William Lashner - Marked Man

“That’s me,” he said. “What’s your favorite, Chantal? Chocolate? Nuts? Marshmallows?”

“Nougat,” she said.

“Nougat? I don’t even know what nougat is,” said the Halloween Man, laughing.

“Neither do I,” said Chantal, “but the commercial says it’s good.”

“So nougat it will be next time. You’ll come back next time, won’t you?”

Chantal shrugged.

“Hold out your hand,” said the Halloween Man.

Chantal did, and the Halloween Man surrounded her little hand with his two big ones and kept them there for a long moment, before slowly removing them, leaving a Milky Way and a dollar in her palm.

Chantal’s eyes glowed with delight.

“Here you go, kid,” said the Halloween Man, tossing Ricky another Milky Way before heading back inside.

If you want to blame anything on what happened later, blame the dollar. The Halloween Man had never given Ricky a dollar.

“I get half of that, too,” said Ricky.

“It’s mine.”

“But we had a deal.”

“I only agreed to split the candy bar.”

“That’s not fair.”

“He gave it to me,” said Chantal, a sly, superior smile breaking out on her pretty face. “Get your own dollar.”

That was so like Chantal.

She was a selfish little brat, with her red shoes and her bright dimples. Darling Chantal. Sweet Chantal. Everybody’s favorite dancing doll, Chantal. She was the star of the family, the little girl who could sway hearts with a slide step and a wink. In the presence of adults, she was the ideal child, smiling and pliant and soft, aching to please, with her little-girl’s voice. Yes, Mommy. No, Mommy. Please, Mommy. I love you, Mommy. But when no one was looking except her brother, she was the sneakiest little witch on the face of the earth, stealing what was his and sharing not a whit of anything that she had been given. He resented all the attention she garnered, all the praise lavished upon her, the gifts and toys, the hugs and kisses and exclamations of joy, the way she soaked up the energy in a room and left nothing for him, nothing but annoyance and orders. Be quiet, Richard, and sit still. Chantal is dancing. Go ahead, Chantal, sweetheart. Try it again.

And now the Halloween Man had pulled it, too, giving her all his attention, giving her a dollar, just tossing him a stupid Milky Way like tossing a scrap of gristle to a dog. Ricky was too angry, too full of jealousy and resentment to sense the danger in the Halloween Man’s strange sudden interest in little Chantal, the way he used her name over and over, the way he told her his name when he had never told it to Ricky, the way he held her hand in his a little too long. Ricky should have sensed the danger, but his radar was overwhelmed with the bitterness, all of it purchased with a single dollar. Or maybe, to be truthful, filled to overflowing with the acid of resentment, he did sense the danger and just didn’t care.

“FOR SOME REASON,” said Richard, wiping his eyes with his forearm, “it wasn’t so much fun going to the Halloween Man anymore. And then, once, when we were there together, he told me to stay put while he took Chantal inside the basement to see something. When she came back outside, she was beaming, like she had just gotten the greatest gift in the world, and she wasn’t, she wasn’t, she wasn’t going to share. She never wanted to share.”

“What did he give her?” I said.

“A lighter. Gold, heavy. She wouldn’t even let me try it. After that, I didn’t feel like going back, so I didn’t.”

“But Chantal did?”

“She used to show me the candy he gave her and laugh at me because I wasn’t going anymore. And there was also the lighter, which she hid in her drawer and played with in the house whenever Mom wasn’t around.”

“The gold lighter the detective found.”

“That’s right.”

“What happened when she went missing?”

“I don’t know exactly what happened. But as soon as it happened, I knew it was the Halloween Man, that Teddy.”

“Did you tell anybody?”

“Not right then. How could I? I had taken her to him. I was responsible. Mom and Dad would have killed me, would have thrown me away.”

“You were nine,” said Monica. “You didn’t know.”

“But I did, didn’t I? And suddenly, with Chantal gone, things changed at home. It was no longer, ‘Keep still, Richard. Keep quiet, Chantal is dancing.’ It was, ‘Oh, Richard, our sweet Richard, stay home, Richard, stay safe.’ They kept hugging me and showering me with attention. They wouldn’t let me go out anymore, which was fine, really, because with Chantal gone, it was my home again and I was the star. Me. And you know the truth? I didn’t want her to come back.”

“Did you hate her so much?” said Monica.

“No. Yes. I don’t know.”

“You said you didn’t tell anyone right when she disappeared. Did you ever tell anyone?”

“The detective. He took me aside and promised not to tell Mom and Dad anything I said, and I told him.”

“Detective Hathaway.”

“That’s right. And he was good about it. He never told that it was all my fault. He said he would find the Halloween Man for me, but he never could.”

“Okay, Richard,” I said. “I think that will do.”

“That’s all?” he said.

“That’s all. Thanks.”

He looked at his sister, a desperate fear etched on his face. “Are you going to tell Mom?”

“Oh, sweetheart,” she said, still kneeling. “You were nine years old.”

“Don’t tell Mom.”

“You can’t keep living like this, you just can’t. We have to clean up this room, we have to get you out of this house.”

“I like it here.”

“You can’t stay like this. You just can’t.”

“I want to.”

“Oh, sweetheart, Richard, sweetheart. Look what he did to you. Look what he did to all of us.”

I left them there, brother and sister, agoraphobe and shadow dancer, left them in that room, in tears, in tatters. And Monica was right, he did do this to them, to all of them. Not to mention what he did to Chantal, or was doing. Because I was thinking that maybe Monica had been right after all. Maybe when that bastard left with all the stolen money, he left with Chantal, too. Just taken her, taken her to his new life, to do with her as he would, with no concern and no consequences. At least not yet, not until now.

Because I was going to find him. I was going to track him down and find him. And find Chantal, too. As sure as that tattoo was on my chest, I was going to find him and make him pay. And I knew just where to start.

But first it was time to deliver a message.

I picked the mostunlikely place possible. Dirty Frank’s. The name says it all. And you should see the bathrooms. Yeesh.

Squatting on the corner of Thirteenth and Pine, Dirty Frank’s was what was officially known as a dive. An ancient refuge for bearded bikers and frail, chain-smoking art students, it had low ceilings, ratty booths, a steady surly clientele, and a brilliant jukebox that still spun classic 45s. The place was always thick with smoke and the alluring scent of poor hygiene and spilt beer.

I was late on purpose, to let the ambience sink into his pale, soft skin. I found him sitting between two drunken bikers at the bar, a glass of wine in front of him.

“I didn’t know they served red wine in this joint,” I said.

Lavender Hill, in violet velvet, sniffed with disgust. “They don’t,” he said. “This is ox piss mixed with lamb’s blood, flavored with iodine.”

“The house specialty,” I said.

“Charming place you picked.”

“Only the best for you, Lav. I thought this was a nice anonymous place for conducting our underhanded business.”