What Hides Within (10 page)

Morgan rotated the orange, nine-pound bowling ball in her hands. She counted fourteen divots in its overused, under-maintained surface. A greasy smear ran across a significant portion of its circumference. She didn't want to think about what it could be.

Saturday night at the Holiday Lanes in Somerset meant Rock-and-Bowl night. Hordes of teenagers gathered for mediocre entertainment and movie theater quality food at movie theater prices. It was the only bowling alley in the area and the last outlet of fun Somerset had to offer in an economically depressed decade.

This should be called Teeny Pop and Crappy Bowl night
, Morgan thought.
But I guess that ignores the ever-so-witty play on words
. She eyeballed the half-filled alley, a place of cheer looking more like an ominous carnival of darkness beneath the flashing, pale-colored disco lights. Yet, she knew the only things that were truly scary at that alley were the sound of another Justin Timberlake tune and her own bowling ability.

The teenagers in the lanes on both sides of Morgan made her feel old. She guessed that she and Clive were the only two people there over sixteen, save for the old pervert behind the counter.
Moms and dads in minivans will be picking up most of these kids by 11:00 p.m.
, she assumed.
Can't stay out past curfew.

It was her turn to bowl. She stepped up to the foul line with her fourth ball of the night. "I don't even want to put my fingers into the holes. One of these punks probably put gum in them."

"Just bowl already," Clive said, rolling his eyes. "You've already used just about every ball in the place. If you're afraid of communicable diseases, you've probably touched every germ in here."

"That's comforting."

Morgan took a deep breath. She held the ball in front of her with fingers in position. For a moment, she stood poised. To the ill-informed observer, she actually appeared to know what she was doing. The moment passed quickly as she ungracefully slung her arm backward, only to softball pitch the solid mass halfway down the lane a second later. It crashed with a thud and slowly rolled toward the pins.

"Unbelievable," she heard Clive murmur. She turned and stuck her tongue out. Morgan's talentless throw somehow resulted in a strike and her lead.

"Yeah! That's how it's done, baby!" she shouted. She wiggled her ass, taunting Clive like she was still in junior high.

"What a gracious winner you are."

"Yeah, right. Like if you were winning, you wouldn't be rubbing it in."

"Okay. You may have a point. But just because I'd do it, doesn't mean you should. Everybody already knows that I'm the best."

"Not today, you're not. Just look at the scoreboard and try not to cry."

"The game is far from over. There's plenty of time for you to blow it."

Morgan moved in close to Clive. Clive smiled, but she could easily see the insincerity in it. Exhaustion and disarray painted discernible markings behind his blank face. She always could look beyond his snake oil smile and into his heart. She knew something deeply disturbed him.

"So, how are you holding up?" she asked, indelicately broaching the subject.

"Not bad."

"Don't lie to me, Clive. I know you better than that."

"What do you want me to say? I thought we weren't going to talk about this. I have no idea what's going on. My hearing is better, but now--"

"The voices?"

"Something like that," Clive said. "Anyway, I explained the situation to Judge Judy, and she's been pretty cool about it."

"That's good. You didn't tell her about--"

"Of course not! I can't believe I told you about that."

Morgan heard the lie in his words. He needed her, she told herself, even if he wouldn't admit it. She always gave it to him straight. Nothing candy coated.

"And it's 'voice', singular," he said.

"You're still hearing it, then? I'm worried about you, Cli." She couldn't hide her concern any longer. Her voice suggested something beyond mere friendship. She loved Clive, but she wouldn't tell him, afraid she'd push him away.

"It comes and goes. Don't worry about me, Morgan. I've been through worse."

"Oh, so now you're a Vietnam vet or some hardened felon. Like what, Clive? What have you been through that's worse than this? Don't forget who you're talking to. I've known you forever." She put her hand on her hip and flashed Clive a look of disappointment.

"It's just an ear problem," he protested. "It will be fixed in no time."

Morgan gasped, wary from the thought that she was more afraid for Clive than Clive was himself. Sometimes, things didn't sink in too quickly with Clive. She would have to force the gravity of the situation upon him.

