The Tear Collector Page 6

  “Why not, man? Tee’s right. We can help.”

  “You know it.”

  “I mean, I guess so. But…” I waver and Robby jumps in to fill the void.

  “No guesses, no buts. Let’s do it.”

  A few moments of silence pass, before Robby extends his fist to me and Tee. Tee smiles and extends his fist into the circle as well. “In.”

  A big smile climbs Robby’s lips. “In.”

  Tee and Robby narrow their eyes on me. Oh no. Not those woods again. They’re not going to let me say no. At least I won’t be alone. After a deep exhale, I relent. I make a fist and put it in the circle joining theirs.

  “In. Okay, let’s do it.”

  “Aww yeah! Oh, oh, aw yeah! Oh, oh, aw yeah!” Tee sings, his eyes aflame, as he resurrects a poor imitation of some Michael Jackson dance moves. He looks ridiculous.

  Robby and I burst out laughing.

  Robby looks at his watch. “It’s eleven forty-five. We gotta go!”

  Tee catapults an arm forward. “This way to glory, boys!” Our rapid-fire steps strike the staircase like an ascending herd of frenzied buffalo.

  “Mom, we’re heading out to play.”

  “Have fun, boys.”

  Tee and Robby hop on their bikes. I grab my bike from the garage and roll it into the driveway. We grin at each other, bright-eyed for our first adventure together as Robby leads us off the driveway. We follow him by instinct, a de facto leader, wisdom beyond his years. We coast to the end of Slippery Hill, side by side, like a pack of outlaws.

  We make the turn onto Chambers Road before turning on Parson Street. A large crowd of at least fifty people congregates at the bottom of the hill. Parked at the end of the road, two police cruisers sit stationary. We come to a stop by the main gathering and lug our bikes off the road. Tee points into the crowd.

  “Heavenly Everly.”

  Alyssa stands there with her parents. We snake through the crowd of people. There’s a large pickup truck pulled into the grass near the woods with two police officers beside it, one holding a bullhorn. Detective Holt climbs into the bed of the truck to face the crowd, another officer passing him the bullhorn.

  “Heyyy, Alyssa.” Tee lofts his flirty voice in her direction as we’re walking past.

  She smiles, her eyes moving like the second hand of an antique clock, a momentary pause on each of us.

  “Hey, Tee, hey, Robby, hey, Brooks. It’s nice of you guys to come help look for my cousin.”

  She knows my name! I try to keep a straight face, but I feel it contorting into a goofy grin. A rush of heat pulses into my cheeks. She’s gorgeous. Stop staring.

  Robby’s brows lift. “Oh wow, Margo’s your cousin?”

  “Distant cousin. But yes.” She smiles at me, her bright blue eyes sparkling like alluring diamonds in the sunlight.

  Detective Holt raises the bullhorn and switches it on emitting a high-pitched shriek, which causes some grumbling in the crowd.

  “Now listen up. I want to thank all of you for coming out here on such short notice. I know that Margo’s parents, Jim and Linda, are very grateful for each and every one of you being here today. We’re here to help this family find their missing daughter. Now, Margo was last seen in these woods yesterday. Each one of you has been given a flyer with her picture on it. If you see her, try your best to calmly get her to come to you. Thankfully, there’s a lot of us out here today, but that could also frighten her. The last thing we want to do is scare her away. When we go out into these here woods, I want you to spread out ten feet apart. We’re going to walk slowly, as a group. And let’s keep this orderly. If you find something, you are to blow the whistle that we’ve given you to wear around your neck. Under no circumstances should you touch anything you find. You wait for a police deputy or myself to come to the sound of your whistle. Does everyone understand?”

  There’s a grumbling of yeses from the crowd.

  Robby’s eyes grow wide and he points. “Holy crap! Is that Brady Palmer?”

  Audible gasps rise from the crowd as Brady walks toward a large cluster of volunteers. Ray Owens, the father of Misty Owens, knifes through the crowd and moves to block Brady’s path.

  “No. No! No one wants you here!” Ray’s cheeks ignite in a blaze of fiery hues while he waves his hands in crisscrossing patterns trying to ward off Brady’s advance.

  Brady flashes his open palms as leering eyes cut into him. “I just want to help.”

