Adam's Woods (10 page)

Eric had considered before whether it could have been someone in the town, someone that maybe still lived here even now. But the police had left satisfied with the stories and alibis offered by those they had questioned, which according to his father was nearly everyone. Even his father. The investigator had theorized that a drifter or some other outsider had arrived at Lincoln Corners, avoiding access by road and intending to enter from the woods. Whatever motive he’d had for killing Adam was all speculation. Had he come to steal from them and been surprised by a little boy that could identify his face, and then killed and fled back the way he came? Could it have been some sort of horrible accident? Or had he come for that very reason, to slay a child?

Eric thought this stranger theory more likely than the other. In such a small, tight-knit community, he couldn’t imagine that someone capable of killing a child could live unsuspected among them. But of course there was John Wayne Gacy: life of the party, clown, killer of boys. But “boys” was plural and denoted teens and young men. He’d lived in a city, Chicago, and eventually had been caught. Could someone commit such a brutal murder only once, then hang up the costume of a killer in exchange for the everyday, having expelled some hideous bug out of his system? He thought this unlikely, too. No, the older he’d gotten, the more the police’s theory made sense. Wrong place, wrong time, nothing personal, but still Adam was dead.

He had tired of thinking. He sat down on the ground next to where Adam had been, moisture seeping into his pants, and reached out and touched the soil.

“I’m here, Adam,” he said. “Sorry it’s taken so long, but I’m here now.”

He didn’t expect anything so wasn’t disappointed when Adam’s spirit failed to materialize. But he felt his presence just the same, the impression of his brother had left on his soul, the marks covered up but never erased. He closed his eyes and just let them come, in whatever order they came, stopped trying to make sense of it.

He heard another crack of a small branch, but this time didn’t flinch or open his eyes. There was too much of the real stuff to worry about the things his mind could conjure. But he did feel the barrel of the shotgun pressed into his neck, and did hear the voice low with menace growl, “You move and I’ll blow your fucking head off.”

Eric sat still, waiting for the man to say something or pull the trigger. He couldn’t see anything, only feel the cold surety of the gun and the presence of the man that held it. The barrel, or barrels it seemed, were pushed into the back of his neck right below his occipital bone, with enough force to cause his chin to touch his chest. It hurt, and he didn’t think he could endure it for any period of time without moving, would find out if his attacker kept his promises. He knew it wasn’t Arnie, but wondered if he could be so upset to arrange an eviction notice this extreme.

“Who are you, and what the hell are you doing here? You’d better have a damn good answer, man.” He didn’t recognize the voice.

“My name is Eric. Eric Kane.”

The gun barrel relaxed some, and he breathed a sigh of relief and started to straighten his head only to have it pushed back down harder than before.

“You’re a liar. You think you’re funny? You think I won’t pull these triggers? Do you have any idea what a double barrel twelve gauge will do fired point blank?”

The voice sounded young and old at the same time, and there was something excitable in it he didn’t understand. Could it be possible that Adam’s killer had returned, following the same circuit? It would be a coincidence for the record books, but stranger things had happened, he supposed. If so, and if the man planned to kill him, he hoped to have time to ask and hear the answer to one question.

Why?

“I do believe you’ll pull the trigger,” he said and meant it. “My name is Eric Kane. I used to live here when I was a kid. I just bought my old house and moved in. That’s the truth.” He was afraid and had no desire to die, but he took consolation in the fact that he’d at least begun to come to terms with the forces that had compelled him and was actively wrestling for control of the buttons and levers. He hadn’t solved the God question yet, but that all might be moot in a moment or two and answered with certainty. His thoughts drifted to Mary, and he was sad that he wouldn’t get to see how that turned out. And his poor parents.

The pressure lessened again, and he held his breath this time in response. He even kept his head bowed, expecting the gun to come back and didn’t want to waste his energy on hope. He could hear the man breathing.

“If you’re Eric Kane, what's your brother’s name?” The voice was still hostile, but there seemed to exist within it an uncertainty now.

"It was Adam. Past tense. He’s dead.”

“Anybody could know that. Not good enough. Let’s see...did you ever catch that huge rainbow trout back behind Fisk’s lumber yard?”

“It wasn’t a rainbow. It was a palomino trout. And no, I didn’t."

There was a pause and the gun barrel withdrew, bumping the back of his head lightly several times first, and he thought the man was shaking. He didn’t dare turn around, waited, knew a shotgun didn’t have to be sitting right on the spine to sever it.

“What did I show you that day? Were they Penthouses or Playboys?” The question seemed a mere formality, its author no longer homicidal, and there was only one person that could have asked it.

He turned his head slowly, caught sight of a pair of large feet and gauged them to be size fourteen or so, and said, “They were Hustlers. JT...John Thomas Groves?”

He looked up, and JT’s face was nearly as white as it had been the last time he saw it. Eric might have felt angry, but the stricken look on his childhood friend’s face pushed it away, and he just felt glad to be alive.

JT was a big man. Some of the bulk was fat, but most of it wasn’t. He had a full beard with mustache, wore jeans and sneakers, and a Harley Davidson t-shirt that looked right at home on him. He stood at least six foot five, the shotgun like a toy clutched in his huge hands, its barrel now pointed well away from Eric.

“Eric...shit, man. I could have shot you. I really could have shot you. What the hell are you doing walking around out here?” He sounded angry again, but not buckshot angry, and Eric thought he heard a hint of disappointment. At what he couldn’t guess.

