The Chameleon Club - a novel

One

Officer Jim Peters stepped over the half-rotted log and headed deeper into the Paugasaget Forest. The woods were filled with soft noise; the chirping of birds, the distant hoots of an owl, and the delicate whisper of the breeze drifting through the trees.

Something snapped to his left. Instinctively, his right hand shot down and unclipped his pistol. Dropping to one knee, he whirled about to face the potential threat. There was no sign of anyone. The breeze picked up and blew playfully through his hair, almost as if the woods themselves were mocking him. Peters rose slowly and continued his search.

The radio hanging from his belt crackled. "Jim!" squawked the voice of his partner, Evans. Peters groaned and rubbed his tired eyes, ashamed of himself: It was the radio that had caused the snapping sound.

He grabbed the unit.

"Bob, you nearly scared me half to death" said Peters. "Aren't you supposed to be over near the creek?" Looking through the branches towards the south, Jim spotted Evans leaning against the trunk of an oak and smoking a cigarette.

"And put out that damn butt!" said Peters, "The sooner we find these jerks, the sooner we can all go home and watch the rest of the Red Sox game."

"Easy, Jim: I'm just taking a break. Don't get all bent on me, guy. Besides, you don't really think these clowns are dangerous, do you?"

Peters looked away from Evans, towards the top of the next rise. A shadow darted across the trunk of a misshapen tree, but vanished before he could see the shape clearly. His radio squawked a second time.

"Peters, why don't we just hang out for about fifteen minutes, go back, and tell the Lieutenant there's no one here? The idea of us tramping through these woods like 'Ranger Andy' is so God-awful stupid."

Peters turned back towards the south. "Yeah, well we have our orders, Evans. I don't know about you, but I'm partial to following mine."

Evans faked a yawn and sat down in the leaves at the base of the tree. "Suit yourself, Jimmy: Go ahead and search the woods. Give me a yell if you spot anything. Try not to get lost."

Peters snapped the radio back on his belt and headed for the strange looking tree. This was a better place to start his search than any; maybe he could work his way back down towards the road from there.

Halfway up the rise, he came to a place where a large section of leaves had been hastily brushed aside, revealing the soil underneath. In the center, someone had traced a large arrow pointing northwest. Yea, right: did they really expect him to follow this? Did the idiots think that he graduated from the Police Academy just a few days ago?

Looking northwest, he spotted another circle and went to examine it. This one had another arrow pointing south. Annoyed, he stormed away from the circle. What a total waste of time this day was turning into. Maybe he should drag the Lieutenant up here, just to show him how silly this search of his had become.

A sudden blur of movement flew at him; Peters dropped his shoulder and dove to his right, but not in time to avoid the large branch that smashed into his face and knocked him to the ground. Sharp pain tore through his cheek; blood began to pool in his mouth.

Carefully, he sat up against a tree and looked back towards the trap. Someone had hammered several small carpenter tacks through a wooden board and fastened it with vines to the branch. Someone had pulled back the branch and released it when he had stepped out of the second circle.

That someone was laughing at him. Peters saw a black child standing about twenty feet down the knoll; his hands on his hips and a proud smile plastered on his face. The boy was young: about eleven, twelve years old at the most.

Stupid little bastard: the kid could have put out his eye out. Maybe the others were right. Maybe these guys were dangerous after all. Appearances could be deceiving. That was the first thing they taught you back at the Police Academy.

"Police!" shouted Peters as he positioned himself behind the tree, "You're in a lot of trouble. Come forward with your hands in the air."

"Oh, Man: I'm in for it now” mocked the child, darting through the bushes, "Good Lord, What'll I do?"

Peters thought of calling for backup but couldn't find his radio: it must have been thrown clear during his fall.

"Come on, kid: This isn't a game we're playing” he shouted; hoping his partner would hear and come up behind the boy. "People have died up here. You're only making things worse for you and your friends by hiding."

No reply; the boy had vanished. Peters was frustrated that a mere child could have gotten the drop on him. What if there were other kids snooping about as well? What if some of them were using weapons more serious than a board with tacks jammed through it?

"EVANS!" screamed Peters, "GET YOUR ASS UP HERE; I COULD USE SOME HELP. WHERE ARE YOU?"

"Probably sleeping” sounded a small voice behind him, "You want that I should go get him for you, Officer?" Peters spun around and spotted the boy in a nearby clearing.

"Okay, the game's over, son. Stay where you are and get your hands up. I don't want to get slapped in the face by anymore of your traps."

The boy raised his arms. Peters relaxed but unclipped his pistol as he moved closer. The boy's lips were moving; as if he was whispering.

"No one's going to hurt you: We just want to find out what you and your friends had to do with Mrs. Halloran's disappearance..."

Suddenly, the child dropped his hands, and waved. Peters was puzzled.

"I already told you: No tricks, kid. I don't want to hurt you."

The boy laughed. "Buh-bye, Officer: Have a good trip..."

Jim screamed as he felt his feet fall out from under him. The ground swallowed him up and dropped him into a pit; his left ankle twisted badly and sent slivers of hot, liquid fire racing up his thigh when he landed.

A shadow fell across his face. Peters, grimacing from the pain, looked up and saw the boy mocking him with bright eyes.

"See you in the fall” said the child before moving away.

A few moments later, Peters was carefully testing the ankle when a second shadow dropped across him. Bracing himself against the wall of the pit, he drew his gun and took aim towards the sky.

His partner stood above him. "Jeez, Jim: take it easy. It's only me. I heard you screaming from down the hill and came up to help. What the hell happened?"

Peters relaxed his grip on the gun. "I had a run-in with an overgrown mole” he snapped, "A very dangerous mole. Never mind that: give me a hand out of here, will you?"

Once outside the trap, Peters sat near the pit and tried to wrap his swelling ankle in a handkerchief. Evans searched the surrounding woods for signs of the child.

"Now what?" asked Evans, "Do we head back to the road or do we continue looking for this kid? And just what are we supposed to do when we find him: shoot the little bastard?"

Peters shook his head. "Don't shoot him: just find him. I'm in no condition to continue, I'm afraid. I'll radio for help." Reaching for his belt, Peters remembered that he had lost his hand unit and swore softly.

Evans threw him his own. "Here, use mine: I'm not in much of a talking mood anyway. I'll head up the hill and see if I can smoke him out. You find a couple of cops and send them up with some large paddles. If I find the kid, I'm going to beat his ass and send his sorry butt home to Mama." Moving off through the bushes, Evans headed up to the northwest rise. "Don't move around anymore than you have to” he added, "I don't want you falling into any more holes."

"Evans" hissed Peters, "Be careful. This is no ordinary child we're looking for, and he may have some more friends hanging around."

Evans looked back briefly towards his partner, nodded nervously, then climbed north.

* * *

Near the crest of the hill, Evans knelt down and looked towards an open area. The boy sat in the center watching the forest. Spotting the cop, he reached into a small knapsack and pulled out a long, black object.

Evans blinked; Fear devoured his guts. The kid had a rifle.

"STOP!" he screamed; raising his revolver, "FREEZE!"

The boy looked up at him in terror and then pointed the black object towards him. Evans, in a panic, fired his weapon: the bullet struck a few inches to the left and sent a spray of pine needles and gravel into the air. His eyes wide, the child leapt to his feet, dropped the object, and disappeared into the bushes.

Evans slid down the hill and collapsed into the clearing. The object the boy had dropped was a horn, the cheap plastic variety that was sold at the fair. Evans laughed nervously, thankful he hadn't shot the kid.

Carefully examining the toy, Evans took a quick breath and tried to think. How was he supposed to get this guy out of the woods? What if the next item the boy removed from his knapsack wasn't a plastic horn? After all, these kids might have committed three murders over the past few weeks.

Evans stood up and peered into the woods. It was obvious that the kid wasn't going to give himself up just because he yelled 'Stop, Police.', and it sure wasn't going to help his career plans if he shot the lad.

"Why don't you all just go away and leave us alone?" snapped the child suddenly. He was standing north of the clearing next to a large pine tree and a boulder. "We didn't do anything wrong; and we sure as Hell didn't kill those kids."

Evans put away his pistol and held out his palms. "Look, no more shooting" he said, "That was a mistake. Why don't you come back to the road with me? All we want to do is find out what happened to the Social Worker."

The boy frowned. "You mean, Mrs. Halloran?"

"Yes, that's right: Mrs. Halloran. Tell us where she is and we can all go home..."

"Why didn't you say so? Sure, I'd be glad to tell you. She's been there since yesterday."

Evans slowly began to inch his way towards the boy but kept talking as he moved. "And just where is that? Tell me, and I'll see to it you don't get into any more trouble. Maybe we won't even arrest you. I'm sure your parents would be glad to get you home safe and sound."

The boy smiled. "Okay, I'll tell you. She's in Pennsylvania."

"What do you mean, 'Pennsylvania'? This is Connecticut!"

"I know that but I'm telling you the truth. Mrs. Halloran is in Pennsylvania."

"You smart-ass little bastard," screamed Evans, "I've had enough of this nonsense!" Racing towards the tree, he crashed through the bushes and tried to grab him. The boy screamed and dove headfirst into some bushes near the boulder.

Evans reached the tree and roughly shoved away the growth hiding the child. Maybe he'd just slam his worthless hide up against this tree and scare him before turning him over to the Juvenile Authorities. Teach him some manners.

No one was there. Impossible; he couldn't have escaped; he dove under those bushes just a second ago. Checking beyond the tree, the policeman searched desperately for the missing child. No way could he just disappear. Was this a child or a ghost he was hunting for?

Evans headed back towards the road. What is with these kids? How could that boy just vanish?

* * *

The boulder next to the tree slowly rose into the air; cautious eyes peeked out from underneath. Stupid cop thought Esau as he climbed out of the hole and replaced the papier-mâché rock over the opening. The jerk didn't bother to check the boulder; never even placed his hand on it. You figure they'd teach these assholes about things like that in Police Academy.

Esau's amusement soon faded as he fled the clearing and headed for the clubhouse. He could fool one cop, but in another hour these woods were going to be crawling with the blue suits. He couldn't possibly fool them all.

Maggie never told him things would get this crazy. How could things get so out of control? Suddenly, being a member of this club wasn't as much fun as it used to be.

* * *

Reverend Steven Langford heard the slam of the screen door. His son was home, angry about something and meaning to have harsh words with him. No matter what the cause of his temper was, the Reverend knew that, in the end, the boy always managed to find an excuse to vent his wrath towards his elder.

Steven sighed and placed the magazine he had been reading on the end table. Hard footsteps pounded on the kitchen floor and headed towards him. This child was just like his Stepmother: long fuse, but explosive temper. Looking towards the living room window, Steven hoped the argument would be over before Carina arrived. It wouldn't look right if a member of his congregation saw him at odds with his own child.

Scott Langford stormed into the room, stood next to his Father, and watched him look out at the afternoon sun.

"Dad", he said finally, "Why do you waste your time staring out of windows?"

"I suppose you heard the police sirens" remarked Steven softly as he removed his wire rimmed glasses and cleaned them with a soft cloth. “What do you suppose all of the commotion is about, Scott?"

Scott grabbed his Dad's shoulders and shook them hard. "You know perfectly well what all of the commotion is about. It's about the club, Dad!" he screamed. "Why don't you get out of that stupid chair and help me? They've taken a woman named Halloran prisoner and have her hidden in the woods."

Steven looked at the fifteen-year-old, startled by his words. "The kids did that? My Good Lord, I told you your involvement with them was a big mistake. Now the police will probably want to question you as well…"

"I don't care about that now" said Scott, "I just want to get this entire mess straightened out. Dad, can't you see? These kids are in trouble. There are cops out looking for them now. They think someone in our Club killed those kids. Those are my friends the Police are tracking through the woods. I've tried to talk some sense into their heads; get them to give up, but they won't listen."

Rising from his chair, Steven walked over to the mantle of the fireplace and tenderly examined a picture of his wife Julia that had been taken when Scott was first adopted. God, he missed her now. His life had been perfect then: Everything was in order. All he had to do whenever he was troubled was climb into bed with her, pull the dark hair from her eyes and watch her sleep. Scott was young then; he never yelled at his Father like he did now.

"Dad," screamed Scott, "Help me! Someone is going to get hurt if you don't get involved. You can't just stand there and do nothing."

Steven turned away from his reverie and cast a slow, puzzled look at his son. "What is it you expect me to do? I'm just a simple preacher of the Gospel. If those kids have turned violent, then let the police deal with it. I want you to remain here and stay out of it entirely, Scott. You've been gone too long as it is, and going back into the woods to help those children is just going to get you into trouble as well. Stay out of it, Scott." Turning away from the mantle, Steven began to walk into the kitchen, but his son spun him around and jabbed an accusing finger at him.

"You may preach the Gospel, Dad: but you sure don't live it lately. What good is all this talk of God if you don't put it into practice? The Jesus I read about in the Bible talked about leaving the ninety-nine sheep to find the one that was lost. Don't you see? These kids are lost. You can't even break out of your own past to concentrate on what's happening here and now."

Steven stared dumbly at his son, shocked by his words.

"Look, those kids won't listen to me," said Scott, "and they won't come out of hiding to talk to the police. But they may just listen to you: you're an adult. Why don't you come with me to the Clubhouse and give it a try? It's only a few moments from here down the west trail."

Steven, still thinking of his wife Julia, walked back towards the picture window. "I can't son; Carina is coming over in a few minutes. I should be here when she arrives."

Scott groaned. "For God's sake, Dad: isn't this just a little bit more important? These kids are my friends; I just can't sit here and do nothing to help them."

"Then, by all means: go help them." snapped Steven, "Do what you have to do. Just go away and stop screaming at me…"

"I'm not screaming at you; I'm begging you to come with me and talk some sense to those kids."

Steven whirled about and faced his son; his face flushed. "You ARE screaming at me! You're yelling at me the same way you did when Julia died, and I won't stand for it anymore." Breathing hard, the Reverend struggled to regain control over his emotions.

"Is that what all this is about?" asked Scott. "You just can't get Mom out of your mind, can you? Tell me, Dad: Does Carina know she's just a cheap substitute for a dead woman? Tell me the truth, Preacher Man: Are you counseling her or is she counseling you?"

Without thinking, Steven shot out his palm and slapped his son hard across the mouth. The boy, surprised by the attack, backed up against the living room wall and touched the corner of his lips. There was blood on his fingers.

"Son" said Steven, "I'm so sorry…"

Scott backed up into the kitchen. "Yea, you're sorry. You're the sorriest excuse for a Man of the Cloth I've ever seen. Whatever happened to 'Love Thy Neighbors', Dad? Mom would have been the first person to help those kids."

The Reverend turned towards the window and tried to hide his tears. "I'm sorry, but I can't help those children. I've got to meet Carina…"

"To Hell with Carina"

Steven closed his eyes and tried to fight back the images of his wife that kept threatening to climb back into his consciousness. He's right; Julia would have been the first person into those woods. It was always her nature to think of others before herself.

"Dad, for the last time: Come with me and talk to these kids” pleaded Scott; his hands stretched out in a desperate appeal to his Father. "You say you serve God? Then come with me and do God's work: Bring life to those dying children."

Steven cast a sad, haunting look at his son for a moment, then closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. After fifteen years of sermons, lectures, and teachings, the Reverend suddenly found himself at a loss for words. All he could see now was the haunting image of his dead wife, shrouded in the form of a fifteen-year-old boy.

Dear God, why did you have to allow Julia to die, and in childbirth, no less? They knew it wasn't going to be easy to have children; that's why Scott had been adopted. Then, as if to taunt them in their weakness, Julia became pregnant and both she and the daughter died during delivery. And now this boy, this adopted boy, stood here and dared to tell him how he should react, what he should do and say.

"You don't have the slightest idea of the pain I'm carrying with me, Scott” replied the Reverend softly. "You're too young to understand."

Scott sighed and turned back towards the screen door. "I'll be seeing you, Dad. Someone around here must help those kids. If it isn't going to be you then I'll have to do it myself. Somehow…"

Steven heard the door slam as he collapsed back into the easy chair near the window. The sun was setting; soon it would be dark and his view of the country road and the meadow beyond would be spoiled.

He thought of Carina Carlson and the brief but tense moments of comfort he had found over the last few weeks in her company. Was he wrong to want to start his life over again so soon after the death of his wife? Or, was Scott right about him: was he trying to resurrect the ghost of his past life?

Outside, the police sirens began to sound again: Steven saw two more police cruisers race past his house down Paugasaget Road towards the creek; the blinking red and blue lights casting ominous neon shadows across the darkening form of his lawn.

The flashing lights burned his tired eyes, and he cried.

* * *

Benjamin "Butch" Thompson giggled as he poured another shot of whiskey from the dusty bottle. Dirty bottle, he thought giddily, dirty like this house. Dirty like his wife, dirty like the room.

"Dirty like my life” he chortled as he threw the hot, spicy liquid down his throat and poured another drink. His hands, as usual after about seventeen shots of the yellow poison, shook a little: some of the liquid spilled into the filthy matt of the carpet below the chair.

Butch reached down and tried to wipe a few stray drops off of his pants. As he bent over in the chair, he caught a glimpse of himself in the tall dress mirror his wife Victoria had set up near the bookshelf.

From the deep confines of the looking glass, a tired, shaggy old man of about forty-four years of age stared back at him with bloodshot eyes and a lost, grim look etched deeply into his haunted face. Butch scratched at the three-day old beard that hung limply from his cheeks and bit his lip a little. Yes. Dirty bottle, dirty life: dirty man in the mirror.

A second image appeared in the mirror; a tall red-haired woman with severe, mocking eyes. Butch gasped as he recognized the form and sat up in his chair to face his wife, Victoria Thompson. She was leaning casually against the frame of the door that led out of the living room and into the kitchen.

God, she is beautiful, thought Butch as he stared back at his wife and watched her foot tap impatiently on the carpet. Victoria was shorter than most people but taller than Butch by about three inches. She was dressed in an elegant dark brown chamois dress that descended past well shaped calves to her ankles. Her bare arms were crossed impatiently below her breasts. She was scowling. Her nose was still broken, from when he had punched her earlier; a good portion of her lip and cheek were swollen purple and red, but even that injury couldn’t rob her of her incredible beauty.

"Couldn't do it, Benjamin? Couldn't stay sober for one God damn day, could you?" said the woman in the gown, "When the Hell are you going to get a grip on your life and climb out of that stupid bottle you're always sucking on? Lord, I ought to put a fucking nipple on the thing and burp you when you're finished. What a God Damn baby you are!"

Butch lifted his leg and farted; then took a swig directly from the whiskey bottle. His shot glass, now forgotten, tumbled from the arm of the chair and landed on the floor.

"Good to meet your acquaintance again, my dear” he said in a low scratchy voice, "I'm a little surprised to see you still here. I thought you'd have left by now."

"I'm surprised, as well” said his wife, moving silently across the floor to face him. "The man I talked to earlier wasn't drowning himself in a sea of liquor; he was sober. He was going to help his daughter!"

Butch took a second, long, swig from the bottle and looked over to a window. The lower left pane of glass was cracked, and a stiff, cold breeze was pouring into the room and causing goose-bumps to rise on his arms. He ought to head into town and get some glass for that thing before winter set in and the snow started to blow through the opening.

"Don't you ignore me, Benjamin!" shouted Victoria as she leaned over the chair in a threatening manner, "I'm talking to you. When are you going to snap out of this guilt trip of yours and get your life back in order?"

"Listen, Witch!" snapped Butch; his eyes clearing from the booze induced mist that had settled over them, "Just leave me alone, will you? I am sick and tired of you hanging around here like this. You're going to drive me crazy if you don't stop coming around when you're not wanted."

A wild smirk slowly appeared on Victoria's face. "Good," She whispered, "then my life wasn't such a waste of time after all. I really did accomplish something useful. I've managed to drive my husband crazy. A suiting punishment, considering all of the pain and grief you have caused me over the years."

