The Year's Best Dark Fantasy & Horror, Volume 1 Read online

  The discussion was short and friendly—Gideon O’Dell actually patted Ralph on the arm before he walked away. Ralph didn’t suddenly cry out in horrified recognition. But then, Ralph had never seen him except as—

  As what—a ghost? But Gideon O’Dell wasn’t dead. So how could Ralph Costa or Mr. Grafton have seen him murdering Lily?

  Maybe it was the ghost of his old life? That sounded stupid even just in my head.

  Unbidden, my mother’s words came to me: Stains like that don’t wash out so easily.

  Maybe that was it—Lily was a ghost, Gideon was a stain.

  That should have sounded just as stupid, but it didn’t.

  Even at this point, I didn’t consider talking to my friends. The few who weren’t away spending two months with a divorced parent had soccer or swim team or were in summer school. That’s what I told myself, anyway. In reality, I just didn’t want to tell them about my parents. They’d have understood; a lot of them had already been through it. It seemed like most of the kids I knew lived either with single parents or in what the magazine called blended families, because that made stepparents and step-brothers and step-sisters sound sweet like a smoothie rather than something out of the Brothers Grimm.

  My friends would all be very sympathetic. Then they’d start rehashing their own horror stories along with the ones they’d heard secondhand. Talk about Grimm. But they were actually supposed to make you feel better about your own shitstorm. See how much worse it could be?

  Except I did know. My friends all knew about Saddle Hills’ worst-ever crime. But none of them had grown up within sight of Lily O’Dell’s murder, or seen Mr. Grafton trying over and over to wash it off the road. And none of them had a murderer for a tree man.

  Then it occurred to me while I was brooding up in my room one afternoon: what if I told them I did?

  Hey, guys, you’re never gonna believe this—

  They’d all be in such a rush to tell everyone else, they probably wouldn’t even notice my father had moved out.

  But then what?

  Would people call the police? Cancel their tree service? Would there be emergency neighborhood watch meetings? Would everyone march on City Hall? Or would the villagers simply descend on Green & Serene with pitchforks and torches to drag the monster out and throw him over the cliff themselves?

  It was entirely possible, I thought uneasily, that if people did know, Gideon O’Dell might not be safe. For real.

  Yeah, ask his wife how that feels, a voice in my head whispered nastily. Screw him. He’s a murderer who should be doing life in prison, not pruning elms. He got off easy, not even ten years. You know who didn’t get a deal? Lily O’Dell—she’s dead forever. He deserves whatever he gets. If he’s not a real ghost, he ought to be.

  After a bit, I realized I’d been sitting with my fists balled up so tightly my palms were starting to cramp. It was one of the few times I was glad I was a nail-biter because otherwise my palms would have been bleeding. Gideon O’Dell had made me that angry.

  Gideon O’Dell had made me that angry?

  Well, not just him—my parents and their divorce bullshit and every other grown-up who just tromped around only caring about themselves. My parents probably thought I was adjusting and maybe sometimes I thought so, too. As if anything could really be that easy! Like fucking up my life was no big deal. They were as bad as Gideon O’Dell.

  Part of me knew the comparison was out of proportion but that was more mature than I wanted to be just then. It was grown-up thinking, and seeing as how I couldn’t do anything else they did like drink or drive or join the army or just fuck shit up for the hell of it, I wasn’t going to be an adult about this, either.

  “What’s going on next door?” I asked, looking out the dining room window at all the G&S trucks pulling in. “Are the Coopermans having a party for the tree men? Or are they just luring them in for a mass baptism?” The Coopermans left pamphlets in our mailbox about the joys of being baptized once a month.

  “They’re cutting down the elm in their backyard,” my mother said. “Deborah Cooperman asked if I wanted any for firewood.”

  “Oh, shit.” I moved to the patio doors to watch the tree men setting up “I love that tree. How could they?”

  “Language,” my mother said but without any real feeling. She was engrossed in a computer magazine. “All elms in this country have Dutch elm disease and eventually, there’s nothing you can do.”

