Grace Falls: An Anthology of Wonder & Fright

By G.A. Finocchiaro

Nothing is as it seems in Grace Falls, Pennsylvania. The town looks and feels like every other small isolated town across America. There are yearly holiday events, family owned businesses, and gossip that never dies—like the demons of its past. This collection of stories set in the eighties is filled with nostalgia and the petrifying fear

• Language: English
• Publisher: Writing Bloc
• Release date: Apr 7, 2020
• ISBN: 9781087871158

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Stories Within:

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WELCOME TO GRACE FALLS

MUM

BREACHER

PAJAMAS

CUBICLE 43-B

MR. HALLOWS

EXTRAORDINARY

WELCOME TO GRACE FALLS

GRACE FALLS, PENNSYLVANIA

Introduction

The town of Grace Falls was located in Pennsylvania somewhere north of Philadelphia, south of Buffalo, and east of Pittsburgh. The town was nestled close enough to Lake Erie to receive all the lake effect weather that blew in from Canada, and four hundred miles from the beaches along the country’s eastern shores. 

Grace Falls was home to 31,131 people, and although it wasn’t a small town, it remained isolated behind a wall of mountains. That isolation was both a blessing and a curse.

The waterfalls were located a few miles outside of town—a tourist attraction that brought the occasional visitor to experience its unique beauty. There were three falls in total, each flowing into the next, named after the Fates—Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos. The first of three, Clotho, was the largest, and when her water exploded off its stony shelf and rumbled into the lagoon below in a beautiful display of water and mist, it was a dazzling sight to behold.

The only way in and out of Grace Falls was via Highway 13, or small back roads that traversed the Appalachian Mountains. A giant billboard welcomed people into town, framed by flowering shrubs and a spotlight that kept it lit all night long. The billboard included a brief welcome message to Grace Falls, followed by its population and a motto, Where Water Falls & Dreams Soar! If an outsider drove through the town square, they would find themselves transported to a simpler time of malt shop diners, five and dimes, apothecaries, and hardware stores. There was a seasonal drive-up burger shop with teenagers on roller skates serving meals to car windows with trays, while classic doo wop and rock n’ roll played on the radio. Grace Falls had a school, a hospital, fireman chili contests, cheerleader car washes, and a Labor Day Fair that was each and every year’s biggest event. There were antique car shows, and a Samhain Pumpkin Festival with a hayride through the necropolis on the west side of town. 

Now the home of the Milton State University Red Devils, a division II university known for its athletics and science departments, it was once a mill town known for its paper and lumber industry. The watermill wheel no longer spun, but an influx of new jobs and people moved into the area, necessitating new housing developments, supermarkets, and a growing police force. 

Grace Falls had its skeletons, as all towns do, but some problems had deeper roots than others. There was a drug problem, from meth to heroin, that grew worse every year. There were domestic disputes, affairs, tragedies, and the occasional drama that played out in the public eye, for better or worse. 

The fact was, Grace Falls was no longer a small town, and hadn’t been in quite some time. But in many ways it still believed it was, and it clutched to its identity for fear of being swallowed by the coming times. Such was the spirit of the place and its people. Perhaps that was why the people of Grace Falls struggled against the notion that something wasn’t quite right about their small burgh.

Strange things transpired in Grace Falls. Odd occurrences and strange phenomena were part of local customs, but it wasn’t until the summer of 1986 that things took a dark turn. Something happened that summer that opened the jaws of hell beneath that old town. 

That’s why those who had lived there long enough to know whispered about its secrets. And to some the town’s motto was forever altered: Grace Falls, Where Angels Fall & Demons Soar.

SUMMER

MUM

I

The tape recorder’s gears hummed as it methodically spun and awaited sound to record. A man wearing a brown tweed jacket sat at the other end of a small dark coffee table, with a few unfortunate mug rings adorning its varnished top. A handful of pens rested on a yellow legal pad balancing on his lap, which shook periodically from the anxious tic in his leg. The room was comfortable and bright, if not a tad cold from a chilly fall breeze entering through a nearby window. The trees outside were nearly bare, and the garden had shriveled up into dried husks. Symbolically, fall was the yearly seasonal descent into death, and death was why he was there—to interview the one man who could answer all his questions.