Butch groaned and rubbed his bleary eyes. "Just tell me what you want, okay? Why are you bugging me? It's not like I want you coming around here and bothering me…"

"I'm here about Maggie" screamed Victoria, her anger condensing around her like a cloud of hot mist on a cold day. "You remember Maggie, don't you? That little red-haired girl who lives with you? Do you remember our daughter?"

Yes, he remembered her. That fucking little carbon copy clone of her Mother. "What about her?" he asked, taking a third gulp of the disappearing whiskey, "She's around here somewhere. She may be up in the woods playing with those retarded friends of hers."

Victoria twisted her long, delicate fingers and shook them in the air. "She's in the woods all right, but she's not playing games this time. Damn it, Butch: She's in trouble. You've got to sober up for once in your worthless life and go help her. You've got to talk to her!"

Butch shot quickly out of the chair and squared off against the brown vixen. "And why in Hell should I?" He asked hotly, "Why should I put my own neck on the line? What good has that little runt done around here for me? Good Lord, Vicky: she hasn't been home in three days. She spends less time around this rundown dump than you do. Maybe I should let that State lady take her."

"How can you say that? She's still your daughter!"

"So you say” snapped Butch in reply, stumbling as he picked up the empty shot glass, placed it on the end table near the chair, and lurched towards the kitchen for a fresh bottle. "For all I know, she could be Bobby's kid."

Victoria quickly stepped back to the door and blocked Butch's progress into the kitchen. His eyes grew wide as he stopped a few inches shy of her scowling face.

"Oh, no you don't!" she screamed, the veins in her neck popping out like thick cords of rope, "Don't you start that nonsense again. That girl is your daughter; whether you like to admit it or not; whether I like to admit it or not. And you have a responsibility to help her. You've got to go back into those woods, find her, and bring her home before she gets herself shot. Those cops are looking for our child and I, for one, don't want to see her end up with a bullet in her head."

Butch laughed. "Get real, Vicky. The cops aren’t going to shoot a little kid."

"Are you sure?" she demanded, "Are you really sure?" Victoria fell silent for a few seconds and cast a wry look at her husband.

"Why, you'd be surprised at the many ways an adult can sometimes cause harm to a small child. I remember this Janitor who used to work down at the Rutherford Elementary School…"

"Stop it" warned Butch.

Victoria ignored the threat and continued; the smile widening and her eyes glowing brightly. Butch gripped the empty whiskey bottle tighter in his right hand and slowly began to raise it above his shoulder.

"He used to hurt little children all the time” Laughed Victoria, "He was no smarter than those damn Rutherford Policemen: why is it that they aren't capable of the same sort of damage he was?"

"You little fucking bitch," screamed Butch, "You always did know how to drag out the worst in me, didn't you?" His arm snapped forward: The empty bottle flew towards his wife and struck the door jam to the left of her head with a loud 'pop' and flying glass.

Victoria, amused by the attack, chuckled softly. "Don't you go threatening me, Benjamin” she said, "It's a little late for that now don't you think?"

"Go to Hell, bitch” snapped Butch, pushing easily past his wife and storming into the kitchen. Reaching the refrigerator, he wrenched open the greasy white door and pulled out a can of beer from the second shelf.

"Please go to Hell," added Butch with a mad giggle as he popped the tin and began to guzzle down the cold, frothy liquid. "I'm begging you," he laughed, "Go straight to Hell. Do not pass 'Go'. Do not collect two hundred dollars."

"Butch, please" begged Victoria, her tone softer, "Go find Maggie and bring her home. She's involved in some stuff she just can't handle, and I'm afraid she's about to get hurt badly. You know, in a way it's your fault she's in this mess in the first place; can't you see that?"

Butch slid down the door of the refrigerator and sat clumsily on the streaked linoleum floor of the kitchen. He opened one tired eye and stared at the now blurring image of his wife.

"Go away, Victoria. I don't care about Maggie anymore; I don't care about anything anymore. I've suffered enough to last a lifetime."

Victoria, small tears on her cheeks, turned away from the drunk and slowly glided towards the front door. Butch took a second chug from the can and drained it completely, then shook it roughly to catch the last few drops of the beer in his throat. He looked up a few seconds later and found himself alone in the kitchen at last; his wife had fled. Who knows, he thought: Maybe she had never really been there to start with.

"Dirty floor" he squawked, noticing the patch of grease that he was sitting in. "Dirty house, dirty wife, and dirty drink". Taking a third sip, Butch finally realized the can was empty and threw it across the room and into the tiny hallway that connected the kitchen to the pantry.

"Dirty daughter" he mumbled as he struggled to get up and fetch a second beer from the fridge. "Dirty daughter, dirty red hair, dirty friends…"

* * *

Scott Langford ran through the Paugasaget Woods as if his pants were on fire. The tall pine, elm, and oak trees slapped his tear-stained face with their long, sharp branches and tore at his clothes. There had been a time in days past when these same stately trees had been his constant friends and companions, but today it was as if they sensed his troubled mood and were deliberately trying to stop him from reaching the clubhouse.

No matter how fast he ran, Scott knew his options were limited. There just wasn't much left he could to do to help his fellow Club members. He may have been elected President of The Chameleon Club, but deep in his heart Scott knew it was Maggie Thompson who held the real reins of power. The others would not go against her wishes; no matter how desperate her crazy schemes had become.

Dropping over a small knoll, Scott came to a rocky cropping of rock that rose from the forest floor in the rough shape of a large toad. Behind this stone, Scott knew a carefully concealed pit dug deep into the cold ground housed one of the Club members. And with the police looking for the kids, whoever hid behind the rock was probably armed in some fashion.

"If a Tree falls in the woods, and no one is around to see it fall, does it make any noise?" whispered Scott.

A few seconds later, Esau Jones stepped out from behind the Toad Stone whistling a silly tune and carrying an even sillier grin on his face.

"I didn't hear any damn tree fall."

Scott breathed a sigh of relief and approached his friend. "Look, things are getting real crazy around here. Where are the others?"

Esau frowned and pointed west. "At the clubhouse; they've been there the entire day. You're right about the craziness, Scott: I actually got shot at earlier."

Amazing how this weird kid can snap back and forth between a silly and serious attitude, thought Scott. If he was over sixteen, he'd probably be locked up in the Psych ward by now. Maybe the cops are right; maybe it was one of the Club Members who had killed those kids.

Esau turned to the west and began to pick his way through the thick brush; Scott trailed behind him a few feet and tried to plan what he was going to say to the others. From the south, a Police siren sounded: Esau took no notice, but Scott was startled briefly by the noise.

What next, the National Guard? How was he going to straighten this out?

Ten minutes later, the two boys stood in front of an old rotted tree. Esau carefully reached his small fingers around the far side of the trunk and pulled on a huge, curved piece of bark. Behind the bark the rotted wood of the tree had been carved away to reveal a hollow hideaway; below this hole was a tunnel descending into the ground.

"You wait here," he instructed Scott, "I have to check with Maggie and see if it's all right if you come down."

Scott exploded. "What do you mean, 'Check with Maggie'? I'm the Leader of this club!"

Esau shook his head sadly as he climbed into the hollow interior of the massive tree and climbed down a series of wooden slats. "Not any more you aren't: You quit earlier, remember?"

Scott, still angry at the restriction, bit his lower lip, clenched his fists, and stood his ground. Esau paused, took a long look at his former leader, and then disappeared into the dark belly of the tree.

Esau was right. He had quit the club earlier today. Sighing softly, Scott collapsed against the bark of the dead tree and slid slowly to the hard ground below him. If only he could have controlled his temper instead of becoming angry at Maggie, maybe he could have talked the group into giving themselves up. It was funny how his temper always seemed to get in the way like that: his Dad wouldn't allow himself enough emotion to walk across the lawn, but his son was blowing up like a puff toad on a daily basis.

"Come on down, Scotty" squeaked Esau's voice from within the tree, "But I better warn you: You're probably wasting your time." Scott climbed into the hole, found the first slat of the ladder and descended into the cold, damp cave. Although there was light emanating from below and a thin shaft of sunlight above, the tunnel itself was incredibly dark. It was like climbing into a grave.

As soon as he reached the bottom, Scott turned around and found a seat on the damp clay of the cave. The cavern, built by the Club about three weeks earlier, was about ten feet square in size; small but large enough to allow the four members of the Chameleon Club to sit for long periods of time without becoming cramped. The walls were lined with long planks of wood that had been stolen from the Jone's warehouse in Rutherford; these were used to support the weight of the roof and help prevent the cavern from falling on their heads. The clay, itself, was packed solidly by both time and the weight of the trees above and was in no danger of collapse.

Before moving to Rutherford, Scott Langford had built many of these caverns; he knew from experience that this one would probably outlast each of the four children who now sat huddled within it. The adults would never find this hideout by themselves, but neither could the club members stay here for long without food or water. If he was going to keep these three alive, he had to talk them out of here and back to their homes.

Two battery-operated lanterns had been placed to either side of a wooden packing crate since the last time Scott had visited the Clubhouse; the light they cast was sufficient to illuminate the room while leaving the tunnel draped in darkness. In front of the crate sat the twins, Esau and Jacob Jones. Behind them, on top of the crate, sat little Maggie Thompson. She was shaky but seemed in apparent control of the situation. In the dim, soft light of the lanterns, her fierce red hair seemed to glow with a life of its own, and the angry glare from her dark eyes multiplied the visual impact. Scott shivered as he watched her and realized to his horror that he had become afraid of the girl.

"You've been on top," said Maggie quietly, her cold eyes locked on his gaze like a magnet, "Tell us what's going on."

Scott stole a quick glance at the twins before answering. Jacob looked nervous; his fingers were twitching on his lap as he sat waiting for their friend to reply. Good kid, but he wouldn't cross Maggie for any reason; no matter what the consequences.

Esau sat next to his brother whittling on a small piece of wood with a pocket knife. Realizing that Scott was watching him, he smiled broadly and winked; then went back to his work. He appeared bored, but he was listening to everything that was said.

Finally, Scott leveled his gaze at Maggie and spoke.

"Maggie, you've got to put an end to this. The woods are crawling with cops; sooner or later they're going to find us. Didn't Esau tell you one of them shot at him?"

Maggie nodded, but said nothing. She was scared, Scott realized, but too afraid to admit it to the others.

"Come on, Maggie: even our parents are now on the road looking for us."

Suddenly angry, Maggie leaned forward towards Scott. "Maybe your parents are out there," she snapped, her voice cracking with a little fear, "but mine are not. My Mother's not out there. And my Father's probably home sucking on another of his damn bottles."

Scott groaned. Not this, again. He started to reply, but Maggie cut him off.

"We're not going to give this up until we find out what happened to my Mother!" screamed the girl, her hands twisting in rage at her side. "That's what we agreed to; that's the purpose of this club. That is the same purpose you agreed to when you joined and changed everything all around."

"Maggie, that was then and this is now” replied Scott in a low voice, "I had no idea at the time you guys would stoop to kidnapping. Taking the Social Worker prisoner was not my idea."

Esau looked up briefly from his whittling and cast another one of his famous smiles at Scott. "We didn't kidnap her, Scott: we just brought her in for questioning. You know, 'Interrogation'."

"Damn it," screamed Scott, "You're not a cop! You're not a detective. This isn't some stupid game or television show; this is real. You're just a kid!"

Jacob tugged on his brother's shirt, "He's right, Esau: we're just kids." Esau shook off his brother's hand roughly and cast him a quick, mean look.

"Come off it, Scotty” said Esau, "This was all your idea; you have a lot of nerve backing out on us now. Whatever happened to all those 'ideals' you spouted to us? Whatever happened to all that stuff about us doing things our own parents were afraid to do? Whatever happened to all that talk about us taking charge of our own lives, about using the club to do something useful?"

"Esau, sit down and hush!" screamed Maggie. Esau turned towards the girl and began to object, but she quieted him by raising a stern finger. Once he had calmed down, she slowly returned her gaze towards Scott.

"Langford, you no longer have any say in what the Chameleon Club does or does not choose to do. I've allowed you to come down here only so we could find out what the adults were doing. Why did you come down here?"

"I came down here..." started Scott before the words failed him. Why did he come down here? Was it to help his friends out of a jam or was it to make up for losing control of the club? Was it pride or purpose that had driven him back into the woods?

"I came down here as President of the Chameleon Club to ask you guys to give yourselves up..."

"You're not the President any longer!" snapped Esau.

"Yes, I am!" shot back Scott with a hard glare. "You stupid kids were hiding under blankets when I came around. Take a look at this cave. Remember the other hiding places we've built; the traps we've set up; the disguises we've used. None of this would exist if it hadn't been for me. It was my knowledge that created all of this, my knowledge of camouflage, engineering, and disguise. You three simply borrowed techniques that I've been using my whole life. You can take away the Title, but you can't take away the Truth: I am the President of the Chameleon Club. You have to listen to me."

"Don't tell us what to do, Langford…" whispered Maggie, her eyes glowing in the dim light of the lanterns.

"Don't you see, Maggie?" pleaded Scott, "I have to. I left you guys alone for one day; one lousy day, and now you've got cops chasing you through the woods and trying to shoot you. We've never going to be able to find out who hurt those children; we never even had a chance. We were kidding ourselves all along;

I'm just as guilty as the rest of you. Don't you see? I was wrong. Maggie, we're never going to find your Mother. We've got to give it up."

The three remaining members of the Chameleon Club sat quietly in the gloom created by the lanterns and watched him. Scott sighed as he looked at their stone-cold faces and realized they weren't going to follow him any longer.

"I've created a monster!" cried Scott in despair, "I gave you three a little hope; a little confidence in yourselves and now you think you can fight off the whole world."

"We can” answered the girl, "We CAN fight off the whole damn world!"

"Esau" whispered Jacob to his twin, "I know what you said, but these guys have got guns…"

"Shut up, Jacob” scowled Esau.

"But, they've got guns. Dad will be mad…"

"Listen to him, Esau” interrupted Scott, "He's right; they've got guns. I'm not sure why, but the cops have convinced themselves that the only way to stop children from dying is to bring you three in at any cost."

"Bring US in” added Maggie, "that includes you, Scott. We're still kids, legally: but you're fifteen; you're almost an adult."

"Yes, bring US in; even if they have to shoot us to do it. We've got to give ourselves up. Put an end to this nonsense, Maggie” begged Scott, inching closer to the crate she sat on. "Let's all put away our toys and go home!"

No reply from the others. Scott felt tears form in his eyes and clumsily wiped them away with the back of his hand. He was out of options and had only one idea left.

"If you won't come on your own, Maggie: then I'm going down to the road and bring Lieutenant Rayford and his men back up here. One way or another, I'm going to put a stop to this game and save your rotten little lives in spite of your stubbornness."

Esau and Jacob jumped to their feet. "NO!" they screamed. Maggie sat back; worried by his boldness.

"Yes, I will!" replied Scott as he headed for the tunnel and the ladder. "This has gone way too far; I care for you three guys too much to watch one of you die." Grabbing the lower rung, the former President of the Chameleon Club quickly disappeared into the tunnel above.

* * *

Maggie felt fear as she watched Scott Langford leave the cavern to fetch the cops. He'll do it, she thought as Esau and Jacob shouted up the tunnel after Scott. They never should've trusted him. This would ruin everything unless she could think of a way to get the truth out of that Halloran lady before the cops came.

Esau, abandoning the attempt to talk Scott out of the tunnel, dashed over to the packing crate and clutched desperately at Maggie's arm.

"Maggie, we can't let him go!" he pleaded. "We've got to stop him. He'll ruin everything. We were capable of finding your Mom while Scott was here, but now that he's gone we won't stand a chance. Let me and Jacob go after him. We'll drag him down with the ropes and hide him in Georgia."

"No” whispered Maggie.

Jacob now joined his brother at the crate. "You've got to be kidding!" he squeaked, "We can't let him bring the cops up here. I don't want to get shot by a cop. I could die from that, couldn't I?"

"Let him go” ordered Maggie, her voice calm. "We don't need him; we never did. We've managed without him before and we can manage without him now." Biting her lip, Maggie leaned back on the crate against the clay wall of the pit and began the tough task of arranging the chaotic thoughts of her mind into some semblance of Order. Convincing these two to follow her lead would be easy; the hardest thing she had to do now was to convince herself.

Esau and Jacob collapsed on the floor of the cave and watched her in silence. Despite the crazy events of the last few days, Maggie knew the twins still believed in her; still had faith she would pull them through. She had never failed them before, had she?

Inwardly, she wasn't as sure of herself as her followers were. She was running out of time. She had to find a way to get the Social Worker to talk; to tell her where her Mother was. Simply starving her for information wasn't going to work if the cops found them first.

Leaning quickly to her right side, Maggie grabbed the small lantern, spun it around to the right and, with a quick flick of her fingers, switched off the light that blazed within.

* * *

His ankle still hurt, but after waiting in the woods for twenty minutes, Officer Jim Peters finally realized no one was coming to assist him. Struggling to his feet, he began to slowly hobble back towards the road. Why didn't they send anyone up after him? Detective Yancey had promised to send up help when Jim had raised her on the radio, but no one had showed. Even his partner Evans had disappeared and never returned.

"Maybe those damn kids have attacked the cops on the road" muttered Peters as he tried to avoid putting too much weight on his ankle. "Maybe they've taken the entire Rutherford Police force captive and are down there waiting to whack me with another board when I clear the trees."

A sharp crackling noise sounded to his right side. Peters groaned, reached down and took Evan's radio from his belt and keyed the transmission button. "Peters here" he whispered.

No reply came from the radio. Surprised by the silence, Peters took a close look at the set and realized he had left the unit turned off. The noise wasn't from the radio.

Dropping softly to the ground, Peters swung his eyes in a circle and watched the brush for movement. He had to be more careful this time; it simply wouldn't do to have those stupid children spring a third trap. His union insurance premiums were high enough as it was.

A brief burst of color to his right caught his attention. The red shirt flashing through the brush had be one of the kids; the cops were dressed in regulation blue. Slowly rising to his feet, Peters began to sneak northwest towards the child.

It could also be another neighborhood kid, or even one of their parents out looking for the little brats. But after being whacked by a carpenter's nightmare and dropped into a pit, He wasn't about to take any more chances.

Moving as quickly as his damaged ankle would allow, Jim angled his direction more towards the west: hopefully, he could catch up to the child a little farther away from the hill and get ahead before confronting him. The ground was fairly level here and would swing him around to the other side of the knoll without too much stress to his injury. Whoever was taking the direct route would be slowed by their climb up the hill.

Peters activated the radio and keyed the transmit button. "Lieutenant Rayford, come in" he whispered, "This is Peters: I'm on the west ridge and I've got one of the suspects in sight; heading towards the Langford House."

The radio crackled; Peters hoped the noise wouldn't carry beyond the ridge and warn off the kid. "Peters, this is Yancey" replied the unit. "We've got two officers to the north; we'll advise them to swing south and west and help cut him off."

"Good luck” laughed Peters, "These aren't ordinary kids. Warn the other two; Evans and I have come across traps set by these clowns."

The radio fell silent for a few seconds. "We’ll keep that in mind."

Stopping near a tree, Peter looked towards the north and spotted a teenage boy walking slowly up the rise of the hill. The others might be kids, but this guy was old enough to get himself into some nice, adult trouble.

"Yancey," continued Peters, "How am I supposed to convince this kid to come down? I've already tried the 'Stop, Police' routine, and these guys don't seem too impressed by it."

Yancey gave a reply, but the quality of the transmission became garbled from static, and Peters couldn't quite make it out. "Repeat that, Lizzie" he asked.

The second reply was static free. "Shoot Him" ordered his superior officer. "Shoot at him, shoot above him, or take out his leg if you have to, but bring him down."

Shoot him? Was she kidding?