  “Haven’t you already done just about enough? You killed my girl! You killed my Misty!”

  Ray’s body shakes, eyes misting, blotches of red spreading from his face to his neck.

  “It was an accident.” Brady’s meek voice trails off.

  “Accident? Lighting gasoline up ain’t no accident. They never should’ve let you out.”

  Ray’s nostrils flare as his eyes drill into Brady. A sobbing Pamela Owens wraps trembling arms around her husband’s waist, but he slices through her fragile grip. Detective Holt hops off the pickup truck and comes rushing through the crowd. He jumps between Ray Owens and Brady Palmer.

  “Now Ray, you got to calm down.” Detective Holt places a firm outstretched palm onto Ray’s chest.

  “Calm down? He killed my girl, Tripp. You know he killed my girl.”

  “I just want to help find Margo.”

  “Tripp, he probably had something to do with this. Maybe you should take him in, question him. He’s probably done somethin’ to that poor girl. Just like he did to my Misty.”

  “Enough!” Detective Holt’s shout halts Ray’s advance. “We’re here to help find this girl, and quite frankly, the more help that we can get the better. If Brady wants to help, then by God, we’re going to let him help. Ray, you and Pam get on over there to the left flank. And Brady, you get on the right flank way over there.”

  “But Tripp—”

  “But nothing, Ray. Please get over on that left flank where I asked you to.”

  Ray Owens’ nonplussed expression sours, and he casts a contemptuous frown at Detective Holt. He shakes his head as his wife collects his hand and leads him to the left flank of the search party. He mutters to himself all the way there. Brady Palmer lowers his head and makes his way to the opposite flank.

  Detective Holt’s sullen eyes linger on Brady as if he’s revisiting some distant memory, a hint of heavy shadow flitting through the rims of his eyes. Onlookers leer at Brady. Their sharpened stares tear through the air all around us like a murderous frenzy of vengeful daggers. I wince at the palpable scorn before turning away. Tee, Robby, and I grab whistles from a milk crate and hang them around our necks. We pass a stack of flyers with Margo’s picture, but we don’t grab one.

  Officer Morrow approaches Detective Holt and leans in close.

  “We tried to pick up that Myron Thompson kid. The sister said he never came home last night. The father’s out of the picture, and I got the impression that the mom’s not around too much. The sister said that Myron doesn’t come home from time to time. We’ll try to pick him up again tomorrow.”

  “Can’t worry about that now. Why don’t you go ahead and take the left flank? And keep Ray in line if you can.”

  “I’ll do my best.” Officer Morrow hurries to intersect Ray Owens.

  “We’ve wasted enough time already. Now, let’s get moving.” Detective Holt waves his arm in the direction of the woods, his shout prompting a mass forward advance.

  Chapter 13

  The Awakening

  WE FILE IN near the right flank as the search party begins a forward creep. Several men in hunting fatigues encircle a group of about twenty bloodhounds. They put some of Margo’s dirty clothes to the dogs’ noses. The dogs crinkle their snouts, drawing her scent deep into their olfactory. Once all the dogs get a turn, the men release them. The dogs, moving slow at first, sniff the ground around them, and walk into the woods before beginning to trot. As her scent gets stronger, they dash deeper into the woods, their loud barks rising above the wh
ispered conversations in the crowd.

  The search party enters the woods. The barks of the dogs ahead echo through the trees as we trudge forward, spaced ten feet or so apart. The other boys and I stay a little closer together, within a few feet of each other.

  Dark clouds gather, the treetops set to a light sway in the headwinds of an approaching thunderstorm. The foreboding sky threatens, greenish-tinged black clouds swirling overhead. Don’t storm. Don’t storm and we can still find Margo. All around us, the forest crackles, crunching leaves and snapping twigs as the search party descends deeper into the forest.

  Clouds obscure the sun and heavy shadows fall onto the forest floor. As we move deeper into the woods, the spacing between each person widens. A couple of volunteers on the flanks move ahead of the rest of the search party while the dogs’ barks grow more distant.