The secrets Danny kept had hollowed him out over time. They were the kind of dark secrets that ate a man from the inside out, until there was nothing left but confession. Unburdening himself was the first step in absolution. Death was something Danny needed to put behind him, so he could get on with the rest of his life. Could you please state your name for the record? the interviewer in the tweed jacket asked as he readied a pen and waited for Danny’s response.

Daniel, Danny, Pederson.

And what can you tell me about the Mum Murders? Specifically, the murders that occurred in and around the town of Grace Falls, Pennsylvania, in the summer of 1986?

Is that what they’re being called? Danny chuckled humorlessly. He had lived it, yet hadn’t paid attention to the way it was glorified on the news and in off-beat publications in the many years since. The obsession over the macabre details had always disturbed him. Why were people so captivated by the absolute worst in humanity? And why now? He received the call to set up the interview and immediately questioned the timing. He was unsure of his participation, and it made him feel anxious. I can tell you everything you want to know, but aren’t there police records? Interviews? Why me? Why now?

The police records were mysteriously destroyed in April of 1991, the same night Detective David Blaise died. And Captain White died of cancer fifteen years ago. I’m just a journalist looking to expose the truth behind those murders. A truth that has yet to be told. You’re the only person who can help with my investigation.

Is that what you want? The truth? Or to tell a good story? said Danny. He was well aware of the kind of journalists the Mum Murders had attracted over the years. Their journalistic integrity left plenty of room for improvement. Sometimes a good story is better…

In my experience, he said, cutting Danny off, the truth is usually the best story.

With hesitation and a deep sigh, Danny began to recall the events thoroughly. It was part of a past with which he had long since come to terms. Telling his account felt like peering through a hole in an otherwise structurally sound wall, as if the edges of his memory had darkened with the passage of time.

They say that people come into our lives for a reason, started Danny, as he played with his wedding band, unconsciously sliding it off and on his finger. Those who utter that phrase are often speaking from the deluded perception that those forthcoming and ever-changing relationships are good. That those relationships are worthy of a higher and divine purpose. Danny shook his head and closed his eyes for a moment, trying to subdue the emotion he was desperately trying to avoid. The truth is, people come into your life and cause chaos.

II

It was late July in the summer of 1986 when it all began. It was a hot and humid summer, one of the most oppressive and uncomfortable in recent years. Many of the townsfolk often looked back and wondered if the infecting darkness seeped into their quiet town with the extreme heat. People always said, That kind of stuff doesn’t happen here in Grace Falls, and until then, they were absolutely right. Up until the summer of 1986, there had never been a murder committed within town limits, at least nothing the public records would show. They had survived terrible accidents and tragedies, some of them quite peculiar, but nothing ever so serious as a homicide.

The world was changing, and as more and more jobs opened in the nearby town of Mercy Point, Grace Falls was steadily growing from a small college town into a blossoming burgh. Growth had its ups and downs, and to the residents of Grace Falls, it meant new housing developments and strip malls, new restaurants and new people—but also the dark underside of the unknown.

What’ve we got?

It’s bad, sir, said the nervous young man in uniform. You’ll have to see for yourself. Jeffrey Cantor had grown up in Grace Falls, went to college nearby, and eventually returned home at the ripe age of twenty-two to start his career as one of Grace Falls’ finest in blue. He had only been working the beat for six months and was now contemplating a new career.

You can’t tell me?

Honestly, sir, I– I–

Detective. Detective White, he corrected.

Oh right, detective. Honestly, I’ve never seen anything like it.

Detective White peered over Officer Cantor’s shoulder and around his squad car towards the crime scene. The obnoxious flashing red and blue lights were easy to ignore once you got used to them. In the midst of his long career, Detective Will White could peer through the flashing lights of a dozen squad cars and never notice them.

I have, said the detective, his icy gaze glancing past Officer Cantor’s face, avoiding all eye contact.

