Officer Clapton exited the vehicle and opened the passenger side door for Tim. As they walked toward the entrance to Brendan Hall, the dread that was coursing through Tim’s system solidified. “What’s going to happen now?” Tim asked, his voice cracking.
“You’ll be fine,” Officer Clapton murmured. “You’ll be in a room by yourself so you don’t have to worry. I’ll process you at the front desk and make a call to your folks, then we can talk some more in private if you want.”
“Will my parents be able to get me tonight?” Despite the trouble he felt he would be in with his folks, he wanted to see them as soon as possible.
“Yes, they’ll be able to pick you up as soon as they can get here.”
Tim heaved a sigh of relief as they entered the lobby of Brendan Hall.
As Officer Clapton led him to the administration desk, which was sealed off by bullet-proof glass, he casually asked, “By the way…do you know John Elfman? He was reported missing yesterday by his parents.”
“I didn’t know that,” Tim said, trying not to let the surprise show in his voice.
“Didn’t know him, or didn’t know he was missing?”
“Both.”
They stopped at the front desk and a civilian clerk dressed in dark slacks and a dark shirt looked up at them. Officer Clapton nodded at the clerk. “Hi, Phil. I need processing papers, please.”
“Sure thing,” Phil said. He reached beneath his desk and retrieved two forms, which he slid through to him.
Officer Clapton took the papers, retrieved a pen from his breast pocket and began filling them out. “I understand from several sources that John used to pick on you a bit. Not as much as Scott and his group, but enough to arouse interest with your guidance counselor. You’re sure you haven’t heard about his disappearance?”
“I’m sure,” Tim said, looking at the paperwork Officer Clapton was filling out. “I tried to stay away from John as much as I could. Besides, I don’t think John hung out with Scott and his group.”
“They were rivals, weren’t they?” Officer Clapton asked casually. He was filling out Tim’s name and address and began filling in the section about why he was being brought to Brendan Hall.
“I guess you could say that,” Tim said.
“Is there anything you want to tell me?”
Tim shook his head. “No.”
“Okay. If you change your mind, I’ll be on duty until noon. You can always ask a warden to talk to a detective and I can come down. I can always come to the house and talk to you and your parents. Understand?”
Tim nodded sullenly. “Yeah.”
Officer Clapton paused in filling out the paperwork, as if waiting for some outpouring of confession. Tim remained stoic and sullen, not looking at him. He just wanted to get out of here, he wanted to see his parents, wanted to warn Chelsea. He had to find some way to stop this.
“Okay,” Officer Clapton said, and he turned his attention back to the paperwork that would admit Tim to custody at Brendan Hall Juvenile Facility.
Chapter Nineteen
What the hell is that?
John Lombardo was sitting on the back deck of his home at three A.M. watching the fireflies when he saw the animal. He couldn’t sleep, so he’d wandered downstairs and watched infomercials for a little bit, then headed out to the deck to smoke a cigarette. Barbara couldn’t stand the smell of cigarette smoke in the house, so he had to feed his nicotine habit outside. Can’t say he blamed her. Their three thousand five hundred square foot home was not only immaculate, it still had that new house smell despite their ten year residence. Barbara hated it when he smoked around the kids, too. Can’t say he blamed her for that, either. Their oldest son, Mike, had just turned twenty-one, and while he still lived at home, he had not picked up John’s nasty smoking habit. Their middle child, Mary was thirteen now, and Billy was three years younger, and both were at the age where their parent’s habits, including the bad ones, would influence the habits and traits they would carry for the rest of their lives.
John took a step forward, peering into the gloom of the yard. He’d initially been surprised, figuring it was a possum or something. Now he wasn’t so sure.
The thing was hobbling funny, like it was hurt. John was pretty sure it was a possum judging by its overall appearance. He took a step back. If it was hurt it might be aggressive.
As the animal came within the light of the porch John saw that it was a possum…
…or used to be a possum.
John gasped and backed up against the closed screen door. The possum looked up at him with a face that was devoid of much of its flesh. Maggots writhed in its eye sockets. Its fur was dull and appeared in rough patches on its brittle skin. John saw portions of its skeleton peek through the rotting tatters of its flesh.
“My God,” John muttered and that’s when the thing launched itself at him.
It covered the ten feet from the edge of the porch to the screen door quickly. John scrambled to get the screen door open and yelled as the thing landed on the back of his right leg. He felt its claws dig into the bare skin and he screamed as he felt its teeth sink into flesh.
John scrambled to get the thing off him, swinging his arms behind him, trying to knock it off, but it climbed his leg, seeking purchase with those sharp little claws. John was yelling now, hoping Barbara would hear him, but the thing was so goddamn fast, and his mind was still reeling at the unbelievability of it all that when it launched itself at his throat he was too slow in his reflexes to deflect its fatal bite.
The last thing John thought as he fell against the screen door, his jugular spurting blood as it ground its jaws into his throat, was that he hoped Barbara had been woken by his screams and would get herself and the kids out of the house.
Mary Lombardo was a light sleeper, so when her dad’s screams woke her up she looked out her bedroom window that overlooked the back yard.
The porch light was on, but she couldn’t see beyond the brief expanse of yard due to the canvas that covered the porch in the summer. There was a rustling noise down there, as if somebody was falling against the screen door, and then another sound, like a grunt, and then nothing.
Mary looked out the window, trying to see if there was movement below. Was Dad outside? Sometimes he liked to sit on the back deck and smoke, but it was pretty late — after three A.M., according to the digital numerals on her clock radio. Dad had to go to work in four hours. He worked some kind of office job in Lancaster. Surely he wouldn’t be outside that late.
Mary got out of bed and exited her bedroom. The hallway was silent and dark. Bill’s room was next to hers, the door closed. She didn’t hear anything from Bill’s room. What used to be Mike’s room had been converted to a guest bedroom — Mike had converted the living space in the basement as a bachelor pad where he lived and worked on those weird low budget horror movies he liked to produce. Mary padded down the hall toward her parent’s room. She pushed the door open softly and tip-toed inside.
Mom lay in deep sleep on the king-sized bed, her back facing the door. Dad was absent from his side of the bed.
Concerned that Dad was hurt, Mary exited her parent’s bedroom and entered the landing, which served as a kind of bridge across the entryway and great room of the house. She stood at the railing overlooking the great room, trying to look out the large floor to ceiling plate glass windows that looked out to the back deck. “Dad?” She called out. “You okay?”
There was a sound from the screen door. A rustling noise. She instantly became worried. “Dad?”
The screen door opened and she saw her dad shuffle in the house. He looked beat. Mary sighed in relief. “Dad! You okay?”