The Tramp (The Bound Chronicles #1) (37 page)

“I don’t know how much you know, but the shooting wasn’t the worst of it, John,” he began, bracing himself for what needed to be said, before the news was all over town. “Someone, well…”

“I know about the rest. You and Sheriff Jameson weren’t as quiet as you thought you were.”

“Oh.” James ran a hand through his hair, embarrassed.
Did he hear everything? My god...
“I’m sorry about that, son.”

John lapsed back into silence and James turned his focus to the taillights of Mike’s cruiser, wary of the deepness of the night falling around them. He wondered how to prepare himself or his son for the confrontation that lay ahead. Mike obviously wanted John there as a decoy for his schoolmate. A pawn. What was the consequence for John, then? For that matter, what was the consequence for this poor kid, Sam? James rubbed the bridge of his nose, wishing the drive would last a few minutes longer. Way before he was ready, Southern Cove came into view.

The rusted welcome sign across the entrance to the trailer park was rimmed with old-fashioned light bulbs, oddly reminiscent of the oldest section of Las Vegas. Many of the bulbs were burned out and several sputtered on and off at the end of life. Gnarled, scrubby bushes framed the sign, illuminated from below by a spotlight pointing heavenward, highlighting the twisted ugliness of the needled shrubs. Their car rolled down a narrow lane, lined with mobile houses and broken-down cars mounted on cinderblocks. Several residents sat on stoops or folding chairs in front of their homes, and James felt the heat of their stares. A visit from Sheriff Jameson seemed ordinary, but not popular.

The cruiser stopped in front of a nondescript mobile home and James parked alongside. He turned off his headlights with trepidation.
Here we go.

“Maybe the Benz wasn’t such a great idea, Dad.” John’s voice was full of teenage scorn, as he got out of the car. He eased his door closed, embarrassed.

James’s cheeks burned as he realized the truth of his son’s words; the abject poverty surrounding them glared brighter than the shine on his Mercedes. There was nothing for it, though. He shut his car door as quietly as John had and turned to face the Castle residence. Light shone dimly behind small, curtained windows, and he could hear the rise and fall of a television laugh-track as they approached the door. “John, I think we should let the officers go first.”

“If they’re going to use me to get to Sam, I’m not going to cower in the background,” John said, striding ahead with purpose.

“I’ll do the talkin’, son.” Mike met him on the steps and rapped on the door.

Brave John.
James was willing to linger behind the others. John had never been one to hide from responsibility or shy from a challenge. That part of his nature was what gnawed at James as he watched his son; he had never seen John look so unsure before. What did he mean about danger? In Shirley County? All James could do was wait for him to open up again, since pushing would have the opposite effect.

A woman’s muffled answer sounded from inside the door after Mike’s second, more insistent, knock. James steeled himself for the unknown, as he heard her grappling with the latch on the other side.

“…second…”

Mike turned back to exchange a knowing look with his deputy. When the woman inside finally conquered the door handle, she stumbled over the threshold with the force of the swing, still hanging onto the latch. “Damn thing,” she mumbled.

“Mrs. Castle?” Mike’s voice was louder than it needed to be. He leaned down and craned his neck to place his face in her line of vision.

“Yes, tha’s me.” The woman brought her eyes together with an effort. When she realized she was talking to a sheriff, she snapped to as much attention as she could muster.

“Oop, there we go,” Mike teased, resuming his full height as she wiped her mouth and produced a dutiful smile.

“Can I hep you?”

“I think you may need a little help yourself there, Mrs. Castle. You doing alright?” Mike turned back to grin at James, who remained stone-faced. The deputy snickered, but John held his composure. “Okay, okay,” Mike chuckled. “You Robinson’s… Mrs. Castle, we’d like to have a word with your son, Sam. He home?”

“Sam?”

“Your son. Sam Castle is your son, is he not?”

“Yes, he is.” She looked behind her, confused. “He’s not here?”

“That’s what I’m asking you, darlin’.”

“Yes. No, I mean he isn’t...” She looked behind her again, peering into the house as if she hadn’t thought to check whether or not her son was home before that moment.