It was nearly five a.m. and the sun had yet to climb its way over the mountains. There was a total of four cars at the scene, including Detective White’s own cruiser and a GFPD squad car preventing any would-be traffic from disturbing the crime scene. This wasn’t much of an issue in the predawn hours of Saturday morning along Cross Road near Highway 13, but it was a necessary precaution. Highway 13 was the only road in and out of town that connected Grace Falls with the city of Mercy Point, just twenty-five miles away. Weekends were Highway 13’s only reprieve. Any other morning during the week would have roared with traffic as travelers drove to and from Mercy Point starting as early as four in the morning.

The headlights of all four vehicles crisscrossed the scene with sharp shafts of light at harsh angles, none of which managed to illuminate the victim. The body was displayed on the pavement at the very center of the road and seemed to repel the light, as if trying to conceal dark secrets. It was positioned on its back, legs together, with arms parted at forty-five-degree angles. Long blonde hair obscured an angelic face, mouth slightly agape, as if taking one last wispy breath. She looked at peace, like she had lay down and drifted off to sleep.

As the detective stretched on a pair of blue latex gloves, he couldn’t help but overhear the soft sobs and the weak, defeated testimony. One of the four cars was a boxy, bluish-green sedan as big as a yacht with an elderly couple leaning against its hood. They were giving Officer Cantor’s partner their statement in low whimpering tones, as if offering up their sins in confession. We thought it was roadkill. That someone hit a deer and didn’t drag it off road, said the old man.

Mr. and Mrs. Gerald Fallon were up early that Saturday morning to visit their son and daughter-in-law and their precious newborn grandchild, Polly, in Philadelphia. They planned to arrive before just after breakfast, surprising them with gifts for Polly. It was supposed to be a pleasant day to spend with their growing family. A half-mile from the interstate ramp, they came across a large mound of flesh in the road. Gerald, in all his seventy-nine years, had never seen a dead body that wasn’t lying in a casket, let alone a body that had suffered serious trauma.

Against his wife’s objections, Gerald pulled over into a field of wildflowers and got out of the car to investigate. He trampled some wild daisies and tripped over a loose branch, his eyesight having lost the sharpness of his youth. As he got closer to the mound, he was afflicted with involuntary trembling. He was terrified, and his heart quaked with every apprehensive step. Gerald’s old eyes saw what might have been a deer, but his gut knew it was really something else.

I– I– saw the letters and I knew it wasn’t no deer, he stuttered against the uncontrollable chattering of his jaw. When Gerald noticed the letters, he ran to the car, turned it around and raced back into town. He returned twenty minutes later with Officer Cantor and his partner, following them the whole way, with the squad car’s lights flashing and sirens blaring.

The young officer, Adams, was having a difficult time detailing the ordeal. His penmanship had never been legible, but this morning it appeared that much more indecipherable due to the jitters that plagued his writing hand. Despite his training, he’d never had to take a statement from a homicide witness before, and couldn’t determine how much detail was too much, or not enough.

Detective White took his time, despite the far-off honks from the small line of cars that had piled up a half-mile down the road toward town. Officer Cantor had constructed a police roadblock, keeping traffic at bay. The blockade wasn’t sitting well with the morning travelers who, like the Fallons, were attempting to get an early jump on their Saturday plans.

From his perspective, slowly walking toward the body—compelled by job and duty—the detective couldn’t determine a cause of death. It was too dark to see what took her life. He removed a small flashlight from his coat pocket and clicked it on and off in rapid succession to test the batteries. There was a man crouched down beside the body, leaning over her uncomfortably.

Will, how long have you been here? asked the man by the body. He was hesitant to touch it, despite his own latex gloves. He appeared unsure of himself, as if he knew the textbook, but had no practical experience to guide him.

Just a few minutes, said Detective White, taking note of his partner’s wide eyes and narrowed pupils. He was in shock, and Detective White understood that look all too well. I was starting to get used to having a full night’s rest.

"Will, I know you’re new to Grace Falls, but I’m sure you’re aware, this is not normal."

