Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

He saw the boy.

Long accustomed to the protective sheath of darkness, Isaiah had developed a keen sense of night vision. The boy's room was peaceful and quiet, and he liked it there almost as much as he liked the woods. For awhile, he listened to the boy's steady breathing, deep and measured in sleep. The boy looked so young.

But soon, the force of Isaiah's stare woke the boy. The sound of the boy's breathing accelerated as the man cautiously approached him, his footsteps causing the ancient wood floorboards to squeak tremulously underneath his feet. On the boy's face, he saw a look of terror, a look more scared than the one he had seen in the woods earlier that week. He saw the boy was terrified, but he knew he had to deliver his message. What he had seen that night could no longer remain buried. 

"I saw the man in the forest."

The sound of his own voice startled him. He had forgotten its rough texture and deep tones. He spoke surely, pacing himself. He told himself he must be strong for the boy. Do not frighten him.

"With your brother," he added softly. 

The boy stared at him, his eyes wide. Isaiah felt the urge to comfort him, but he resisted the temptation. He knew the boy did not trust him. The boy's pale, round face shone in the darkness of the room like a miniature moon, wan and beautiful. How frightened he was, how skittish he had become since his brother's death…

Cold… Another whiff of night air came swirling into the room, ruffling their hair. With it, the wind brought back memories of another colder night, with icy, freezing winds of its own. Like an old newspaper carried on the wind, Isaiah was torn away from the present and swept back into the past. Distantly, an old movie replaying inside his head, the events of that December night returned to him…

Dreams of the sea and the beautiful dead boy danced around each other…

…and the great king despaired for his only son and the kingdom he had built…

The forests were angry that night. Listening to the rattling branches and the mournful hoot of the night owl, he couldn't sleep, shivering under his blankets and old newspapers. A blanket of snow covered the wooden roof of his cabin, and he worried that it would fall in on him during the night and kill him… Tired and restless, he had gotten up… He would sleep in the Hendrick's garage; it was warmer there… Jack let him sometimes on nights like this… He was a good man, Jack…

But once he stepped outside, Isaiah instantly realized he was not alone. The woods had another visitor that night. He saw the mysterious stranger stagger through the snowy underbrush, carrying something large in his arms. A child…

Tell me he's alive. The forests will sing again with the ebullient sun and the sound of children's laughter will bring joy to my heart.

"I saw his name," said Isaiah, caught up in memory. Vaguely, he pointed to the right side of his chest. "Paul."

Slowly, the details came back to him. 

"He was wearing a uniform. Brown. Long-sleeved."

The man was wearing an ugly brown jumpsuit, and across its chest was a white nametag labeled with four black letters, all in caps. PAUL. Long ago, Isaiah had learned to read, and even after all these years, the magic of the trick hadn't left him. He read the nametag curiously, the timid name somehow incongruent with the powerful, black-eyed man he saw before him.

"You saw Paul?" The boy spoke, unwilling, but curious. "Paul Marks?"

Isaiah smiled at him, his yellow, cracked teeth off-putting.

"Paul," said Isaiah, repeating the name with confidence.

And in between the trees, camouflaged by the night, he saw:

There was an uneven hole carved in the stiff earth, the dirt from it unwilling to be removed to make way for such an unwanted gift. It would not take the dead this time. PAUL hacked away at the earth with all his strength, Isaiah watching him with childlike curiosity. He was a secret spy. Over-exaggerating the movement like an actor on a stage, he put a finger to his lips. Shhhhhh… Now was not the time for speaking…

The boy lay still on the ground, his porcelain skin covered in cuts and bruises, the seeping blood staining the snow red. Looking down at the boy, Isaiah knew he was dead. He was not breathing, his tiny hands curled inwards and held against his chest.

Dropping the tire iron to the ground at last, PAUL wiped his dirty hands on the legs of his uniform, leaving matching smears of dirt running up his thighs. With hesitation and a little fear, the man approached the boy, leaving footprints in the snow. Cautiously, he reached down and cradled the child's face…

Goodnight room. Goodnight moon. Goodnight cow jumping over the moon. Goodnight light, and the red balloon…

In the darkness, Isaiah stretched out his own hand, the chilly wind lashing his blue fingers.

Goodnight stars. Goodnight air. Goodnight noises everywhere.

The touch of the man was weighted with sadness. His fingers rested on the small white face for many minutes. I'm sorry, his jet black eyes seemed to say, forgive me… Gently, the man took off the orange baseball cap the boy was wearing. He brought it to his lips, but did not kiss it…

Into his pocket it went, never to be worn again.

