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  "Some people think you're writing a book."

  I shook my head. "I only write four-panel stories. Ten on Sunday. I want to be her friend. That's all."

  Without taking his eyes off me, Baker knocked on the door. "Malcolm! Open up."

  The door opened. Malcolm glared at me. "Why is he still on my property?" Malcolm asked Baker.

  "He wants to talk."

  "So?"

  "So maybe it's a conversation you should have."

  "This is my house. I'll decide who I talk to. I'm not gonna be pushed around by some punk who draws cartoons for a living. How about I break your fingers? How'll you draw funny pictures with both of your hands in a cast?"

  "Come on, Malcolm," said Baker. "Don't threaten him with physical violence while I'm standing right here."

  "Then do your job and remove him from my front porch."

  "I'll leave," I said, "but I'll find out the truth someplace else. I've got resources and lots of free time. Let me say this again: I'm on your side. Hell, I'm Rachel's only friend! I'm not looking to have the FBI tear this town apart to find out what really happened to Brandon. I don't want justice for that piece of shit if he's dead. I just need to know what happened."

  "Why?" asked Malcolm.

  "Because somebody, apparently, is mad at me. I want to be sure it's not him. And though I could wash my hands of the whole situation and just go home, I'm more likely to be a yappy little dog that keeps snarling and biting your feet, no matter how many times you kick him away."

  Malcolm scratched the back of his head, looking utterly exasperated. "Why can't you just let this go?

  "You killed Brandon, right?" I said.

  "Are you going to let him accuse me of murder?" Malcolm asked Baker.

  "I swear to God I'm not here to cause problems for you or anybody else involved," I said. "Just tell me what happened."

  "He already knows, more or less," said Baker. "Best to go ahead and tell him."

  "Are you out of your damn mind?"

  "He's right. We don't want journalists and feds swarming around here. This could bite us in the ass, but I'd rather take that risk and trust him at his word than have him blab to the rest of the world that there's some big, dark secret at Lake Gladys."

  "You're a lot more trusting than I am," said Malcolm.

  "I just know when I'm backed into a corner."

  Malcolm closed his eyes and massaged his temples with his thumbs. I was doing a remarkable job of irritating people lately.

  "Come on inside," he said.

  We went in. Sheriff Baker and I sat down on the couch while Malcolm plopped down on the recliner. He did not offer us any cookies or tea.

  "You burn me on this, I'm burning you back," said Malcolm.

  Baker shifted uncomfortably. "Again, I wish you wouldn't threaten him while I'm sitting right here."

  "Fine," said Malcolm. "After Rachel told us what happened, we tracked down that piece of garbage Brandon Keaton. Caught him before he fled town. I broke his jaw with a baseball bat and told him that if we ever saw him again, I'd kill him. We never saw him again."

  I stared at Malcolm for a moment. "That's it?"

  "That's it."

  "Bullshit."

  "Are you calling me a...okay, yeah, it's bullshit." Malcolm sighed. "If you're that damn nosy, I guess I've got no choice but to tell you how it went down."

  CHAPTER NINE

  Brandon is easy to find. There's a park about a block from his house, and as they drive by, Norman points out the window of the pickup truck. "Hey, is that him?"

  Malcolm slows down. "I think so. Yep. I'll be damned."

  The kid is sitting there on a swing. Malcolm thought they were going to have to pound on his front door and force his parents to give him up, or drive around Gladys Lake all night searching for him, but he's right there.

  Malcolm pulls the truck into a parking spot. Brandon looks in their direction but makes no effort to run. He just sits there.

  "You guys stay here," Malcolm says to Norman and Gene. "Be ready to chase him if he tries to run for it."

  "Sure we shouldn't call the police?" asks Gene.

  "That a joke?"

  "I'm just saying, you're pretty upset."

  "Shouldn't I be?"

  "Hey, if it were my daughter, I'd run the son of a bitch over with my car. So I'd want guys like you and Norman here to talk some sense into me before I did something I might regret."