"You mean to tell me I brought all the fun to this tiny town, Dave?" said Will. His humor, although improper, was meant to calm his partner. He’d seen looks like the one in Dave’s eyes before and needed to mitigate the situation before Dave lost his nerve. Emotion at a homicide scene was as damaging as soiling evidence. He needed Dave clear and precise.

"Yeah, fun," Dave replied sarcastically. There was a smile hidden in his voice. Humor was a defense mechanism Dave utilized when he was uncomfortable or put into harsh circumstances. It was exactly what Will needed to hear.

Take a look at this, said Will, gesturing with his flashlight at an area on the pavement. He had nearly stepped on it as he approached, since it was located a short distance away from the body.

M-U-M?

It was written in blood.

Yeah, looks like it.

Mum? Did she write that? Dave gestured at the victim.

Will kneeled down by the body and shined his flashlight on her hands. "There is blood on her fingers. Maybe. He had no sooner finished speaking when Dave let out three terrible sneezes that threatened to contaminate the crime scene. Are you okay?" Will asked his partner.

Yeah, sorry. All these flowers set off my allergies. I hate allergy season.

Never had them.

Allergies?

When Will didn’t answer, his partner looked up from the bloody letters on the pavement to see what had left his partner silent. To Detective Dave Blaise’s horror, he saw it too.

A rare breeze had brushed aside the platinum blonde hair from her perfect face. It wasn’t what was there that terrified them, it was what wasn’t there that drained the blood from Detective Blaise’s dark face.

Her eyes. Cut out? Dave asked, his voice shaky and uneven. It looked as if she had cried blood with the way it ran from the open wounds like tears.

Looks like it. Tongue too, Will said, using his pinky to pry open her jaw. Her mouth was filled with blood, and it was beginning to congeal on her teeth. "Mum’s the word, huh? Don’t worry, partner. You’ll eventually grow numb to it all."

Fucking hell, Dave swore under his breath, not amused whatsoever. So what is this? he asked, after removing his own eyes from the victim’s empty sockets. Some kind of religious offering? Like a crucifixion? On first glance, one could see similarities between the victim’s positioning and religious imagery. The body was very clearly staged. It was precise. She did not fall into position on the ground but was placed there for a reason. It was purposeful. Exact. It had meaning.

No. I don’t think so, said Will, scrutinizing Dave’s hypothesis.

How do you know?

Everything is so explicit. Meticulous. Even the letters. The body was laid in the very center of the road, right on top of the yellow lines. Perfect. Straight and even, every part of her. Hair was covering her face, hiding what was done to her. Her arms aren’t wide enough for a crucifix. Will took a moment to consider it, then removed his eyes from the body and looked at his partner. I think it’s an arrow.

An arrow?

Pointing towards Grace Falls.

III

Danny’s brain struggled against the surreal impossibility of it all. The tiny black-and-white television in the kitchen was tuned to the six-o’clock news, which he and his family watched every evening as they sat around the kitchen table for dinner. Most days it was a welcome relief from suffering through the unending probing questions about his day, but tonight’s news was so awful that he wished his father would turn it off and start asking him about girls, school, his future, anything at all.

Danny was only seventeen years old and had never really paid attention to the cruelties of humanity that didn’t directly affect him. He wasn’t completely naive; a few years ago, Danny had spent the night at a friend’s house, and the guy swore the Texas Chainsaw Massacre was the best movie ever. He’d bullied Danny into watching. The experience left him terrified of chainsaws, hedge trimmers, even weed whackers for years to come. To Danny, murder and extreme violence were the kinds of things that only happened in the movies, not in real life. Sure, the evening news covered murders all the time. Reports from the city, Mercy Point, detailed all sorts of horrific varieties, but nothing quite like this, and he’d never seen anything from his own town. Grace Falls had managed to remain sheltered from the violent world, until now.

"The young woman, whose identity is being withheld, was found dead on Cross Road near the ramp to Highway 13, just two miles outside of Grace Falls. Her body was found mutilated."

