Thomas Craig: The Outkast

At five-thirty on a drizzly Tuesday morning, the week following Trevor Carter’s murder, Brian and his Deputy, Allan Moore, paid Holly a second visit. They had gone there the previous night to inform her that the hair sample at the scene of murder was certainly Robert’s. And though more reports on the blood specimen were still under way, it already seemed Robert might be getting very close to being charged with murder.

“Have you received the rest of the reports now, Sheriff?” Holly asked as she opened the front entrance door, one hand on the knob, the other trying to put her unruly night robe in check. “Since you couldn’t even wait for the day to break, is it time to arrest my son?”

“We’re not here to arrest your son, Holly. Not yet, anyway.”

“What a respite,” Holly said, and Brian could feel the heat of sarcasm radiating from her. “I’m trying to take a guess on the purpose of this visit. Are there more bodies-like maybe two or three together this time?”

The two men exchanged glances briefly.

“Well, since I’ve figured there’s no point beating around the mulberry bush,” Allan said, his shaggy raven black hair peeping out of the hood, which in turns dripped water onto the porch steps, “yes, there’s been another murder down the Sebastian River, but-”

Holly gasped.

“But it’s only one-not two or three like you stated. Perhaps the remaining two will be discovered later,” Allan concluded in his own sarcastic way.

“Good Lord,” Holly said. “Again? And I didn’t mean any of my words. I was only… was only…”

“It’s all right,” Brian said, hunching over as a plastic bag he carried under his raincoat scratched his groin. “But first things first-may we come inside? This drizzle is soaking us the heck up-defying even the raincoats.”

“What has this new death got to do with my son again, Sheriff?” Holly asked, once seated in the living room.

Brian scratched at the nape of his neck. “I hate to say this, but Rob’s getting caught up in something really messy, messy and pretty mysterious. And when I speak of mystery, I mean the reason why he’s doing what he’s doing.”

“Doing what? Killing the residents one by one?”

Allan cleared his throat. “Mrs. Smallwood-”

“Call me Holly, please.”

“All right, sorry, Holly. As I was saying, Rob’s paraphernalia was found at the bank of Sebastian River: a knife, exactly the size and type as the one found in Mr. Carter’s office, soggy red hair-”

“And that has to belong to Rob? Deputy, the red hair has to be my son’s?”

“Not necessarily, but-”

Holly went on. “Oh, wait a minute. I just got it. Every red hair in this community will automatically be his. And as a result, the most notorious twelve-year-old redhead in the community has become the murderer of men. See how ridiculous and dumb that sounds?”

“Maybe it does, but Mrs. Smallwood… I mean, Holly, we’re stringing different facts together to make a solid and convincing case here, rather than cherry-picking a single shred of evidence that might mislead us.”

“Exactly my point. It feels like everything’s been going the wrong direction since last week,” Holly said.

“Your point isn’t exactly ours-hell, it’s not even close,” Brian snapped. “If you would just hear us out-calm down and hear us out.”

Holly relaxed in her seat. “Okay, I’m listening. Tell me everything.”

“In addition to what Allan just stated, there’s a copy of The Black Mirage at the scene, a novel-a horror novel-by Orrobbs Porter. It’s Rob’s copy, judging by the name on it,” Brian said, dipping his hand into the translucent plastic bag he had brought along with him. He drew out the book. Shoving forward a bit in his chair, he opened the first page, revealing Rob’s name for Holly to see. Holly’s jaw dropped, and her lips trembled momentarily. “Not a big surprise to me. I’ve already learned that Rob has a copy from my last chat with him.” Brian put the book back in the bag. “Holly, are you aware Rob has such a book, or is this fresh revelation to you?”

“Of course, I do. I bought it for him. And a lot more. I don’t suppose that’s a criminal thing for a parent to do, is it?”

Brian ignored her question. “Ever noticed any of those books missing? Or maybe loaned to his friends?”

“He doesn’t loan his books out. Doesn’t have any friends interested in the same thing he reads. Hardly has any friends at all. In fact, he has none.”

“Not even a friend?”

“Not even one.”

“If my memory serves me right, you stated that he likes watching soccer as much as he likes playing it.”

“Correct.”

“Do you like soccer, Holly? Do you like to watch and play it?”

Holly frowned. “What has that got to do with the news of death you’ve brought?”

“Oh, I was just wondering if Robert has to play his soccer and enjoy it to a good extent, he’ll need to do so with at least a friend. But since he doesn’t have a friend-”

“He plays all by himself, Sheriff,” Holly cut in. “All by himself.”

“All right, Holly,” Brian sat back straight in his chair. “May we have a look-through of your son’s collection?”

Holly’s eye grew bigger. “Where’s this heading?”

Allan said, “We’re all out to help you-as well as find an answer to all of this. But if we’re gonna pulled anything through, we’ll need your co-operation in place.”

In the reading room, they went through Rob’s pile of books.

“Damn,” Allan remarked, “this’s an awful lot of books for a twelve-year-old.”

“Keep at it, Allan. We’ve got a long trip ahead of us. This journey has probably just begun.”

“Or perhaps it’s not even started yet,” Allan joked.

After they rummaged through a hundred and ninety-nine books and found out The Black Mirage was missing, Brian said, “I think this just seals the deal. The book is his.”

Tears had started gathering at the corners of Holly’s eyes, getting ready to roll down her cheeks. “What‘s gonna become of me… and my baby? This is too much for me to bear. What am I gonna do? Who’s gonna help me?” She turned to Brian. “Why’s this happening to me, Sheriff?”

Brian moved towards the doorway, and ran his fingers through his hair. He sounded as concerned as he could. “I wish I knew. We all wish we did. And maybe we would-in good time. That’s our hope.”

“Where’s he?” Allan said.

“Who? Rob?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“In bed, of course.”

“Could we check on him briefly?”

Holly hugged herself, as if trying to ward off some internal chill that had vowed to take up residence in her bones. And Brian could read the harrowing horror of the agony written all over her gaunt face. “If that’s the next thing you’ve chosen to do,” she said with a voice laced with tremor, “then, why not? I mean, it’s not like I can obstruct the flow of investigative procedures.”

She walked past Brian even as she spoke, and was out of the reading room.

They followed her.

Robert Smallwood curled up in bed, a tiny figure almost completely submerged under the blanket. Although thought of as the young serial killer, he could conveniently pass for an embodiment of perfect contradiction to the prevalent sentiment, considering the peace and quiet that surrounded him in his cozy, dimly lit bedroom. Or, at least, so Brian thought.

Brian stood beside Holly, about two feet away from Robert’s bed. He closed in and gingerly touched a bump formed underneath and along the edge of the blanket-another book, Ekron Temple , also by Robert’s favorite author. The lad had developed a profound literary crush on Orobbs Porter, no doubt.