  "I don't want anyone to talk sense into me," says Malcolm. "You knew what we were doing here."

  "I didn't think you actually meant it."

  "You out?"

  Gene looks over at Brandon, who is still sitting on the swing. "Norman can stay here and make sure the little monster doesn't go anywhere before the cops get here. I'll come with you back to the hospital. Rachel needs you."

  "Rachel's not coming out of surgery for hours. I can sit there helplessly in a waiting room and try to send goddamn brain waves of support through the wall to her, or I can make sure there's justice. You out?"

  "I don't know."

  "You out?"

  "Don't pussy out on us, Gene," says Norman. "The kid wrecked Rachel's face. What kind of life is that girl going to have? She may not even make it through the night."

  "Hey, fuck you," said Malcolm.

  "It's true, right?"

  "No, it's not true! She's not gonna die! They're fixing her up! But while we're sitting here with our thumbs up our butts talking about it, he could decide to run. Gene, if you don't want to help us give that little shit what he deserves, that's fine. You can walk home. But I'm sure as hell not going to wait around to let the system take care of this. Fuckin' jury of his peers might send him home to his mommy and daddy to play Atari. Ain't happening."

  Gene scratches his arm as if a few ants are suddenly crawling over it. "All right, yeah, that was crappy of me. We're talking about your daughter. Brandon doesn't deserve three square meals a day in jail. Screw that."

  "Thank you," says Malcolm. "I owe you guys big-time, and I won't forget it."

  He opens the truck door and gets out. Brandon watches carefully as Malcolm reaches into the back of the truck and picks up a shovel. Malcolm is ready for the kid to bolt, but he doesn't, he just sits there, not even swinging, as Malcolm walks over to him.

  Brandon's been crying. Oh boo hoo hoo.

  "You know why I'm here, right?" Malcolm asks.

  "Yeah."

  "Why didn't you run?"

  Brandon shrugs. "I know what I've got coming to me. Not gonna hide."

  "I respect that."

  "How's Rachel doing?"

  "How the fuck do you think she's doing? You don't get to ask that. You don't get to pretend you care about her."

  "I still do."

  Malcolm wants to split his head open with the shovel blade right now. "Don't sit there on a swing like a three-year-old. Stand up. Talk to me like a man."

  Brandon stands up. "Did you call the sheriff?"

  "He's been notified."

  "Is he on his way?"

  "I hope not."

  Brandon frowns. He looks at the shovel in Malcolm's hand as if seeing it for the first time. "Mr. Kramer, I did something terrible, and I'm going to accept my punishment, but you need to take me to the sheriff's department."

  "The hell I do."

  "You just going to kill me right here?"

  "Thinking about it."

  "You can't do that."

  "You hurt my little girl."

  "I know I did. I hurt her, and I can never take it back, and I'm sorry as hell."

  Brandon is definitely going to make a run for it. Malcolm doesn't look away from him, but he gestures with his free hand. The truck door opens.

  "Help!" Brandon shouts. "Help me, somebody!"

  Malcolm smacks the shovel blade against the side of his head, and the kid drops to the ground. He shuts up for a couple of seconds, then clutches at the bleeding wound and groans in pain.

  "Oh my God," say
s Gene, as he and Norman hurry over to the swing set. "I didn't think you'd really do it."

  "We need to get out of here," says Norman, kneeling down and stuffing a towel into Brandon's mouth, before putting a cloth sack over his head. "I can't believe somebody hasn't driven by already."

  The plan was to tie him up and throw him in the back of the truck. Gene's got the rope in his hand, but that'll take too long. There's not much traffic in this area, but Norman is right, they can't linger in the middle of a park.

  If he's not tied up, he'll jump out of the truck.

  Unless his legs don't work.

  Malcolm bashes the shovel against Brandon's left knee. The kid's muffled scream might be loud enough to draw attention if there happens to be a pedestrian walking nearby, but none of the neighbors will hear it from their homes. Then he shatters Brandon's right knee.

