The owners of the Constellation Drive-in, a Promise Falls — area landmark for fifty years that had engaged in combat with the VCR, DVD player, and Netflix, were finally waving the white flag. A few more weekends and a small part of local history would be toast. Word had it that the screen would be dropped, and the land turned into some kind of housing development by developer Frank Mancini, although why anyone wanted to build more homes in a town where everyone wanted to leave was beyond Duckworth’s comprehension.
This was still the town he’d grown up in, but it was like a suit, once new, that had turned shiny and threadbare.
Ironically, it had gotten worse since that dickhead Finley had stopped being mayor. For all his embarrassing shenanigans, he was a big booster for the town of forty thousand — actually, more like thirty-six thousand, according to the latest census — and would have fought to keep failing industries afloat like he was hanging on to his last bottle of rye.
So when Duckworth saw who wanted to talk to him, he opted, with some regret, to take the call.
“Hello,” he said.
“Barry!”
“Hey, Randy.”
If he was going to turn into the doughnut place, he’d have to hit his signal and crank the wheel now, and he knew if he entered the drive-through he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from ordering a soft, doughy circle of heaven. But Finley would hear his exchange at the speaker, and even though the former mayor did not know he’d embarked on a diet, Barry didn’t want anyone gaining insight into his dietary indiscretions.
So he kept on driving.
“Where are you?” Finley asked. “You in your car?”
“I’m on my way in.”
“Swing by Clampett Park. South end. By the path.”
“Why would I want to do that?”
“There’s something here you should see.”
“Randy, maybe, if you were still mayor, I’d be at your beck and call, and I wouldn’t mind you having my private cell phone number, but you’re not the mayor. You haven’t been for some time. So if there’s something going on, just call it in the way everybody else does.”
“They’re probably going to send you out here anyway,” Finley said. “Saves you going into the station and then back out again.”
Barry Duckworth sighed. “Fine.”
“I’ll meet you at the park entrance. I got my dog with me. That’s how I came across it. I was taking her for a walk.”
“It?”
“Just get over here.”
The trip took Duckworth to the other side of town, where he knew Finley and his long-suffering wife, Jane, still lived. Randall Finley was standing with his dog, a small gray-haired schnauzer. The dog was straining at the leash, wanting to head back into the park, which bordered a forested area and beyond that, to the north, Thackeray College.
“Took you long enough,” Finley said as Barry got out of his unmarked cruiser.
“I don’t work for you,” he said.
“Sure you do. I’m a taxpayer.” Finley was dressed in a pair of comfort-fit jeans, running shoes, and a light jacket that he’d zipped up to his neck. It was a cool May morning. The fourth, to be exact, and the ground was still blanketed with dead leaves from the previous fall that had, up until six weeks ago, been hidden by snow.
“What did you find?”
“It’s this way. I could just let Bipsie off the lead and we could follow her.”
“No,” Duckworth said. “Whatever you’ve found I don’t want Bipsie messing with.”
“Oh, yeah, of course,” Finley said. “So, how ya been?”
“Fine.”
When Duckworth did not ask Finley how he was, the ex-mayor waited a beat, and said, “I’m having a good year. We’re expanding at the plant. Hiring another couple of people.” He smiled. “You might have heard about one of them.”
“I haven’t. What are you talking about?”
“Never mind,” Finley said.
They followed a path that led along the edge of the woods, which was separated from the park by a black chain-link fence about four feet high.
“You lost weight?” Finley asked. “You’re looking good. Tell me your secret, ’cause I could stand to lose a few pounds myself.” He patted his stomach with his free hand.
Duckworth had lost all of two pounds in the last two weeks, and was smart enough to know it didn’t show.
“What’d you find, Randy?”
“You just have to see it, is all. It must have happened overnight, because I walk along here with Bipsie a couple times a day — early in the morning, and before I go to bed. Now, it was getting dark when I came by last night, so it might have been there then and I didn’t notice, but I don’t think so. I might not have even noticed it this morning, but the dog made a beeline for the fence when she caught a whiff of it.”
Duckworth decided not to bother asking Finley anymore what it was he wanted to show him, but he steeled himself. He’d seen a few dead people over the years, and figured he’d see plenty more before he retired. Now that he had twenty years in, he was better than halfway there. But you never really got used to it. Not in Promise Falls, anyway. Duckworth had investigated several homicides over the years, most of them straightforward domestics or bar fights, but also a few that had garnered national attention.
None had been what you’d call a good time.
“Just up here,” Finley said. Bipsie started to bark. “Stop it! Settle down, you little fucker!”
Bipsie settled down.
“Right there, on the fence,” Finley said, pointing.
Duckworth stopped and studied the scene before him.
“Yeah, pretty weird, huh? It’s a goddamn massacre. You ever seen anything like this before?”
Duckworth said nothing, but the answer was no, he had not.
Randall Finley kept on talking. “If it had been just one body, or even two, sure, I wouldn’t have called. But look how many there are. I counted. There’s twenty-three of them, Barry. What kind of sick fuck does something like that?”
Barry counted them himself. Randy was right. One short of two dozen.
Twenty-three dead squirrels. Good-size ones, too. Eleven gray ones, twelve black. Each one with a length of white string, the kind used to secure parcels, knotted tightly around its neck, and hung from the horizontal metal pole that ran across the top of the fence.
The animals were spaced out along a ten-foot stretch, each of them hanging on about a foot of string.
“I got no love for them,” Finley said. “Tree rats, I call them, although I guess they don’t do that much harm. But there’s gotta be a law against that, right? Even though they’re just squirrels?”
Four
“Marla, I’m serious. You need to talk to me here,” I said.
“I should put him down for a nap,” she said, cradling the baby in her arms, lightly touching the nipple of the baby bottle to his lips. “I think he’s had all he’s going to have for now.”
She set the bottle on the bedside table. The baby, eyes closed, made soft gurgling noises of contentment.
“He wasn’t like this at first,” Marla said. “He cried a lot yesterday. Making strange and all.”
I was going to ask why a baby who she would have me believe had been with her for months would make strange, but let it pass.
She continued. “I sat with him all night and we’ve made a strong bond, the two of us.” She gave a weak laugh. “I must look a fright. I haven’t had a shower this morning or put on my makeup or anything. Last night I put him down for a sleep once he stopped crying, and ran out to the store to get a few things. I know I shouldn’t have left him alone, but there was no one I felt I could call, not just yet, and I was desperate for supplies. The angel only brought a few things.”