"Are you serious, Lizzie? Is that an Order? What in God's name is going on with these kids that you and Rayford aren't telling me?" Jim waited patiently for Detective Yancey to reply but turned off the radio and clipped it to his belt after about twenty seconds of silence.

"I take that to be a 'Yes'" he said with a sigh as he hurried around the west side of the ridge.

* * *

Scott Langford slowed his pace through the Paugasaget Woods and began to walk. He had run a half mile from the Clubhouse, desperate to find a solution to this mess and bring an end to the madness that had descended over his friends and their families.

After a while, he began to realize that he had no idea any longer who to turn to. His Father wasn't going to get involved and the kids in the club weren't going to listen to reason: who was left for him to turn to? Suddenly, Scott Langford was alone, and he didn't like the feeling at all.

Stopping at the top of a knoll, Scott sat down on a boulder and tried to think. Should he go down to the road and talk to the cops like he had threatened Maggie? Perhaps, but not yet. If the truth was known, Scott didn't trust the Rutherford Police Department any more than Maggie did. Three people were dead; two of them children, and it didn't appear to him that Rayford and his crew had reacted quickly enough to the danger to warrant any trust.

And who had called in the Social Worker about Maggie? Certainly not her Father; he was too drunk to even think straight most of the time. The Jones were too concerned about their precious business interests to bother with their children's problems, and Scott's Father spent most of his day mourning the loss of his wife or looking forward to yet another therapy session with that girl from the Church, Carina. It had to have been the cops.

"Hold it right there, Son” said a stern voice.

Scott leaped up from the rock and looked quickly to his left: A Rutherford Policeman stood next to a tree; his gun leveled in Scott's direction. He was injured; a bright red handkerchief had been tied around one of his ankles.

"Don't move; stay right where you are”.

"Why would I move?" asked Scott, carefully examining the surrounding woods in search of a trap or safe spot.

"Now, come on: I'm not stupid” said the cop as he slowly approached the boulder, "I've been through a few of your tricks today; I'm not about to let you whack me in the face with any more of your boards, that's for damn sure."

This must have been the cop who shot at Esau. He was in real trouble here; if this guy was stupid enough to try and shoot a twelve-year-old, what chance did he have to avoid his bullets?

"Drop to your knees, boy: and place both your hands behind your head” ordered the cop.

It looked like he was stuck this time. He couldn't think of any way out of this mess without getting shot. Guess he was going to end up at the road talking to the Lieutenant, after all. Sadly, Scott dropped to his knees and raised his arms as instructed. He watched the Policeman limp towards the boulder.

Real shame; this guy had been injured by one of their traps. If he could get a head start, there's no way the cop could catch him.

Dropping his arms suddenly, Scott cupped his palms around his mouth and screamed towards the dark tangle of trees beyond the cop's shoulder.

"NOW, ESAU! CUT THE ROPE NOW!"

* * *

Startled by the kid's outburst, Officer Peters uttered an oath, dropped to the knee of his good leg, and spun around. If he was going to get whacked by another branch, he might as well give himself a fighting chance at avoiding it. Leveling his pistol, Jim looked towards the east but saw

Nothing. The woods were quiet; a slight breeze blew across his forehead. No attacker was visible. No branch snapped from its mooring and rushed towards him. No carpenter tacks clawed at his cheek. "Nice try, Kid” he chuckled as he turned back towards the boulder.

The teenager was gone. Unbelievable. Limping past the boulder, Peters headed after the child. The oldest trick in the book, and he had fallen for it.

"YOU SON OF A BITCH; COME BACK HERE!" he screamed as he spotted the boy fleeing towards the north. "STOP!"

Halting, he leveled his pistol and fired.

* * *

Scott raced towards the north hills pine grove known as 'Illinois'. If he got there ahead of the cop, he could hide out in a hollowed-out section the Club had covered with moss and leaves a few weeks back.

A shot rang out; the bullet struck a tree to Scott's left and sent a sharp sliver of wood burrowing into his cheek. Crying out in pain, Scott fell to the ground and began to burrow through the low brush on his belly.

On the other hand, maybe he should head east; there was a cache of weapons just beyond that rise. Now, all he had to do was reach it before 'Officer Bob' came crashing through the bushes.

* * *

Peters reached the tree and scanned the woods around him. He could see where the bullet had ricocheted off the tree; saw a bloody spot on the ground where the boy had hit the dirt. Good shot, Jim: At least the kid is off his feet now. He would have at least a slim chance to keep up.

Looking towards the east, Jim spotted a scuffed-up section of leaves. The boy's heading towards the east; better go around to the north. If he followed him through the bush, he was going to end up inside another one of their pits.

Moments later, Peters stepped through the brush and into a small clearing. Alongside a clump of moss and dead branches, the teenager lay moaning on the ground. Blood poured freely from his head. Moving quickly across the clearing, Peters headed towards the boy.

Suddenly, the 'injured' teenager shot up to one knee and swung a strange collection of rope over his head. Peters tried to stop his forward progress, but his damaged ankle screamed in protest and flared hot, searing pain up his leg. The cop staggered to his right and grabbed his thigh.

The boy let the ropes fly towards him; Peters watched in horror as the ropes unwound in midair to form a bizarre web-like pattern. The ropes were knotted in the center and weighed down by small stones at the end of each strand.

Striking him around the knees, the ropes wrapped fiercely around his legs. The weight of the stones, the injury to his ankle, and the momentum of the device combined to drag him off his feet and send him sprawling face first into the matted layer of dirt, pebbles, sticks, and leaves on the floor of the forest. His face, already injured from the earlier attack, throbbed with fresh, new pain as his cheek dug deep into the rocky soil.

Peters, groaning softly, placed his two hands beneath him and tried to lift himself off of the ground. His feet were still held fast by the ropes, and the injury to his ankle prevented him from kicking them off. Raising himself, Peters looked towards the east and saw the boy sitting calmly on the ground and pointing the policeman's own revolver in his direction.

"Gotcha!" whispered the boy; a thin, determined smile smeared across his bloody face. Peters groaned; louder this time and allowed himself to collapse back down to the ground in disgust.

* * *

Maggie and the two Jones boys moved cautiously away from the Clubhouse and headed towards the road where the Rutherford Police had set up their command post.

"This isn't such a good idea, Maggie” objected Jacob, cautiously looking over his shoulder towards 'Toad Stone', "We should stay put in the Clubhouse."

"No, I don't think so” replied Maggie, "It won't be safe now that Langford is going to talk to the cops. We've got to move quickly."

Esau, quiet until now, moved over to Maggie and whispered into her ear. "Jacob's right; we can hide from one or two cops, but not a whole pack of them. What makes you so sure we can pull this off?"

After a brief but impatient look at Esau, Maggie spoke to Jacob. "Go over that next hill and see if you spot any cops; me and Esau will check out the east and the west, okay?"

Jacob swallowed hard and nodded. "Only don't go away on me, all right?"

Maggie smiled warmly and placed a tender hand on the boy's face. "I've told you before. I will never leave you." The boy, encouraged by the girl's unexpected display of affection, smiled brightly and disappeared between the trees.

"All right; the kid's gone," snapped Esau. "Now tell me: what makes you think we're going to get away with this? What do you know that we don't?"

Maggie, her eyes mad with delight, reached into the sack she carried on her side and pulled out a large, blood-soaked revolver. Pointing the gun towards Esau's pale, frightened face, she pulled back the hammer of the ugly weapon, and placed the barrel against the front lobe of his skull.

"THIS!" she shrieked ecstatically, "THIS is what makes me think we'll get away with it!"

* * *

Peters cleared his throat; tried to think of something to say. Neither one of them had made a sound in a half hour. The boy had been watching the cop carefully; the pistol always firmly directed towards Peters and ready to fire. He was nervous, and more seriously hurt than he looked if the blood flowing from his torn cheek was any indication.

Peters had not been very talkative, either. The boy had removed his radio from its belt clip immediately and had also found the second revolver he carried in his coat. For all intents and purposes, Officer Jim Peters was a dead cop: this kid would sooner or later get crazy on him and blow him away, just like he had done to Robert Thompson, or Elizabeth Edricks, or Paula Riant.

"Maybe Yancey was right after all," he muttered as he tried to move his bound legs and get some blood circulating to his injured ankle, "Maybe I should have shot him."

"What did you just say?"

Peters looked up and smiled sarcastically. "Oh, so you can speak. Good, for a minute there I thought you were simply a SILENT cold-blooded killer."

The boy shook his head and looked briefly off towards the north. "I'm no killer" he said with honest surprise in his tone.

"Yeah?" snorted Peters, "Look at my ripped-open cheek and tell me that lie again, will you? Who's the one with the gun, kid?"

"That was just one of our traps. It was meant to scare people off; not kill them."

The nerve of this shrimp, fumed Peters, still struggling to free his legs. The little imp sits there with his pistol and tries to convince him that he's not dangerous.

"The damn tacks that did all this damage could very well have taken my fucking eye right out of my head! If you and your bastard friends aren't killers, then why don't you come out of hiding and turn yourselves in?"

Peters didn't expect an answer and turned his face away from the boy. For five minutes, there was continued silence in the clearing. Then, the boy moved closer towards the bound officer.

"My name is Scott" he said, cautiously extending his hand. Peters, surprised by the move, reached forward and shook the kid's hand briefly.

"We didn't kill those kids" added Scott, after retreating a safe distance.

"Then, who did?"

"I don't know; we were trying to figure that out for ourselves."

Peters thought for a moment. Maybe he had a chance here, after all. If this 'Scott' kid was going to plug him, he would've done it by now. All of the three killings were done in this same stretch of woods, all were quick, and two of them were by a pistol. The fact he was still alive, breathing, and suffering from a sprained ankle should be proof enough that this guy didn't pull the trigger then, and probably wouldn't pull it now.

"Listen, Scott: If that's your real name"

"It is. My name is Scott Langford; I'm the Minister's Son."

"Minister?" asked Peters with surprise. "I know your Father; he's the new Reverend at the Rutherford Congregational, Isn't he?"

Scott nodded.

"You're a preacher's kid and you're holding me hostage with my own gun?" Peters, unnerved by the boy's admission, laughed loudly at the thought. "Son, you should've paid more attention in Sunday school; this sort of anti-social behavior is against your religion."

"Preacher's Kids are famous for not always following in their father's footsteps” said Scott, a slight smile escaping from his lips. "I tried to get my Dad to help out in this mess, but he didn't want to be bothered."

"Just what ARE you trying to do, Scott?" he asked slowly, "Why is your group hiding out like this? Why did you kidnap Ms. Halloran?

Peters managed to pull himself up into a sitting position. Scott, alarmed by the movement, raised the pistol towards the policeman but relaxed after Peters held out his hands and indicated he wasn't trying to escape.

"Just how many of your little friends do you have, Scott?" he asked the boy.

"A few" he stammered. "Three of them..."

Peters gawked at Scott. "Three? Plus you? There are only four of you? For crying out loud, Rayford has the entire Rutherford Police force, the Fire Department, and a battalion of State Police Officers up here in these woods chasing down four lousy kids?"

"We're not just any ordinary kids, Mr. Peters. We've trained ourselves to be very good at what we do."

"I don't believe it. The four of you have eluded all of these troops for two days now? How is that possible? What is it that you 'do'?"

"We hide” replied Scott. "We are the Chameleon Club, and we've trained ourselves to be very good at hiding."

Peters considered the boy's reply for a moment, but then shook his head. "Sometimes, hiding isn’t exactly the best course of action. Scott? Why don't you tell me about this club of yours? Think about it: you said you wanted to help your friends, and I want to understand what's happened up here in these woods. I don't believe you're a killer, and I have no particular interest in putting a bullet through you, either."

"You have a funny way of proving that” snapped Scott, touching his cheek.

"No, that shot was just supposed to scare you off your feet; that's all…"

"It worked."

"No wonder” replied Peters. "Seriously: why don't you just relax and tell me what the Hell has happened in South Rutherford these last few weeks? I'm sure as shit not going anywhere" said Jim, pointing to his feet that were still bound fast in the weighted ropes, "How about it? If you cooperate with me, I can put in a good word for you with Lieutenant Rayford. Maybe you and your friends can finally go home."

* * *

Scott thought about his offer. There was indeed a certain amount of truth in what the cop said, and he knew he had reached the limits of his own options. Still, there were some things you just didn't do, even if you were a kid. One of them was to rat on a friend.

"The way I see it," continued Peters, "You don't have many choices left. You can't hide forever; club or no club. Sooner or later, your friends are coming out of these woods: either voluntarily or by force."

Scott, rising to his feet, walked a short distance away from the bound officer and began to absentmindedly peel some bark from the trunk of an old tree.

"Scott" said Peters, "Listen to me. Time's running short for your friends; you've got to do the right thing. I'm not here to hurt you. Hell, I can't even move without you putting a bullet through me if you wanted to. I'm just here to listen. Your Dad wouldn't listen, but I will; if you'll let me."

Scott turned back towards Peters; afraid and uncertain. I'm not as different from my Father as I thought, he realized. He's spent the better part of the last two years afraid to move out of Mom's shadow; afraid to turn back into the real world and get on with his life. Now, He was reacting the same way to this situation as he had to Mom's death: He was afraid to go back, afraid to go forward.

Sitting down on the rock, Scott Langford carefully placed the policeman's pistol on the ground nearby.

"It was on a Monday, around the beginning of June, a few days before the first child was killed. I was helping my Father move our personal belongings into the Church parsonage on Paugasaget Road, near the pond. While I was helping him, some of the neighborhood kids came around to watch us…"

"The Chameleon Club?" asked Peters.

Scott shook his head and laughed; a small tear slid down his cheek and disappeared with a quick swipe of his hand.

"No, that didn't happen until later on. These guys were just goofy kids. They didn't create the Chameleon Club; they didn't cause all this trouble to occur during the last three weeks. I can't even truthfully say they're responsible for the disappearance of the Social Worker, Mrs. Halloran. No, not even that: They're simply copying me. They're doing what I taught them to do. They hide because I hide. And I hide because…"

Scott rose from the rock and nervously paced off a few steps to the far side of the clearing. When he spoke again, there was a hint of a tremor in his voice, and his shoulders rose and fell slightly as the child talked.

"I'm responsible for all of those things happening, not the kids. The Chameleon Club was MY idea."

Two

The three children stood at the edge of the woods and watched the gray-silver moving van rumble into the driveway of the former Callahan house and pull to a squealing, smoky stop. The youngest, a red-haired girl about ten years old, sneezed and wiped her nose on the back of her sleeve.

"Shush!" hissed one of the twin boys who stood next to her, "They'll hear us."

"Nonsense, they're too far away" snapped Maggie Thompson to her friend Esau Jones. "Haven't you learned anything from this? Rule number two: If you can't hear them talking, then they can't hear you…"

The second boy took a cautious step forward and coughed nervously. "I can hear them."

Maggie, who had been watching the adult climb out of the truck, turned her cold gaze towards the child and frowned. "You cannot."

"Yes, I can. The boy's name is 'Scott': I heard the man call him that."

Esau laughed at the young girl's surprise and tapped her gently on the shoulder. "I'd believe him if I were you. This kid has real good ears."

Maggie looked back and forth between the two twins. After a few seconds, she moved towards Jacob and tenderly took his hand in hers.

"Jacob, what else can you hear?" she asked.

Leaning towards the edge of the wood, the young boy tilted his head and listened. His brother Esau, out of respect for his talent, stood quietly to the side.

"They have finished putting furniture in the bedroom" offered Jacob after a moment's silence, "now they're going to bring in Living Room furniture. The man wants to make one more trip with the truck before it gets too dark."

Maggie shook her head. "No, that doesn't tell us anything. Who are they? Where are they from? Why did they come here? We need more information."

Esau stooped over, plucked a small twig from the ground, and began to peel off the bark with his two front teeth. "Gee, Maggie: what do you expect these two to talk about? They're moving into a new home, for God's Sake."

The children fell silent as they watched the man and boy climb into the truck and carefully move away smaller boxes from the furniture in the van. Jacob tugged quickly on Maggie's sleeves.

"Can we go now?" he asked, "This is boring."

"No” snapped Maggie, "We've got to learn more. We're too far away: we've got to get closer. Esau, do you have the blankets?"

Esau nodded and patted the bulky green bag slung over his shoulder.

Maggie nodded briefly before turning her dark eyes back towards the old Callahan house. "Good. We'll do it the same way we did last Thursday: Jacob, you go towards the North and watch the far side of Paugasaget Road. Esau: you and I will come over by the side of the driveway."

The twins nodded but stood their ground. Neither of them would move until Maggie moved first. Despite her younger age, she was their leader: She was the one with all the ideas, and the ability to make them work. Without her, the boy's summer would have turned into just another dreary ordeal with their parents; another endless period of arguments and fights.

"Move it" hissed Maggie as she stepped into the clearing. Esau followed closely behind; taking a couple of blankets out of his shoulder bag as he moved and handing them to the others. In the driveway, the man and the boy struggled to move a large couch off of the van.

* * *

Scott Langford, whistling a silly tune he had heard on the radio, hopped onto the loading platform and leaned against the couch. His adopted Father, Steven Langford, breathed heavily as he wiped the perspiration from the lens of his wire-rimmed glasses. What had originally looked like a single afternoon's move had turned out to be a three-day ordeal.

"The Living Room” wheezed the Reverend, "All we have left is the Living Room." Coughing, he turned towards the driveway and leaned against the wall of the truck for support. His skin was quickly turning a ghastly white color, and his eyes seemed as if they were going to pop right out of his head.

"Dad" said Scott, with concern, "Can't this wait until tomorrow? We have the truck for another whole day before it needs to be returned."

Steven shook his head weakly and tried to straighten his stance. "No, I'd rather get the heavy items out of the way tonight; we're going to need all day tomorrow just to get the boxes unpacked and the house in order. Wednesday, we have services."

"Wednesday, YOU have services."

Steven smiled, and stumbled over to the far end of the living room couch. "Wednesday you have services, as well. This congregation that hired us is quite small; I'm sure their office accommodations are going to take quite a bit of work to straighten out."

Scott groaned as he grabbed his end of the sofa and carried it off the van and up the walkway towards the house. The afternoon sun stabbed Steven in the eyes; tears slid down his cheeks as he readjusted to the bright light. He wished they could have afforded a moving company; he was getting too old to be carrying couches around under a hot sun.

Two last items of furniture remained in the truck. The Reverend, despite his failing strength, jumped up onto the loading platform and took stock of the remaining items. One of them was a large easy chair; a gift from his Mother. This was his favorite chair; although he would never admit that fact to anyone. Late on Saturday nights, when his sermon preparation was over, Steven would lounge in that chair, lift up the foot rest, and drift off to a restful, pleasant sleep while some television program was softly whining in the distance. More often than not, he would end up spending the entire evening on the chair: Scott would rouse him with a glare and an angry word the next morning.

"Come on, Scott. Only two pieces left; let's get a move on here” shouted the Reverend back towards the house. He was sure his Son had been right behind him after they had left the living room; where could he have gone?

"Coming, Dad” cried the boy just seconds before dashing down the walkway towards the truck, "I had to use the can."

Steven sighed. "You mean: you had to use the bathroom."

"Whatever" answered the boy as he leapt easily up on the loading platform. Steven stared at the youth for a second. Seeing the fifteen-year-old fly through the sky caused an unnerving reaction in him. It reminded him of the crazy days, many distant years past, when he would climb up onto his own Father's porch and with a maddening scream jump off into the juniper bushes below.

"Can, bathroom: same difference, isn't it?" said the young voice behind them. Both Steven and Scott gasped, surprised by the unexpected sound. Turning towards the dark interior of the van, they saw a young girl with vivid red hair sitting in the easy chair; her tiny legs thrown carelessly over the arm of the rocker. Steven could have sworn he had seen the chair empty just a few seconds ago.

"It isn’t like your son swore or anything” continued the girl, "Hell, at my house you're apt to hear words a whole lot worse; most of them from my Mother."