“Remembering. Trying to come to grips with it. That’s why I came back to Lincoln Corners, but it’s my first time here, back to this spot.” He wasn’t sure what to say beyond that. Due to the circumstances under which he’d left, and the events of this reunion, a handshake and a “Hey, it’s great to see you, buddy. What have you been doing with yourself all these years,” didn’t feel appropriate.

“Eric...look, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. If you want to call the cops on me I understand, but... I’ve got to go.” He began backing away, keeping eye contact, appearing to want to say so much more. Eric could see the pain in his eyes.

“John Thomas, wait. It’s all right. I'm not going to call the police. Seems like it was just a misunderstanding and I still have my head, right?”

“Nah, I can’t stay...really need to get going. Take care, Eric. Hey, like the books, man.” He smiled then, and through the biker persona and facial hair Eric recognized his childhood friend. “But it’s JT now, so no more of that John Thomas shit. Makes me sound like I’ve assassinated a president.” Then he turned and began loping through the woods, the shotgun thrown over a shoulder. Eric noticed a limp that accounted for the altered gait, a stiffness in his right leg that didn’t allow him to bend it fully.

He stood up and thought to call after him but didn’t. He knew it wouldn’t do any good. No different than twenty years ago. When JT made up his mind, there was no changing it.

When the sound of his progress faded, Eric lifted a hand up and watched it tremble. He sat in the silence for few minutes more, but the connection with Adam was severed. Standing up to go and brushing off his pants, he said, "I'm going Adam, but I'll be at the house if you need me."

Eric dialed Mary’s number at the real estate office. He wasn’t sure how he felt about her omitting that John Thomas, or now officially JT, still lived in the area, or at least frequented it. The shoe prints he’d seen in the woods looked to be a match.

“Collins Realty, this is Mary.”

“Mary, it’s Eric. Do you have a minute? Need to ask you something.”

“Something wrong? Did you have another run in with Arnie?”

“No, but I did run into someone. John Thomas Groves. I had no idea he still lived around here. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I don’t know. I guess I didn’t know how you’d take it. I thought, from all you’ve told me about coming back and dealing with this thing, it might just make it harder for you. I’m actually surprised that you saw him. He lives in the same house he grew up in, by the junkyard, but about the only thing anyone sees is his back when he’s riding away down the road on his motorcycle. Look, I’m sorry. I hope you’re not upset with me...”

“No, I’m not. It was just a shock, that’s all. A shock to both of us, actually. Has he always been around, never lived anywhere else?” He decided not to tell Mary the particulars of the meeting, at least not yet. He felt somehow that the moment had belonged only to them, just as no one else could share what they had so long ago. But he did want to know more.

“No, not always. He actually almost played for the Steelers, believe it or not. He was so angry at being suspected of killing Adam. Not by everybody, but some. When Fisk insinuated that you might have done it, he was lying, but he really believes that about JT. And Arnie holds some sway there. Deacon in the church, successful business owner, self-appointed Sheriff sometimes. There are those follow his lead, unfortunately. But even then I think some of them agree with him but don't mean it, just do it to avoid risking his wrath.”

Eric thought again of the posse that Sheriff Fisk claimed to have, and wondered if Mary’s words explained why they hadn’t been by with torches and a noose.

“So back to JT. When he got to high school he joined the football team, found a place to vent all that anger to the dismay of quarterbacks and running backs and anyone else that got in his way. He even put a punter in the hospital once. I think he'd finally found a place where people respected him, maybe even loved him, so it meant everything.”

“Did you still hang out with him, after I left?” Eric felt a twinge of jealousy and knocked it aside as absurd. But he listened carefully for Mary’s answer.

“Sometimes. But not very often. In high school, we belonged to different groups of friends, or I did anyway. He was the best player on the team, but he didn’t hang out so much with them outside of the games, or anyone else for that matter. He didn’t play for anyone's approval. He played to redeem himself, I think, played for Arnie Fisk. Tony was on the team too, so he knew Arnie was watching. He did ask me out once, but I just couldn’t, too much history. He shrugged it off like it was no big deal, but I didn’t see him much around here after that, either. Although once we could drive, no one stayed around here much more than they had to.

"He went to Penn State on a full football scholarship. I saw a few games in Beaver Stadium, and more on TV. Things didn’t change much there, he just busted bigger heads. I heard he’d been tested for steroids several times, but always came out clean. And it was just that sort of thing that drove him, proving to everyone that they didn’t know anything about him. Didn’t you ever see him play?”

Eric answered, “I sort of lost interest in football, or any sport. Seemed so frivolous somehow. All the money, these warriors beating each other up, and in the end for nothing, really. Nothing in the real world changes, and when somebody wins the championship they all go home and just do it again the next year like it never even happened.” Eric thought of the limp, and asked, “So anyway...what happened to JT? I noticed he limped when we met. Football injury?”

“An injury yes, but not on the field. He’d been picked up in the draft. I watched it for the first time ever, saw JT standing next to Bill Cowher shaking hands for the cameras. Cowher looked like he'd already won the Superbowl. JT wasn't smiling, just looked satisfied. He was even on the cover of Sports Illustrated. Lots of hype. Then one day he’s out driving and this dump truck slams into the car. There was a guy sitting in the passenger seat and one in the back. They both died. JT's leg was shattered, and he had a perforated lung and lost a kidney, I believe. And that was it. No more football. They made a big deal of it for a while on the news. But then it all faded away like it always does. And he ended up back in Lincoln Corners.”

“What happened with the accident? Was it his fault. Drinking?”