  "Take this," he says, handing the shovel to Gene. To Norman, he says, "You take his arms. I'll take his legs." Malcolm wants to take his broken legs because he doesn't plan to be gentle when they carry him to the truck.

  They pick him up. Brandon struggles but is easy to manage. They toss him into the back of the truck and then get back inside. Malcolm had been meaning to get a new muffler. He's glad now that he didn't. The sound of his noisy-ass truck will cover Brandon's muted efforts to call for help.

  They don't drive long.

  Then they carry him deep into the woods.

  Malcolm plans to make it last. But when Norman yanks off the sack and Malcolm gazes at this pathetic, sobbing piece of crap, he decides that he just wants this over with.

  He hoists the shovel over his head like a mallet at a test-your-strength game, and brings it down upon Brandon's face.

  It's very obvious to all three of the men that this hit did what it was supposed to do.

  Malcolm hits him again, just to be sure.

  He uses that same shovel to dig a hole.

  They bury the body.

  Then they walk back to the truck, not speaking. They don't speak during the entire drive to the hospital.

  * * *

  There is a witness. A guy is out for an evening stroll, listening to music on his Walkman, when he sees three men bash somebody's legs with a shovel, throw him into the back of their truck, and drive away.

  He hurries home and calls the sheriff's department, identifying the man with the shovel as Malcolm Kramer.

  When news breaks about the horrific attack on Rachel Kramer, whose assailant has gone missing, the witness calls Sheriff Baker to say that he must have been mistaken, he'd seen nothing at the park, sorry for the inconvenience.

  * * *

  "What the hell is the matter with you?" Sheriff Baker asks.

  "Nothing at all," Malcolm tells him.

  "I know you're responsible for Brandon Keaton's disappearance. Why didn't you let me handle it?"

  "You gonna arrest me?"

  "I'll probably have to! Seriously, Malcolm, why would you do this? Your daughter will need you more than she's ever needed you before, and you could end up in prison. What would Gabby say?"

  "Leave Gabby out of this."

  "No, I will not, God rest her soul. You think she's looking down at you and approving of what she sees? You swore to that woman on her deathbed that you'd take care of your daughter. You swore it. I was there. You think you did what's best for Rachel right now? Is that what you think? Because from my perspective, rotting away in a prison cell isn't exactly taking care of her."

  "He tried to rape her. Then he cut up her face. Then he burned her. Do you think I'm taking care of Rachel by letting him go free?"

  "He wouldn't have gone free, you moron. You said he wasn't even trying to deny it! Goddammit, Malcolm, I can't believe how badly you screwed up. And you're bringing two fine men down with you. Norman and Gene have to live with that now. That kind of shit haunts you forever."

  "I don't know what you want me to say."

  "I don't want you to say anything. I don't want to hear your idiot voice." Sheriff Baker rubs his eyes. They sit in silence for a full minute. "A boy gets rebuked, and his balls are so blue that he just snaps. Hell, maybe he would've done it anyway; we'll never know. What happened isn't in dispute. If I was Brandon Keaton, and I'd done this, and I knew I wasn't going to get away with it, I might just run away. If he's never seen again, well, the lucky bastard might have made it to Mexico."

  "Yeah," says Malcolm. "He sure might have."

  "So what might save your dumb ass is that it makes perfect sense for him to disappear, even if his skull wasn't caved in with a shovel. Folks around here will demand that we look for him to bring him to justice, but they won't be demanding that we search the woods for a shallow grave."

  "And they shouldn't."

  "No, they should, because you're a murderer. Don't start thinking that I'm conceding moral ground here. And don't start breathing any sighs of relief, because that boy has a mother and a father, and they might start demanding that we look for shallow graves."

  Malcolm nods. "But I'm not under arrest?"

  "Not right now."

  * * *

  Brandon's parents visit Rachel every day in intensive care. They help pay for her medical bills. They cry a lot. They plead for forgiveness.

  They do not ask the police to search for their son.

  CHAPTER TEN

  When somebody has just confessed to beating somebody else to death with a shovel, and the sheriff is sitting right there, it's best to choose your words carefully.