"Young lady” said the Reverend in his most stern, Man-of-the-house voice, "Who are you? Why did you sneak up into this van like you did?"

The girl, with a devilish glint in her eye, giggled and hopped off the chair. "I didn't sneak onto the van; I've been here watching you for ten whole minutes. And, never mind who I am. I want to know who you are."

Steven stormed over to the chair and grabbed the child by her arm. The young girl screamed in protest; Scott laughed as his Father led the child to the opening of the van.

"We're not going to tell you who we are” said Scott, "You're just a stupid little Neighborhood kid, aren't you?"

"SCOTT!" snapped the Reverend, as he led the child kicking and screaming off of the van. "I won't have you talk like that; not from one in my house. Yes, we are going to tell this child who we are." He released his iron grip on the girl; half expecting her to flee into the woods. Unbelievably, she stood her ground and stared up at him defiantly.

"I am the Reverend Steven Langford, and this is my son Scott. As of this Wednesday, I am the new Pastor of the Rutherford Congregational Church. And you, young lady…"

"I'm Maggie” replied the child, looking beyond the minister and into the dark depths of the van. "And my friend over there is Esau."

"Friend?" asked the Reverend, "What friend?" Turning towards the back of the truck, Scott and his father jumped as they saw the form of a young black child sitting in the easy chair.

"What? How did you get up there, son?" asked the Reverend. Feeling a little nervous, he glanced back towards the house and gasped.

The red-haired girl was gone.

"Hi" said the boy in a voice that was a little too high pitched. "You heard the lady: I'm Esau. Who the Hell are you?"

The Reverend, angrier now, squared off against the boy. "As I was explaining to your friend over here…"

"Who?" asked Esau with a snicker, "Who were you explaining it to?"

Scott stormed over to the child, grabbed him by edge of his earlobe, and pulled the child to the front of the truck.

"I'm sick and tired of these games. My Father and I are trying to move into our new home: we've got to finish this stuff before dark. Why don't you and your bratty little friend just run on home to Mama and let us get on with our work, okay?"

Leading the black boy to the edge of the loading platform, Scott would have planted his foot in the kid's butt and kicked him off the edge if his Father hadn't restrained him.

"No, Scott. Annoying as they are, I think we should overlook the brashness of these children and show a little respect for our guests. Esau, would you like to join us for a drink of tonic?"

Esau frowned. "Tonic?"

"He means 'Soda'" answered Scott with a smile. We're from New Hampshire: they call Soda 'Tonic' there."

Looking nervously to the right side of the house, Esau shook his head. "I'd like to, but I better not. It's getting late; I have to be heading home now."

"Well, maybe you can come over tomorrow” replied Scott, "Maybe we can play some ball."

"No, I don't think that's such a good idea" answered a now familiar voice from the rear of the truck. Scott turned and saw that Maggie had once more reclaimed her spot in the easy chair.

"Young lady: GET OFF OF MY TRUCK!" screamed the Reverend. The veins of his neck were throbbing, and his neck had turned a dull purple color. Maggie let out a startled squeak, dashed off the loading dock, and disappeared around the right side of the house.

Steven, trying to calm his nerves, let out a fierce breath and grabbed an edge of the easy chair. "Come on, Scott” He commanded his son, "Let's get these things into the house. You can play with your smart-mouthed friends after we're finished."

Esau, still near the edge of the platform, adjusted the collar of his shirt and looked up at the pale, white form of the Reverend. "If you like, I could give you a hand with some of these boxes."

Scott shook his head as he took his edge of the chair and walked the furniture off the platform with his Father. "No, but thanks anyway. Some of this stuff is heavy; too heavy for someone your size. Stick around if you want; I can still get you a drink…"

"I said, NO!" screamed Maggie from behind them. Scott yelped, dropped his edge of the chair, and saw Maggie once again in the rear of the truck. There were no side doors to this van, thought Steven. How was she able to sneak past them?

"Esau, what have I always told you about talking to strangers?" asked Maggie in a rage. "You can never, ever trust a stranger."

Steven motioned his son to take the chair. The two of them lifted it up and off the van. "That is indeed a good point, little lady” he said with a smile, "but we're not strangers anymore. We've introduced ourselves, and we are moving into your neighborhood. It's not very likely you would be cheated by people who live in your own neighborhood, is it?"

"You'd be surprised."

"Now, now” replied the Reverend. "All this talk has been interesting, but now I must ask you and your friend to please run on home. My Son and I need to finish things up here before the sun sets." The two Langfords moved the chair over to the front door of the house; Scott opened the door while his Father supported the weight of the easy chair on his knee.

"Go on: run along now” repeated Steven. The girl rose slowly from the depths of the truck and stood on the edge of the loading platform with a cold, distant look in her eye. Esau backed away from the truck for a brief second before dashing off into the woods that bordered the far side of the Callahan property.

"All right; we'll leave” replied the girl, "But we'll be back. Remember one thing, Mr. Reverend: this is MY neighborhood you're moving into. I don't allow just anyone to move onto Paugasaget Road. You're a man of the cloth; normally that would disqualify you from living here automatically."

Steven Langford, the sweat dripping from his exhausted brow, stole a quick glance over his right shoulder at the strange child. "Oh, really? Why?"

"Only sick and diseased people live in this neighborhood” Said the girl as she hopped off the van and walked towards the two of them holding the chair.

"No healthy people allowed."

* * *

The two Langfords wrestled the easy chair into the house and disappeared. Maggie strode casually over to the right side of the house and watched as a tiny pair of black legs struggled out of a side window and dropped down on the grass next to her.

Wiping his brow, Jacob looked around the property. "Jeez, Maggie: that was close. I almost got caught. Where's Esau?"

"He ran off into the woods; we'll find him later" replied Maggie. "What did you discover in the house?"

"Not much" answered Jacob as he leaned up against the wall of the house and ran his tiny fingers through his hair. "He really IS a Minister; he's got a bunch of bibles and religious-type stuff in his study. The kid's got a real cool lizard of some kind in a fish tank; I was going to take it out and play with it, but had to leave when the two of them came in with the chair."

A sudden noise from the front of the house startled the two children. Maggie's eyes grew wide as she looked up at the open window. "Quick, hide. It won't do to have them find us here."

Pulling a large green blanket from a bush near the house, Maggie quickly spread it out on the lawn and climbed underneath. Spreading her tiny form out on the lawn, she flattened her head against the ground and concealed herself under the blanket. Jacob moved farther away towards the garden and did the same.

* * *

Scott Langford came around the corner of the house and looked off to the woods. He was sure he had heard those kids talking. It wasn’t not a good sign that they've come around like this: It was only their first day and already they had strange people snooping about. It was bad enough they had to move in the first place.

"Scott!" screamed his Father from the van. "We've got one more chair."

"Coming, Dad” replied Scott as he continued his scan of the lawn. Something was not right here. Something seemed just a little out of place.

"Scott. Sometime today would be nice."

"Yea, Dad: I'm coming" muttered Scott, "Keep your pants on."

As he turned back towards the front of the house, a brief flash of movement near the garden caught Scott's eye. A rectangular patch of green was on the lawn, almost but not quite the color of the grass. The patch was irregular in shape and moved just a little as Scott watched it. The patch was a blanket of some kind.

Could this be one of theirs? Could the wind have pulled this from the van and dropped it on the lawn? Scott began to walk over to the strange shape. His Father would be angry if he allowed this to remain on the lawn in the damp, overnight weather.

"Scott" roared his Father, "I don't have all night."

"All right, all right" screamed Scott, "I'm coming." Ignoring the blanket, the boy turned back towards the house and the van.

When all was quiet, a tiny pair of dark eyes peeked out from under the blanket and smiled silently.

* * *

The two of them had been fighting for ages.

Butch Thompson collapsed on the filthy fabric of the chair next to the table and watched his wife Victoria move around the kitchen, preparing tea. She was dressed simply in a straight black skirt and a white blouse, but the effect of her thick, red hair sliding down the back of the blouse made the whole vision seem surreal.

God, she is so beautiful, wondered Butch with awe. Any man he knew would die to be with a woman like her. And yet, he hated her so much. With both a profound sense of both Love and disgust, Butch realized that he was becoming aroused by the sight of his wife; a thick, throbbing bulge was forming within the confines of his dirty underwear.

Victoria turned towards her husband and frowned at the sight of her husband.

"I'm not going anywhere” she snapped; flinging a long lock of red hair back over her shoulder, "Not until you tell me where Maggie is."

Butch slammed his fist onto the kitchen table. "I told you; she's out in the woods again. She spends most of her free time hanging around with those two vagabond friends of hers. I can't stop her; God knows I've tried."

Victoria strode over to the table and took her husband's chin in her long, cold fingers. "You can stop her; if you wanted to. Damn it, Butch: that child of ours spends more time away from her home than she should."

"You don't know what it is like” replied Butch in rage, "You're never here." Suddenly aware of his scratchy dry throat, he rose and stumbled madly to the cabinet that stood over the kitchen sink. Behind a stack of dishes in the cabinet was a bottle of Jack Beam he had been saving for a special occasion.

"'I'm never here' He says?" mocked Victoria, her green eyes flashing brilliantly in the shadows of the hot day, "Whose fault is that? It wasn't my idea to be absent from this household, you snotty little bastard."

"Go ahead, Vicky” replied Butch with a snort as he ripped the gold foil from the cap of the bottle with his teeth, "remind me of yet another of my life's great failures."

"And don't call me Vicky!” roared his wife, her fists thrust menacingly into the air just a few inches from her husband's face, "I hate it when someone calls me that. You have to earn the right to use that name; you just can't bandy it about whenever you choose to."

Taking a quick nip from the hot liquid, Butch laughed. What a tramp and a whore this woman was, he thought with a sadness he didn't know his drunken heart could feel anymore. This bitch was living proof that a man shouldn't allow his dick to choose his partners for him. Too bad he didn't have a son he could share this new-found information with. All he had was a runt of a daughter with both the same color hair and the same God-awful scent of her bitch Mother.

"You never seemed to mind too much when Bobby called you that…" said Butch.

Ducking quickly to his left, Butch just missed the outstretched claws of his wife's hand; just a split second more and she would have gouged out his eye. Laughing, he took another sip of the whiskey, and retreated to the safety of the far wall. His wife gritted her perfectly spaced and ivory white teeth and glowered at him.

"Leave Bobby out of this” hissed Victoria, "We are supposed to be discussing the health and well-being of your Daughter."

"Yes, you are right” answered Butch with a slow nod. "we should always leave Bobby out of the discussion when we're talking about Maggie, or anything to do with this family, for that matter."

A hard, but brief knock sounded on the front door. "Come on in," shouted Victoria; her mad green eyes never wavering from their lock on Butch's forehead, "It's open."

"Look" said Butch, frustrated by his wife's tirade, "Maggie is my concern now, not yours. I'm the only one here for her, and I say she's doing just fine. If she chooses to spend the summer hiding out in the woods with her friends, then that's just fine by me. It's not like she's in school or anything."

"We're not just talking about her daytime activities, Butch" snorted Victoria. "We're talking about her future; her development as a person. It's not healthy for a ten-year old girl to spend all her time away from home. It could be dangerous, as well. You of all people should know how dangerous that can be."

A second hard knock sounded on the door. "Damn it, I said 'COME IN'!" screamed Victoria, distracted by the disturbance.

"Go away, Vicky" whispered Butch as he took a third shot of the whiskey. "Just go away and leave us alone. You're not wanted here anymore. If you pressed Maggie enough, even she would tell you that: she's happier without you around."

"Liar!" bellowed Victoria, her face twisted into a bizarre mask.

A third knock, this one more forceful, sounded on the door. "Butch, what's going on in there? What's all that screaming about? Let me in!" sounded a familiar voice.

Victoria groaned. "It's your brother Bobby, Butch: Let the bastard in. He won't pay any attention to me anymore."

Staggering over to the door, Butch burped. "You sound disappointed, Vicky."

"Don't you dare START that nonsense with me, you fat little weasel."

Butch opened the door and, with a weary wave, motioned his brother to enter. George Robert Thompson stood in the doorway; a stern disapproving look on his face. He was about five foot, ten inches tall; with a muscular build and thick blond hair that fell across the back of his shoulders. Despite the length of his hair, Bobby was dressed in a nappy blue business suit with well-polished oxford shoes and a conservative black tie.

"Bobby" whispered Victoria with undisguised awe.

Bobby stormed into the kitchen towards his brother. "Butch, what was all that yelling I heard out there? Are you drinking again?" Wrenching the bottle of Jack Beam from his brother's grasp, Bobby threw the glass into the kitchen sink with a clean, single motion of his hand.

"So nice to see you too, brother" chortled Butch. "Care for a drink?"

"Ha!" laughed Victoria. "You're the drunk of the family, Butch: Not my Bobby."

Ignoring Victoria's remark, Bobby grabbed his brother by the shoulders, lifted him from the dirty linoleum floor and slammed him forcibly onto a kitchen chair. Without a word, he drew back his muscled arm and slapped Butch viciously across the face.

"Oh, what a man” cooed Victoria, her green eyes flashing with glee, "God, Bobby: you can be so forceful at times…"

"Butch, why are you doing this to yourself?" said Bobby, his dark and angry eyes boring into the skull of his brother. "Get a hold of yourself. What would Mom think if she could see you now?"

Butch laughed heartily at the thought. "Gee, Bob: she'd probably be screaming at you for throwing away perfectly good whiskey like you just did."

Bobby started to pull back his fist, but Butch cut him short with a wave of his hand. "Oh, no you don't, brother. Remember where you are. This is MY house” he said, staggering to his feet and heading to the refrigerator. "This is MY life, MY booze, and most important, it's MY decision."

Bobby frowned and followed his brother across the kitchen. "Butch, you're killing yourself living like this. Look at you: you're nothing more than a simple bum. You're destroying your home, your life, and your sanity."

"Not to mention his daughter" added Victoria with a stern look.

"Leave my daughter out of this” snapped Butch as he wrenched open the door of the refrigerator and searched desperately for any signs of alcohol. "I'll deal with my own daughter, thank you."

Bobby, confused for a moment, rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Okay, your daughter as well. Think of what all this is doing to Maggie, Butch. You've got to dry yourself out and straighten out your life; even if you only do it for Maggie's sake."

Victoria walked up behind Bobby and began to gently massage the shoulders of his suit. "I'd listen to the man, Butch: he always was the one with the brains in the family" she cooed; her dark eyes staring lustfully at the matt of yellow hair just a few inches from her face.

"Go fuck yourself, Bobby" snapped Butch, his hand shaking as he withdrew a can of malt liquor from the refrigerator. "Stop trying to tell me how to live. You don't have all the answers to life; especially your own. How many recliners have you sold for that stupid little furniture company you work for?"

Bobby ran his fingers through his hair. "Butch, listen to me. If you don't straighten yourself out, then you're going to force me to do it for you. When was the last time you even tried to find a job?"

After several attempts to open the brew, Butch finally managed to sheer off the pull-top with a loud 'smack'. He took a deep, thick drench of the cool, dark liquid. White froth from the drink drooled down the side of his face.

"Butch; I mean it this time. I've been carrying you and Maggie for way too long now. I've been paying your bills, your rent; I've been covering your worthless ass for more months than I care to admit. You've got to stop drinking; see a doctor…"

"Fuck the doctor" coughed Butch as some of the beer slid down the wrong pipe in his throat. "And fuck you, too, Bobby: and the horse you rode in on. I don't need your damn money, and I certainly don't need your advice. Give it a rest, for once."

"I could use something from you, Bobby Dearest" whispered Victoria, still rubbing his shoulders; her red lips just inches from his ear, "Something I should have accepted from you a long time ago."

Ignoring the woman, G. Robert Thompson snorted in disgust, shoved roughly past Victoria, and marched towards the door.

"That does it, Benjamin” he shouted as he ripped open the kitchen door. "I'm sick and tired of watching you destroy yourself. I'm going to take action this time, and the first thing you'll lose will be your daughter Maggie."

"Oh, really? Over my dead body."

Bobby spun around and thrust his clenched fist in the drunk's direction. "Don't tempt me! I'm going to turn this family around or destroy you in the process."

"You and what army?" asked Butch with a mouthful of beer and a sick giggle in the back of his throat. Victoria groaned in disgust and headed into the living room away from the conflict.

Bobby stopped at the door. "I'm serious, Butch: Mom left me in charge of the family's finances: it's in my power to cut you off completely. It's going to become pretty hard to drink around here without any cash to pay for your booze."

Brushing some imaginary dust from the lapel of his suit, Bobby calmly walked out into the late afternoon sun and towards his car. "Think about it, Brother. You've already, for all intents and purposes, lost your wife: I'm about to remove your money as well. And, if you don't get a hold of your life and stop this drinking, I'm going to take away your daughter."

Butch was just draining away the last few drops of his beverage when his brother's car angrily spun out of the dirt driveway and onto Paugasaget Road. Finding the can empty, he threw it across the kitchen in disgust and staggered towards the living room in search of his wife.

"You can't take something that isn't here, Bobby ole boy" He muttered drunkenly, "You can't take away something that won't be here when you return."

* * *

There were crows; thousands of crows everywhere ten-year-old Elizabeth Edricks could see. Never in her life had she ever seen so many of these noisy, black birds in one place: the trees were jammed with them.

Elizabeth walked slowly down the thin tar road towards her home. She didn't think that the crows would bother her any, but the sheer number of them created a spooky, ghostly image in her young mind and she was afraid.

Walking past an ash tree, the child noticed several of the creatures perched on a branch; their jet-black, oily feathers glistening in the remaining light of the evening. Each of the birds remained perfectly still. It seemed to Elizabeth that she could poke one of them in the stomach and it wouldn't cry out or react, so still they stood. One of the crows turned slowly to face the child; its dark, shiny eyes staring coldly back at her.

Trying to forget about the birds, Elizabeth shivered slightly and quickened her pace down the country road. Mom won't like this one bit. She was supposed to be home at eight o'clock on a Monday night. The best she could tell, it was already about nine o'clock and the sun had set an hour and a half ago. The dusk sky was quickly turning from dark gray to black as she crossed over to the other side of the road.

Whistling a little tune, Elizabeth continued her trek towards home. She had remained at her friend Cynthia's house way too long. The two of them had been fixing up each other's hair on the porch of Cynthia's house and had lost all track of time in the process. Elizabeth reached up with her tiny right hand and tenderly felt the pretty pink ribbon her friend had tied into her long, red hair.

That was about two hours ago, she realized as she quickened her pace past the crows. Mom will like the ribbons, but Dad would tan her hide for being out so late.

A thin, small cough sounded in front of her. Startled by the noise, Elizabeth stopped and peered through the night mist towards the sound. Someone was on the road just a few feet in front of her. Across the road from this new danger, a battalion of crows stood ready in silent formation.

"Hello?" called out Elizabeth; a slight tremor running down her spine. "Is somebody there?"

The other turned and faced the girl.

Elizabeth, recognizing the person, relaxed and smile brightly. "Oh, Hello! I know you; I've seen you at school." Skipping over to the person, Elizabeth took their hand in hers.

"I'm on my way home, and I was startled by the crows. Look at them. Have you ever seen these many crows in one place before in your life?"

The other shook their head and began to walk down the road with the girl.

"I'm really glad I came across you here” added Elizabeth, enjoying the company down the dark road. "I was getting scared out here by myself. Would you walk me all the way home? My Mom always said it was safer to be with someone you know in a strange place than to be alone."

The other person nodded and held the child's hand firmer. In the distance, a single crow lifted its beak, cawed in protest, and lifted off from his perch on the branch of an elm tree.

"I was just over at my friend Cynthia's house. We were having fun fixing up each other's hair: Look at my ribbons. Do you like them?"

The other took a quick glance at the sight of pink on red, and then turned their gaze back towards the road. A chorus of about ten black birds began to crow viciously on the opposite side of the road. The young girl was startled briefly by the noise.

