The Offspring

By Bill Pinnell

Terrifying family secrets have plagued Hughie Decker for as long as he can remember. Now, just as his life and career have finally begun to make strides, a seemingly innocent story from his hometown newspaper leaves Decker with no choice. He must return to his boyhood home to confront the horrid truth that destroyed so many lives.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Feb 12, 2018
• ISBN: 9781640827950

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The Offspring

Bill Pinnell

Copyright © 2017 Bill Pinnell

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2017

Cover Designed by:

Goldman Agency

New York, NY

ISBN 978-1-64082-794-3 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-64082-795-0 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Prologue

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

36

37

38

39

40

41

42

For sons and fathers

Prologue

HUGHIE COULD NOT BRING HIMSELF TO OPEN THE DOOR. It felt much safer to remain inside, even though the air was oppressively warm and cloying. He glanced through the windshield to that spot, to where he knew he must go. He took a deep breath. Steeling his resolve, he opened the door and stepped down to the ground.

He took another deep breath then forced himself to walk through the trees to near the water's edge and looked around. Considering the years that have passed since he last stood on this spot, some things obviously had changed, and yet there was an eerie sameness to the place. Despite the heat, a shiver ran up his spine. Hughie did not belong here, but remain he must, even though he felt like… an intruder. Sutter's Pool looked the worse for wear. Some trees had toppled over and lay barren. Twists of bark peeled from the trunks and only brown, desiccated leaves clung to splintered branches.

Hughie looked up at the one exception to the ravages of time and neglect, the one unfortunate constant: that magnificent giant elm, towering before him, more majestic than ever, and still rooted firmly to that spot in a contrasting effusion of glorious green splendor. High above a burst of sunlight illuminated a short length of rope. It was secured to the limb by a large slipknot, its dangling end tattered and worn. As he stared at it, memories, or what he imagined to be memories (for he was not here when that most tragic of events happened), swirled in his head like a swarm of wasps. Slowly, as the wind picked up, the dangling rope flicked in lazy circles, gaining momentum in the frenzy of its own macabre dance.

The sky, only a moment before the essence of cerulean blue, clouded over, not in portentous gray but hazy-like as if seen through the gauze of time. The breeze slowed, but its effect could still be heard through the gently rustling leaves of the elm. Hughie lost himself in the hypnotic swing of the threads of dangling rope, a sudden voice rang out. No, two voices; two male voices. Their laughter trilled through the afternoon air, joyous in abandon, epitomizing all that is carefree youth. The sounds swayed back and forth overhead, like that piece of rope, as if tethered to a giant pendulum.

Suddenly there came a loud splash—KUH-THUNK-KUH!—and Hughie turned toward the pond just as a boy's torso broke the surface with a powerful thrust. How the boy managed to laugh without swallowing mouthfuls of water was a wonder. He swept the waves of hair from his eyes and pointed to his left.

I bet you can't beat that somersault, little brother!

Hughie turned to see another boy, this one a few years younger than the valiant swimmer, standing near the water's edge. The younger boy was trying in vain to grab hold of the swinging rope. Hughie looked up to see a rope swing knotted to that same limb high above. Only moments before there had only been a remnant.

In a desperate attempt to catch the rope swing, the younger boy lunged too far and awkwardly cartwheeled into the pond. He clumsily pulled himself onto the bank, while the older brother effortlessly trod water and was laughing hysterically.

Oh, yeah? cried the younger boy, picking up a clod of dirt. Incoming torpedo! Fire one! he yelled, whipping it at the cackling swimmer.

But the older one was too fast and jackknifed below as the dirt bomb splattered harmlessly on the surface. The boy picked up another clod and waited for his brother to come up for air. But he didn't. The boy waited. The seconds ticked by.

Come on, Tommy. Quit it. Here. I'm throwing the dirt bomb away. And he did. Game's over, okay? Still nothing. He knew his brother was a strong swimmer but the boy grew worried.

Tommy!

Then, as if driven by a monstrous clap of thunder, the sky grew dark. But there was no thunder for it had become eerily quiet. Hughie called out to the young boy, who he seemed not to hear. Suddenly, as if someone had opened a door to a wind tunnel, a mighty gust began to race around the perimeter of the pond. Hughie looked to the water's surface, but still no sign of the swimmer. Fearing the worst he called out again to the other boy.

Don't worry, son. I'll save your brother!

Hughie turned quickly toward the boy but he had vanished. Just then the water broke, and the swimmer surfaced, desperately gasping for air.