"Does it . . . how should I put this? Does it tell you to do things?"

"Yep, all the time," Clive said, looking grim. "Just last night, it told me to kill Queen Elizabeth. I blacked out, but when I came to, someone's Corgi was licking my face." He smiled, which only enhanced Morgan's frustration.

"This is nothing to joke about, Clive. Normal people don't hear voices. There's something seriously wrong with you, and I'm trying to help." She let her head drop toward her red-and-green bowling shoes, pretending to be more hurt than she was.

"Alright, alright," Clive said. "I'll behave. To answer your question, I haven't heard much from it. It isn't talking to me now, and when it does, it usually just interjects an opinion here and there, almost like I have my own personal commentator for the events of my uneventful life." He laughed. "It could have chosen a much more interesting subject for its documentary. Anyway, I try to ignore it."

"You do know it's not real, right Clive?"

"I know, Morgan, rationally speaking anyway. But it certainly seems real, and it's not my voice. In fact, it doesn't sound anything like me. Its mannerisms, intonation, pitch, catch phrases, whatever . . . none of it sounds anything like the way I talk. Although, it is a sarcastic fuck. I guess we have that in common. It's squeaky, scratchy, maybe female. It's like if you put this chain-smoking coworker of mine's voice on a forty-five and played it on one of those Fisher Price record players we had as kids, then flipped that switch that made it turn faster so that the voice comes out high pitched, that would be what the voice sounds like. Well that, or Margaret Thatcher getting high off helium and trying out ghetto slang."

"So the voice is British? You're not inspiring confidence here."

"Not so much British as proper, like an old, well-to-do woman trying to be hip but not fooling anyone."

"Clive, be serious."

"Shhh. Be quiet for a sec. I just heard it say something." Clive paused. His mouth hung open with his body cast in an idiotic pose.

"What did it say?"

"I don't think it liked me making fun of it. Never mind. It's gone now, if it was ever really there at all. Of course, I know it's probably just some sick manifestation of my subconscious mind. Maybe I got hit on the head too hard but don't remember it."

"That's exactly what it is," Morgan said. "Don't lose grasp of that. We'll get through this, and I'll be here for you every step of the way."

"Stop sounding so serious. Like I said, I'll be fine."

Morgan smiled comfortingly. His words were unconvincing, but she didn't want Clive to worry about her, too. She couldn't shake the feeling that Clive's ailments were bigger than just an ear problem, something far more menacing.

"You don't still think there's a spider in there, do you?"

"Could be."

"Cli," Morgan began as though she were speaking to a toddler, "spiders don't talk."

"I'm not crazy, Morgan," Clive said, seemingly annoyed by her tone. "I know spiders don't talk. All I'm saying is that a spider could have waltzed on in there and fucked up my brain a bit. So, I'm not ruling out a tiny, organic cause to my problem."

"But the doctor found nothing."

"That doctor is an idiot. Anyway, I'm keeping an open mind to all possibilities until I know more."

"How long before you get your results?"

"I get the CT scan Tuesday. Results could be the same day. I'm not sure how it works. I forgot to ask."

"Let me know as soon as you know."

"I will. I'll call you right after. Now, if you'll be kind enough to excuse me . . ."

Clive moved toward the ball rack. Morgan knew he was tired of the conversation. She regretted restoring his medical issues to the forefront of his mind. She let him bowl in peace.

But Morgan's worry refused to vanish. She knew Clive was in for some rough times, even if he didn't. Eventually, he would need her. Her duty was to wait and be there for him when he did.

Detective Reilly strolled up the stone pathway leading to the white, single-family ranch. It was a secluded part of Fall River, one which she never knew existed. The four acres owned by the Samartinos were entirely surrounded by woods. The only manner of ingress and egress was a dirt path leading to a side street of a side street's side street. Those who chose to live in a place like that valued their privacy, a departure from the turmoil of civilization. They didn't expect to find dead bodies strewn about their back yard.

As she climbed the steps to the Samartinos' front door, she could feel her presence wasn't wanted. The Samartinos were peaceful folk. They had no need for her city's laws or its enforcers. This sentiment was reinforced when Reilly's eyes connected with those of a crossed-armed Anthony Samartino. He stood behind a screen door, monitoring her approach.

