Fairlane Road Read online

  “Ah, I’m guessing you’re not here for drinks and idle chat, then.”

  “I’m afraid not.” Goode eyed the house for a moment. “Though I’ll share a drink or two just the same, if you don’t mind.”

  Andrew raised his eyebrows. “On the job?”

  “For what I’ve got to tell you, Mr. Jean, yes. I think I may need it.”

  Andrew brought a chair from the kitchen to the front porch, got an extra beer, and he and Detective James Goode sat together.

  “As you probably guessed by now,” said Goode, “this is about those two boys, the ones murdered just around here yesterday. You hear about that?”

  “I can’t imagine there’s anyone who hasn’t. I could see the lights from here, flashing through the trees yesterday, when you guys found them.”

  The young detective nodded regretfully, sipping at his beer as though it were a precious commodity.

  “Yeah, I figured. They were killed here on Forest Street, but there’s a few details we aren’t releasing to the public.” His cheeks went pale. “Like how, after they were killed—hell, they may have been still alive at this point—they were both dragged by the collars of their shirts to Fairlane Road.”

  Andrew almost spit a mouthful of beer onto the porch. “Fuck. They were dragged?”

  “Mhm. But…. look. There’s a reason I came here to tell you all this, and it has to do with our suspect more than it does with what he did.” Goode paused, visibly searching his mind for a way to deliver the news he had come here to tell. He took another swig of beer and then went on. “You still think much about your big case, Andrew? From however many years ago? The Knox family and everything that went down?”

  “Mmm. Of all the cases I ever caught, that one was the worst. Not that you need me to tell you that. My ex-wife used to tell me I’d come to terms with it one day, seeing as it practically made me and my partner famous. But I never have.”

  “I can only imagine,” said Goode, looking off toward the street, discomfort showing in his eyes.

  “I guess that answers your question. But why’re you asking about the Knoxes, Jimmy? Thought you came here to talk about those two boys, and about who killed them.”

  Goode looked him straight in the eyes. “I’m asking because the man we arrested yesterday, who killed those kids… his name is Charles Knox.”

  Andrew Jean, even at sixty-four, had never in his life been in what his doctors sometimes called ‘heart-attack territory,’ and so he had never feared it. But at hearing that name—a name he never imagined he would hear again—the world seemed to swim and swirl around him as though it had lost all solidity, as though he were seeing it underwater, and for a moment his heart beat in such a way that, for once in his life, he feared he might be on the verge of a heart-attack. Then the world came pulsing back as his blood started working again and he was able to take a deep breath and process what he’d just heard.

  “Hey, you all right Andrew?”

  “Yeah… yeah I think so.” Andrew rubbed a hand over his mouth. His lips were dry, almost numb. “I just need to wrap my head around this, is all.”

  “Well take your time. I’ve been looking at everything differently since Knox told us his name. All I could think was that I’d better come out here and tell you, see what you’ve got to make of it.”

  Andrew set his beer aside for the moment, and leaned forward so that his elbows were on his knees. “Charles Knox,” he echoed. “That’s a name I never thought I’d hear again.”

  Goode agreed. “You’re telling me. The Knox family’s a goddamn campfire story at the station these days. Like the Zodiac, or Ted Bundy or some shit.” He sighed. The image of Charlie Knox sitting beneath those ominous white fluorescents was stuck in his mind, making him increasingly uneasy. “You think it could be just a coincidence? Or that the guy’s lying?”

  “I doubt it. But… well, I guess it depends. What exactly happened with those two boys yesterday? If you wouldn’t mind telling me, of course.”

  Detective Goode had come here with the very intention of telling Andrew Jean all about it, partly because of Andrew’s insightfulness, and partly out of the need just to tell someone. This county was a quiet and calm one, but he had seen his share of disturbing crime scenes, and out of all of those things, the details of yesterday’s murders troubled him the most. He had tried to tell himself that this was the job, this was how it was, but nothing had helped him feel any less disturbed.