  "Thank you for telling me," I said, since that seemed like a good start.

  "So where does this leave us?" Malcolm asked.

  I wasn't entirely sure. It wasn't as if I wanted to jump to my feet and offer a high five for what he'd done to Brandon. But I couldn't help but think, Good. Fuck that guy. He got what he deserved.

  I'd like to think that if I'd been in the park with them on that fateful night, I would've put forth a passionate defense against murdering Brandon. I can't say with complete honesty that I would've gone as far as trying to wrestle the shovel out of Malcolm's hands, but I'm almost positive that I would've used the mighty power of speech to make it clear that this was perhaps not the best way to handle this particular situation.

  With Brandon dead and buried for five years...I don't know. I was kind of glad they did it. I'm not sure what that says about me as a human being. You're not supposed to approve of bashing an eighteen-year-old boy in the skull with a shovel, regardless of what crime he committed.

  I was most definitely not ready to shout, "The truth must be told! The world must know the facts behind the disappearance of Brandon Keaton!"

  Nope. I wasn't going to say a damn thing.

  "Your secret is one hundred percent safe with me," I said. "I needed to know what happened, and now I do, so as far as I'm concerned, we don't need to bring it up again."

  Malcolm narrowed his eyes, as if he didn't believe me.

  "I'm serious," I assured him. "Even if I thought you were completely in the wrong, I wouldn't say anything. I'd never put Rachel through that."

  Now Malcolm was staring at me as if trying to unlock psychic abilities. Then he glanced over at Sheriff Baker, looked back at me, and seemed to relax. "Well, thank you," he said. "I appreciate that."

  He stood up and held out his hand. I stood up and shook it. Yes, we'd just shaken hands on me not telling anybody about that one time he murdered an eighteen-year-old boy. This was an odd vacation.

  "Rachel doesn't know about this, right? That's what I've been assuming, but I guess I could be wrong."

  "No. She does not. As far as she knows, her boyfriend ran away and never came back."

  "I'll never tell her," I said.

  This now meant, of course, that only a couple days into our friendship, I had a monstrous secret. I'm not actually good with secrets, having accidentally blabbed about no fewer than four surprise parties in the past. I wasn't too worried, though. I figured I could carry on a conversation with Rachel w
ithout blurting out, "By the way, your dad murdered your psycho ex-boyfriend!"

  "There's no reason for her to know," said Sheriff Baker, even though I thought we'd already established that. "It won't do anybody any good."

  "I agree." I considered making the zipping-my-lips gesture, but decided it was too cutesy given the context. "But now that we've established that I'm cool with vigilante justice, we still have to talk about Rachel."

  "What about her?" Malcolm asked.

  "You know what I mean."

  "I won't have people making fun of my daughter, and I won't put her in danger. She doesn't need to be walking around town, having people whisper about her. It's not right. If you were a father, you'd understand how I feel."

  "I don't think I would."

  "Your cabin went up in flames after you started associating with Rachel. Now, maybe somebody was trying to send a message, and maybe you just weren't careful with a space heater, but either way, my daughter might be in danger."

  "Might," I said. "Might be."

  "Might's enough."

  "If it is somebody who doesn't approve of your daughter having a social life, why let them win? Why on earth would you let them push you and Rachel around like that? You fucked up the last guy who messed with her. You shouldn't hide her away like a—and I apologize for my word choice—freak. She's not a freak. She's a great person. Let her try to have a normal life."

  "She doesn't want one."

  "That can't be true."

  "And how long have you known her? What exactly makes you an expert on what my daughter wants?"

  "I'm a friend. I'm not trying to criticize your parenting skills, but I think I can read people well enough to decide if they're the type of person who wants to be locked in a shed for the rest of their life. For some kids, give them a video game system and they're fine. I don't put Rachel into that category. This isn't right, Malcolm."

  "I'm never one to pry into family matters," said Sheriff Baker, "but I do have to admit, locking her in there is a trifle extreme."