“Mind if we have a look around, sweetheart?” Mike asked. He mounted the step to tower over her diminutive form.

“No, nah a all, ociffer.”

James smiled and eased past her through the doorway. His chest swelled with pride as he heard his son’s quiet, “Thank you, ma’am.”

James was surprised to find the house well-kept and clean, sparely appointed and sparsely furnished as it was. He suspected Mrs. Castle to be the kind of addict who scoured the house clean with guilt after a binge. He had known several of that variety in his time, and had even dated a few. There didn’t appear to be much else to see but an unfortunate woman with a bad habit, if the kid wasn’t home. James wanted to reassure his son that their errand was almost over, and he tried to catch his eye, but John was staring at the floor, concentrating on his thoughts. Curious about the nature of his son’s relationship with this Castle boy, James realized he probably wasn’t going to tell him if he asked, so he let it go and began to wander through the tiny house.

“...have any idea where he is tonight?” Mike was asking, standing closer to the woman than he needed to. James felt his shoulders recommence their tensing. “Rick, shut off that television. Don’t keep a very good watch on your son, do you?”

“Well, I think e’s working.”

“Working?” Mike motioned to his deputy, who pulled a notepad from his shirt pocket and began scribbling. “Where does he work?”

“I think…”

“Where does he work?” Mike repeated.

“I think he works on a delivy truck. De-liv-er-y truck,” she said, slowing down to tackle the longer word. James squeezed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

“So late at night?”

“Yep.”

Mike shook his head at the deputy. He scratched his last line out and replaced the notebook in his pocket, rolling his eyes in disgust and sauntering away to snoop through the rest of the house.

“When was the last time you saw Sam?”

“Mmmmm…”

“Haven’t seen him in a while, huh?”

“Who?”

“Sam. Your son.”

“Sam’s here?”

“Sheriff. I think you’ll want to see this,” the deputy called, leaning out of the doorway to an adjacent room.

“Tha’s Sam’s room.” Mrs. Castle lit up, pleased to offer relevant information. She jumped off her perch in the living area and followed the men into her son’s bedroom.

The room was a typical teenage boy’s room. Dirty clothes were flung here or there, and shoes and a skateboard tumbled out of an open closet door. The bed was a simple mattress on the floor piled with pillows and blankets. There was a bookshelf against one wall with a surprising number of books lined up on two shelves, and various knick-knacks of mysterious importance scattered on the other. A pretty nice electric keyboard. A small chest of drawers sat perpendicular to that, with a drawer pulled open, the clothes rifled through but mostly organized. Shelving had been hung high above the furniture, probably to make more storage space in such a small room, but the shelves lay empty. Those were all the normal things one might expect to see in a kid’s room, but the walls were where normality ended.

James had wandered in with his eyes cast down, scanning the floor basically uninterested, but he caught his breath when he looked up. The largest expanse of open wall space, over the bed, was covered with densely drawn black figures; some were lunging forward, some were falling back, and others were simply standing, staring back at the viewer or screaming at another figure. It was difficult for James to discern whether or not the figures were humanoid, but they struck a familiar chord, albeit one of terror. They were fantastical and alien—more than he could comprehend, with strange, extra appendages and body parts that morphed into inanimate forms. The overlapping, the detail, and the depth were fascinating and almost beautiful, if not for the basic savagery. There was anger and pain laid bare, so raw that James could feel the emotion of the drawings starting to take over. He looked away for relief.

“God, those are intense…” he murmured.

He heard John’s intake of breath, as he entered the room.

Shit.
James worried whether or not his son should be seeing such gruesome, morbid imagery so soon after the death of his friend.

“Sam likes to draw,” Mrs. Castle supplied.

“Holy Mary, we hit the jackpot,” Mike breathed.

James was instantly alarmed at Mike’s elation. “What do you mean?”

“Iss like a richal for ‘im.”

“It’s a ritual? Sam likes to draw satanic imagery?” Mike asked.

“Satanic?” She looked at the wall again, as if seeing the drawings for the first time.

