Thomas Craig: The Outkast

“You mean the Oedipus’s Return?”

The boy nodded.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Rob. The book’s not mine. I borrowed it, too. But rest assured as soon as I lay hands on it again, I’ll let you know.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Brian drained his cup of coffee. “So, tell me something,” he said. “Were you in Mr. Carter’s office earlier this morning to borrow some horror books, or what?”

“No, he never read horror stories. He hated them.”

“Oh, I see. Then, what were you doing in his office?”

“Mr. Carter locked me up in the toilet.”

Brian frowned. “Locked you up in the office toilet?”

A nod.

“Why’d he do such a thing?” Brian asked, setting his empty cup down on the desk.

“I don’t know. He said I was good for nothing.”

“He locked you up because he thought you were good for nothing?”

“No, he didn’t say that this morning. But he used to say it, along with Mr…” Robert trailed off, looked up at Brian, and then dropped his gaze.

Brian shifted forward in his chair. “Along with whom?” he goaded.

Rather than responding, Robert dug at the floor with the toe of his left shoe. His gaze was now fixed on the desk top, and his eyes had suddenly become wet with tears.

“Rob?” Brian called.

He looked up at Brian, small and innocent and needy.

As he stared at the boy, Brian felt those words fly around and pepper the wall of his mind like bullets from a blunderbuss, ricocheting off and hitting the wall again. He was moved.

“Here, take this.” Brian passed a sheet of Kleenex to the boy. “I want you to stop crying. Don’t you know it breaks a man’s heart to see his pal cry?”

Robert seemed to deliberate on a response.

“I don’t want you to cry. What I want you to do is talk to me,” Brian urged. “Tell me everything.”

Robert snuffled. “Mr. Murphy,” he sobbed. “He calls me useless, too. They say I’m no good, and that I’m the laughingstock of all other students and everyone in Ogre’s Pond. And maybe they’re right.”

“Not if you don’t listen to them, Rob.”

“I have no friends,” Robert lamented. “I’m alone.” Then, as if some measure of hope had just rushed into his melancholy heart, he added: “Well, my mom’s my good friend. She’s the best.”

“I’m glad you have someone you can confide in, and who makes you happy,” Brian said.

“And you, too, Sheriff Stack.”

“Thank you, Rob. It’s my honor to be your friend. Now, take this.” Brian passed another sheet of Kleenex to him. “I want you to wipe your eyes clean, and then tell me the exact reason why Mr. Carter locked you up. And then tell me everything else that you think I might like to hear.”

Ogre’s Pond was a small town of a little over ten hundred people. Seventy five miles northwest of Colorado Springs and nestled among a sierra of mountains, it was a speck in the ocean of places.

Charles Smallwood had worked as a logger until he met his end eleven months ago. Of course, he wasn’t the only logger in town, but his matchless wealth of experience in the logging business carved him an iconic niche amongst his mates, driving the rest into oblivion. His fame radiated like an early-morning sun on a cloudless day, and with this rose a terrifying amount of enmity.

About the time of his death, he had just bought a large farmland, a piece adjoining Kelly’s Ranch, down towards the Sebastian River. It was a fat investment of which nearly every denizen of Ogre’s Pond was envious. But the locals didn’t have to scotch under the heat of jealousy for too long because, barely a couple of weeks after the purchase, Charles Smallwood died.

And then words began to fly around.

Although the circumstances surrounding his death pointed to homicide-a cold case to date-speculations had been widely embraced within the community that his wife, Holly, was solely responsible for his demise.

“She’s a witch,” some would say. “And a very terrible one, at that.”

“No doubt,” others would agree. “But I bet she sent a hit man after her own husband. She couldn’t be satisfied with her black powers. Had to add in the service of a hired killer. Just how more hideous could a woman be?”

Yeah, the word flew around pretty fast, spreading like wildfire, playing over and over again on the lips of old and young, men and women, friends and foes.

In fact, some of the sheriff’s deputies swallowed the rumors, albeit with a pinch of salt.

And it wasn’t much of a surprise that people talked in such a fashion, considering Charles Smallwood was the third man Holly had buried within a span of eight years. Her two previous husbands had died shortly after making their huge investments as well.

As hatred towards Holly grew with the passage of each day, her only son became sucked into the whirlpool of hostility. He was ridiculed at school as the miserable, runty son of the Golden Witch.

Then, there was the issue of Robert Smallwood’s size.

And his somewhat troubling taste for horror books.

As was his wont, Robert had a dream. A really dark dream. A nightmare.

Although it was downright horrible, it wasn’t the worst he had had. In the past, he had awakened without any strength to speak, let alone cry. He had only lay there in bed-in the dark-shivering, and cold sweat had trickled down his face to his neck. He measured the intensity of each nightmare based on how much energy had been dissipated during the surreal experience-and consequently how weak he felt whenever he woke up. So, in the past, he’d had it a lot worse.

Today, he woke up full of strength, and he was screaming. Tears, not sweat, streamed down his cheeks. And there were smears of blood on his hands.

Yet, Robert was extremely terrified for another reason.

When he came awake, he wasn’t in his bed. Instead, he was sitting at the entrance to the toilet in Mr. Carter’s office.

A knife-was that a knife he had in his trembling hand? A glinting knife, partly coated with blood?

And there was Mr. Trevor Carter, lying on the floor, motionless. There was blood on his neck, the same blood on Robert’s hands and knife, perhaps.

Now, from where he sat in the lobby, his reflection on what had happened shortly after he’d stepped out of the dreamscape into Mr. Carter’s office got terminated by the Sheriff’s rising voice. Brian Stack was having a word with Holly in his office.

“This is a pretty serious case we’re dealing with, Mrs. Smallwood,” Brian told Holly, who sat with her hands in her lap. Her blue wrinkled short-sleeved top hung loosely on her scrawny shoulder. The blouse’s neck was too wide. She appeared too exhausted. “And the fact that a teen’s involved doesn’t make it any less grave.”

Holly let out a sigh, her eyes full of sorrow and paranoia.

Brian did a slight revision of his statement. “Of course, he’s a kid. And what that means is, when all is said and done, he’ll be treated as such. If he was an adult, we’d be talking differently now, but such difference would lie only in terms of his penalty, not the harm done.”

“What harm and penalty are you talking about, Sheriff Stack? Have you decided to gang up together with them to destroy me and my son?”

Brian scowled. “What made you think anyone is ganging up on you?”

“Oh, the walls have ears.”

Sitting up straight, Brian said, “And did the walls hear about me, too? About my involvement in the so-called plot against you?”

“You?” Holly said, adjusting her blouse that was sliding off her shoulder. “I just said it. You don’t need to lay it bare on the table for me to know where you stand, Sheriff. I can read between the lines. I can sense undertones.”