What does mutchilached mean? asked Haley, Danny’s five-year-old sister. She was mesmerized by the television. If it moved and had sound, it didn’t matter if it was a cartoon, documentary, or sports, little Haley was bewitched by the picture box. Danny’s mother and father were too distracted by the shocking news to answer her.

Mutilated, Danny corrected her. It means—

Don’t tell your sister what it means! scolded Danny’s dad, dropping his fork onto his plate with a loud clatter.

But I wanna know! Haley protested.

Eat your peas.

Aww, but I don’t wanna! she whined.

Three successive bangs against the front door shattered Danny’s attention away from the TV, and nearly induced a Leatherface flashback.

Hey, Mr. Pederson! Can Danny come out and play!?

The kitchen table had a direct line of sight to the front door in the living room, where two teenage boys smushed their faces against the screen door, mashing their noses and cheeks against it like amorphous blobs. Mr. Pederson rubbed his temples at the teenage tomfoolery, as if he had never behaved so poorly when he was seventeen. Danny couldn’t imagine what his father was like when he was young. He was always so uptight and strict.

Can I, Dad? asked Danny with an apologetic tone.

Mr. Pederson shot his wife a glance, but Mrs. Pederson was still staring at the television, hanging onto every gruesome word. Okay, said Mr. Pederson, but be back before dark.

Danny had already wiped his face clean with a napkin and bolted before his dad finished speaking, leaving his chair rocking back and forth a few times before settling.

Thanks, Dad!

Be back before dark! his father repeated. Not a second after or your ass is grass!

Ass will be grass! Got it! Danny echoed as he flew out the front screen door and down the three steps on the concrete stoop. He nearly tripped over a few of his mother’s flower pots on the second step, but miraculously maintained balance and forward momentum. The sun was already sinking in the sky every moment, and Danny didn’t want to miss a second of it.

His friends were straddling their bikes, waiting for him with feet firmly planted on pedals. Danny fished his bike out of the shrubs that bordered the driveway, just where he left it, and hopped on. Desperate to catch up, he rigorously pedaled as the others cruised down the road ahead of him, already coasting around the corner. There was something about the evening summer air whipping through his hair that made Danny feel alive. It was freedom, and there was nothing sweeter.

Danny always considered himself lucky. He wasn’t gifted with a wealthy family or good looks. He wasn’t very tall or athletic, and his asthma always reminded him of his physical shortcomings. Danny may not have been genetically gifted or lucky in any of those ways, but he did have two of the very best friends a seventeen-year-old could ask for.

Reed was tall and good-looking, cruising across the blacktop on his top-of-the-line mountain bike with all the fancy speed settings that made going uphill a breeze; and Sid was the sandy-haired wild child, with the rusted bike frame, dirty Mr. T t-shirt and a faded scar just above his right eye.

The three were neighborhood kids, inseparable over the thirteen years since kindergarten. They’d enrolled in the same Cub Scout troop, played little league baseball for the same Grace Falls Tigers team, and were assigned to the same school classroom each and every year—except the seventh grade, which Danny thought of as the worst year of his life. They quit Boy Scouts together, went to school dances together, even tried out for the freshman football team together—that was a complete disaster—and managed to get into all sorts of curious trouble in between. Each and every scrape and scar had been earned in each other’s presence, except for the scar above Sid’s right eye. That specific scar was never spoken of and was earned by Sid alone.

Sid was from the other side of the neighborhood, across an old set of abandoned railroad tracks that hadn’t been in use since the mill shut down in the early fifties. It was the only house within their neighborhood that needed serious landscaping, a paint job, and a team of exterminators to prevent the failing structure from early decay. When Sid was just six years old, his mother left on a Tuesday afternoon and never returned. She left her house keys and wedding ring on the kitchen counter and the front door wide open. Sid’s dad never recovered and found his only comfort at the bottom of every bottle he could find.

As time went on, Sid’s loss manifested itself in regrettable ways. He often got into trouble, started fights, and had a serious distaste for authority. Danny and Reed were his anchors. They both knew Sid would’ve run away or torched the school if not for them. Despite all his issues, Sid was the most loyal and dedicated friend they had ever known.