  “Theirs still looks okay to me,” I grumbled.

  “G&S gave them an estimate of what the upkeep would cost. They decided to keep their kids instead.” She chuckled. “If I had to choose between our elm tree and you, I’d choose you.”

  I glared at her, suppressing a remark about grown-ups’ choices.

  “Probably,” she added, smiling with half her mouth. “On a good day, for sure. But I also have bad days. You have been warned.”

  I couldn’t help laughing. All of a sudden, I was tired of being mad at her and my father, fed up with being fed up. I sat down next to her on the sofa and let her tell me about the computer she’d learned to use at her job and how it was changing everything. She was talking about the office network when I suddenly felt cold, like the temperature had dropped from eighty-five to fifty-five, and I knew Gideon O’Dell had arrived. I got up and went to the patio door.

  “Gale?” my mother asked, puzzled. “What’s wrong?”

  “Everything,” I said.

  Why would Gideon O’Dell come back here instead of going just about anywhere else? For all the happy memories? To find himself? To find America?

  Christ, why did grown-ups do anything?

  Because it was the worst possible idea, of course.

  Made sense.

  It took three days for them to reduce the Coopermans’ elm to firewood and toothpicks and I watched pretty much the whole thing. Or rather, I watched Gideon O’Dell while I sat out on the patio pretending to read A Tale of Two Cities. I’d already read it for school so if anybody asked what section I was pretending to be on, I could answer. Not that anyone would—my mother was at work all day and none of the tree men were going to wander over to the fence on a break and ask me what else I’d read by Dickens. There was a small risk of the Coopermans sending over one of their kids with a pamphlet; if so, I’d pretend to use it as a bookmark and toss it later.

  But no one bothered with me. Mrs. Cooperman was busy making lemonade and iced tea for the G&S guys and even gave them lunch. I suppose it was a good Christian thing to do since killing the elm was such hard work. She smiled and waved at me a couple of times and I waved back, fantasizing about telling her who was in her backyard. If Mary had been outside, she’d have probably been telling all the tree men how great Jesus was. Jesus loves you. Jesus loves everybody.

  But did Mrs. Cooperman? How much Christian charity would she have for Gideon O’Dell? Would she judge not or cast the first stone? I was tempted to find out, except I had a very strong feeling it would somehow backfire. Either my parents would be furious with me for not telling them right away or it would turn out the guy wasn’t really Gideon O’Dell after all.

  Or worst of all, he was Gideon O’Dell with a fake ID, and he’d come back later to shut me up.

  Right now, he was high up in the tree with a chain saw. All of the leafy branches had been cut away and now they were starting on the thicker arms. He seemed to be having a good time. Guys with power tools were basically kids with toys. But it was more than that, I thought. He was killing a live thing.

  That’s why he came back, I thought suddenly. My heart was pounding like a jackhammer in slow-motion: Bang . . . bang . . . bang. Because secateurs and machetes and chain saws are more fun than a cheap steak knife.

  I walked over to lean on the fence. I’d been so worried about him seeing me but now I wanted him to. I wanted him to know I was onto him.

  But when he did finally look in my direction, his gaze slid away without interest before I could even hold my breath. Talk
about an anticlimax. I actually felt cheated. Disrespected, even.

  But maybe he’d been too busy killing his wife to notice me that night. Now he was too busy killing a tree. Or trying to; the chain saw jammed suddenly, then cut out altogether. Was that as frustrating as a broken steak knife?

  Lily O’Dell had still been alive when the blade broke off but she hadn’t been screaming. She’d had no breath left. Her left lung had collapsed and the right one was about to. The adrenaline that had powered her desperate sprint was gone. She’d used the last of her energy to punch through the top of the screen door and grab at me. Then Gideon O’Dell dragged her away by her hair into the street, where he stabbed her and stabbed her and stabbed her until the handle of the knife was so slippery with blood it slid out of his hand.