Let me help you! Hughie screamed.

But the swimmer who, like his younger brother, seemed oblivious of the man. In a frightening instant, the entire pond began to churn, first swirling about in eddies, then merging into a singular, violent whirlpool. The circle tightened around the struggling boy, closing ever so quickly in diameter as the rotation and froth gained momentum. It tightened further around the boy like the giant, unforgiving iris of a massive camera lens. The current escalated, engulfing the boy's legs like so much quicksand, pulling him down, ever down.

Hughie tried to run to the water's edge to save the drowning boy, but his feet seemed as if cemented into the soggy ground, for he could not move a step. He watched in sheer helplessness as the swimmer was sucked deep into the swirling abyss. The water closed over the brown curls of hair, swallowing its prey as the pond slowly returned to deceitful serenity.

And then Hughie saw them, right where the younger boy had stood begging for his brother to break to the surface. Hughie felt his mouth dry out as if filled with sand, his escalating pulse threatening to burst his throbbing heart. Squinting through the gauze of light, there lay on the ground a lifeless body—no, a dead body. A young black man knelt over the prostrate form, his hand cradling a rock splotched with gray pulp and dripping with blood. Both figures were drenched as if they had been tossed overboard into a turbulent sea, or perhaps the raging pond that had swallowed the swimmer. Droplets of blood and gore fell from the rock onto the corpse as blotches of red spread over its clothes in a nightmarish version of a Jackson Pollock canvas.

The black man turned his head toward the intruder, his eyes seeming to glow like the fires of hell. The man stood, never taking his eyes away yet tightening his hold on the bloody rock which now resembled an oversized, sticky softball. Slowly the black man—on closer look, was he merely a teenager?—began his approach, feet pulling from the ground's suction in steady cadence.

Stumbling backward, Hughie raised his hands in defense and croaked, No, oh God, no. I couldn't save him. I tried but I couldn't! Hughie tripped, falling onto his back. He shut his eyes in an effort to escape the terror before him. There he lay, waiting for the rock to split his skull open when… nothing. No sound of approaching feet, no thudding of his own heartbeat. Nothing. He froze, afraid to open his eyes lest he see a hovering figure, the rock mercilessly poised to come crashing down.

The smell of grass was unexpectedly sweet, powerfully sweet in fact, and oddly comforting. Hughie slid a hand across his wet brow, fearing the moisture was his own blood. He opened his eyes. No blood. Lifting onto his elbows he looked around. The black man (boy?) was gone. The dead body was gone. In its place, the grass was dry, sparse blades waving gently in a reluctant breeze. Looking upward the sky appeared to have returned to normal. Then he saw the dangling piece of rope lit softly once again by dappled sunlight. Hughie staggered to his feet.

Well, there's trouble, he heard from behind. Hughie whirled to confront that voice from his past. A sheriff stood less than twenty feet away. But this was most surely no apparition.

1

The late summer shower lost its battle with the sun as Hughie Decker pulled to the side of the road and rolled down the window of his battered pickup. The smell of damp wheat mingled with the scent of muddy earth, recalling past summers spent sneezing his head off. Despite his father's stubborn insistence that the sneezing was but a temporary affliction, Hughie knew he was allergic to the wheat and dense red soil unique to Milrose County, Nebraska.

The drive from Detroit had been largely uneventful, traffic being surprisingly light, and the hours flew by. Taking I-94 West, Hughie changed to I-80 at Gary, Indiana, continuing west before stopping in Grinnell, Iowa, at the small and nearly deserted Bluebird Motel. Anxious to be on the road the following morning, Hughie graciously declined Mrs. Bishop's kind offer of a hearty breakfast. It wasn't so much that he wouldn't be hungry as the fact that Mr. Bishop, the motel manager, possessed an enormous vocabulary of body language, conveying to Hughie in no uncertain terms that his presence at the breakfast table was unnecessary. Though Bishop smiled and thanked Hughie for his patronage, there was a hard and frugal tone to his voice that mirrored the no-nonsense manner with which he had doled out two blue towels the night before.

Count 'em, if you would. To which Hughie dutifully complied, finding no fault with Bishop's arithmetic.

Travelin' far, are you, son?

Left Detroit this morning, said Hughie as he signed his name on the registry card below a picture of a bluebird.

Detroit, huh? muttered Bishop, seeming to study the part in Hughie's hair.

Why, that's about six hundred miles away, ain't it? this from Mrs. Bishop, who had found her way into the office. She said away with the same reverence one might reserve for Avalon or Brigadoon.