Reed, on the other hand, came from money. His great-grandfather was once the mayor of Grace Falls, and he grew up in the most lavish house in the neighborhood. If money wasn’t enough, Reed was also blessed with the kind of looks that made him very popular with the ladies. He had no less than five options for Senior Homecoming dates, and his prospects were growing by the day. Reed was popular despite his closest friends holding him back, a fact that didn’t seem to bother him—their unpopularity cancelled out his cool status, despite his good looks and talents in just about everything he ever tried. He even owned a fancy car, which he opted not to drive during their summer adventures together.

Besides, most of the time they were off to places you couldn’t drive to in a car.

Like any other day that summer, adventure awaited wherever two wheels and two pedals could take them.

Did you guys see all that crazy stuff on the news? Danny yelled into the wind as they soared down the road.

See all what stuff? Reed asked.

You think I give a shit about the news? Sid joked.

Yeah, Sid only makes the news, Reed laughed.

I do strive for infamy, Sid added with a sly grin.

There was a murder, Danny said. Even speaking the word gave him a chill.

So what? There are murders all the time in the city, said Sid.

Not the city. Grace Falls. Here.

What!? shouted Reed and Sid simultaneously.

IV

When the medical examiner had finished analyzing the body, she walked from the examination table into her office, shut the door, and took five minutes to catch her breath. When she felt she was ready, she picked up the phone and made the call.

Detectives Blaise and White arrived not three minutes later, which was probably an unofficial record. The Grace Falls morgue was located in the same local government offices as the GFPD and the Mayor—however, it was located deep within the basement on the other side of the building, past the loading docks, where bodies could be transported and loaded in privacy.

Miranda, said Dave as they entered the room. Have you met Detective White yet?

I have not, said Miranda Stubblefield, who shook his hand with the same involuntary quakes she had taken her short break to avoid. I wish I could say it’s a pleasure.

Likewise, said Will politely. You said on the phone that you have something to show us?

I do, she said, as she invited them into the examination room where the victim was laid naked on a metal slab, with a white cloth covering her from ankles to clavicles. The room was small, sterile, and smelled awful, but it wasn’t anything the two detectives weren’t prepared for—awful sights and smells came with the job, especially at the morgue. You know, I left Philadelphia a few years back to get away from examining young dead people. Twenty years probing bullet holes and knife wounds, and more dead kids from the neighborhood than I can count. One day, I came to work and saw my nephew on my slab and said that was it. Miranda then looked Dave in the eyes—she had come to known him quite well over the last five years—and said, I thought Grace Falls was quiet enough that I’d never see that again.

I thought the same, said Will. You can’t run from violence. It always seems to catch up, eventually, even in the most peaceful of places.

What have you got for us, Miranda? asked Dave, pushing the conversation along. He had never seen Miranda so shaken, and felt it was best for her to get through what she needed to show them without dragging it on longer than it needed to be.

Miranda took a deep sigh, then grabbed the clipboard with her notes. As you know, eyes and tongue were removed, post mortem, she said. It was awful nonetheless, but that last part made both detectives feel just a little better. There was something explicitly gruesome about having one’s eyes and tongue cut out while they were still alive, and somehow that made the violence worse. However, under closer examination, I found a few troubling things.

Like what? asked Will.

The cause of death appears to be a sharp, angular object that penetrated the top of the skull and exited at the base, just behind the right ear, said Miranda as she parted a portion of the girl’s hair to display the deep, gashing wound.

"A blow to the head like that, she should have bled out all over. There wasn’t that much blood at the crime scene," noted Dave.

Miranda seemed to anticipate Dave’s observation, and was already moving toward the other end of the table. See the abrasions on her heels? she said, pointing to the dead girl’s feet. She was dragged, probably across the pavement. Wherever she was murdered, the killer bled her out first before she was moved.

Dave shot Will a concerned glare before he said, What else did you find?

I saved the best for last, she said as she removed the sheet from the girl’s mid-section. There, carved into her belly, just below her navel was a mark. It looked like a circle within a circle, and a single slash that started in the middle and extended down, breaking the edges of both.

What is that? asked Dave, rhetorically.