  Oh my God, is that…it is. It’s Mr. Wadlow. What in the world’s he doing here? Kids in our town often dare each other to ring his doorbell and run. Like running through a graveyard at night, the unsubstantiated rumors and legends of a small town, grown ripe with time. Stories of repetition, a piece added with each retelling. Ever-changing. Wadlow, a mad scientist, a killer. His house haunted by his victims. Bodies buried in his basement. All the kids fear him.

  Mr. Wadlow collects something from the ground and inspects it, his body positioned to guard from prying eyes. He surveys the people marching forward on his flanks, gauging their level of attention to him, before slipping it into his pocket. He stops moving forward, falling behind the group. He slithers sideways behind the search party line to the edge of the right flank. He walks with brisk determination, putting more distance between himself and the search party with each labored step, clutching at his knee as he moves. He surveys any eyes cast in his direction one last time before he takes off in a hobbled run in the opposite direction of the search party, disappearing into the trees.

  “Did you see that?”

  Tee nods his head at me with wide eyes. “Yep, that dude’s up to something for sure.”

  “What happened?”

  Tee points Robby to the trees where Mr. Wadlow disappeared. “Mr. Wadlow picked something up off the ground and ran.”

  “What’s he doing out here?”

  Muted screaming in the distance stops us in our tracks, and most of the search party stops with us. The wind intensifies, rustling through the trees as storm clouds threaten. A couple volunteers on the left flank of the search party trudge too far ahead, and we lose sight of them in the trees.

  “Boys.”

  Tee, Robby, and I jump. We all spin around. It’s Brady Palmer. My wide eyes trail the length of the hideous burn scars on his arms, the skin disfigured, twisted all up on itself in grotesque knots of scar tissue and pinkish patches of grafted skin.

  “Sorry to scare you. Something’s going on in Grief Hollow. You need to stay out of there. It can do things. It can change. It can be whatever it wants to be, make you see things that aren’t there.” His eyes swell big and scour the surrounding tree line.

  The wind begins howling again, and the branches in the trees above us scrape each other as they shake. More faint screams riding the wind pull everyone’s attention in the direction of Grief Hollow as the roiling sky growls. John Watson breaks ranks with the search party line and charges forward.

  “John, wait!”

  John ignores Officer Morrow’s call and accelerates. He carries his rifle high with both hands as he runs like a soldier storming an enemy location until he disappears behind the ridgeline and out of sight. A moment later the faint screams resound much louder and clearer. Those aren’t screams. It’s dogs’ yelping. Not screams at all. The yelps crescendo before coming to an abrupt stop. An eerie silence blankets the forest. My heart hammers, pounding against the walls of my chest. I turn to Brady, but he’s gone.

  Everyone’s frozen in their spots. There’s an oncoming rustle of leaves beneath the heavy brush, interspersed in a hundred-yard area. A small sapling about thirty yards ahead of us jerks forward as if something speeding in our direction collided with it. The rustle of leaves quickly closes in on the search party line, but whatever’s making the commotion remains hidden. I jump as a dog runs past me at full speed in the opposite direction we’ve been walking. And another. And two more. With their tails tucked, the dogs make a furious sprint out of the woods, barks quieted by something that’s frightened them.

  Quiet returns for a moment. We all start to move forward again, before someone’s whistle blows far ahead on the left flank. We stop again to listen. It’s a whistle blow every other second at first. Detective Holt and the other police officers break ranks with the search party line and race in the direction of the whistling. A moment later, the whistling becomes more rapid, and the pattern irregular. A gunshot rings out from the distance, followed by a momentary pause, before two more gunshots ring out in rapid succession, echoing through the forest. Another short whistle blast, followed by a scream, shatters the quiet. That’s not a dog’s yelp. That was a human scream, a man’s! Tee and I take a retreating step. Robby’s frozen.

  A thousand simultaneous droplets tap on the leaves of the trees above, before big drops of rain begin to fall into the woods and land on our bodies. A roar of thunder crashes ahead and the rain intensifies to a deluge.

  “Let’s get out of here!”

  Tee’s sharp scream acts as a starter’s pistol. We race through the woods, chilly rainwater soaking our bodies. Moments later, the search party breaks apart, everyone heading to Parson Street. We’re the first ones to come sprinting out of the woods into a torrential rainfall. As we leave the shelter of the tree canopy and move into the clearing, angry raindrops pelt our faces. Roaring rivers of rainwater flow into the storm drain at the end of Parson Street.