James examined the figures; he hadn’t seen anything devilish or evil, but he had to admit that he could understand if another person had. “Mike, she probably means that making art is a ritual for him. It is for a lot of artists.”

“What’s with all the blood? Did Sam kill something? Somebody?”

“Wha you mean blood?”

“Mike, it’s red paint. Come on,” James reasoned.

“Looks like blood to me. Why’d your son smear red all over the walls?”

Mrs. Castle gaped at the wall for several seconds, seeming to sober up with a dose of fear—more likely fear of the sheriff than fear of the otherworldly imagery. James wondered if she was finally beginning to understand her situation through the haze.

She whispered weakly, “Sam’s color blind.”

“
Color blind?
” Mike hollered. “Is that your answer?”

“Mike…”

“Shut up, James. Is that your answer?”

“Sam can’t see red. That red must be a mistake.”

Mike chortled. “Oh, I don’t think this is a mistake, sweetheart. Rick, get some pictures of this. Look, get this swastika here. Kids probably a freakin’ Nazi skinhead.”

“That’s not a Nazi Swastika,” John whispered, and James turned to see his son transfixed by the drawings.

“It does look like one, son,” he said, moving closer to the wall and pointing out the area that the sheriff had asked to have photographed, “…unfortunately. Looks like there are more of them, too.” He sighed, wondering how much drawings really had to do with a crime, as disturbing as they looked. All kids carry around their share of angst. He glanced back and saw that John had left the room.

“Mike, I think John’s upset. I’m going to go talk to him, okay?”

Mike directed his reply to the pinched up face of Mrs. Castle. “Yeah, I can see why he would be upset.”

“John?” James called, wandering through the tiny trailer. He peeked around open doors leading into separate rooms, but the place was empty. He ducked back into the boy’s room. “I think he went outside. I’ll be right back.”

“Sure, go ‘head,” Mike waved him on, still focused on the kid’s poor mother.

I don’t know what more he thinks he can get from her.
James took a final glance at the deputy, furiously snapping pictures from every angle possible in the cramped space. He looked at Mrs. Castle and the sheriff seated together on the bed, shook his head with pity and annoyance, and looked forward to the fresh air. “Any mother would protect her son,” he said to the empty hallway.

James left the trailer and stood on the steps breathing deeply for several minutes, stretching his neck from side to side and trying to calm his nerves. Surprised John wasn’t sitting in the car; he walked farther away from the house to scan the area. After a full circuit of the mobile home, he registered an urgent voice, lowered in stealth, coming from the darkness of a sprawling oak tree nearby.

“…disemboweled...It means his guts were cut out!…Yeah, I know he wasn’t like that when we left...”

It was John. He was pacing with his cell phone; James could see the glow lighting up his cheek as he walked back and forth on the other side of the tree.

“I’m here with them, and trust me, it looks really bad…Sam’s not here, do you know where he is?”

Silence, while he listened to the other end.

“You have to tell him…No, just get over there…”

James cleared his throat as he walked nearer, but John didn’t hear his warning.

“They might know about that, too. You have to get rid of it. Now.”

“John.”

John stopped in his tracks and rearranged his features into a mask of indifference.

“Candy, I’ve got to go.” He hung up and stuffed his phone into the back pocket of his jeans, then tucked his hands under his arms and stalked in James’s direction. “It’s colder than I thought; can we get out of here?”

“I told you you’d need more than a T-shirt tonight.”

“Thanks. Are we done now?” John strode past James and headed for the car. “Would you tell Sheriff Mike that I have school tomorrow? How ‘bout I get home and do some homework?”

James couldn’t have agreed more. “It’s late, you’re right. I’ll go let him know we need to get home.”

“We’re not arrested, are we?” John asked, sliding into the passenger seat and shutting the door on a reply.