"Those silly birds” she giggled; trying to calm her nerves. "Here we are walking down the road being quiet, and they're making all that noise. We can talk, and they can't."

Or could they? The thought reminded Elizabeth of something. "Say, you used to always talk to me at school; why are you being so quiet now?" she asked the other. "Are the crows making you afraid?"

A quick movement to her left startled the child. Elizabeth saw her traveling companion drop low to the ground; a split second later she felt hands around her ankles, and she was pulled backwards off her feet.

She screamed as her head struck hard against the pavement of the road and the awful hands began to drag her off into the bushes. The back of her skull began to throb painfully from her injury.

"No" she yelled, "Stop it! You're scaring me! You're going to disturb the crows; then they'll attack us!"

She screamed a second time as she felt the sharp, tiny branches of the bushes begin to claw at her face and backside. A moment later Elizabeth tried to scream for a third time, but a firm hand clamped a cloth across her mouth and cut off both her voice and her breath.

The crows began to stir.

Struggling to breath, Elizabeth stared up at the horror that stood over her and prayed to God. Don't let me die, she prayed in terror. Don't let me die.

Her breath gone and her struggle weakening, Elizabeth saw the dusk-gray sky turn suddenly black. A few seconds later, the crows stopped their awful racket and all became quiet. All became still.

* * *

"Dad, where do these china plates go?" shouted Scott from the kitchen.

Steven stopped his unpacking, looked off towards the picture window of the living room for a second.

"Put them in the third cabinet from the right; over the sink", He instructed his son. They were good quality porcelain plates; plates that were meant for show more than for actual use, and Steven didn't want them placed with the regular dishes where they would be tempted to use them.

Looking back down towards the box he had been unpacking, Steven took a quick mental inventory of the contents.

The books were to go into the bookcase near the wall; at least the non-work-related ones. There was a small lamp inside the box, carefully wrapped in newspaper. Taking the lamp, Steven pulled off the wrapping and examined the picture that had been painted on the porcelain surface by its creator. It showed an image of two geese, flying over a swamp. The lamp had been a wedding gift from his Mother-in-law.

"Seems like that lady was always giving us gifts that had to do with swamps” he muttered, placing the lamp on a nearby end table. Looking back into the box, the Reverend noticed that only picture frames remained: these would go up over the fireplace.

"Dad?" cried Scott, "I'm done with the dishes. Can I spend some time setting up my room? I want to get my closet in order before I turn in for the night."

One of the picture frames had been bent in the move, Steven noticed. Retrieving the broken frame from the box, the Reverend took a quick look at the damage that had been done to the overlapping edges of the frame. The glass was unbroken: he could possibly still display the picture and have the frame repaired later.

"Dad, can you hear me? What about my room?"

"Fine, son: Fine” he replied, tracing his finger over the glass that covered the portrait of his dead wife, "Whatever you think best…"

Julia. The faded image that stared back at him from the photograph haunted Steven. The picture had been taken about a year before the woman's death. Julia had wanted to take a family photo; one that showed both her and the Reverend together, but Steven had wanted two single photographs, one of each of them, taken.

The woman in the photograph had dark, brown, silky hair that flowed well past her shoulders. Her brown eyes were light and dancing and, coupled with a bright and quirky smile, showed the picture of a lady alive with vigor and fresh with the promises of many tomorrows.

Such was not to be the case, Steven thought with a pang of sadness. Julia, he thought, you look so young and alive in this picture. How well he remembered the day of their parting, and the terrible burden she placed on his life that horrible day.

Thinking back to that black Thursday, Steven remembered the nasty antiseptic smell that had hung over the Hospital. He remembered the screams and cries of his wife as she labored to bring their daughter, their precious gift from God, into the world.

He remembered the sudden blood and the pale, worried look on his beautiful wife's face as she began to surmise the truth about her injuries. He remembered the stern words of the three physicians who, dressed in drab green surgical gowns, had forcibly shoved him out of the maternity ward.

He remembered the hellish quiet of the waiting room as he prayed for his wife and his daughter and hoped fervently that both would come through the dreadful experience in one, living piece.

He remembered the silence that seemed to emanate from Heaven itself as God turned a deaf ear to his pleas and allowed his wife and daughter to die bloody, painful deaths.

"Dad?" said a voice from just behind him. Startled, Steven dropped the photograph; the glass covering his dead wife's image shattered as it struck the floor and threw glass slivers in every direction.

Scott looked down at the broken photograph and held out his hands. "I'm sorry, Dad: I didn't mean to spook you. Here," he said, dropping to one knee and picking up some glass shards, "Let me help you with this."

"No, it's all right. Let me do it; you were going to fix up your room, weren't you?"

Ignoring his Dad's words, Scott continued to pick up small slivers of glass from the floor. Seeing the photograph, he turned over the broken frame and stared back into the lively eyes of his dead, adopted Mother.

"Please, son" asked Steven in a broken voice, "Don't bother. I can clean it up." Steven wiped away a tear as he took the photograph from his son.

"I was thinking" said Scott as he rose from the floor and headed towards the kitchen to throw away the glass, "There's this fine old Maple tree in the back yard; over near the spring. It would be a terrific place to build a tree house, like the one I had in Portsmouth."

The Father chuckled as he remembered the structure his son referred to. It may have been made of old scrap lumber, but the building was an absolute marvel; a creation even Steven's adult friends would gaze at in admiration whenever they saw it. Scott was somewhat of a mechanical and engineering genius, and he was constantly trying to find ways to put his knowledge into practical use.

"I remember your elevator" laughed his Dad.

Scott nodded. "I can do the same thing here, if I can find a source of large boulders. The trick with the old elevator was to try and estimate the weight of the average person trying to get into the tree house, and then counterbalance their weight over a pulley to a platform loaded with boulders on the far side. Getting to the top of the tree house was as simple as stepping on the boards and pushing off with one leg."

"Unless, of course, you happened to be heavier than your average ten-year old child. Then your elevator contraption wouldn't work. I never did manage to climb into that tree shanty of yours."

Scott smiled and cast a wry glance at his Father. "Gee, Dad: that was the whole idea, didn't you know that?”

Steven scowled, ruffled the hair of his son, and then pushed him into the kitchen. The photograph of his wife Julia was still in his right hand, and he stared at it a second time. If only she could be here now; if only she could see how Scott has grown; see what they were doing with their lives. He missed her terribly; daily the pain of her absence grew deeper within him. He had told her once that he couldn't live without her, and now his prophecy was slowly coming to fulfillment. How could he face the Rutherford Congregation and preach to them about God's love when all he felt was anger at Him for denying her sweet company?

"Dad," said Scott from the doorway, "If you don't mind the tree house idea, how about letting me build another one of my caverns?"

"Damn you, God…"

"What did you say?"

Steven coughed quickly, placed the smashed photograph on the mantle, and walked his son back into the kitchen. "Nothing; I didn’t say anything of importance. What was this you were saying about a cavern?"

"I want to build another cavern, like the one me and Larry Witherspoon had built behind the old shed."

"I hated that silly thing" said Steven. "I was always afraid the entire mess would collapse on you with the first good rainfall that came around. I don't think building one here would be such a good idea. Why don't you wait a few months and get accustomed to your new surroundings first? Besides, you can't begin a project of that scale on your own, and I sure don't have the time to assist you. You may want to meet some neighborhood kids first; see if they can help you."

"Not those kids we saw today, though."

Steven laughed at the thought. "No, not those kids. Find yourself some more mature, more responsible kids than those little brats. They, I'm afraid, might just turn out to more trouble than they're worth."

A brief gust of wind blew through the open kitchen window and caught Steven full in the face. He paused, closed his eyes, and leaned slightly towards the window; trying to catch both the cool breeze and the delightful country fragrance as it floated through the screen.

"Do you miss her, Dad?" asked Scott.

Steven grimaced at the query; his eyes still closed and his face still searching for the evening breeze. "Stupid question, Son."

"Answer it anyways."

Steven sighed and turned slowly away from the window.

"Your Mother had once been very ill with pneumonia; sometime about six to seven months after we had adopted you. She was forced to give up her job and spend the better part of three weeks in the Hospital, sucking on a breathing machine and getting shot full of antibiotics and other such nonsense." The

Reverend paused and looked up towards the kitchen ceiling before continuing his narrative.

"I used to visit her every afternoon; bring lots of flowers and plants that her Doctor eventually had removed from the room because of the pollen. She looked so pale and fragile those days; I would sit on the edge of the bed and take her hand in mine; as if by doing so I could impart some of my own strength and health into her. Sometimes I would try to sing a chorus from Church or read her a little scripture."

"Sometime near the end of her Hospital stay, and just before the pneumonia began to clear up, I was sitting on the edge of her bed and praying. She took my hand and asked me why I didn't go home and get some rest, instead of spending all my time with her."

"I told her, 'Julia, your illness disturbs me. I would do anything to remove this thorn from your side. I've prayed to God countless times and asked him to allow me to suffer this illness in your place. Julia, I would DIE if it would allow you to get well and live'".

"Your Mother smiled at this and looked back at me with a mysterious glance. 'Why, Steven', she said with a wink of her eye, 'What If I had already made that same prayer, myself? She asked me. 'What If God has already granted me this prayer in front of yours? What If I beat you to the punch?' she asked me."

Openly weeping now, the Reverend turned away from his son and staggered back into the living room. "Don't you see, Scott? I thought she was kidding; I didn't think she was serious."

"I thought it was a JOKE” he sobbed as he disappeared from the kitchen and left Scott standing alone with his thoughts near the kitchen sink.

* * *

Maggie walked up the cobblestone pathway that led from the circular driveway to the front door of the Jones Estate and marveled again at the size, beauty and grandeur of the home.

The main house stood three stories tall and about fifty feet wide; two separate wings branched off from either side in the shape of an inverted bowl and braced in the cobblestone walk. In the center of the main building, a second-floor terrace decorated with plants and stone angels stood boldly out from the main building. Below this portico, a large fountain sent gallons of greenish-blue water cascading down through several series of concrete bowls set one above each other.

"Gosh" whispered Maggie, "You know, Esau: I will never get tired of looking at this place. How many rooms did you say it had?"

"Twenty-one" replied the twin. "Who cares? Most of them aren't even used."

"Still" replied the girl, her eyes wide with excitement, "This is one swell place to live. My house only has five rooms."

"Maggie, you live in a tarpaper SHACK!" snapped Jacob as they approached the door.

"Do NOT!"

"Do SO!"

"Oh, PLEASE!" shouted Esau as they reached the front door, "Give it a rest, will you?" Reaching his hand towards the knob, Esau started to open the door but Maggie stopped him.

"Let me use the bell" she asked him. Esau groaned, stood to the side and watched with apparent disinterest as Maggie gleefully pressed the doorbell and sent a cacophony of bells, chimes, and organ music ripping through the night sky.

"Lord, I hate that stupid thing" grumbled Esau.

A few moments later the door opened to reveal a small but stern looking elderly white lady; her gray hair knotted back on her head in a fierce bun and her bifocals perched dangerously low on the bridge of her nose. The toes of her right foot were tapping a furious beat on the floor of the lobby, and her arms were crossed at the waist.

"Evening, Miss Hempkins" said Esau gaily as he pushed his way past the nanny and into the house. Jacob, more fearful than his brash brother, bowed politely before carefully picking his way past the angry woman. Maggie remained outside until the lady had completely removed herself from the doorway; then stepped into the house and allowed the door to swing shut behind her.

"You boys are hideously, wickedly LATE" snapped Eloise Hempkins in a low and threatening voice. "Do you have any idea what time it is?"

Jacob, glancing over her shoulder, saw the face of the grandfather clock along the stairwell and answered. "Yea, it's 'leven thirty.".

The lady nodded slowly. "Yes, it's Eleven Thirty."

Jacob frowned. "Hey. I just said that."

"The two of you were supposed to be home about three hours ago. And you, young lady" snapped the nanny, casting a withering glance at Maggie, "Won't your family be wanting you home at this late hour?"

Maggie shrugged her shoulders. "Ma'am, I don't have a family; why would they care what time I come home?" The lady harrumphed but said nothing further. She lifted a withered arm towards the door to the kitchen.

"I've been asked by your Mother to offer you some cake and ice cream when you come in; no matter what the hour. Go on in to the kitchen and I'll serve you there."

Maggie's eyes grew wide. "Cake and Ice Cream?" she whispered to the boys, "At this hour?"

Esau yawned as the three children took seats at the kitchen table. "No big deal in this house. It happens all the time."

Jacob raised his hand politely and posed a question. "Miss Hempkins, is my Daddy coming home today?"

The elderly matron shook her head slowly; Maggie thought she spotted the first traces of a disapproving grimace appear in the lines of the woman's face. "No, I'm afraid not. Mr. Jones…"

"Wally" said Esau with a stupid smile.

Miss Hempkins glared at the boy disapprovingly. "MR. JONES," she continued, "won't be home tonight. He's been traveling about Connecticut getting his lumberyards ready for that big Fourth of July sale he's been blabbing about for some time now. You can expect him home sometime tomorrow, boys."

"Figures" snapped Esau as he glumly drove his spoon into the wad of cake and ice cream that had appeared in front of him on the table. Jacob, Maggie noticed, took the news even worse than his brother; he looked as if he was going to burst out in tears.

"Mr. Jones did, however, leave you boys something. He expressed concern about your daily activities and left you some spending money in case you get bored and should want to go into Rutherford to play some video games or do some shopping." The nanny retrieved a white envelope from the pocket of her apron and threw it onto the table in front of Esau.

The boy, still chewing on a slab of cake, took a peek at the contents and threw the envelope in front of Maggie. "I'd give up twice that amount if that fat bastard we call a Dad would spend some time with us at home" muttered Esau.

Eloise recoiled in horror. "Now, you watch your tongue, young man. Right or wrong; good or bad: that man is your Father and he deserves some respect." Jacob was now silently weeping; whether from the nanny's tirade or the continued absence of his Father, Maggie could not tell.

Taking the envelope, Maggie looked inside and gasped. The envelope; Jacob and Esau's so-called 'spending money', contained six crisp one-hundred-dollar bills. This money would buy a hell of a lot of video games. Overcoming her initial shock, she slowly concealed the envelope inside her blouse.

The nanny took a seat at the table next to Jacob and wiped a tear from his eye with a corner of her hanky. "Listen, boys:" she said in a soothing tone, "I know how sad you are that your parents are away all the time. Try to make the best of it and see things from their point of view. They are working very hard to give you two the best possible life Money can buy; and that's not easy enough in these economic hard times."

Esau took a small portion of ice cream on his spoon, bent it backwards with the tip of his thumb, and shot the melting lump across the kitchen and into the sink.

"We don't want their damn money, Eloise."

Miss Hempkins sighed and rose slowly from the table. "I know that, boys. You've put me in a hard position here: Your parents pay me to take care of you when they're gone, and you two expect me to help keep the two of them home."

"Leave us for a few moments, Miss Hempkins; will you?" asked Maggie with a distant look. "We have got some business to attend to that doesn't involve you."

The nanny started to protest, but Esau cut her off with a wave of his hand and a slight nod. Eloise sighed, and left the room without a further word.

Once the nanny was gone, Maggie leaned forward over the table and stared hard into the eyes of her two associates.

"You guys get six hundred dollars for spending money?" she asked.

Esau and Jacob both nodded. "Sometimes more," said Jacob, "sometimes less."

Esau yawned, then reached over to the center of the table and cut himself another slab of cake. "It doesn't really matter much to us; our parents are rich. For all we know, they could be growing this stuff on trees in the back garden. Keep it. Just use it for the club, okay?"

Maggie nodded and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Not a problem, big guy: Not a problem."

Jacob, hearing about the club, lifted his head. "What about the new kid?"

"What about him?" snapped Esau, "Don’t you think he's too much of a turd to be of any real use?”

"We'll have to watch him carefully for a while" answered Maggie. "He may be of some use to us if he can meet the qualifications."

"He's real smart;" added Jacob, "I saw some stuff in his bedroom when I snuck in there that was pretty neat."

"You mean the damn lizard?" asked Esau, still chewing on his third slice of cake.

"No, I mean about building tree houses, and machines, and stuff. He's got a whole rack of books about the army and camouflage. I even saw a catalog from one of those New York Spy Stores on his bureau."

Esau choked. "You did NOT."

"Did SO."

"Did NOT."

"Enough” snapped Maggie. "I said, we'll have to watch him for a while. He may be of some use to us, or he may be a threat. We'll have to wait and see."

The two twins fell silent; Esau finished the last of his cake and threw the porcelain plate into the sink with a loud crash. Jacob fiddled with his fingers and stared down at the tabletop.

Maggie rose from the table and walked over to the sliding glass doors that led out into the back yard. The moon had just risen over the southern horizon and the back yard was lit up with an eerie, blue tint.

"We will have to watch him. There is only one person you should trust less than a stranger” she said; allowing a slight smile to form on her lips.

"Who?"

"A friend” whispered Maggie with a distant tone in her voice, "Or a relative…"

Three

Steven Langford looked proudly around his new study and examined his handiwork. Everything he needed to perform his duties was now in place, well-kept, and in easy reach of his desk. To the left of his blotter stood his computer; behind that on a small platform attached to his desk was a combination printer and fax.

His more commonly referenced textbooks were behind him on shelves; those less used were in a bookshelf he had positioned underneath the window. His new study even had an intercom system that would allow his son Scott to summon him without entering the office. Most importantly, his reference Bible lay just to the right of the desk blotter; out of the way and yet within easy reach of anyone sitting in the chair.

Taking a seat at the desk, Steven gathered together his pens and pencils and placed them into a small cup that he would use as a holder.

"Now, all I have to do is actually use this stuff" said Steven. Opening his Bible to where the well-tattered bookmark divided the pages, the Reverend was about to begin work on next week's sermon when his new intercom buzzed at him.

"Yes, Scott: what is it?"

"I think someone's here to see you, dad. A nice-looking lady with black hair just drove up in a pickup truck…"

Steven laughed. "Really? What makes you think she's here to see me? Maybe she's one of the neighborhood girls here to check out the new kid on the block."

"Don't think so, Dad: way too old. Nice looking, though…"

"All right; I'll be out in a moment: Go out and greet her for me." Clicking off the intercom, Steven rose from the desk and straightened the collar of his shirt as he headed to the front of the house.

Who could possibly be here to see him? His new position at Rutherford Congregational wouldn't start until he attended his first service tonight; although he had been required by the Church to deliver three sermons there over the past four weeks as part of their hiring process. He had been in town only two days and didn't know anyone well enough to warrant a visit from them.

Just before stepping out onto the step, Steven stole a glance out the window. The woman had stepped out of her beat-up Chevy pickup and was talking with Scott down near the driveway.

The girl was about thirty, five foot, two inches in height. Scott was right; she was an attractive girl with a slim figure and a bright smile that seemed to light up the yard as she talked.

She had incredibly dark, jet-black hair that Steven found himself staring at a little too long for his liking. Pulling away from the blinds, Steven stole a quick glance at the image of his wife Julia that sat upon the mantle, ran his palm quickly over his slowly receding hairline, and stepped out onto the porch.

When the girl noticed his approach, she extended a slim, tender hand in greeting. Her smile seemed to explode in Steven's face; the brightness of it amazed him.

"Reverend Langford” said the woman, "Hello; I'm pleased to meet you. My name is Carina Carlson, and I attend the Rutherford Congregational Church you now pastor."

Steven smiled at her and shook her hand. "I'm pleased to meet you, Miss Carlson. What brings you out to this part of the woods?"

The girl became somber; a change rapid enough to startle Steven and cause him to look briefly towards his son Scott.

"I…" she said, "I guess I have a problem…"

Scott smirked and shook his head. "Don't we all..."

His Father cast him a reproving glance.

"I have this situation in my life that I need to talk to somebody about. For about two months, I was counseling with the Reverend Lockworth, the old Pastor. When he decided to leave, I withdrew back into my own shell and hid out for a while." The girl turned away from Steven and slowly wandered across the lawn and back towards her truck; as if ready to flee.