  “What the hell was that?” Tee screams at me through the clamor of the storm as we jump on our bikes.

  “I don’t know!” Water drips from my face, my shivering scream barely audible in the fury of the storm.

  Face blanched, Robby stands there trembling, rainwater cascading his face before rolling off his nose. I grab him by the shoulder and shake him.

  “Robby, come on!”

  A close flash of lightning zips to the ground, unleashing an ear-shattering boom, and the thunderous rumble shakes the ground beneath our feet. Robby snaps out of his trance and jumps onto his bike. We pedal as fast as we can, furious lightning bolts dropping from the sky all around us. We pull into my driveway as the sky continues licking the earth with its slender, brilliant, white tongues. After rolling dismounts, we sling our bikes into a haphazard pile on the lawn and rush inside to escape the storm’s fury.

  Chapter 14

  Paradox

  OFFICER CLANCY STOOPS and winces. “I think it’s John Watson.”

  The rain begins to subside, but loud roars of thunder crackle in the distance. Detective Holt stands above what remains of John Watson. What in God’s name? Dammit. This is on me. I called for this search party. Detective Holt and Officer Clancy arrived at the scene less than two minutes after the first whistle blew. None of this makes any sense to Holt. How can something do all this damage in such a short period and not still be here?

  Officer Morrow comes running to the area. His jaw drops. “Jesus.”

  Though positioned closest to John Watson in the search party line, Detective Holt and Officer Clancy passed the much older Officer Morrow with ease. Flirting with his sixties, their youthful speed outmatched him, proving too fast for him to keep pace.

  Officer Morrow surveys the immense damage. It looks like something ripped John Watson to pieces, his left leg severed at the thigh, his shredded camouflage pants draping gore and his right arm severed an inch above the elbow. A few yards away from his body lies his missing arm still clutching the whistle. The whistle string snapped, ripped from his neck with violent force. He’s missing a big chunk of flesh from his left side, exposing torn muscle and portions of his rib cage. Large puddles of blood and
chunks of flesh litter the ground around his body. His fresh wounds still ooze thick arterial blood. His pale, lifeless face rests sideways on the saturated soil, wide-open eyes stuck in a forever gaze and his mouth agape mid-scream.

  Officer Morrow breaks the silence. “Did you check for a pulse?”

  “Are you kidding me? There’s hardly enough of him left to check for anything.” Officer Clancy gulps and shakes his head. A moment of digestible silence ensues. “You reckon a bear got him, Holt?”

  A bear hadn’t attacked anyone in eleven years in Harper Pass. Even when attacks did happen, they typically didn’t result in death. Fatal bear attacks tended to transpire over an extended period of time. This happened in a couple of minutes. Detective Holt grimaces. What kind of bear could do this much carnage in less than two minutes?

  Officer Morrow frowns, shaking his head. “That had to be a huge bear.”

  Detective Holt nods and motions his eyes to the creek.

  “I’d say the same thing that got John is what got those dogs, too.”

  “Maybe John came up on a mama bear and her cubs. They can get pretty vicious,” Officer Clancy offers.

  Officer Morrow approaches the body and stoops, tilting his head as he surveys the wounds.

  “It doesn’t look like any bear attack I’ve ever seen, I’ll tell you that. I mean, have you ever seen a black bear do something like this? Maybe a grizzly bear, and I do mean maybe. But there aren’t any grizzlies in these parts.”

  “Yeah, I mean, it looks like he’s been torn limb from limb.” Officer Clancy swallows hard as his stomach turns on itself.

  “Anybody see this happen? You were with them on the left flank. Anybody say they saw anything as you were running up?”

  “No, John ran so far ahead of everyone when he heard his dogs in trouble.”

  “Those dogs didn’t fare much better either.” Clancy surveys the heap of canines. It’s hard to tell for sure because of the mangled mess, but it looks like seven dead dogs lie there in Grief Hollow. They’re torn apart. The various grave injuries range from one missing its head to several missing multiple legs. Clancy gulps as he eyes a disemboweled dog several yards from the others, its body lying on the edge of Copperhead Creek, blood still flowing from its wounds. Canine blood and mountain water mix, tinting the creek water a light shade of vermilion.