Give or take. Hughie smiled, passing the card across the counter.

Mrs. Bishop leaned on her elbows, cradling her chin in upturned hands as she searched Hughie's eyes. Where you headed?

Nebraska, 'course most of my journey's behind me. In miles, anyway, Hughie added, to himself.

Mrs. Bishop continued, Well, in the morning, before you leave, how would a little breakfast sound?

Hughie was momentarily taken aback by the woman's unblinking stare and what seemed a desperate generosity. Gee, ma'am, that's awfully nice—

Bishop snapped up the registry card and scrutinized it with slightly bulging eyes as if it were a bug specimen. His one eyebrow arched to join his hairline while the other looked about to crash into his cheekbone. Why, I suppose that mister, uh, Decker, will be anxious to get an early start. Neither the cardboard smile nor the message behind it were lost on Hughie. It only followed that feeding strangers, young males to boot, was hardly an economically prudent, or necessary, gesture. Bishop supported his reasoning with the staunch belief that the Bluebird's clean and quiet rooms were more than adequate compensation for his extremely reasonable rates. To throw in breakfast would be a foolish extravagance.

From obvious indications, it seemed Mrs. Bishop did not often get a chance to entertain. Hughie was cognizant of a faint yet dire loneliness in the woman, who secretly tossed a bag of ham sandwiches onto the front seat the next morning and pressed a steaming mug of coffee into his hand.

You can return the cup on your way back through. Her eyes trained on his.

Mrs. Bishop stood a moment by the truck door then stepped back, and Hughie started the engine as she meekly waved goodbye.

Thank you, ma'am. Take care, Hughie said and swung the pickup out onto the road. What had made Mrs. Bishop assume Hughie would come back through town was anyone's guess. Likely wishful thinking on her part. The notion was strangely flattering yet tinged with a loneliness, an incompleteness, that he could well understand. He and Mrs. Bishop were pulled—or pushed—in opposite directions: she to escape the reality of her pathetic future, and he to confront the reality of an unforgiving past. Driving away, he glanced through his rearview mirror and saw a gust of dusty wind push against the hem of Mrs. Bishop's faded cotton dress, molding it around her legs as if to propel her toward the motel office. She held a delicate hand over her eyes to shield the dust. Mr. Bishop stepped out of the office door and beckoned to his wife. She nodded her compliance and, after a last look at the retreating pickup, walked resignedly inside.

Hughie readjusted the rearview mirror, sweeping away all trace of the Bluebird Motel. He gratefully sipped his coffee and lifted his elbow as the pickup jounced over a set of railroad tracks. After filling up at a gas station run by an old gentleman who wore what looked like an original Texaco uniform, complete with peaked cap and tie, Hughie passed the outskirts of town and soon rejoined I-80 west. Gobbling down a sandwich, he continued west nonstop to North Platte, Nebraska, where he exited I-80 to veer north on U.S. 83. At the junction of State Road 9 he turned left and was carried onto the familiar macadam. Black snakes of asphalt slithered and crisscrossed the gently curving ribbon of gray that dissected the undulating fields of wheat, musty smelling after the brief summer shower.

A chorus of grasshoppers swelled to a familiar buzz as Hughie stopped the pickup to stretch his legs. With a stubborn creak, the truck door swung open, and Hughie hobbled a moment on stiff legs, crossing behind the back of the truck. He stretched his arms, and his shoulders popped, sounding much like the creaking hinges of the pickup's door. He kicked a small pile of wet, ruddy soil. The blades of grass by the roadside were lush and sparkled with countless prisms of dewdrops. Bending down to pluck a half-inch-wide blade, he placed it between his thumbs, cupping his hands behind. He blew against the blade's edge, causing a piercing and warbling cry. The poignant sound of the prairie whistle, a sound he had made thousands of times before, now seemed strangely hostile, as it silenced the symphony of grasshoppers. In the seclusion of the moment, Hughie was struck by a deep loneliness and, for an instant, half expected to hear his brother's grass whistle in reply.

He stood rooted for a time then parted his thumbs and let the breeze peel away the green blade. All was quiet but for the whisper of the wind as it rustled the tall yellow stalks. Turning back toward the truck, he halted in his tracks. Was that an echo he heard? He dismissed it as imaginary and then heard the warbled cry a second time, this time louder, insistent. Hughie looked up into patches of brilliant blue sky and spotted a red hawk cascading in gentle circles. When it called a third time, Hughie raised his hand in acknowledgment then let go with such a thunderous sneeze he almost lost his balance. At a loss for a fitting response, the hawk ventured off to seek conversation elsewhere. Hughie shrugged his shoulders, kicked the caked mud from his shoes, and headed back to climb behind the wheel, his face breaking into a wry grin. That sneezin's all in your head, boy, his father used to say. His father's diagnosis was merely an attempt to convince Hughie that he could stop sneezing if he really tried. Like Hughie wanted to spend every spring, summer, and fall sneezing. You can stop it, son. Just put your mind to it!