“No, we’re not arrested,” James answered to the closed door. He considered whether or not he needed to clear their exit with Mike. As much as he hated to leave that woman alone with the officers, he had been finished with the outing before it began. He decided to text Mike instead, and headed for the car himself.

chapter forty-five

Candy parked her bike in a stand of trees well up the road from the turn-off to The Palace. On second thought, she laid it on the ground and covered it with some loose branches, then skulked along the dimly lit street without emerging fully from the underbrush. Her ears pricked and her eyes wide, she searched the woodland for signs of clandestine observation. When she reached the footpath marked with the Christmas wreath lichens, she strained her eyes to look ahead and proceeded, wary as a cat. John wasn’t sure whether or not the sheriff was aware of this place (it was only a matter of time), and she didn’t want to be caught sneaking up to it. She had to move the gun, though.

If they found
that
. Well, who knew where it might lead or who could be implicated.

She spotted the corroded roofline of the little cabin. Light of the waning moon peeked through the trees and sprinkled silver glitter over the rotting wood. Candy felt a tug of nostalgia.
Wonder if there’ll be yellow police tape all over it the next time I see it.

There was no light in the cabin, but as she drew nearer, a puff of blue smoke caught the moonlight as it drifted up from under the narrow roof. A tiny red ember glowed and then danced down and to the side, as its owner paced in the pitch-black doorway.

“Sam,” she whispered.

He growled an expletive, tossed his cigarette, and left the porch to meet her. He pulled her to his chest as soon as their hands were stretched within reach of each other. “I’m glad you called.”

“Thank you for meeting me.”

“Of course, baby.”

Baby.
Her heart lurched, but Candy knew it wasn’t that simple, and so did he. All of them were trying to act normal at school and at home, and that meant avoiding Sam. Sam fell somewhere into the cracks of anomalous and delinquent in Shirley County and it was too risky to be seen with him, mostly for his sake. She had been afraid that he would be unfairly targeted, but she never would’ve guessed at the hysterical conclusions being drawn. Satanic drawings, John said. It was almost laughable, if not for the real danger it posed to Sam. She grabbed his face and smothered him with a kiss.

The last thing she wanted was to stop, but she had to. “We probably don’t have much time,” she said, their lips barely parted.

“Oh, come on…” He gathered her in closer and found her mouth again.

Yes, please…no, wait!
“Sam, what about the jacket?”

“Loved that jacket,” he murmured against her neck.

So did I, it smelled like you.
He had found another one—leather—and he wrapped her into it and himself. She breathed in deep. “Sam, you’re not being serious.”

“Okay, let’s get serious. I missed you.”

The space between them became a cozy jumble of persuasive hands and soft kisses. “And my dress?”

“Loved that dress, too.” He slid his palm down the small of her back, under the place where her jeans gaped loose.

How were his hands always so warm, even on a chilly night? It was like he carried around some of those little hot massage stones in his pockets or something. Candy was in a daze, intoxicated by his body all round her. “But it was covered in blood.”

“Don’t worry, I burned them both,” he whispered and turned her face to nuzzle against the back of her ear. His hair hung against her neck and tickled her shoulder.

Burn…like me, right now.
“Wait—Sam. Really, I’m serious. We don’t have time.”

He relented with a sigh; his head slumped against her shoulder, “Alright.”

She took his hand and pulled him towards the cabin, holding the drapery aside and glancing around once more before shoving him inside. He knelt down to light the kerosene lamp by the door and the room leapt into dancing golden gloom from below.

“So. It’s bad, right? You said the sheriff was at my house?”

“They saw your drawings and freaked out, Sam. They’re saying the drawings are some kind of Satanic ritual or something.”

“What?” He frowned into his laugh. “You’re kidding, why?”

“Because they’re small-minded, ignorant rednecks,” Candy hissed, feeling her skin tingling with the injustice.

Sam plopped down on the loveseat. “Hmph. I never really thought they were that good.”

“This isn’t funny, Sam.” But of course he had no way of knowing the damage to Antonio’s body—the disemboweling after they dumped his body in the river. He must have been staying clear of everyone, hiding in the backwoods up there. “Do you know how bad it looks that you haven’t been going home? Like you’re on the run? We’ve all given statements.”

“I haven’t slept at home in weeks—before all this shit even.” He let his head roll onto the back of the couch and gazed up through the ceiling. “I’m a vagabond. I just stay wherever I can hang my hat, between working my ass off, night and day.” He rubbed his temples, more tired than Candy had realized. “Besides, why would they even think I was involved?”