  My head cleared and I found myself sitting on the ground beside the fence with the sun in my eyes. I went back to my chair on the patio wondering what the hell had come over me. Some kind of vivid waking dream? Not a memory—or rather, not my memory. What I had seen in my mind’s eye had all been from Lily O’Dell’s point of view.

  It only took one day for Gideon O’Dell to cut down the redbud tree in our front yard, working alone. Two other guys deep-watered the elm beside the house and the walnut tree in the backyard and explained how to harvest the walnuts. We couldn’t just pick them off the tree like apples, which was disappointing. It all sounded like a lot of tedious effort for a few nuts. Even having a murderer in our front yard didn’t make it less boring.

  I sat on the carpet a couple of feet back from the screen door pretending to read Poe’s Tales of Mystery and Imagination. As usual, Gideon O’Dell worked away like nothing had ever happened here, like he wasn’t twenty feet away from the very spot where he stabbed his wife to death.

  How could he not feel weird being here?

  Maybe he had amnesia. Maybe he got beaten up so many times in prison he had brain damage.

  Abruptly, he put down the chain saw, looked directly at me. I stared back; the book resting on my folded legs fell shut. If he hadn’t seen me before, he had now. Hadn’t he? No, he hadn’t; his eyes weren’t focused on me at all, I realized, watching as he took the bandanna around his neck off, wiped his face with it, then tied it around his head.

  What are you doing here? What do you want? I asked him silently. His face gave nothing away. The only thing I could read was the name tag pinned to the front of his overalls: GO. What kind of a name was that?

  His initials, of course, what his buddies used to call him. Also his family, including L—

  I shook my head to clear it. Gideon O’Dell, aka GO, was now staring thoughtfully at the roof. I went up to my room.

  I stayed back from the window, watching the rest of the redbud’s destruction with binoculars. Occasionally, I turned to the forever-unclean spot on the road, like I might see something besides old dirty asphalt. Like Lily O’Dell’s blood might come bubbling up out of the ground in outrage.

  Nothing happened, of course, except GO finished demolishing the redbud.

  The son of a bitch came back on Sunday afternoon. Parked his truck in our driveway, trotted up the stairs, and rang the doorbell. I stayed in my room, wondering if he’d finally decided to force his way in and kill us. It was broad daylight, everyone in the neighborhood was home and kids were outside playing, but a mad killer might not care.

  I couldn’t hear what my mother said when she answered the door but she sounded friendly. So did Gideon O’Dell, friendly and a little subservient before he got a ladder and climbed up onto the roof with a toolbox.

  My mother came up to tell me not to use the front door for a while. “If you want to go out, use the patio door. I’ve got a guy fixing loose tiles on the roof.”

  “One of the G&S guys,” I said accusingly. “The one that cut down the redbud.”

  She nodded. “He saw them while he was here. He said he’d done that kind of work and he’d charge less than a roofer so I told him to come back today.”

  “What if he does a lousy job?” I asked.

  “He guaranteed his work, and if he couldn’t fix something, he’d tell me.”

  “What if he’s lying? For all we know, he’s a burglar casing the joint.”

  “Then he’ll know there’s lot better pickings next door. Assuming he can fence a collection of ugly silver and tacky Nelson Rockwell plates.” She chuckled.

  “What if he’s worse than a burglar?” I said as she turned to leave. “Like, a murderer?”

  She turned back to me, eyebrows raised. “Like what—an IRS agent?”

  “What do you know about him?” I persisted. “What’s his name? Where does he live?”

  “You know, when most parents have this conversation, it’s the other way around.” She came over and sat down next to me on the bed. “He’s just fixing some roof tiles, Gale. We’re not going out on a date. And he’s not a total stranger, he works for our tree service. I’m paying cash so I only know his nickname, which is—”

  “Go,” I said. “Do you know his real name?”

  All at once, she went serious. “Did this guy ever try anything inappropriate with you?” she asked. “Or one of the neighbor kids?”

  That lie was too evil to tell, even about him. “No, definitely not,” I said. “But who knows what kind of person he really is?”

  “Who knows what kind of person anybody really is?” My mother gave me a hug. “You don’t like the guy, stay away from him. No fault, no foul, everybody wins. Okay?”