"I attended one of your sermons about two weeks back; when the Church was considering whether to hire you. When I heard you were going to become the new Pastor, I swallowed my pride and forced myself down here to see you." Turning back towards the Reverend, Carina smiled weakly and held out her hands to the side.

"Pretty lame story, huh?"

Steven smiled, took the woman by the arm, and led her towards the house.

"On the contrary, I take it very seriously. Anyone who would drive five miles up from the center of Rutherford to bare her soul to a stranger bears some listening to. Why don't we talk in the house over a cup of tea? Scott, would you run ahead and put some water on for us?"

"Okay, Dad. Anything you say” replied Scott sullenly as he dashed off towards the house.

"He seems like a nice boy, Reverend. Forgive me for saying so, but you don't look old enough to have fathered a teenage son."

Steven laughed heartily; Carina blushed from embarrassment at his outburst and began to back away. "Actually, he's adopted," replied Steven quickly, "but it was still a nice thing for you to say. Scott is a good lad, and he has been a very helpful influence." The two of them reached the house; Steven held open the door and stood aside as Carina entered.

* * *

From the kitchen, Scott put the water on the stove and watched the conversation. Funny, he thought, but this is the first time he'd seen his Father smile for quite some time. So, why did he feel so cautious about the girl? It seemed to him anything that would help draw Dad out of his shell would be a good thing.

Steven talked freely with Carina. He found that she was a member of the Church Choir six months ago but had quit after feeling a little awkward about singing in public. Carina was telling him about the time she had to end a solo abruptly during service when a sudden attack of stage fright had stolen her voice. Scott walked in with the tea just as the story was complete: both his Father and the woman were laughing heartily at the tale.

Taking an empty cup from the server, the Reverend poured his guest a cup of tea. "Thank you, Scott. Leave us for few moments, will you?"

Carina, looking towards the television, noticed Scott's pet lizard gazing back at her with large eyes from the fish tank. "Is that your lizard, Scott?"

Scott stared at the woman. "Yes, that one is my lizard. Dad keeps all his reptiles back at the Church."

"Scott!" scolded Steven in a half-serious tone; Carina laughed at the joke. "What kind of Lizard is it?" she asked him.

"It's an 'anolis' lizard, more commonly called a 'Chameleon'. I've had it about a year and a half now: it was a gift from my…" said Scott; stopping quickly at the thought of his Mother.

"Look at the curled tail" said Carina, interested in the creature. "How long will that grow to?"

"It's about as long now as it ever will be. This one measures about ten inches tip to tail: it won't get any bigger. Dad, I've got some stuff I have to do in my room; can I go now?"

"Look!" shrieked Carina, "it's changing color. It climbed up onto that branch and then turned from greenish-gray to brown."

Gee, whiz. What a JERK this girl was. "Yea, that's what chameleons are known for. They change color when they want to hide from any apparent threat." At the word 'Threat', Scott turned his eyes slowly towards Carina and locked his gaze on hers.

The woman, sensing the change in his tone, stared back at him dumbly.

"When they become frightened, they HIDE" continued Scott; practically spitting out the last word of the phrase. "They hide away from their problems; unable to cope with the very real situations of an everyday world. Pretty self-destructive, wouldn't you say?"

"That's fine, Scott," said Steven sternly, "Thank you for that informative biology lesson. I'll call you if we need anything further."

Scott, as if he hadn't heard his Father's words, continued to stare down the intruder.

"Scott, I'll call you if we need you” repeated his Father, more forcibly. Scott nodded his head and left the room.

* * *

The two remained silent for a few moments after Scott fled the room. Finally, Carina glanced out the picture window towards her pickup truck.

"Forgive me for being so blunt, Reverend, but your son had seemed so nice when I was talking to him outside. Now, however, he seems openly hostile. Did I say anything wrong?"

Steven sighed and leaned back in his chair. "No, you didn't say anything out of order. Don't worry about Scott: he's been having a rough time of life lately."

Carina got up to leave. "Should I have called first? Should I come back some other time?"

Steven motioned Carina to sit down. "No, you didn't come at a bad time. It's early; and I still have about five hours before Service. It's just that, when you mentioned the Chameleon, you reminded Scott of his Mother. You see, my Wife died during childbirth a while back, and Scott has taken it rather badly;

I'm afraid."

Carina became silent; her head cast slightly down and a somber expression on her face. Steven took another, closer look at the beautiful woman and marveled at her poise and demeanor.

"Why don't you begin by telling me about your previous sessions with Reverend Lockworth? I'm afraid I don't have his records here: they're back at the Church office.

Carina rose from her chair, locked her slim arms behind her back, and slowly began to pace her way across the living room as she spoke; eventually standing near the mantle and examining the various photographs.

"I was counseling with Reverend Lockworth about my inability to relate with other people around me; especially men."

"Forgive me, Miss Carlson, but that surprises me. In the few moments you've been here, you've related to me quite well and to my son Scott too well."

Carina laughed; shook her head. "Yes, but this is professional. It's quite different from what I've been talking about. It started about two years ago; I had met this wonderful guy in Rutherford and had fallen madly, passionately in love with him. We saw each other for about four weeks…"

The Reverend frowned. "Four weeks?"

Carina shrugged. "You had to know him to understand why I felt so strongly for him in such a short period of time. We dated for about four weeks and then suddenly he ran off with my best friend, Jessica. The last time anyone saw them they were up on top of that hill over behind your house; the one the locals call Paugasaget Mountain. They spent four cuddly days together and then disappeared together. I never saw either one of them again."

"That must have been a terrible experience for you."

"I was absolutely devastated. Have you ever loved someone so terribly much for such a brief period in time; knowing all along that someday, someway, something, or someone would come along and rip that person from your life?"

Steven said nothing, but his eyes drifted back to the image of his wife that stood behind Carina on the mantle.

"No matter how convinced you are that it isn't going to happen, it still kills when it occurs. You wake up one morning with this hideous black hole in your soul, and a sensation that a part of you has died…"

Steven, his gaze locked firmly on the picture of Julia, gritted his teeth and nodded slowly. He knew this feeling well. He knew what it was like to be completely and utterly alone. He knew what it was like to roll over in bed, fling his arm towards the opposite side, and wake up to find no one there.

Carina continued to talk. Steven listened the best he could, but constantly found his thoughts drifting back to the haunting image of his dead wife.

Julia, what will become of me, wondered Steven. He could feel the bitter sensation of loneliness climbing up the back of his throat. How could he survive the rending of this great bond that had existed between them? Was it even possible to survive such an ordeal?

"Reverend Langford?" interrupted Carina; her gaze curious and probing.

"Yes?" stammered Steven; ashamed at his inattentiveness, "What is it?"

"Do you agree with what I said?"

Unable to answer her question truthfully, Steven instead chose to answer his own. "I'm not sure," he said slowly. "Only time will tell in the end."

Carina considered his answer. "Yes, I guess that's true, after all. Only time will tell how it will all work out in the end."

Steven breathed a silent sigh of relief and collapsed back against the chair; tired from the exchange and fearful of what time would reveal in his own life.

* * *

Sarah Jameson clutched her small hands over her mouth and screamed.

Her friends Paula Riant and Clarissa Corbeson sat with her on this hot Wednesday morning in the meadow bordering the old Engles Egg Farm. Like most every other summer discussion they had, the conversation had quickly turned to boys.

"Have you seen him?" asked Sarah excitedly, "I think he's absolutely gorgeous. He and his Father were in Rutherford yesterday down near the Post Office."

Clarissa rolled her eyes towards heaven. "Oh, for Pete's sake, Sarah: He's not that good looking. I've seen better; I mean, sure: he's okay but he is definitely not Norman Taylor. Besides: he's a Preacher's Kid. You can't seriously be attracted to a Preacher's Kid, can you? What good would come of that?"

Paula Riant had been studying a small beetle that was climbing up a nearby blade of glass, but at the mention of Norman Taylor, she looked up. "Norman? You like Norman?" she asked with wide eyes.

Clarissa giggled and nodded her head.

"Oh, Clarissa: How could you?" asked Paula with unbelief, "That guy is absolutely creepy. Do you know who he's been following around lately?"

The other two girls shook their heads.

"He's become all gushy about that Maggie Thompson kid who lives down near the hollow. I mean, she's only about eight years old, isn't she? He's way too old for her” said Paula.

"Nine" corrected Sarah, "I think she's nine. Besides; this Scott kid is fifteen, and I'm only eleven."

Clarissa shuddered. "Now, there is one creepy kid. I was walking down Baker Hill Road yesterday with my older brother and I spotted her hiding in the woods and staring at me."

"NO!" said the other two girls.

"Yes. She had branches and stuff stuck in her clothing and her hair. That stupid kid looked like some sort of a scarecrow."

The three girls laughed; Clarissa fell backwards onto the thick, tall grass of the meadow and screamed in delight. Overhead, a single crow sailed towards the trees bordering Paugasaget Mountain.

"Hey" remarked Paula with a wicked gleam in her eye, "The next time you go up Baker Hill Road, bring us with you. If we see the scarecrow again, we can pluck out all her stuffing; just like in 'The Wizard of Oz'."

"Quiet down, you two” Paula said sternly, "I'm waiting for Bobby Riggelson to signal me."

Sarah continued to giggle, but Clarissa took attention. "Bobby? You and him aren't an item, are you?"

"No. Bobby and I are going down to the Jones Estate off of Caldwell Road. He's been sneaking in there on days when they're gone and borrowing some of their power tools to use on the fort he's been building."

"'Borrowing'?" asked Sarah, "You mean 'stealing'"

"Appropriating" remarked Clarissa gaily, her finger raised towards the sky.

"No big deal; they can afford the loss” snapped Paula. "They're rich enough. My Dad says Mr. Jones made all his money by driving people in Rutherford and the other towns out of business. He says he's a thief and a con-artist."

"Could be worse" offered Clarissa, "He could be a drunk like Maggie Thompson's dad. I remember him when he was a janitor at the school” she said with a shudder. "I got a severe case of the shakes every time he passed me in the hallway."

Sarah shook her head. "No, I don't agree. Benji is okay. His daughter Maggie is a demon from the very pits of Hell, but he's an alright guy."

The other two girls stared hard at each other before speaking. "'BENJI'" they laughed.

Sarah, embarrassed by their taunt, rose to her feet and planted her fists on her hips. "His real name is 'Benjamin', not 'Butch', and he always was very nice to me. So, what if I like him? And he wouldn't drink so much if only the stupid school would let him have his job back."

Clarissa and Paula fell back on the grass and exploded in laughter; Sarah began to boil and briefly considered storming off in a huff. None of them heard the sharp series of whistles that sounded from the grove of trees to the north of the meadow.

"Sarah, you should go visit your friend 'Benji'" Giggled Paula, "You and him could probably share a bottle of Whiskey or something. Who knows? If you're lucky, maybe he would let you share something else with him."

"This is starting to sound serious” added Clarissa, "To think: my best friend Sarah is mixed up with an older man. WOO!"

The three of them were still giggling when a second set of whistles sounded from the north woods. Paula sat up with a gasp.

Two. Two whistles.

"That must be Bobby. Sorry, girls: but I've got to go. See you two later."

The girls waved to their friend as she galloped off across the meadow. "Bye, Paula” shouted Clarissa, "Don't do anything that we wouldn't do."

Paula stopped and faced her friends. "I'll meet you this afternoon near the Miller Pond: we can go swimming together before supper. If you see my Mom, tell her I went into town to buy stamps, or something." Waving one last time, Paula ran back towards the trees that she knew contained her friend Bobby Riggelson.

Sarah yawned; stretched her arms. "This isn't any fun anymore without Paula. Let's go to my house and see if there's any iced tea left."

Clarissa nodded; anxious to be up and out of the increasingly hot sun. The two girls rose, took hand in hand, and skipped south towards the Jameson house and away from the meadow.

* * *

Paula Riant reached the grove of trees and raced down the thin trail that cut through the thickening forest, her tiny feet pounding on the hard-packed ground. Bobby had promised to meet her near the old Burlingame Cemetery that was on the edge of the wood near Paugasaget Road. She didn't want to be late.

Rounding a grove of pine trees, Sarah sprinted across a section of the path covered with maple leaves and pine needles. The sound of the loud 'SNAP' and the incredible pain that began to tear its way through her ankle didn't faze her at first: she continued to run down the path until her injured leg fell out from under her and dropped her on the floor of the forest.

Now the pain registered. Paula screamed in terror as she looked down and noticed the large, rusted trap she had stepped into; its huge jagged metal jaws sunk deeply into the skin of her leg. Blood gushed in a steady, hot stream from her torn ankle; her vision blurred as both the pain and the terror of the accident began to shred its way through her tender young mind.

Someone stepped out of the bushes; about thirty feet down the path. It was not Bobby Riggelson.

Paula, still howling from the pain, saw the other but couldn't tell who it was. The moisture from her tears had caused her field of vision to shrink to a small green and white point. She only knew that someone had stepped into the path.

"Oh, please help me" she screamed in horror. "Some idiot put this trap in the path, and I've stepped into it by accident. God, I'm going to bleed to death."

The other raised their arms and pointed something at Paula.

"Please, help me” she begged. "Go find my Father: he should be at the saw mill over on Crescent Road. He'll come if you tell him I'm hurt."

The other pulled the trigger of the pistol and shot at the screaming child that sat in the pool of blood. The bullet flew wide of the target and struck a rock on the left-hand side of the path. The girl's eyes grew wide with terror.

"Why are you doing this?" screamed Paula at the misty form. "I've never hurt anyone in my life. Who are you?"

The dark form in front of her raised the weapon a second time. A second shot rang out and Paula felt the hole open up in the center of her forehead. There was a brief, mind-numbing pain as the bullet ripped its way through her brain and bored out the back of her skull; then the pain from her injured ankle ceased completely.

* * *

Eloise Hempkins sat quietly at the kitchen table in the Jones Estate and stared back at the tall, dark woman who stood opposite her. Amanda fiddled absentmindedly with the huge diamond she wore on the third finger of her left hand. Good stone, she thought to herself, but she should probably buy a new one next time she was in Hartford. This one was beginning to bore her.

Eloise cleared her throat and spoke. "If you don't expect Mr. Jones back anytime soon, I could finish vacuuming the master bedroom. You could call me when he arrives." She started to rise from the table but was stopped with a word.

"SIT" snapped Amanda, her arms now crossed. "My husband and I want… need to discuss this situation concerning the children with you, and I won't do it without him." Pausing, Amanda turned her head slightly and looked out the window towards the back yard. "We can wait for him."

Ten minutes later, Wally strode in the back door of the house; his white shirt streaked with dirt and his bulging belly protruding from beneath the fabric. Swearing softly to himself, he retrieved a handkerchief from his back pocket, mopped his forehead, and then fetched a glass of ice water from the refrigerator.

Amanda smiled. "Where have you been all of this time, dear? And, why are you so filthy? Been playing in the woods again?"

Wally shot his wife a stern look, then took a deep draft of the ice water.

"No, I was out back trying to fix the door of the tool shed. Someone's pried the hinges off of the damn thing and has been helping themselves to my power tools."

"The boys?"

Wally coughed, then placed the half-filled glass of ice water down on the counter and sat next to Eloise at the table. "Maybe. Maybe not. Could have been that Thompson runt they've been running with."

Amanda joined the two of them but took the head seat on the opposite side; from there she could look down on her husband and her employee from a position of power. Eloise coughed and shifted in her chair.

"If you're feeling better, Dear: we will begin” said Amanda softly. Wally nodded and mopped his forehead a second time. Amanda folded her hands into a steeple position on the tabletop and faced her employee.

"Miss Hempkins, my husband and I are terribly concerned about the boys. We want to know, from your opinion, why they've been acting so peculiar lately."

Eloise frowned and stroked her chin. "Peculiar?"

Wally turned towards the nanny. "We've been leaving them regular supplies of spending money when I travel, and they haven't been using it. That strikes us as a bit unusual."

"Does it?" replied Eloise with a smirk.

"Yes, it does” snapped Amanda, noticing the nanny's amusement. "Those boys, thanks to all of Walter's hard work at the 'House Of Hardware' stores, should be enjoying the best possible life money can buy, and yet time and time again we come home to find them tramping around the woods with that Thompson girl and ignoring the provisions we've been supplying them with."

Stroking her diamond, Amanda looked off towards the Dining Room. "It simply doesn't seem normal."

Eloise laughed.

Wally pounded his fist on the table; the nanny jumped from her chair, startled.

"What's so funny?"

Eloise, unnerved by his anger, sat down before answering. "Normal? I think it's perfectly normal. Those boys don't want your money."

Amanda flung her hands into the air and sighed. "I knew it, I knew it. Wally, those boys are in serious mental trouble. Maybe we should re-think our position about sending them off to the Military Academy for the summer. It would teach them a little discipline, a little respect."

"There is absolutely nothing wrong with either their discipline or their respect” replied Eloise. "The twins are performing every chore you assign them; no matter how silly or meager it may be. They've never spoken so much as a cross word to the two of you. What is so God awful wrong with the way they've been behaving?"

Amanda's dark eyes flashed at the nanny. "It isn't so much what they're doing that worries us as it is what they are NOT doing. Can't you see that?"

Wally Jones rose from his chair and began to pace about the table like he was marching in a military parade.

"Those boys haven't been spending the money we've left them; that concerns us. I checked their bedroom this morning and found four envelopes containing over two thousand dollars in them."

"They took the last envelope" said Eloise.

Wally nodded. "True; that is a good sign. But the fact of the matter is something is terribly wrong. Neither one of the boys has shown up for a single tennis lesson down at the club. Esau hasn't even touched his Gold Card we've given him. Jacob told his trainer at the Riding Academy he wasn't interested in learning how to ride a horse."

Stopping his march, Wally leaned over the table and thrust his sweaty face towards the nanny. "The boy doesn't want to ride a horse!"

Eloise laughed again. "You two kill me. Most children would die for the toys and benefits you casually throw around at these two boys. Lacking your financial resources, they amuse themselves by playing baseball or frolicking about the woods. Your two sons, however, are able to enjoy those benefits, but reject them in favor of doing what all of the poor boys are doing. Doesn't that tell you anything?"

Amanda smiled at Eloise; a look that did anything but put the woman at ease. "Tell us, Miss Hempkins: Tell us dumb rich people what that means."

Eloise stared first at Amanda, then Wally. "You people are certifiably crazy; do you know that?" Rising from the table, Eloise stalked off towards the kitchen sink and began to furiously dry the dishes.

"Sit down!" spat Amanda, but Eloise ignored her. Wally came over behind the nanny and struck a military stance behind her.

"I can't understand why the two of you are lecturing me about this affair" snapped Eloise as she slammed a pan into the dish drainer. "I've done everything you've hired me to do around here. I've fed those boys, cleaned up after them. I’ve tucked them in at night when Mr. Jones was traveling around the state and Mrs. Jones was 'entertaining' in town. What is it you two are so unhappy about?"

"The boys need a firm hand of authority in their lives" shouted Wally.

"Oh, and you expect ME to be that authority?" she asked with a slight laugh. "Don't you see what's happening, Mr. Jones? Jacob and Esau don't want your tennis lesson; they don't want your Gold Cards, they don't want your riding lessons, and they most certainly don't want your damn money"

Wally roared, spun the old lady around by the shoulders, and shoved her roughly backwards. She gasped as her head struck the gold knobs of the cabinets.

"Miss Hempkins" screamed Wally; his face only inches away from her own, "Don't mess with me; don't you dare talk to me like that. I am undeniably the richest and most powerful man in Rutherford. I've worked hard for many years to lift myself out of the projects of Windham where I was born, and I didn't manage to get to my current status and position by being talked down to by an employee."

Eloise clung to the countertop for support and said nothing. Behind Wally, Amanda had pulled out a nail file and was busy sanding down the tips of her bright red fingernails.

