Robert Lopresti: Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 56, No. 5, May 2011

“Danny, come see what I found.” A screen door banged. The boy and the bones faded into silence.

Anxious and determined, Willie eased along the street. He noted the number of occupied dwellings, the placement of garages, and the occasional signs warning of home security alarms. The house where the boy lived lifted above a sprawl of steps that opened onto a wraparound porch. Below the porch, latticework screened an area big enough to store garden tools or conceal a man. Nodding at the possibilities, Willie changed direction.

At the corner grocery, he purchased a poncho, two quart bottles of water, and a handful of candy bars. He squatted behind a tall hedge of forsythia opposite the boy’s house and unwrapped one of the bars. Convenience over substance. He had to recover those bones.

When the sun went down, the family who lived in the house settled down to dinner. Willie heard the scraping of utensils on plates and the excited chatter of boys with a secret. Their voices triggered a memory of that first night Dixon and Queenie took him in. They had served lasagna and made small talk, welcoming him at their table but screening him from their hearts. Swallowing hard to combat the ache of loss and longing, Willie rested against a light pole as traffic dwindled. When the porch light snapped off, he moved. Gritting his teeth against the possibility of spiders and rats, he crossed the lawn and crawled under the porch. He wrestled the poncho under him and wiggled around until he’d made a comfortable depression in the lumpy earth. The first moment the house sat empty, he vowed, he’d step in and take what belonged to him. Engrossed in his planning, alert to every noise that creaked above his head, he missed the chime signaling Queenie’s text, her words a backlit sprawl in the night.

The first night it rained, water cascading in heavy sheets down the spouting to pool in the dirt edges of Willie’s hiding place. Raindrops slithered through the cracks in the porch flooring and dripped down his back. Images of Queenie and snakes and Dixon’s angry face traded places in his restless sleep. Damp and shivering, Willie woke early, his stomach a constant grumble that matched the skeleton’s complaints. Num-num-num-num-NUM. After the parents left for work, Willie caught the echoes of the boys’ chatter as he and Danny, probably the older brother, examined the skeleton.

“Where’d you say you found this?” Danny’s voice waxed and waned as he moved around the porch above Willie’s head. “Who followed you?”

The boy evaded his brother’s questions, his excitement spilling outward with the bones as he pulled them from the bag.

Willie unwrapped another candy bar and munched away, wishing the boys would leave so he could grab the skeleton and go, but the wet weather kept them all housebound. Willie dozed, his plan drifting on the murmur of Kardu’s song. By midafternoon he felt feverish. His stomach had given up growling, but hunger nagged at him. He couldn’t think how to leave before it grew dark enough to hide his escape. Rereading Queenie’s message, he weighed the pros and cons of surrendering to desire. He ached to see her. Could she be trusted?

Later that night, after a midnight run to the all-night grocery, Willie dreamed of holding Queenie, of rejoining the carnival as her partner and her spouse. But King Kardu’s mumbling woke him. Hum-da-hum. Lal-lal-lal. The thrum of the bones pounded inside Willie’s head. Caught up in his anxious thoughts, Willie forgot about the boys, until Danny leaned his head against the lattice and yelled.

The squad car arrived just after seven a.m. Willie inched away from the officer’s outstretched hand, but he knew if he didn’t come out, they’d just come in and get him. Crawling forward, he scrambled to his feet, brushing off the mud and sand that clung to his pants and feet.

“Mind telling me,” the officer said, pointing out the candy wrappers that littered the ground, “what you’re doing here?”

Willie shrugged off the cop’s restraining hand and looked up at the four faces staring down at him from behind the porch railing. He pointed at the boy.

“He stole my bag,” Willie said.

“That right?” the cop asked. The boy shuffled closer to his brother and nodded. Frowning, the police officer grabbed Willie by the collar and shoved him forward to the bottom of the steps.

“Go get it,” the father ordered, exasperation coloring his command.

The boy came out carrying the blue laundry bag as if it contained Queenie’s taipan instead of the ancient bones of an Aboriginal witch doctor.

“This yours?” the cop asked. Willie nodded. “All right, folks, we’ll take it from here.”

The cop grabbed the bag and Willie’s arm and headed for the squad car. He settled Willie in the back and contacted the precinct. Willie eased closer to the bones. He ran a hand over his dirty hair and groaned as the officer spoke.

“Jenks,” he said, “tell Sarge we found that missing person.”

The gray walls and plain table and chairs of the interrogation room offered Willie no comfort. At his feet Kardu rested, his bones silent for now. Exhausted, Willie placed his head on the table, cushioned it with his arms, and slept.

“Willie!” Dixon Stout’s boom of greeting roused him. The bones jittered. Dixon lifted Willie from the chair and hugged him, his whisper unheard by the policeman who watched from the doorway. “Save it until we get you out of here.”

“This your missing person?” the cop said.

Dixon emphasized his response with a second hug and a clap on Willie’s back. “This is our Willie.” He smoothed Willie’s tangled hair back from his forehead. “We sure were worried about you, son. Glad you’re safe.”

A rustle of warning and Queenie stood there, staring at Willie’s matted curls and mud-splashed clothes, her face a careful blend of joy and sadness. “Poor Willie,” she murmured.

Embarrassed, Willie shrugged out of Dixon’s embrace and slid into the chair. He couldn’t think of a thing to say.

“Perhaps,” the cop said, picking up the bag and opening the drawstring to display the contents, “you folks can explain this.” He gestured at the skeleton folded inside.

“Of course, Officer.” Dixon moved away from Willie. He pulled a bill of sale out of his shirt pocket and handed it over. “I own a carnival, and Kardu here is our star attraction. See.” Dixon tapped his finger on the signature at the bottom, at the date, at the description of the artifact.

“Huh,” the cop said, handing the receipt back to Dixon. Queenie popped her gum. “Strange thing to be hauling around.”

No one spoke. They all waited, their eyes shifting from walls to ceiling. Willie stamped his feet. Finally, the cop nodded. “All right. But I think it best you all head on to that church camp — in Tennessee, was it?” He ushered them out of the room.

With Dixon on one side and Queenie on the other, Willie carried the bag to the truck.

“Get in,” Queenie said, placing her hand on his elbow and propelling him into the back seat of the cab. Her purse swung down between them, the contents shifting in a slow slip and a hiss. “Here, wipe your face.”

She handed him one of Dix’s handkerchiefs wrapped around a thin hard object. Willie pretended to fumble with the seat belt while Dixon started the truck. He unfolded the cloth Queenie had given him. A switchblade impressed with the name Billabong slithered out and fell into his lap. Hiding the knife next to the money in his vest, Willie wrapped the monogrammed linen around his neck. He stared at Dixon’s back, resisting the urge to plunge the blade between Dix’s angry shoulders.

Dixon drove two blocks, turned left, turned left again and parked at the mouth of an alley. A For Sale sign sneered down from the warehouse guarding the entrance. Graffiti sprayed along the wall warned that the end was near.