  “Well, there was only one witness to it—Ms. Hart, lives a few houses from here, just a five minute walk from Fairlane Road; you probably know her—and she saw the whole thing. So, according to her story, the boys were taking a stroll through the woods around here, even waved at her when they came out from the trails that start somewhere behind her house. They seemed friendly, probably no older than seventeen or eighteen years old or so, she said, and then they went on out to the street. And this guy, Knox, comes strolling along from the direction of Fairlane Road. You should’ve heard how Ms. Hart described him, saying how she’d never seen him before or anyone like him in this town: dress shoes, dark pants, a long black coat, hair shiny black and blasted back. Strangest of all were the goggles he was wearing, and was still wearing when we found him. Small round goggles, like round black holes where his eyes were supposed to be, is what Ms. Hart said.

  “Anyway, way she put it, this guy, for however weird he looks, seems friendly, like one of those fellas who isn’t all there but is pretty much harmless when it comes down to it. Like, I don’t know, one of those transients. He stops in front of these kids, grinning.” Goode paused again, cold chills coating his skin. “I guess Ms. Hart saw the boys start talking to him, and you know the way teenagers get sometimes around strange looking people, acting threatening and intimidating, probably trying to impress each other. Something about the way things started escalating scared Ms. Hart, so she grabbed her husband’s shotgun and went out onto her porch—to ‘scare them off,’ she told us—but was, well… given pause, I guess is the phrase, by what she saw.” He was silent for a few seconds, his eyes distant and thoughtful, his skin a milkier pallor than Andrew had ever seen. “She said that by the time she came out onto her porch, the first boy—think his name was Casey—was already dead, ‘cause the second boy was holding him, crying and begging. Knox had slit his throat with some kind of antique looking knife, in the shape of a triangle, or a fucking shark’s tooth, is what she said. Not like any typical knife. And I’m telling you, Mr. Jean, I’ve never seen anything like it, so he must have gotten it at, like, an antique place or something. Like something out of a movie.

  “And anyway, the way Hart put it, she was frozen where she stood, unable to move or even make a sound she was so terrified, though I doubt it would’ve made much of a difference. She told us that Knox didn’t even hesitate. He stabbed the other kid straight in the chest, then again in the neck.”

  “Christ…” Andrew lifted a hand to his own throat, then to his mouth.

  Detective Goode rested his head in his hands and took a heavy sigh. “Maybe it doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, but to me, that isn’t the worst part. What Ms. Hart told us happened next haunts me even more than what he did to those boys, even if that doesn’t make much sense. There was a dog, maybe a neighbor’s or more likely a stray, that came charging up to the scene—you know how dogs can get worked up, almost like they can sense when something’s wrong—and started barking up a storm as the second kid collapsed, holding his throat, struggling to breathe. But, get this: the dog stops barking when Knox hushes it, and it goes right up to him, ears down, tail low, even sniffs his shoes. And Ms. Hart said that Knox put away his knife, bent down, and pet the dog, scratched right behind its ears, and the dog wagged its tail and licked his fucking hand. Then Knox straightens and
looks right at Ms. Hart, and even though she’s got a shotgun aimed right at him, he grins at her. That’s what she told us, and I could tell by the tone of her voice that it’s true. Pitch black goggles, bloody hands and all, he fucking grins at her as if to tip a hat to her, then grabs those boys by the collars of their shirts, and drags them all the way down the street, around the bend, to Fairlane Road.” Goode shut his eyes, hiding tears.

  “Jesus Christ, Jimmy. I can see why you wanted to tell me all this.” Andrew could feel how hard his heart was beating. His hands were starting to tremble.

  “Just thinking about that kept me up most of last night. Evil like that exists in this world, and, in a sense, it… well… the world just keeps on going, as if it didn’t even notice. A man murders two teenage boys for no known reason at all, like it’s on some whim, and still has it in his psychopathic mind to bend over and scratch some dog behind its ears. Like it was nothing, like taking the lives of those boys and destroying their families meant nothing to him. I can’t make sense of it. People always say life ain’t fair, God ain’t fair, but until yesterday, I don’t think I truly understood the meaning of those words. If God’s up there in his heaven, how could he have let a monster like Charlie Knox ever come to exist?” The detective’s breaths had become heavy, and Andrew could now clearly see the tears in his eyes.