"Don't cross me, lady. I hurt people who cross me. I hurt people who get in the way. My wife has asked you kindly to show a little more authority in the lives of my sons, and you will do as she asked, or we will destroy you."

"Damn you to Hell, you fat bastard" shouted Eloise as she quickly dove under Wally's outstretched arm and to the freedom of the hallway.

"Those boys DO need an authority in their lives; I'll agree to that much. But it shouldn't be me. It should be the two of you. That's why they're rejecting all of your gifts and perks. They're trying to get your attention; they're trying to force you to come home and spend some time with them."

Wally spun around and stormed towards the frightened nanny. "You don't give a damn about those two boys, do you?"

"I love those boys; I would do anything to help them; including telling the whole damned truth to the two of you at the risk of my own personal injury."

"You're a dead woman!" screamed Wally; now totally out of control. His sweaty face had twisted itself into a large fat ball and shook violently in front of her.

"No, I'm an unemployed woman” screamed Eloise in a huff as she turned her back on the Jones and headed for the door. "I quit. Raise your own damn kids, for once in your lives."

Amanda dropped the file on the table, folded her hands back into the steeple position, and chuckled.

Wally held his ground for nearly five minutes; giving Eloise sufficient time to pack up her belongings and leave the building. After the front door had slammed shut behind her, Wally strode over to the kitchen table and took a seat; his breath labored because of his anger.

"Now, what are we going to do?"

Amanda shrugged; picked up the file and put it back into the folds of her purse. "No problem, my pet: just hire a new nanny. The world is absolutely filled with the wretched creatures."

"What makes you think the next one will be any more cooperative than this one?" asked Wally; his head slumped down into the palms of his hand.

"Maybe she will be, maybe she won't. If it doesn't work out the next time, we'll pack up the boys and ship them off to RienHolt Military Academy for the summer. Rising from the table, Amanda yawned and headed through the sliding glass doors towards the backyard.

"Okay," agreed Wally Jones, "but there's one more thing we need to attend to where the boys are concerned."

Amanda stopped. "And that is?"

"We need to keep that little Thompson bitch away from the boys; she's a bad influence."

Amanda nodded as she stepped out onto the back veranda. "I agree, but how do you propose to pull that off?"

Wally retrieved his glass of water from the countertop. "Oh, leave that to me" he said between sips of the warming water, "I'll take care of that detail. By the time I'm done with that child, she won't be able to see the boys."

Amanda nodded slowly, then stepped off into the garden to check her flowers.

* * *

It was still early on Wednesday afternoon as Scott stormed aimlessly through the cornfield that lay below the base of Paugasaget Mountain. The itchy nestles of the corn plants scratched and tore at his exposed arms, but Scott took no notice of the discomfort.

How dare that Carlson woman waltz into their lives like that? His Father had been out of School too long; the man took no notice whatsoever of how this Carina woman was flirting with him.

"For God's sake," cried Scott to the winds, "My Mom hasn't been dead even a year. Her body is still warm in the grave, and stupid Steven Langford, the REVEREND Steven Langford, is already carrying on with a parishioner."

Clearing the cornfield, Scott continued his trek across a small meadow. On the opposite side was a stone wall that bordered the trees in front of the hill.

"Gee, Dad" he muttered, "What happens one day when you're cavorting with this Carina girl and you cry out 'JULIA' by mistake? What happens then? God, forgive him: He doesn't know what he is doing…"

A brief movement caught Scott's attention. Looking over towards the wall, he spotted another strange patch of green lying on the grass; somewhat like the one that had appeared on his own lawn two days ago. This time, however, he could easily see what was causing the movement. Sticking out from underneath an old green blanket were two tiny brown legs.

As Scott headed towards the blanket, a small black hand reached out from another blanket and slapped the naked legs. The legs withdrew back under the original blanket with an angry oath.

Cute. Stupid, but cute. The children were trying to hide under the blankets; hoping the green color of their covering would blend into the green of the meadow and render them invisible.

Moving very silently, Scott crept over to the first blanket. Reaching down, he was about to grab a corner of the rag and rip it off the black child hiding underneath when a stern voice from behind startled him.

"What the Hell do you think you are doing?" asked Maggie Thompson crossly. Scott turned sideways and looked at the child. She was standing in the exact position he had been occupying just a few seconds before.

"You must have been following me through the meadow” he said in a surprised tone. A rustling noise to his left caused Scott to turn back towards the blankets. From underneath each of them appeared a smiling black face.

"Hello, again” said Esau as he climbed out and fiercely shook Scott's hand. "Nice to see you. Want to join our club?"

Maggie strode over to the first blanket and ripped it off from Jacob. "I'll be the one who decides whether or not he can join."

Scott was curious. "What kind of club do you have? How long has it existed?"

Thinking for a moment, Jacob shot his hand into the sky in response. "Our club is called 'Secret Club Number Three', or S.C.N.T. for short. We've had it for about a month now."

"IDIOT!" roared Maggie; slapping the child hard across the face. "How are we going to keep the Secret Club Number Three a damn SECRET if you keep telling people about it?"

Scott laughed heartily. "Aw, come on now, Maggie: don't you go hurting the boy. He was just being friendly. I want to hear more about your club; maybe I can help you. I'm really good at stuff like this."

Esau walked over to Scott and looked him over head to toe. "You're a little old for us, aren't you?" Jacob took Scott's hand and tugged on it eagerly.

"You can join, you can join."

"What does the 'Number Three' part mean?" he asked Maggie. The red-haired child frowned; a dark look descended on her face. Esau began to laugh softly.

"Well? What's going on? What does the 'Number Three' part mean?"

Jacob moved over in front of Scott and held up first one finger, then two, and finally three.

Scott smiled. "Oh, I get it: you've had three clubs. The first one was called 'Secret Club Number One'. The second one was 'Secret Club Number Two'…"

Jacob completed the thought. "And this one is called 'Secret Club Number Three'. Pretty Cool, huh?"

All of the children except for Maggie began to roar in laughter. Scott held his splitting sides and collapsed backwards on to the grass; the two brothers fell on top of their green blankets and rolled over in hysterics.

After a few moments, the boys regained their composure and sat giggling in the grass. Maggie marched back and forth between the three of them casting wicked glances in every direction. Finally, Scott spoke up.

"What does your club do?"

Maggie folded her arms crossly. "We hide. We practice how to hide."

"Hide?" asked Scott, "Maybe I can help you guys out a little. I know all about hiding."

"Do you?" asked a suddenly interested Esau.

"Yes. I'm really good at building things. A couple years back, a friend of mine and I built an underground cave. We dug out a large hole, and shored up the walls with some old planks he had found..."

Jacob and Esau looked at each other with surprise. "DAD'S LUMBER!"

Scott, not understanding their statement, continued. "We used to hide in that thing all the time. Once we planted some grass squares on top of it, the cave was practically invisible: you had to be on top of it before you even knew it was there."

"How did you get in and out?" asked Jacob.

"We used a trap door located near a bush. That had some loam and grass squares planted on top of it, as well. It was just as invisible as the rest of the structure."

Maggie stepped in between her two associates and Scott; waving her hand in his face. "And just what is so wrong with the way we're hiding, wise guy?"

Scott thought about the problem for a few seconds; rubbing his chin.

"Well, for one thing: those blankets are the wrong color. Sure, grass is green: but it's not EVENLY green. If you look at a meadow from a distance, you'll notice patches of it are green, some are brown, and some are sort a runny mixture of the two. Soldiers in the military use special mixtures of color for

Camouflage for that very reason: Hiding under a mixture of colors allows you to mix in with your surroundings better."

Esau jumped to his feet and squared off in front of Maggie. "He's IN!"

"He's NOT!"

"I said he's IN!"

Scott interrupted the screaming match. "I even have a better name for your club. Back at my house, I have a pet lizard my Mom once gave me. It changes color whenever it moves across a different color background. It's called a Chameleon."

Maggie frowned. "A what? A Cotillion?"

Esau laughed. "That’s a fine word; Scott old boy: but too tough for little Maggie to pronounce. That was a great idea, though. That's exactly what we're trying to do with this club. We want to become invisible, like your chameleon."

Jacob spit out a blade of grass and spoke to his brother. "That word is perfect! We can teach Maggie how to pronounce it. Let’s call our club 'The Chameleon Club'".

"NO!" roared Maggie. "This is MY club; we'll call it what I want to call it."

"Look, Maggie:" said Esau, "This guy knows what he's talking about. We could really use his help. Why don't we give the guy a good shake?"

Scott raised his hand. "I have a question…"

"SHUT UP!" screamed the three.

"No, seriously:" persisted Scott, "I have a question."

Maggie groaned, rolled her eyes, and spat out a large gob of green phlegm on the ground in front of him.

"All right, all right” she yelled, "What is your question?"

Scott looked over the children before posing his question. "What do the three of you hide from?"

"Excuse Me?" asked a puzzled Esau.

"Good question, I think" chimed in Jacob; a frown forming across his face. "Maggie, what DO we hide from? Why do we have to learn how to hide?"

Maggie stared at the faces of her two companions, her mouth open in disbelief and shock. Finally, she let out a great puff of wind, stormed boldly over to Scott and slapped him in the face.

Spinning on her heels, Maggie stormed off towards the west woods. "Come on, boys” she screamed, "We're out of here."

Esau quickly grabbed the blankets and threw them to his brother before trotting off after his leader. "We'll talk it over, brother" he cried back to Scott, "and get back to you. Don't call us; we'll call you."

Jacob held back for a few seconds, then faced Scott and gave him a bright smile and a mysterious wink.

"Don't worry, guy" he said in glee, "you're an absolute shoo-in!"

Scott watched them disappear into the woods, and then turned back towards his own house. The question he had posed to the kids still tore at his mind.

What did the children have to hide from?

* * *

It had been a bright, sunny afternoon when Lieutenant Jonathan Rayford walked out of the Rutherford Police Station, hopped into a cruiser, and headed out towards South Rutherford in response to an urgent call from Officer Jim Peters.

Now that he had arrived, however, it had begun to lightly rain. Without an overcoat, Rayford was quickly becoming drenched to the skin; his uniform blues clung to him like plastic wrap on a muggy day.

Rayford quickly scanned the area and spotted Jim Peters consulting with two other Officers. A large portion of the woods bordering the road had already been taped off before he arrived.

"Jim" he called, "What have we got?"

Peters said a word to the other policemen and walked towards Jonathan. "It’s a possible Homicide, Jon. Follow that ridge up into the woods about one hundred feet; you'll find Yancey and Sullivan with the body. I've got to stay here and wait for the Coroner."

Rayford nodded briskly and, thankful for the chance to get out of the open air and the rain, dashed up the hill through the woods.

A few moments later, he climbed over the top of the ridge and found Detectives Elizabeth Yancey and Harold Sullivan kneeling down next to a plastic-covered form. Yancey, hearing his approach, looked up at him with a tired, grim expression on her face.

"What is it, Yancey?" he growled, "I was due to get off work in an hour, and if I don't have a good excuse for being late, my wife will kill me."

Yancey laughed easily and dragged a wet lock of her brown hair back over her shoulder. "Your wife is a real stinker for schedules, is she?"

"Yea, she can sure be a real bitch sometimes."

Yancey clicked her tongue in disapproval, and then viciously grabbed his crotch in her hand. Rayford gasped, but made no attempt to free himself.

"I'd watch it, SIR" said Yancey with a devilish grin on her face, "how you talk about your wife in front of the other Officers; she may not approve of your choice of language. Got it?"

Sullivan recoiled in horror as he witnessed Yancey's attack on the Lieutenant. "Uh, excuse me, but aren't your actions just a little bit out of order?"

Yancey released her superior officer and walked past Sullivan to the far side of the ridge.

"No, they're not” she said with a sly smile, "My actions are fine. You see, Sullivan: I'm MARRIED to the fat bastard we call our Boss. I'M the bitch he was talking about."

Jonathan, smiling broadly, winked at him and left to join Yancey. "Watch that one," he prompted Sullivan as he passed the startled Officer, "She's got a real mean left hook."

Yancey stood at the top of the ridge and pointed down to a stream that flowed through a small Hollow adjacent to the ridge.

"Two hunters found the body about two hours ago on this ridge, but there is other evidence that may indicate some possible movement. Peters was the first on the scene: he freaked out and called me once he saw the body."

"Mutilated?"

Yancey turned and looked deeply into her husband's eyes. There was a sense of pain buried in there Jonathan had never noticed from her before.

"It’s a child, Jon. The victim is a female Caucasian child; about ten years old."

Jonathan swallowed. No wonder the new Officer had seemed so nervous; he had a little girl about the same age, didn't he? "Sullivan, go on back down the ridge and have Peters make sure a forensics crew is on its way."

Sullivan nodded, and then leapt off the ridge towards the road. Yancey tapped her husband on the shoulder.

"The Coroner is coming; won't there be a pathologist accompanying him?"

Rayford nodded. "Yes, but I think Sullivan was becoming a little green about the gills. He's got a little girl about the same age. Show me the body."

Yancey walked over to the tarpaulin and pulled aside an edge of the covering. The child looked as if she was sleeping, thought Rayford. Her face was pale; there were black and blue splotches around her mouth and nose. Her auburn hair was streaked with the dried remains of mud and blood.

"My guess is she was smothered” said Yancey, "Even with a quick examination you can see there are no signs of torn clothing, no tears that would indicate a bullet or a knife wound. I didn't examine her head, but I would guess we'll find no sign of blunt trauma, either. The blood you see on the face and hair came from her throat and sinus, I think."

"You did well. Leave all the rest to the Coroner's crew. Family?"

Yancey nodded. "She has two sisters and a brother; Father and Mother.

The girl's name is Elizabeth Edricks; I've already had Johnson interview the family, and he may still be with them. They live over on Baker Hill Road."

Rayford realized he didn't know where he was. "Which road is that?" he asked, pointing down the ridge.

"That's the far Southern end of Paugasaget Road. Not many people live down on this end; although there are a few families a couple of miles up on the other end of the road. The only house on this section belongs to a family called Jones; Wally and Amanda Jones."

Rayford nodded slowly as he covered up the dead girl. "I know them. Wally runs a fairly profitable chain of Hardware stores around Rutherford and the surrounding towns. I'll make a note to talk to him myself. What physical evidence have you seen?"

Yancey shrugged. "Unfortunately, there’s not much. We found this pink hair ribbon about thirty feet down that ridge I showed you; it may have belonged to the girl and fallen off when her body was dragged up here."

Rayford jumped up at the news. "Dragged up here? This isn't the murder scene?"

Yancey shook her head. "I don't think so. There's no evidence of the body being moved, but there's also not nearly enough blood or terrain disruption to warrant this place as the actual crime scene. Also, look at this…"

Lifting the bottom of the tarpaulin, Yancey showed Rayford the bottom of the child's sneakers. Several clumps of a white, pasty residue were stuck to the rubber soles of the shoes.

"Clay" said Rayford.

"Clay" agreed Yancey. "There are some areas of surface level clay deposits in the area, but not in this particular stretch of woods. This girl was murdered elsewhere and dumped here."

Two Rutherford policemen appeared on the ridge as Rayford walked carefully about the scene and thought about what Yancey had told him. Motioning the two over, he gave them instructions.

"Williams, contact the local agricultural extension center in Brooklyn; get me a chart showing all known areas of surface level clay that can be found in Rutherford and the surrounding towns."

"You" he said, tapping the other Officer on the chest, "Take a complete interview of each of the families that live on this road. Ask them the usual stuff: suspicious vehicles, neighborhood arguments, so forth. Coordinate your information with Peters: he lives near this road himself and may be able to make some quick sense of your data."

The cop nodded and headed back down the ridge; Yancey motioned for the first policeman to remain with the body as she and Rayford headed back down towards the road to consult with Peters.

"We'll have to call in the Connecticut Major Crime Squad for this one." Yancey reminded her husband.

"Aw, do we have to?" muttered Rayford. He remembered vividly his last dealings with the Crime Squad; how the investigation had been hindered, delayed and, at one point, almost completely derailed by their interference.

"Yes, I'm afraid we have to. I've already talked to Commander Edward Oliver on the phone; he's supposed to send up a Van here within the hour. You'll be pleased to know, however, that there's been no demand for local State Police use; except for the Crime Squad."

Rayford stopped to move a branch out of the way; offering Yancey his hand, he helped her through the thick brush and back onto the path.

"Anything else we might have missed?" asked Yancey.

Rayford shook his head. "No, not for now. Make sure we get the usual round of photos and prints. Oh, and send the girl's clothing to the lab: maybe something will come out of that. Take a note to have the coroner call us in the morning: I want to know if the child has been raped. Oh, one last thing:"

"Yes?" asked Rayford's wife.

"I'm hungry: What's for supper when we get home?"

Yancey howled and playfully pushed her superior officer out of the woods and onto the tar of Paugasaget Road.

Four

The air was still cool for June. Jacob shivered as he struggling to keep up with the others as they crawled on their stomachs underneath the thorns.

"I should have worn my sweater” he complained. Esau shushed him. "Quiet down. We don't want anyone to hear us."

"Why?"

Maggie stopped near the entrance to the clubhouse and looked at him sternly. "Because then everyone will know where our secret clubhouse is."

Jacob bit his lip and followed his brother to the small clearing in front of the rickety shack that served as their clubhouse. The building had once been a tool shed; beyond the ridge were the remains of an old house.

Maggie carefully ran her hands along a loose slat on the side and pulled. A portion of the wall, hinged from the inside, tore away from the building and allowed them access.

After they had entered the cabin and adjusted their eyes to the dimmer light, Maggie saw the two Jones boys staring towards the front; their mouths open with awe.

They were staring at Scott Langford. He was dressed in military camouflage; his face was painted with thick stripes of black, blue, and green. He was sitting on the leader's chair: Maggie's chair.

"Welcome" he said somberly, "to the first meeting of THE CHAMELEON CLUB."

Maggie bellowed in rage before launching herself towards her enemy; her tiny fists flailing in front of her. Laughing, Scott dropped from the chair and held her off with his long right arm. The boys pulled the angry girl away from him.

"How did you find this place?" she screamed.

"Well," said Scott, "It wasn't easy. It took all my cunning; all my knowledge of tracking and woods lore. It also required all of my talents at reading..."

"Reading?"

A smirk spread across Scott's face. "Yes, reading. You see, there is this large, hand-painted sign about a hundred feet down the trail that reads: 'This way to the Secret Club Number Three Clubhouse' and points the direction with a large, black arrow. The rest, as they say, is History."

"JACOB!" roared Maggie, "HOW MANY TIMES HAVE I TOLD YOU TO TAKE DOWN THAT STUPID SIGN OF YOURS?"

Jacob hid behind his brother.

"Come on, Maggie” said Esau, "What further proof do you need about this guy? He should be a part of our club; he would've found this stupid old shack even without Jacob's sign."

"That's true, I would have. Now, if I had built this thing, then no-one would have discovered it…"

"LIAR!" roared Maggie.

"Look" said Scott, holding his arms wide, "It's your club, Maggie: I'll let you and your friends decide. I'm offering to join your club and really teach you guys a thing or two about hiding. Everything I know will be at your disposal. I have only one condition."

"What's that?" asked Maggie, still fuming.

"I want to be the Leader of this Club. I want to be the first President of The Chameleon Club."

Scott waited patiently; expecting little Maggie to explode after hearing his proposal. Surprisingly, she did not: she remained calm and considered his offer. The twins, eager for him to join, were pressing Maggie for a positive response.

Finally, after several minutes of silence, she spoke.

"Wait outside, Scott. The three of us need to talk this over amongst ourselves."

"YES!" chimed the twins in unison.

Scott nodded and rose from the chair. Instead of leaving through the side panel, however, he stood up, shoved aside a section of the broken shack roofing, and climbed out through the top of the rickety structure.

"Wow" said Jacob.

