Valerie Malmont - Death, Snow, and Mistletoe

Almost as if she could read my mind, she said, “I know what you think of my husband. I done seen it in your face-the first time you'uns done come up here to our double-wide asking questions.”

She continued her one-sided conversation. “You're right about him, you know. He ain't held a job in years. And when he gets drunk he hurts the kids and me. What do you think I oughta do, miss?”

I broke my silence. “I'd ask myself what was best for my kids, then I'd do it.” Even as I said it, I knew it wasn't that easy.

“I don't know how I'd take care of them all by myself. I'm near thirty, you know, and I ain't never had a job.”

Near thirty! I'd assumed she was much older than I. “Don't you have family? Someplace you could go until you can get on your feet?”

“I got a sister lives in West Virginia,” she said thoughtfully. She turned and walked slowly back to her trailer. I wished there was something I could do to help her.

As I swung the truck around, preparing to leave, I saw the parents preparing to leave for the hospital by packing their kids into the back of an ancient pickup truck. I shuddered and headed toward Pearl's house.

Pearl clung to my hand for support, but she was strong when she told her parents exactly what Peter had done. Her parents were stunned-disbelieving-and angry. Angry with me for bringing them the bad news, with Pearl for not having stopped Peter, with his teacher for not having recognized his aberrant behavior, and with the community for not providing young people with enough to do. They appeared to accept no responsibility at all for what their child had become.

When they finally calmed down, they agreed to follow me to the barracks. The truck they drove was as old and disreputable as the one Kevin's family had left in.

The state police barracks was on Scalp Level Road, about half a mile outside the borough limits. It was a low, modern building of brick and glass, surrounded by barren fields. I'd been there before, wearing my reporter's hat, so I knew when summer came it would be nearly hidden among the cornstalks.

My legs shook as I got out of the truck. I was exhausted from the shocking events of the day: finding Kevin, the pounding I'd taken from the barrage of rocks, and the emotional meetings with both sets of Pof-fenberger parents.

A trooper whom I'd met a few times while covering stories there escorted Pearl and her parents into an interrogation room. While the door was open, I got a quick glimpse of Peter, who was behind a Formica-covered table. Across from him sat another trooper and an attorney I recognized from the public defender's office.

In another room, I was questioned by two troopers, one male and one female, for nearly twenty minutes. After I'd described what had happened several times, the female officer asked, “Surely you must have some idea why Peter lured you there? Did you do anything to antagonize him?”

I shook my head, mystified. “I've only spoken to him two times. And I didn't even accuse him of anything, even though I sensed he wasn't telling me the whole truth. I gave him my card and asked him to call me if he thought of anything that might help us find Kevin. I thought he knew more than he was telling and might open up if he could get away from Pearl's influence. That's why I wasn't totally surprised to hear from him this morning.”

While I spoke, the policeman who'd been in the interrogation room with Peter entered, sank into a chair, and sighed wearily. “I hate it when kids commit crimes. I want to believe people are basically good and learn to be criminals from others. But then I run into someone like Peter who seems to have been born bad. He not only admitted what he did, but told us how much he enjoyed doing it. The kid's a monster!”

“Did he say why he wanted to hurt me?” I asked.

He smiled wryly. “If it makes you feel better, Tori, it was nothing personal. He'd gotten warmed up killing Kevin-at least he thought he had-and found it a lot more exciting than torturing the neighbors’ pets. He wanted to repeat the thrill. He figured it would be easy to get you to believe he was going to lead you to Kevin. He was looking for another victim, and you were available.”

I pondered this for a minute. I'd always thought of myself as a wary person; that was how I'd survived for ten years in New York. But Peter was just a boy. It had never occurred to me I'd have anything to fear from a child.

“No wonder he was so secretive,” I said. “I thought he was hiding from Pearl, but now I see he was avoiding being seen with me, so later nobody would connect him with my… disappearance.” I shuddered to think what would have happened if Pearl hadn't followed us and rescued me.

“What will the court do to him?” I asked.

“Most likely, he'll be sent to a juvenile facility, where he'll get some counseling. It might help, but I doubt it. More likely, he'll come out at eighteen a full-fledged, hardened criminal.”

With that gloomy statement, our meeting was concluded. As I walked into the waiting room, I saw the Poffenbergers, sitting apart from each other on wooden benches. I crossed over to Pearl and hugged her. “Thanks again, honey,” I said.

She allowed herself a small smile. “They said I wouldn't get into no trouble since I helped you. But I guess Peter will.”

“He'll be all right, I'm sure,” I said.

Again, I wished I felt as optimistic about his chances for recovery as I tried to sound.

The late-afternoon sky was pewter-gray when I finally pulled into the circular drive in front of my house. I was exhausted, bruised, dirty, and emotionally drained. All I could think about was unwinding with a hot bath and an ice-cold Scotch and water.

As soon as I opened the back door, I knew something was wrong. The cats sat on the kitchen table, fur rumpled, golden eyes wide and indignant. Even Icky had edged forward an inch or two in his terrarium. For him that was practically aerobic exercise.

“What's wrong?” Even as I spoke, I began to notice that my piles of books, catalogs, magazines, notes I'd written to myself, letters, and all the rest of the clutter that seems to accumulate wherever I am, looked messier than usual.

Someone had been in my house, searching through my stuff. Not Praxythea. I was sure of that. If she'd touched anything of mine it would have been to straighten it up, not throw it around like this.

Oh, no, I thought, what if they've stolen some of Ethe-lind's antiques! In a panic, I ran down the hall into the front parlor. The drawers of the antique walnut desk had been pulled out, upended, and tossed to the floor, but the valuable things, like the Staffordshire dogs on the mantel, the engraved silver boxes, and the Waterford crystal vases full of silk flowers were still in their places.

Upstairs, next to my bedroom, in the small room that I'd planned to use for a study back in the days when I thought I'd actually have time to work on my book, even more havoc had been wrought. My two-drawer, cardboard filing cabinet had been ripped apart, and my manuscripts lay scattered on the Oriental carpet.

The cats walked over and sniffed at the mess.

“Fine watchcats you are,” I scolded. “If you can't do better than this, I'll have to take down my ATTACK CAT sign.”

What on earth had anyone expected to find in here? I wondered as I stared at the mess. My secondhand laptop computer was the only semivaluable article I owned, and it was still on the desk where I'd left it.

I remembered Luscious telling me about a break-in at a nearby home. Teenagers, he'd suspected. I wondered if the same ones were responsible for this vandalism.