And the children's laughter echoed through the woods and Jack looked out on his summer wheat with honest pride, gleaming with sweat and a hard-won smile. Mary came out with a glass of lemonade and his arms twined around her in a kiss.

No more… It all went inside the man's pocket and into the body placed into the cold, solid ground left sterile by the season.

The boy looked at him. 

"MOOOOMMMMMMMMM!" he suddenly called out, his voice ringing with earth-shattering volume, startling Isaiah and causing him to step back and stumble to the floor. For a moment, there was silence, then the sound of frantic footsteps in the hallway. Mary entered, a mother lion, her green eyes fierce. Immediately, she spotted him and he shrunk away from her like a scolded child.

"Don't!" Isaiah gasped, wincing and turning away.

But she rushed over to her son, who lay in bed shocked and frightened, staring at Isaiah in disbelief. Mary wrapped her arms around him tightly, urgently asking him what had happened. She looked even thinner in her nightdress, almost like a child herself. When he finally spoke, Jamie's voice shook with tears.

"He saw who did it," said Jamie, pointing to Isaiah. "He saw Paul."

There was confusion on Mary's face. She looked from one to the other, partially shielding her son from Isaiah's view as if afraid he would attack him. Isaiah stared back at her and twiddled his hands nervously, not sure what to do. 

"He said he saw Paul Marks -- Christina's dad -- " said Jamie. The words were said slowly, their full meaning coming to him as they were said aloud. "In the forest with Lucas…"

Dead.

"Dead," whispered Isaiah. They were both dead.

Mary's mouth dropped open.

Again, there was the sound of rapid footsteps in the hall and then Jack Hendrick was standing in the doorway, his eyes roving across the scene intently. His hair was wildly askew, and he was wearing only an undershirt and pajama bottoms. Taking full command of the situation, he strode in and offered Isaiah a hand, roughly picking the man up off the floor.

"For Christ's sake, Isaiah," said Jack in an incredulous voice, "what are you doing here in the dead of night?"

The question confused him. The dead of night? Like Lucas? Was he the dead of night?

"You -- " he started.

"He -- " he started again, looking at Jamie.

"All of you -- " he said finally, getting it right, "didn't know…"

Since that winter, he had watched them. Their everyday motions had turned bleak and lifeless; their homey routines had lost their charm... The whole family seemed to be held in a kind of suspension, waiting for an answer… Who had killed Lucas? The question had dampened the family's spirit -- a poisonous mystery.

"You were so sad…" Isaiah mumbled.

Mary let out a little sob, her eyes shimmering with tears. She looked at her husband, who hadn't caught on yet, and explained. "Isaiah said he saw Paul Marks in the woods with Lucas' dead body…"

For a moment, Jack was left speechless. His blue eyes looked black in the moonlight, deep and impenetrable.

"Paul Marks? Our neighbor, Paul Marks?" he asked to clarify.

Mary nodded, brief memories of a car trip and a kiss coming back to her with new meaning. The puzzle pieces had fallen into place and the picture looked so obvious now. 

Jack looked at Isaiah again. "You swear to God you're telling me the truth? This ain't no made-up story here?" His voice was hard and raw with emotion.

Isaiah nodded his head seriously and Jack saw the certainty on his old, rugged face.

In one swift movement, Jack hugged Grimm, taking the dirty, emaciated man roughly in his muscled arms. "Thank you," he said, the words brimming with sincerity. "Thank you…" And then just as quickly, he left the room; everyone knew where he was going, though he hadn't said his destination aloud.

Mary rushed off to go dial the police.

***

Paul Marks finally got up off the couch. His headache had receded, though his vision was left blurry. The house was completely dark, except for the light from the television screen, which had been left on all day. Hungry after a day of fasting, he made his way into the kitchen, stubbing his toe on the upstep along the doorway. He opened the fridge, the light from it too much for his sensitive eyes to bear. Briefly, he looked away, blinking the fluorescent splotches out of his vision.

The contents of the fridge were pathetic: a gallon of milk with about an inch left, a couple of beers, and week-old leftovers of Mac & Cheese. He swore and closed the fridge door and was about to go over to the cabinets when the doorbell rang. Paul had no idea what time it was, but he got the feeling that it was very late. With a sinking feeling in his stomach, he wondered who it could be. By the time he got to the living room, the person outside was knocking persistently. He could tell there was a purpose behind that knock. It sounded like anger.

His fingers falling over the keys, it took him a minute longer than usual to open the door. He opened it and found himself face-to-face with Jack Hendrick, wearing a white undershirt and what looked like navy pajama bottoms.

He was also wearing one hell of an angry expression.