Did you get a picture of this? asked Will.

I did, said Miranda. Everything is in my report, she said as she slapped a manila folder into Dave’s gut. When he took it, Miranda said, Find the sunnuva bitch who did this. I don’t want to see another kid on my table.

Dave and Will nodded to Miranda as she walked out of the room, still visibly shaken, and into her office. Once she was inside, she sighed and shut the door, leaving the two detectives behind with their thoughts and the victim.

V

It took them only thirty minutes of high-speed pedaling to cross town—through the Town Plaza, up and over the Elm Way Bridge, past the park and down Cross Road, near Highway 13, approximately two miles outside of town limits. The summer air was hot, but a comforting breeze blew in from the nearby mountains that only had recently lost their snowy caps, cooling their sweaty brows.

On the way over they discussed in gory detail all the many things they might find. Sid suggested there might still be a body, because, according to him, reenacting the murder scene could take hours, even days!

Reed felt that was absurd and chastised Sid for even thinking it. You watch too much TV! said Reed, and explained, "It won’t be anything like that. But the place will be swarming with fuzz, and I can guarantee there will be a chalk outline on

the road."

Danny felt they were both wrong, but he was more diplomatic with his argument. I don’t know. I think there might be some yellow police tape everywhere. Probably a few reporters too, but there definitely won’t be a body.

When they arrived, they quickly realized they were all wrong—except Danny, for correctly guessing there wouldn’t be a body. There was no police tape, no chalk outline on the road, or any sign that something bad had happened, except for the brown stain from the blood that still clung to the pavement. That stain was the only marker at all, and could have been left behind by anything, even road kill.

The boys sat on their bikes, leaned against the handlebars and looked out across the stain for a few minutes, watching the occasional car pass by.

I expected more, Sid finally said.

Reed nodded silently.

Kind of strange, isn’t it? said Danny, as a dirty white van clunked by, loud thrashing music blaring from its open windows.

What’s that? asked Reed as the van disappeared down the road into town.

That a dead body was once there, he said, then pointed. Right there on the road, surrounded on both sides by flowery fields and mountains. It’s too beautiful for something so horrible.

I guess, said Reed with a shrug. He had a hard time expressing himself with anything that involved being vulnerable and observant—and he had even less patience for sentiment.

My mom, she used to bring me out here when I was a little kid, to pick daisies, said Sid. It was odd to hear him confess something so personal, so odd that the moment slid past sentiment and into uncomfortable.

Aww, were you a little flower boy? said Reed in a mothering voice, busting Sid’s balls. It was a layup—low-hanging fruit that Reed couldn’t pass up. If he didn’t say it, who would?

Not even! Shut up, man! Sid growled, then laughed, Asshole.

After ten minutes, their extreme boredom led to a quick and abrupt exodus from the murder scene. None of them had really known what to expect, but what they’d found didn’t meet even the paltriest of expectations.

From Cross Road it was a brisk twenty-minute ride by bike to Lou’s Gas & Go—a convenience store with the best assortment of candy, junk food, and sodas in town. It was their only mandatory stop before adventures, where they usually stocked up on sugary fuel for the road.

Hey, Lou! Got any hubbub about that murder? Danny asked the store’s proprietor and lone cashier. It was a small store with a couple of antique-style gas pumps out front and an old metal bell that tolled when entering the store or driving over the call bell hose. Lou made most of his business from the sugar cravings of local kids who stopped by to fill up both tanks—their cars and their bellies. The storekeeper was a plump, balding fellow with a kind face and an insatiable love of gossip, which lit up his wrinkled, bristly brow every time he heard something especially ripe.

Why you wanna know? Lou replied, frowning at Danny’s question. Shame what happened to that girl. She was only a junior. If Lou was trying at all to deter their interest, he was doing a foul job of it.

Wait, she was our age? asked Reed. The implication left him breathless.

Sure was, Lou sighed, before recognizing their combined interest surrounding him at the cash register. I dunno, maybe? he shrugged, attempting to shake their interest. You kids see those new Airheads candies? I hear they’re like a taffy, only sweeter. Like them Sugar Patch Kids, huh?

