed's height, the blow sends him reeling to the ground. He continues to giggle as if he's enjoying it.

I start to kick him when he attempts to get to his knees. Each blow I land to his midsection produces more laughter, so I strike with increasing violence. My flailing becomes less controlled, and as I venture further from the car, my blows lose effectiveness.

Tickseed begins to rise, absorbing my beating with ease. He sloughs off a punch and grabs me by the shirt, and then several things happen.

First I hear crunching inside of him—it's what I expect breaking bones to sound like. Then I perceive him to nearly double in size. I say perceive, because my vision nearly goes black. I barely make out his form, still gangly but now disgusting and disproportioned.

“You are worthless!” he says in a guttural, animal wail. “Excrement!” He shakes me with a force that feels like it will take my head off. “Excrement!” he says again, growling.

I've lost all capacity for reason, as if I don't have a mind of my own. There's no will to struggle, only a shocked sense of surrender. Hanging from Tickseed's spindly arms, it seems the ground is rumbling, and I turn to see a massive body appear from my left and crash into Tickseed. It's Jasper.

Tickseed drops me in order to defend himself.

Through bleary vision, I watch the freakish figures belt each other, and I'm awestruck as Jasper wages war. I don't know where he came from or how he got here.

Jasper lets out colossal grunts and swings cinderblock fists. Leaning backwards with an outstretched arm, he delivers each blow with great effect.

Tickseed, his skin now brindled, appears almost ghostly. His mouth is elongated and protruding, but parts of his face don't seem substantial. He tries to dodge Jasper, sometimes on all fours, clawing and gnashing like a dog.

When Tickseed lunges for Jasper, Jasper grabs him by the shoulders and throws him to the ground. Then he hammers Tickseed's face with each hand.

Tickseed manages to wiggle free, his mouth hanging limp. He looks beaten.

Jasper delivers a combination of a swinging forearm and a driving shoulder to Tickseed's head, which sends him rolling a few feet further.

At this, Tickseed regains his footing and makes off for the nearby woods, moving with extended strides. He disappears in a matter of seconds.

Jasper wanders back to where I still sit on the ground. He's not bruised or bloody like I'd expect, but he looks tired—if that's even possible with these bodies.

My vision has cleared and I bring myself to stand. “I don't know what happened,” I say.

“You let him get the best of you, for one,” Jasper says with a matter-of-fact tone. “The rest isn't your fault. The man's a sadist. If he can drag you down with him, he will.”

“That's not really what I meant,” I look away.

Jasper's mouth moves somewhere beneath his beard. “I know, but it's for your own good that you heed what I say.” He waits for me to nod before continuing. “If there are any black arts here, Tickseed practices them. He's found a way to manipulate himself, but it's all farce. It's under a guise through which he operates—a guise of something that doesn't exist.”

“I don't understand what you're trying to say.” Sometimes Jasper loses me when he tries to explain the Territory.

Jasper shifts his weight before replying. “I mean the way he looks—the way he transforms—it might as well be a dream. A nightmare, maybe, but he doesn't manifest reality. He's trying to prey on unfounded fears. Something from the movies…”

Looking at my feet, I say, “I guess that makes sense, kind of. But that's not the worst of it. He had hold of a harbinger when I found him. He was choking it. And the look on his face—it was like he was having fun. I think it told him about the boy.”

Jasper flinches slightly. “He's becoming more aggressive, which isn't surprising. He wants back into the physical world. I don't know how he thinks he'll manage to do so, but I don't want him anywhere near when you go to gather the Crisp boy.”