She sat down next to him and took his hand. “Antonio wrote in a journal or something, and you were in it. This place could’ve been mentioned. You were with him here, right? And the drawings all over the walls here, too…” Sam’s face lost some of its color, then, and the urgency of her errand rushed back, “Look, we have to move that gun, before someone finds it.”

He stood with alarm—the gun. “And get out of here.”

They wrestled the loveseat away from the wall, knelt down, and brought the light closer to a gaping hole in the floor.

“Sam, there’s more,” Candy began. She watched his back as he bent over to reach an arm under the floorboards, unsure how to describe how Antonio’s body had been discovered. The image in her mind made her sick to her stomach. “The reason the cops think your drawings were like a ritual, why Satan-anything had even been brought up, I think…”

“It’s gone.” Sam straightened up to face her, indignation darkening his features.

“What? No—”

A car door slammed in the distance and they both went erect.

Candy grabbed his shoulders and squeezed. “Sam, you have to go!”

“Right.” He gave her the handle of the kerosene lantern.

“Do you have Rachel’s truck?”

“Yeah, I parked it on Fern, on the other side of the woods,” he grunted, shoving the couch back over the hole.

“Good. Go out the back.”

“What about you?”

“Don’t worry about me. They want you.”

He kissed her hard. Both of them were aware of the question hanging between them.

“Sam, where will I find you? No—don’t tell me.”

He hoisted himself up onto a window ledge in the back of the cabin and swung his legs outside. Candy grabbed his shirt and pulled him back for a final, urgent embrace. Sam whispered, “I’ll find you,” and then disappeared into blackness.

She watched the empty window, holding her breath and listening for the sound of approaching police officers. No dogs, no shouting or flashlights. After a few minutes, she guessed Sam had reached a safe distance and she collapsed onto the little couch, gasping with relief.

Wait...
Footsteps approached outside, but they sounded like the quick, slapping gait of someone running in flip-flops, instead of the heavy tread of a uniformed officer. She sat perched on the edge of the cushions, her heart hammering in her chest.

“Candy?” came John’s voice, breathless.

“John.” She flopped back down. “Oh, thank god it’s you.”

He shoved the thin curtain of their makeshift door aside so hard she heard it rip. “Did you hide the gun? Where’s Sam? Did he meet you here?”

“The gun’s gone.” She leaned back and closed her eyes, emotionally exhausted.

“The bloody jacket? The dress?”

“Burned.” She flapped her hand in the air in affirmation. “He said he burned them.”

“So you saw him? He was here?”

“He was here, but he left. I told him to get out of here, just in case.”

“Oh. I was hoping to catch him.”

Candy opened her eyes and narrowed them in suspicion. “Why?”

He shrugged, but he was still holding the curtain in his fists. “I just wanted to talk to him. Well, anyway…that’s good he’s gone. You’re safe.”

“What?” Didn’t John have any clue how much it was killing her that Sam was gone
again
? And for who knew how long? Why was he so obsessed with keeping her away from Sam? “John, stop trying to save me. I don’t need saving.”

He dropped the curtain and moved in front of her. “Yes. You do.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“And you have since the first day that I met you, Candy.”

She sat bolt upright and met his glare with fire in her eyes. “How dare you bring that up. Right, now? How dare you, John.”

“Why not now? I think it’s perfect timing, since you don’t seem to understand the danger you’re in now, any better than you did then. What are you going to let happen this time, if I don’t stop it?”

“I told you, nothing happened last time.” She sprang to her feet and shoved her face into John’s, furious that at her full height, she was still forced to look up at him like a child. “What—do you think I’m lying?”

“No, I think you don’t remember. Your uncle got you all the way into another state and they didn’t find you until the next day, in a motel room. Your mother killed herself when she found out who you were with—”

“Nobody knows why she jumped in that river, John!”

“You were only seven! How could nothing have happened?” His voice thundered, and he leaned down to meet her at close range. “Maybe I couldn’t do anything then, but I’ll die before I let anything like that happen again.”