  “You know,” Andrew said, “I used to trouble myself over those kinds of questions day and night, especially after the things I saw during the Knox case. Drove my wife nuts, wore her down. But, like you, I would ask myself how a just and loving God could allow some of the things that happened on this Earth, how it was that we could treat each other the way we do, or do the things we’ve done. Problem is, though, I never got an answer. First I prayed about it, and after months of silence—hell, after years of silence—I went and got help about it, started going to therapists and even visiting churches to talk to priests, but nothing they ever told me could give me answers for all the things I’d seen. I’d hear all about God’s plan, about bearing witness or resisting the devil. I was told to pray about it, as if I hadn’t done enough of that. And I don’t know your personal views on religion, Jimmy, and I don’t want to influence you one way or the other, but the more I heard this stuff, the more it all started seeming like one big hoax… a great fairytale, an opium shot to the heart and mind. And this was probably, I don’t know, I’d say about eight years ago, maybe seven, that I was going through all this. Before those days I always considered myself a religious man even though I only ever went to church on Christmas and Easter. But all of a sudden I was so aware of how all I’d ever gotten in return for my beliefs was silence, and that this whole ‘war behind things,’ good versus evil, the forces of God versus the forces of Satan, it all seemed like some fairytale meant as a numbing from reality. A comfort for the weak-willed. Because you’re right, Jimmy. It comes down to those small details: Charlie Knox bending down to pet some mutt right after murdering those two boys. Or Thomas and Susan Knox telling their thirteen-year-old boy that they love him before shooting themselves in the head right in front of him.” Andrew shuddered at that memory, one which he sometimes still dreamt about. “As far as I can tell, there’s no such thing as good and evil. There’s no bigger picture, no higher power looking down, monitoring, guiding, answering prayers. There’s just this. Most people pray when they should be, I don’t know, doing something, figuring it out themselves. Religion’s a great excuse for people not to have to face themselves, and instead trust it all to their God. And when it comes to the good and evil question, there’s what some people might call good and evil, but they’re so mixed up, so much the same, that I don’t think there’s any real difference between them, except for what we choose to see. Nothing’s all light, and nothing’s all dark, is what I mean to say. So when it comes to your questions, the best answer I can give is that if there is a God, these things, and this world, have nothing to do with him.” He stopped then, feeling like a preacher, which was something he felt like more and more as he got older.

  They were both silent, and Andrew began to wonder if he hadn’t overstepped his bounds and if it wouldn’t be a bad idea to apologize for what he had said. But then Goode smirked as if just now fully grasping Andrew’s words, and took a long drink.

  “No wonder you were such a good detective back in the day, man. This is why I come to talk to you instead of the priest downtown, or a shrink. You’re smarter than anyone in this little town’s got any right to be.”

  “Well thanks, but it’s more or less having too much time to myself, and not about being smart.”

  “You’re insightful, and that’s what matters. More insightful than me, anyway, and I’m supposed to be the detective. I feel like I could learn so much from you, and am learning from you. Hell, you should be on this case, not us young guys.”

  Andrew chuckled. It always felt good to laugh after discussing a heavy subject. “Thanks.”

  “Mhm. So… you really aren’t religious anymore, Mr. Jean?”

  “I prefer when you call me Andrew, or Andy, just so you know.”

  “Right. Sure… it’s just habit. That’s what they call you at the station, anyway. But, um… I don’t know, I always figured you for a religious man, so I’ve never asked.”

  Andrew looked to the street. “I guess we’ve not talked much about it.”

  “Yeah, well, you know how it is. Politics and religion.”

  “I can’t say I’ve ever agreed with that idea. If you can’t discuss the important things, especially with friends, what’s the point of interaction at all? To answer your question though: No. My faith faded over the course of a few years after the Knox case, and I realized that I’d stopped believing sometime after my wife left. Religion had nothing left for me, sorry to say. There’s more truth inside each one of us, than there is in any old collection of texts.”

  Goode nodded, though Andrew could tell that he was troubled, and likely struggling through his own religious doubts in wake of yesterday’s murders.

  “And if that’s what you guys know about what Knox did to those boys,” said Andrew, “I’d bet that he really is a Knox, after all. The son of those goddamned psychopaths. But I suppose that’s the end of that, now that you guys got him.”