It was pointless for Hughie to explain to his father that his mind had nothing to do with it, that the sneezing was an allergic reaction beyond his control. His father was a stubborn man and did not appreciate being contradicted by anyone, let alone one of his sons. Fact was, the sneezing was in his head, just as his father had declared, and so discretion, and a little fear, told Hughie not to split hairs with the man. I know, Dad. Sorry. I'll try was all he could say. But nothing then, or now, stopped the familiar tickle that began between his eyebrows and move resolutely downward. Another sneeze erupted in a gargantuan explosion.

Damned wheat! Hughie reached for his handkerchief but banged the funny bone of his left elbow on the steering wheel, and his right hand, in an effort to rub the decidedly unfunny tingling, knocked Mrs. Bishop's coffee cup to the floor. It landed on a crescent wrench with a clink. As he bent to pick it up, the handle came off in his right hand, and he juggled the cup briefly before setting it back on the dashboard holder, plopping the handle inside the cup. The tickle shot downward again, and he barely grabbed his handkerchief in time, banging his head on the steering wheel. Doing his best to nip what he knew was the beginning of a long, itchy spell, he reached into the well behind the seat and plopped the barrel bag down beside him. Unzipping an outside pocket, he grabbed one of the allergy pills prescribed by his doctor in Detroit. Hughie had not sneezed, at least not allergy sneezed, since he had left Nebraska years before. Still, on good faith, the doctor had acquiesced and prescribed a preventative nondrowsy antihistamine. He plopped one in dry and shook his head to help the pill scrape down his throat, wondering how rich he'd be by now if he had a dollar for every time he'd banged that damned steering wheel with one body part or another.

How long would this speckled rust bucket of a truck go on? he wondered. How many times had the speedometer flipped over? The current reading was 82,386 miles, but at least another 200,000 had to be added for any approximation of accuracy. Still, the speedometer worked just fine. Sure, its orange needle vibrated a bit when the truck crept over fifty-five, but what or who didn't shake a little at that speed? To the right of the speedometer was the fuel gauge. Nothing wrong there, knock wood. Beside it was a vacant hole. A dashboard clock, revolutionary and downright futuristic in pickups back then, used to fill the empty space.

Hughie tried to remember how long his family had the truck. He knew the model year, of course, which wasn't a valid measuring stick. His father had bought the pickup used, never being able to afford a new truck. Although a thrifty purchase, the years had taken their toll. Hughie wondered how long it would be before he'd have to perform the last rite: haul the old workhorse of a Chevrolet out to the rear of some desolate dump and, mercifully, put a bullet through her radiator.

A breeze rustled the overhead tree. The sun lanced through parting leaves as droplets fell to splatter in dull thuds against the windshield, while rays of light glistened off a single square of glass dangling from the rearview mirror. Rectangles of reflected light swept over Hughie's face like a dance hall mirror ball and then vanished as the sun hid behind a cloud.

The square of glass was all that remained from a set of glass wind chimes once belonging to Hughie's mother, Irene. She left the family several years before, running off with a book salesman who sold door-to-door. Hughie could only assume the salesman's price had been right, one she was willing to pay. While his father never outwardly dwelled on the matter, Hughie knew otherwise. It had never ceased to take its toll on Lemuel Decker.

A blaze of the sun flashed off the glass chime, and Hughie leaned out the window to look at the sky. Puffy clouds chugged southeast, leaving swathes of cerulean blue in their wake. It promised to become a beautiful afternoon on the prairie. He sat back and watched the sun flicker off the solitary square of glass; as it swung silently, its pendulum arcs erratic and infinitely pointless. Its only regularity was the string, now tethered like the solitary prisoner it was to the rearview mirror.

Hughie chuckled softly, the irony of the rearview mirror not lost on him. What was the point of the mirror but to see what you had passed, what was behind you? Like the chime, Hughie was tethered to his own mirror, for all he could see was the reflection of what once was.

He was suddenly gripped with wretched a fear. His hands shook without control as he wondered if he had begun this journey in blind haste. Were his needs