  He’s not just a guy, he’s a murderer, he’s Gideon O’Dell, I tried to say. But when I opened my mouth, all that came out was, “Okay.”

  She kissed me on the forehead and went back downstairs, leaving me to wonder what the hell was wrong with me. It wasn’t okay. Gideon O’Dell was up on our roof, exuding poison from his wife-murdering soul and somehow I was the only one who could feel it.

  Because Lily O’Dell had touched me, I realized. I couldn’t remember but I didn’t have to. I had her memory—it was in her blood.

  “Pizza for supper?” my mother asked. She’d just made another gallon of iced tea to replace what Gideon O’Dell had drunk. I had ice water instead.

  When I put away the ice cube trays and closed the freezer door, I saw a fridge magnet holding a slip of paper with a phone number on it and underneath, Go’s cell, call anytime, leave message.

  “That’s just in case he has to repair his repair job,” my mother said.

  “You think he’ll have to?” I asked.

  “We’ll see. They’re predicting heavy thunderstorms tonight.” My mother chuckled. “Don’t worry, I’m sure it’s nothing that’ll keep you awake.”

  “We’ll see,” I said, mimicking her. She didn’t notice.

  We ate pizza from Valentino’s in front of the TV. Talking her into having a glass of wine wasn’t hard and she didn’t protest when I suggested a second, but then, it was an Australian Shiraz. I told myself that was why she’d poured such a full glass and drunk it more quickly than usual. But so what? She wasn’t drunk, just very relaxed. She’d get a good night’s sleep and no hangover.

  Or maybe just a little one, I thought as she had a third glass, which killed the bottle. There was no more wine in the house but she wouldn’t have opened another bottle anyway—she was too relaxed to use a corkscrew. She’d also get part of her good night’s sleep in front of the TV but that suited me just fine.

  My mother was snoring softly even before the first warning rumble of thunder. I threw Grandma’s hand-crocheted afghan over her and waited to see if she’d stir. More thunder, louder this time; she didn’t even twitch. I went into the kitchen to get Gideon O’Dell’s phone number, started to go up to my room, then stopped. Not because I was having second thoughts but because I wanted to make sure my mother wasn’t about to wake up. I tiptoed into the living room to check on her.

  As if on cue, thunder boomed, seemingly right overhead. It wasn’t loud enough to rattle the windows but I thought if anyth
ing would wake her, that would. She didn’t even twitch. I turned out all the lights, started to go up to my room again and then paused, looking at the front door. The TV threw just enough light so I could see it was locked.

  Unlock it.

  The words were so distinct, it was like someone had actually whispered in my ear. But I could hear my mother still snoring under the babble of the latest hot cop show. If I was hearing voices, they weren’t too bright; opening the door would wake my mother for sure.

  Not open it—not yet. Just unlock it.

  It crossed my mind even as I did so that this alone would be enough to wake my mother, because you never, ever left anything unlocked after dark. But any disturbance in the Force this might have caused was no match for three glasses of Shiraz. Or for Lily O’Dell, who I realized was in charge of this party.

  Good. Now you can go upstairs.

  I felt like I should say thank you but at the same time, I understood Lily O’Dell didn’t care how well-mannered I was.

  Lightning flickered like a strobe; a few seconds later, thunder cracked like the sky was breaking apart. Maybe it was. My room was dark except for the nightlight in the wall outlet beside my bed, an owl and a pussycat sitting in the curve of a crescent moon. I unplugged it and opened the window. There was a streetlight about halfway between our driveway and the one next door but it seemed dimmer than usual and I couldn’t see the street very well. As I raised the screen and leaned out, it started to rain.

  It was the kind of rain that comes straight down and very hard, like it’s real pissed-off at everything it’s falling on. Tonight, I could actually believe it was. It slapped leaves off trees, smashed down the geraniums lining either side of our driveway, pounded the pavement hard enough to bounce.

  Had it rained the night Lily O’Dell got killed? I was pretty sure it hadn’t—