  “Yeah,” said Goode, scratching the top of his head. “It looks like it.”

  “Right. You guys letting the word out?”

  “That he’s related to Thomas and Susan Knox? No, not yet. The chief wants to keep it under wraps. Keep people calm or something.”

  “Mmm.” Andrew nodded. “Might be a good idea. The fact that two kids were murdered is bad enough.” They were both silent again, the weight of their conversation hanging between them. “So, how’s Rebecca?” Andrew asked, wanting to change the subject to spare Goode of any further troubles.

  “Hmm? Oh she’s good, she’s good. A little scared by what happened yesterday, but she’s always handled herself well over the hard stuff.”

  “That’s good. You guys set a date yet?”

  “Nah, too busy. Probably sometime soon next year, I think. Hard to tell, though. You know how it can be.”

  Andrew grinned. “That I do.”

  “Keep an eye out for a Save-the-Date though. I wouldn’t forget.”

  “I’d certainly hope not. Not that I’m any good at parties, but sincerely, Jimmy, I wouldn’t miss it.”

  James smiled. “How’s your daughter, by the way? I’ve not seen her around lately.”

  “Jessie’s doing fine. Aloof and full of wanderlust as always. Even if I told her to lie low for a few days just to be safe, she’d find her way out into the woods, I’m sure.”

  “Yeah? What’s she do out there?”

  “I don’t know. Just wanders, reads, draws, hikes, as
far as I know,” Andrew said, smiling slightly. Even if she was frustrating at times, the way all daughters probably were, Andrew had always loved Jezebel’s independent nature and inability to fit into any norm. In Lamplight, this small town with the strange name, she stood out to the point that many of Andrew’s friends or acquaintances sometimes worried that something might be wrong with her. He had always taken a small amount of pleasure in these reactions, even if her stubbornness and independence did still worry him.

  “She wasn’t scared by the murders?” asked Goode.

  “I don’t know. I’m sure she was, but I think she still feels safer out there, anyway. And like I said, she wouldn’t have listened to me, even if I told her not to go.”

  “Women, huh?” The detective chuckled, seeming not to notice how Andrew didn’t share in his amusement. “How old is she again?”

  “Just turned twenty-one.”

  “Ah, wow. She looking at any colleges?”

  Andrew shrugged. “I’m not sure. I tend to let her make those decisions on her own. But she’d tell me if anything came up.”

  “You’re not, uh…” Goode leaned toward him, brow furrowed. “Most parents, I mean, are more invested in that kind of stuff. And don’t take that as a judgment of any kind, it’s just how it is, I think. I mean, that’s how it seems. Hell, my partner Aaron—you’ve met him once or twice—is all over his daughters going to college.”

  Andrew sighed, hardly caring how openly he showed his own opinions through body language and expressions. “That’s exactly the kind of parenting I aim not to do. I’m not raising codependents, or trying to make Jezebel a younger version of me. This was one of the bigger fundamental disagreements my wife and I had, so forgive me if I come off a bit intensely about it, but I’ll be damned before I treat Jezebel like she isn’t her own person. She’s capable of motivating herself, making her own decisions, finding her own way like she always has, just like everyone could if they’d just be given some breathing room. And my background guidance has always done more for her than holding her hand through everything would have.” He saw that the young detective was nodding, agreeing with him even if he was being overly preachy and rambling—an increasing symptom of his aging—so he continued. “You know, around here, I see all kinds of parents who are so proud that their kids are turning out just like them, and it practically makes me sick. What’s good about that in any way, shape, or form, especially around here, where it usually means parents dressing their kids up in camo, or brainwashing them with whatever religion or politics they follow? It’s a repeating cycle, stunting evolution, simply because people are too damned proud, or too damned clingy or protective, and have no self-awareness or hindsight. They’re the kinds of people who just love to hold onto their kids, keep them from moving out as much as they can, keep them close, hold them tightly and give them a big comfort zone, without ever realizing that that’s bad for them. Parents who aren’t encouraging independence, especially in an emotional sense, are failing parents. It conditions emotional dependency.