Paul felt a brief whiff of cool night air before he suddenly found himself being socked in the face, all 200 pounds of pure Hendrick muscle thrown behind the punch. Paul was knocked completely off his feet before landing hard on the ground a clear three feet away. 

"You son of a b***h," breathed Jack, before throwing himself down on Paul and punching him again and again and again. The force of the hits, the unceasing, relentless pace, allowed Paul to manage only three words.

"What -- the -- hell?"

The remark only had the affect of angering Jack even further. His fist bashed down on Paul's face even harder as he spoke -- screamed. "Isaiah Grimm decided to pay us a little visit an hour ago -- and do you know what he said? He said he saw you in the woods with Lucas' body that night! You were burying him, weren't you? BECAUSE YOU KILLED HIM! YOU KILLED MY GODDAMN SON!" 

Jack's inhumane eyes looking down on him, Paul felt paralyzed, his stiff arms held high above him, trying in vain to shield himself from the blows. It made a strikingly parallel scene to what he and Lucas had had backstage the night of the pageant.

"No -- Jack!" his voice hitched. "No!" But the hits did not stop, because Jack Hendrick was too smart a man to be taken in by a lie…

"Yes you did, Daddy," said a soft, trembling voice behind them. Both men turned and saw Christina standing there watching them, and even in the dim light they could tell her face was tear-streaked. Her glasses were crooked and she was still in her day clothes, but in her hand was an orange baseball cap, wrinkled and slightly smooshed. Inside its brim, both men knew, were the initials "L.H." written in black magic marker in a child's hand.

"He was wearing this the night of the pageant, I remember," she said hoarsely. "It was part of his costume..." She started to cry, staring at her father with a terrible look of betrayal. "How could you?" she asked him.

Paul started to scramble to his feet, needing to be close to his daughter. He wanted to hug her and tell her everything was going to be okay. But when she saw what he was going to do, she took a step back from him in fright. It was enough to stop Paul in his tracks, even though Jack gave him a hard yank back anyways. "You stay away from her," Jack spat sharply.

From the distance, all three of them heard the sound of a siren coming closer and closer. It approached so rapidly, Paul's half-formed ideas about fleeing were quickly squished. The flashing red and blue lights of the police car spilled over the front lawn like a circus display. Looking stern and alert, Sheriff Marshall climbed out in full uniform, circles underneath his basset hound eyes.

He looked from Jack to Paul to Christina one by one, and when he spoke it was to Paul first, his voice reassuring, as if trying to calm a cornered dog.

"Paul, Mary Hendrick just called. She said Isaiah Grimm just stepped up as witness. Said he saw you in the woods on the night of December 17th, burying the body of Lucas Hendrick… Is that true, Paul?"

Paul didn't know what to say. Admit? Deny? Refuse to say anything til he got a lawyer? The Sheriff stared at him, unblinking, his calm authority as unshakeable as a rock. Jack was breathing heavily beside him, waiting for an answer -- needing something definite he could latch onto after all this time. Closure.

And Christina. Looking at her crying quietly, feeling his heart swell with love for his only child and the last piece of Abby he had left, Paul knew what he had to do.

He nodded. "Yes, Sheriff, I killed him." The words were said a bit shakily but with the crystal clear clarity of a man now dedicated to the truth. It was out at last. He would be thrown into prison and outcast from society, but he could take it because it would be better than living a lie with his daughter by his side. He couldn't bring his daughter into this, into this web of deceit and self-deceit he had woven. She was too good for that.

A mixture of pain and satisfaction on his face, Jack looked on as Sheriff Marshall handcuffed Paul and recited him his rights. The steel felt cold against Paul's wrists and his face felt sore and broken by the punches, but his chest felt oddly light. He glanced up at Jack Hendrick before having his head pushed into the backseat of the cruiser by the Sheriff's guiding hand.

"I'm sorry," he told Jack.

But Jack shook his head, tears starting to fall down his face. It wasn't enough.

Christina watched him go. "I love you," Paul called out to her before the door was slammed shut. He saw her nod and turn away from him, her brown eyes empty and unresponsive.

The Sheriff started the engine and together they drove into downtown Catalina. There would be questioning and paperwork, jail, trial, and prison, all lined up to be tackled -- in the future. Now in the quiet of the car, Paul reflected on the man he was. That he was disturbed was obvious. Vengeful and cruel, he had committed a monstrous crime. He accepted that now, and the guilt of the crime, because there was nothing else left -- and because simply, more importantly -- it was the right thing to do.

At long last, Paul Marks had decided to do the right thing.

Author's Note

excerpts from 'goodnight moon', a classic children's book by margaret wise brown :)