“Nothing happened!” Candy shouted.

They stood glowering at each other, both of them seething. Candy balled her fists so tight that her fingernails dug into her sweaty palms. She felt the sting and looked at her hands, then shook them out, embarrassed. John relaxed his shoulders and averted his eyes.

Candy put up her hands and made for the door. “Look, I’m not talking about this anymore.” When she swung through the exit, she ducked her head back inside to find John heading in the same direction. “Do. Not. Follow me.”

She stomped back through the trees headed for her bike. Not bothering to conceal her progress as she had on the way to the cabin, she slapped branches out of her face in disgust. Anguish rumbled deep in her chest and she let it erupt into a roar, but it was a paltry release. At least the closeness of the forest helped her to feel less exposed, less naked. She breathed the woods in and tried to calm her rushing blood.

Candy knew her family—and too many people in town—remembered the abduction. Like John, many thought her Uncle Brian molested her when he took her. Candy didn’t even want to think about what her mom believed, why she had…done what she had done.

She squeezed her eyes shut.
No, that wasn’t my fault.
That’s what she insisted to herself over and over through the years.

After they found her in that motel, a shrink spent hours talking with her about it. He groomed her for days, trying to force her confession that there had been “sexual misconduct.” That would have beefed up the trial. But all she could remember was sitting around watching television re-runs of Mr. Ed and Denis the Menace, eating potato chips and Oreo cookies. Could she have blocked something else out?

I can’t believe John thinks I just forgot.
“No,” she said, gritting her teeth.

Considering how repugnant anything like that would have been to her, she was certain she didn’t just forget. And the fact that people still imagined those things made her feel violated more than the mythical event ever could have.
Do they actually picture scenes—with my body parts—in their minds?
The possibility of that made her hate the speculators even more than the suspect.

“Not John.” She could never hate John. But her mind felt completely boggled. She pounded her fists against her skull trying to clear it.

Crap, did I go too far?
She stopped walking and looked around, regaining her bearings.
Better head towards the road…

“Hey, Candy.”

She jumped nearly out of her skin, and spun around to find Tyler Finley, leaned against a tree with an eely grin sliding from under his baseball cap.

“God, you scared me, Tyler.” She grasped her chest and looked at him with distaste. “Were you following me?”

“Where’d you put my gun?”

“Huh?” Candy was genuinely surprised. “It was gone when we got there. I figured you took it already.”

His voice was icy. “No. Where is it?”

“You idiot, you’re the one who got us into this in the first place.”

“I’s doin’ him a favor. He was already dead.”

“You don’t know that,” she snapped. She was revolted by the sleaze bag, and furious about what he had done. “You didn’t need to sh—” She couldn’t even get the words out—in the face, he shot him in the face! But Antonio was in so much pain. It was excruciating, even to watch. He was dying, and they all knew it was true.

“He should’n a been messin’ with my girl.”

“What?”

“Sam took my gun, didn’t he? Playin’ Mr. Authority again, like he has a right.”

“He was just trying to keep us all from getting arrested that night, Tyler. Someone had to take charge—”

“It’s my gun!” Tyler screeched, his face contorted. Candy gasped, horrified by the change, like a glimpse of the demon inside Tyler Finley. Just as suddenly, he backed away and smoothed his features. In a voice quiet with menace, he said, “It’s my gun and I want it back. Now.”

“Look, we don’t have it, I already told you.” She tried to sound reasonable, but she checked behind her to make sure of the terrain for a quick exit.

“Slip it to Sam, did ya? ‘Fore he took off? Bet you slipped him sumpin’ else, too.” He gyrated his hips towards her, humping the air and making a high-pitched, mocking moan. “For the road, huh?”

“You’re disgusting, leave me alone.” She wheeled away from the creep, but froze when she heard the unmistakable metallic, sliding click of a switchblade. She saw the blade glinting from the corner of her eye, and tore off through the trees. The undergrowth was so thick, though, that she had only run a few paces before she was forced to dodge and slow down. He was right behind her.