"Mr. Samartino," Reilly greeted, trying to sell herself as a friend. "How are you today?"

"What can I do for you, Ms. Reilly?" The words themselves were polite, but his firm tone hinted his irritation, no doubt an intentional contrivance.

Reilly got right to the point. "Has Timothy said anything, anything at all, that could help our investigation?"

"Ms. Reilly," Anthony said, his voice low and cautioning. "Timothy hasn't said a word since the last time you saw him. He hasn't said a word since he came across that poor little girl's body. You said so yourself, the girl had been there for a while. What could he possibly have seen?"

Detective Reilly did not find Anthony's response to her liking. She risked her dissatisfaction becoming known.

"I don't get it, Mr. Samartino. It's been one month. One month of searching and re-searching this site. One month of canvassing all neighborhoods bordering these woods. One month of asking questions. One month of interrogating known sex offenders and other local filth. One month, and we've got nothing. No evidence that this was in any way related to child molestation or domestic violence. No real evidence that a crime was committed against this girl at all, except for the markings on her ribs. But Valerie Page was murdered. I'm sure of it. Murdered without any apparent motive or explanation."

"Ms. Reilly--"

Reilly wouldn't be interrupted. She needed to let it out.

"And the killer is begging us to catch him. The body was tossed carelessly behind a tree, dusted over with some dead leaves. Whoever did it refused to conceal his crime. Therefore, he's either sending some kind of message or he's feeling guilty for what he's done. Since Valerie wasn't displayed in any particular fashion, and no unusual markings, notes or items were found on or near her body, I suspect the latter. Yes, this killer wants to be found out. Either that, or he's stupid."

"I understand, but--"

"He did nothing to remove his DNA from the body, nothing to destroy the evidence, including the body itself. Fortunately for Valerie, she wasn't sexually abused. Had she been, though, genetic material would be nearly impossible to cover up completely. We would have this guy by now. Weather conditions and coyotes hid his crime for him, and I can't believe that was intentional. The only thing we've got to go on is the knife wound, a few muddy footprints made by size eleven, Reebok sneakers, and the hope that maybe, just maybe, your son saw something."

"Ms. Reilly," Anthony began, pausing as if he expected another interruption. "I'd love to help you, but Timothy was traumatized by whatever he saw. He's still traumatized."

"Please, let me speak to him one more time. It'll be my last attempt."

"I understand where you're coming from, Detective. I really do. God knows what I'd do to anyone who did something like this to one of my children."

"Which is all the more reason that you should let me speak with Timothy. He may be able to help us catch this sicko before another child has to die."

Her words conflicted Anthony. She could read it in his body language.

"I have to think of my son's well-being first and foremost," Anthony said. He slowly edged his inner door shut.

"Five minutes. That's all I ask."

Halting the door's sway, Anthony stood silent. At last, he responded. "You've got two minutes. If for any reason I start thinking you're making his condition worse, you're gone."

"Fair enough. Thank you."

Anthony let the detective into his home and led her to his living room. Timothy sat inattentive on the couch, saving his limited concentration solely for slashing Tektites in the latest Zelda video game.

"Timothy, would you mind pausing that? Ms. Reilly is here to see you again."

Timothy did as his father asked. He then turned and greeted Detective Reilly with a smile. He seemed and was a normal, healthy boy in all respects, save one. Timothy wouldn't speak.

"Hi, Timothy." Reilly beamed with real excitement. She liked the boy, and in her own callous way, she even felt the tiniest bit of pity for him. But she needed him to get over it. It was just a dead body, no big deal.

Timothy slunk from the couch and walked over to Detective Reilly. Taking her hand, he dragged Reilly to the Samartino's fifty-two inch, flat-screen TV. On it, Link, a pointy-eared, sword-wielding elf, stood battle ready. He was frozen in time by a miracle of modern technology, the pause button. In one hand, he swung a fierce blade. In the other, he clasped an ornate shield. After all, protecting the lands of Hyrule from the likes of Ganon and his villainous horde was never easy.