Who was it? Danny wondered, ignoring Lou’s sugary sweet distraction.

Daisy MacIntosh, Lou resigned, somberly shaking his head. Lou kept secrets no better than he kept his hair. The man was nearly bald, with a woolly crown around the sides.

Daisy!? Danny choked and shot Reed an unnoticed glance.

Harsh, said Reed. His slang felt understated in the moment.

You boys knew her? asked Lou.

We were in fifth period algebra together, said Sid. His voice was restrained and weak. She tutored me sophomore year.

Just seventeen years old, sighed Lou as the bell tolled by the pumps.

I always liked her, whispered Reed as his thoughts drifted away.

She had pretty eyes, said Sid, who was feeling ill.

Not anymore, said Lou. It was the kind of statement that could’ve been confused for the obvious—that the girl had died, and nobody would see her pretty eyes ever again. However, his tone implied something more.

What do you mean? asked Danny as he settled on a Snickers and a handful of Cow Tales.

Her eyes. The killer took ‘em both, said Lou. Danny’s jaw and the Snickers dropped simultaneously, the latter hitting the floor and sliding away toward the entrance. Her tongue too, added Lou, as the glass door swung open to the sound of another tolling bell.

A man and woman strolled into the store like tumbleweeds, dusty and disheveled from the road. The shaggy man labored over, snatched Danny’s Snickers from the floor at his feet, and tossed it to him. The exchange was innocent enough, despite the asthmatic tightening of Danny’s lungs at their proximity. The shaggy man then stepped aside to browse through Lou’s assortment of old magazines, while the raggy woman smirked in Reed’s direction before waltzing over to the refrigerated section. She didn’t bother paying before she popped the cap on a soda and took a long thirsty swig. Lou, however, was too busy gossiping to notice.

Reed handed Lou three Mountain Dews to ring up. You’re not messing with us, are you?

Wish I was, boys. Sad day, said Lou. Hey, make sure you boys don’t stay out past dark. Get home and give your parents a good hug. Tell ‘em you love them.

Will do, said Danny as he tossed Lou a fiver.

The hell I will, Sid groaned to himself. They gave Lou a friendly wave and exited the store as the drifters approached the counter with a random assortment of goods.

Where to? asked Reed, attempting to move their journey and conversation onto other things. He grabbed his bike, swiped aside the kickstand, and waited for the others to follow.

I don’t know. The sun’s getting low, said Danny, his father’s threat ringing in his ears. He didn’t want to tempt his father by showing up too close to sundown. He’d get grounded and lose his freedom for a few days. Sid was picking his bike off the ground—the kickstand had broken off earlier that summer—when a sudden commotion stole their attention. The door to Lou’s store burst open with a loud, metallic crash.

The tumbleweed couple ran from the store and hopped into the dusty white van, then peeled out of the gas station with the stench of burning rubber and a storm of loose gravel.

Don’t you ever come back! screamed Lou as he waddled after the scruffy duo, huffing and puffing and shaking his fist into the air. Lou shot the kids a frustrated look and kindly shooed them home, but not before Danny spotted the Nevada plates with the number RY-L3H.

VI

Detective White was twelve hours deep into an endless shift. Only three weeks into his new job, his desk was still mostly clean. He had yet to accumulate the unorganized chaos that covered his partner’s desk. Detective Blaise was doing his best to keep his weary eyes open, but not even the awful precinct coffee was capable of penetrating the sleepy gloom that overwhelmed him.

Time was not on their side. The clock was ticking, and although they had plenty of information, nothing had manifested itself into a lead. Forensics was still going through Daisy MacIntosh’s clothing, and the detectives were poring over all the evidence.

What do you think, Dave? asked Will, taking note of his partner’s slowly sagging posture.

About what? Dave grumbled as he took a deep sigh and sat back in his swiveling chair. Dave Blaise was not usually a man of few words or humility, but this case was leaching all the fun right out of him.

I keep looking at these pictures, said Will, who had a series of photos spread across his desk like a deck of playing cards. He had become