"Just one minute” shouted Maggie. Scott's head reappeared in the roof opening and looked back down at the girl.

"Not outside. Go back through the thickets and wait for us near the dirt road into Paugasaget Mountain. I don't want you listening."

Scott saluted. "Anything you say, Boss Lady” he said before disappearing.

The three children followed Scott's progress through numerous cracks in the shack wall. Once satisfied that he had left the area, they gathered around the command chair for a council.

Jacob raised his hand. "How are we going to figure out an answer to this problem? We've never had anything like this happen to us before."

Maggie nodded. "You're right; this is a new experience. Let's play 'FOR AND AGAINST'; that should help us. All right?"

The two boys agreed. "Okay, let's begin. Why should we let this new kid into our club?"

Esau raised his hand. "He's real smart. He knows how to do things we don't."

"He's older than we are; he may be able to get money and supplies and stuff” added Jacob.

"He probably knows more people than we do; he could help us find out things we can't find out” said Maggie thoughtfully.

"The adults will probably trust him more than they do us” followed Esau.

Maggie nodded thoughtfully. "These are all good answers. Now, let's consider the opposite point. Why should we not allow Scott into our club?"

Esau raised his hand. "He's real smart. He knows how to do things we don't."

"He's older than we are; he may be able to get money and supplies and stuff; use them against us” added Jacob.

"He probably knows more people than we do; he could find out things we can't find out” said Maggie thoughtfully.

"The adults will probably trust him more than they do us” followed Esau.

Again, Maggie nodded. "These are also very good answers. It seems there's only one way we can find out for sure…"

"How?" asked Jacob.

Maggie let a sly grin escape from her lips. "We'll put him to the TEST."

Esau jumped up from his seat. "Yes, the TEST!"

"What's the test?" asked Jacob.

"You'll see. It will tell us whether we can trust him; whether he's doing this to help us or to hurt us. Let's go down to the road and tell him."

Rising from their seats, the three headed towards the side panel to leave. Jacob tried to jump up, reach the roof boards, and climb out the way Scott had, but Esau stopped him with a slap across the back of his head.

As the three children crawled on their stomachs back through the thorns, Esau tapped Maggie on the back.

"Maggie, you still haven't told Scott why we really formed the secret club; what we're really trying to accomplish."

Maggie nodded. "I know, and I'm not going to. Not until he passes the test and proves himself. It could be dangerous if he finds out what we're up to right now."

Esau thought about it, shrugged and continued his muddy trek through the briars.

* * *

Commander Edward Oliver of the Connecticut Major Crime Squad sat back at Rayford's desk, took a cigarette from his pocket, and lit it with the lighter Yancey had given her husband on their first wedding anniversary. Blowing the thick, blue smoke into the air, he waited for Rayford to gather his notes and begin the meeting.

Rayford coughed nervously. "You know, Oliver, I can almost predict what you're about to tell me regarding this matter."

Oliver smiled and blew a smoke ring. "Oh, really?"

Rayford nodded; a glum look on his face. "Yes, I can. You're going to tell me that Homicide Investigation in the State of Connecticut falls under the complete and iron jurisdiction of the Major Crime Squad, that you are now in total control of the investigation into the death of Elizabeth Edricks, and that

You are about to flood with Station House with a veritable platoon of gray suits who are going to march around here like General Patton on parade and tell us how to be about our own business."

Oliver nodded slowly; blew another smoke ring.

"Anything else?"

Rayford shook his head. Oliver rose from the desk, took a long drag from his cigarette, and walked around the desk and stood near Rayford.

"Now, let me tell you what you're probably dying to tell me" he said to Rayford softly; blowing a cloud of smoke in his face. "You're going to tell me about how your local officers are better equipped to handle a local investigation: they know the people, they know the town; and they know the area. You're going to tell me all about the initial investigation you've already performed, and about how you've already managed to line up a quick profile of the killer. You will probably spend a great deal of time trying to convince me your own officers are NOT rank amateurs, but skilled, trained investigators. Then, for the grand finale, you're going to lecture me on the inability of my own detectives and officers to do anything except polish their black shoes and dust off their silly Canadian-style hats with anything even remotely resembling clean efficiency. Have I got it about right?"

Yancey giggled from the doorway: both men turned towards her and cast her ugly glances. Rayford turned back towards the State Police Commander and, despite his anger, broke out with a wide grin.

"We know each other a little too well, don't you think, Commander?"

Oliver exploded in laughter. "Apparently so. We've got to stop spending all that valuable State time playing poker down at the Club."

"Seriously, now", asked Rayford. "What's your involvement in this case? Let me know right up front, so I can prepare accordingly."

Oliver sat back down in Rayford's chair and considered the question. "I am going to assign some detectives to your staff, Rayford. But they can remain under your control. Just keep me informed, and be kind enough to brief me when I call you every other day, Okay?"

Rayford nodded. "Sounds fair enough. Lab Facilities?"

Oliver looked shocked. "You have your own?" Again, Yancey giggled.

Rayford shook his head. "Of course not: On our measly budget?"

"Then, you'll have no choice. Ferry your stuff down through Montville and we'll process it the best we can. Our Forensics Van has already been through the sight: I'll keep it staffed in the Danielson Barracks just in case anything else turns up."

Rayford nodded. "Okay; that about wraps it. You've already been briefed with what we know so far, and you know there are no immediate suspects under consideration. If anything else turns up, I'll let you know." Rising to his feet, Jonathan offered his open hand to the State Police Commander.

Oliver accepted his grasp, and then butted out his cigarette. "Jon, just don't be a maverick on this one, okay? There are politicians in Hartford who would love to see your head on a platter because of that riot fiasco a few years back."

Rayford laughed. "Don't worry; I've been watching my back."

"And I'm watching his front” added Yancey with a wink and a sexy smile.

Oliver glanced at Rayford's Chief of Detectives and smiled. "Yea, I bet you are, Elizabeth. Oh," said Oliver, turning back towards Rayford, "One more thing. Keep your eyes and ears open on this one, Jon. Past research tells us that there has hardly ever been an isolated case of child murder with no trace of sexual assault that wasn't eventually connected to a close relative or friend of the victim's family."

Jonathan was puzzled. "What does that mean, exactly?"

"It means that, if you can't shake a suspect out of the victim's immediate family, you're probably dealing with a serial killer."

Grabbing his coat, Oliver saluted Yancey smartly and left the office. “There could be additional victims; maybe some that have already occurred, and we don't know about yet” he added. "See you Saturday at the Club, Rayford. As usual, it's been my pleasure, Elizabeth."

Rayford, looking tired, walked around the back of desk and slumped into his chair. His wife approached slowly.

"He's right, you know, about the possibility of multiple victims."

Rayford nodded; his chin and mouth buried deeply in the folds of his fingers. "I know that, Lizzie. And it scares the Hell out of me. But, as of this moment, that possibility doesn't help us any. What did Officer Williams find out from the extension center charts?"

Yancey produced a thick wad of carbon paper and handed them to Rayford. "We've checked out about three different areas and have a possible match on the second one. It's circled in blue marker, located on Paugasaget Road; about a mile from the original location of the corpse."

Rayford examined the documents carefully. "That's on the far edge of the old Callahan property, isn't it?"

Yancey nodded. "There is a huge clay deposit in the woods near the left side of the road heading south; Old Victor Callahan used to dig it up and sell it to local Lumberyards to finance his drinking when he was unemployed. Wally Jones was Callahan's biggest customer."

"Callahan's dead, isn't he? Died of a heart attack last spring?"

"Yes, that's right. The house now belongs to the Rutherford Congregational Church; they've been using it for about a year as a parsonage."

Rayford rubbed his eyes and sat back in his chair. "Well, it's highly unlikely the Preacher did the kid, don't you think? Assign one of the Troopers Oliver gave us to check out the Church employees; Send a few other officers over to the Paugasaget Road sight to see if anything turns up."

Yancey nodded. "I've already assigned Peters and two others to check out the clay deposit. I'll get on the other one right away."

Rayford's phone rang. Picking up the receiver, Rayford said "What is it?"

Yancey watched the exhaustion slowly drop away from her husband's face; replaced with raw tension. When he hung up the phone, she knew immediately what the problem was.

"Another victim?" she asked. Rayford nodded.

"Perhaps. This one was a little older, but she was found in the same general area. Let's go."

Dropping her papers on Rayford's desk, Yancey raced out of the office after her husband.

* * *

Thursday morning, the Reverend Steven Langford was in prayer.

He had been up most of the night; sleep had fled from him in the late hours of the day and never returned. Steven had risen from his bed, taken a short walk down the dark solitude of Paugasaget Road, and spent the rest of the night in his study.

The phone rang. The Clock said Six Thirty. Someone was calling him awfully early in the day.

Ignoring the phone, Steven gazed at the picture of his wife Julia that lay beyond the telephone. She was, as always, exceedingly beautiful; especially in the mornings.

"God, I have sinned against your name” sobbed the Reverend; tears flowing down his cheeks. "I have committed murder. I have taken a life…"

The thought of her death continued to haunt Steven; even a year later. Life without her was difficult; despite all of the assurances his friends and relatives had made. They had said that time would heal this wound. They had been wrong.

"Forgive me, Father: for I have sinned" he cried to the walls. A brief passage of scripture came to mind, from the fifty-first chapter of Psalms:

"Against You, You only, have I sinned, and done this evil in your sight; that you may be found just when you speak, and blameless when you judge. Look, I was brought forth in iniquity, and in sin my Mother conceived me. Behold, you desire truth in the inward parts, and in the hidden things you will make me to know wisdom."

The thought of Carina came to Steven's mind unbidden. He had enjoyed her company; he had laughed and relaxed for the first time in months. After she left, the Reverend had avoided the living room mantle for the entire day; fearful of seeing the image of his wife.

He had forgotten about the picture in his study. It was late last night when he, overcome with sleeplessness, saw the image and reopened the old wound.

Shameful, thought the Reverend. He shouldn't be associating with Carina so soon after Julia's death. He shouldn't be harboring secret desires towards her.

"God, forgive me” stammered Steven weakly; his sobs becoming stronger. Lifting his head, the Reverend struggled to compose himself. Scott would be awakened if he made too much noise, and it wouldn't do to allow his son to see him in his present condition.

In the distance, a rooster crowed. Startled, Steven stared madly through the window at the woods beyond his study and longed for more peaceful times.

* * *

The door was open when Bobby Thompson arrived at his brother's house. The stiff morning breeze was slapping it against the outside wall.

House doors should open IN, thought Bobby sadly. Only on my Brother's house does the main door open outwards.

Entering the dwelling, Bobby coughed and reached quickly for his folded handkerchief. The kitchen was an absolute disaster; dirty pots and pans strewn about on every countertop. There were leftovers and liquids lying on the table; a huge cloud of horseflies was busily appropriating the material for their own use. Bottles and empty beer cans littered the floor.

"Benjamin, you asshole" muttered Bobby as he carefully picked his way through the mess and moved towards the living room. Passing the open door of the refrigerator, Bobby held his breath against the awful cheese-soaked odor that was drifting from the interior.

Maggie should be out of here, thought Bobby as he entered the hallway. This is no way for a young child to live. He knew he had threatened Butch with taking Maggie away, but he had always held off from doing it; always thought he could somehow scare some common sense into the guy.

"Maybe I was wrong to wait" said Bobby. "And maybe I should have taken my shoes off before coming into this dump" he added; stepping over what appeared to be the remnants of a turkey gravy and potato dinner that had been mashed into the floorboards of the hallway.

Entering the living room, Bobby heard voices. The television set was still on; Oprah Winfrey was interviewing a group of women claiming to be single mothers of abandoned children. Too much of a coincidence for Bobby's liking; he turned off the set.

The living room was just as much of a disaster as the kitchen was, but different in one respect: there was a lot less spoiled food, but a lot more empty whiskey bottles and beer cans. A large, full length mirror standing next to an open window caught his eyes, and he went over to examine it.

The Mirror was dirty, but useable. Bobby stood in front of it and discovered someone had marked several large red X's through the mirror. These letters were superimposed over Bob's throat as he stood in front of the mirror. Touching the material of the design, he found that red lipstick had been used to inscribe the images; probably Vicky's.

"What does this mean?" wondered Bobby aloud, "Revenge against the throat? Perhaps it’s an unconscious desire to stop drinking? I wish I hadn't slept through my psychology classes in College."

A loud crash sounded behind him, followed by the sounds of Butch

Thompson swearing and kicking bottles across the kitchen floor.

"Who the fuck closed the kitchen door?" roared Butch as he staggered into the house, "I tripped over it. Maggie, is that you?"

Bobby frowned as his drunken brother staggered out of the kitchen. "Butch, where have you been? Look at you; you're a MESS."

Butch lifted one weary, gin-soaked eyelid at his brother. "Come on in, Bobby: the door is open, or at least it used to be. You know, my house is always open to you, Brother."

"Butch, where's Victoria? She's skipped her last five meetings at the Rutherford Woman's Council; you know as well as I do Victoria would rather die than miss those meetings."

Throwing his hand in the air, Butch collapsed onto the living room sofa and clicked the television back on with the remote. Oprah was still interviewing the single mothers; their abandoned children were in the wings waiting to appear on the show and surprise their parents.

Lifting himself briefly from the couch, Butch reached his dirty right hand under his ass, pulled out a rotted banana peel, and threw it on the floor. "Victoria's gone, Bobby. She went up to Danbury to visit some relatives about a week ago. I don't figure she'll be back until next Thursday."

"Butch, why don't you clean up this dump? Where's Maggie? Is she visiting relatives, also? You know, it's not good for a little girl to live like this."

"Maggie's around somewhere, probably playing in the woods with those two little weasels, the Jones boys. She's fine: don't worry about her."

"How can you say that?" bellowed Bob. "This place stinks. It's crawling with bugs and maggots, and you've got more booze in this place than you do milk."

Butch laughed. "And Maggie can have as much of my booze as she likes; she doesn't even have to ask. After all, she's my daughter."

"You've got to be kidding. That girl can't live like this. What if someone outside the family sees this filth? They'll take her away from you."

Butch farted, lifted his butt, and pulled out another rotted banana peel. "Let them" he muttered, "The kid's more trouble than she's worth, anyways."

Bobby grabbed his drunken brother, lifted him off of the couch, and shook him violently.

"Butch, this road you live on is crawling with cops. What if one of them comes here, sees this mess, and takes your daughter?"

Butch smiled; Bobby coughed as a thin puff of garlic drifted from his brother's throat. "Too late. One of them came by this morning. Asked me a lot of stupid questions I didn't know the answers to. Guess there's been a murder up the in woods, or something. Somebody killed a cow. He didn't say anything about

Maggie."

Shocked by his brother's callousness, Bobby stood silent.

"He didn't take Maggie” added Butch, his eyes rolling back in his skull, "Maggie wasn't even here. Damn stupid cop couldn't even tell I had a daughter."

Bobby threw his brother back down on the couch. On the television, one of the abandoned children had slapped her mother; a full-scale riot had broken out. Oprah was cutting to a commercial. Butch stood up shakily from the couch and tried to raise a drunken fist at his brother.

"Butch, I don't like being rough with you…" warned Bobby.

Butch snickered. "Really? Gee, what was that little scene you and I just went through, huh? A country corn dance?" Closing his right eye, Butch bit his lip fiercely and tried to take aim on Bobby's face. “Remember that time in the meadow, Bobby ole boy? I beat you bloody then; I can do it again now…”

Bobby grabbed his brother's fist and held it firmly. "You've got to straighten out your life, Benjamin. I promised Mom before she died I would keep tabs on you, Vicky and Maggie; make sure that none of you did anything that would rip apart the family. This is your last warning: If you don't stop your drinking and get a job, I'm going to call Family Services and have Maggie taken away."

There was nothing further to say. Bobby turned to leave and was at the hallway when he felt the first shards of glass fly into his face; his brother had thrown a bottle at him. The glass had struck the doorjamb to his left and shattered.

Enraged, he spun quickly around and punched his brother squarely in the jaw. Butch gasped, flew backwards through the room and collapsed against the mirror. To the drunken man's right, the television set showed Oprah ending her show; the single mothers still fighting with their children.

"End of program, you fat, drunken bastard” muttered Bobby, "End of program."

* * *

Only after Bobby had stormed out of the house, started up his car, and roared out of the driveway did Victoria finally come out of the bedroom. With a slight smile, she took a quick glance at her bleeding husband, then folded her arms across her waist and gazed out the window at her fleeing brother-in-law.

"Thank God" she muttered, "I thought he'd never leave."

"Funny" croaked Butch as he spit out a mouthful of blood and struggled to lift himself, "I once thought the same exact thing about you."

* * *

Bobby Thompson clenched the steering wheel of his car and thought about the confrontation with his brother. That idiot had to get his act together. Despite his promises to his Mother, he was sick and tired of cleaning up after Butch all the time. He had a life of his own to think about.

Looking into his rearview mirror, Bobby discovered that he couldn't see the road behind him. The mirror had shifted when he slammed the car door. Reaching up, he adjusted the device. The road behind him swung into view.

A thought occurred to Bob; a frightening thought. He tilted the angle of the rearview mirror down, then back up. Three times, he adjusted the mirror.

Slamming his foot on the brakes, Bobby brought the car to a screeching halt. His breath became labored; he looked in the rearview mirror and watched the sweat pour out of his forehead.

The Mirror in Butch's living room. Those damn red X's that were slashed across the glass in red lipstick. He was five foot, ten inches tall: the X's appeared over his throat. Maggie's too small; the marks would appear over her head. But Victoria was just about the right height…

Bobby gasped. What should he do about this? Should he talk to the Police? He wasn't even sure where Victoria was or what had happened to her. He hadn't seen Maggie in almost a month. Butch was always the only person at the house. Butch was always alone.

Throwing the car back into gear, Bobby continued up the thin, twisting road. Something was wrong; something was terribly wrong. This time he was going to do it: he would call the Police or a Social Worker and find someone to come down and see what was going on.

As the vehicle roared towards Rutherford, Bobby clenched the steering wheel even tighter than before. In his mind's eye, he envisioned Victoria standing in front of the full-length mirror, dressed in an elegant blue evening gown; looking just as sensuous as he had ever seen her.

On the mirror, and superimposed over her face and long, silky red hair were large, red X's drawn in her own lipstick.

* * *

The Chameleon Club stood behind the Jones Estate and looked towards the house. All seemed to be quiet, but each of them knew this was not the case: the house had at least two occupants.

Scott had come to the test dressed completely in white: white shirt, pants, socks and shoes. He wore thin cotton white gloves on each hand.

"Jesus," whispered Esau in wonder, "You look like a worker in a Mental Ward…"

Maggie came around in front of Scott and pointed at him.

"This is your TEST. To join our club and become the leader, you must attempt the following task. We want you to break into the house; find the master bedroom and steal a leather-bound journal Mrs. Jones keeps in the room. As you can probably tell, this is more of a test of your courage and ingenuity than it is of your ability to sneak about and hide."

Scott was puzzled. "What do you need the journal for? I'm not crazy about stealing anything; that's not the right thing to do."

"Don't worry; we'll return it later” lied Maggie. "We don't know where the journal is; you'll have to search for it. Once you have it, bring it back here to us."

Scott nodded, took another long glance at the house. "All right. I'm ready."

The three children walked backwards towards Amanda Jone's garden and out of sight. "We'll wait for you here. If you're not back in an hour, we'll assume you failed."

Esau motioned to Scott with his thumb up. "Good Luck, Scottie." Scott nodded and dashed across the lawn towards the rear veranda.

Getting into this house won't be difficult, thought Scott as he reached the back porch and crouched down near some hedges. Getting in and out without getting caught would prove to be the tricky part.

Leaving the veranda, Scott circled west around the building; checking out the locations of windows, doors, and second-floor porches. The Western wing seemed to be deserted; the one window he peeked into was a bedroom that had all its furniture covered with sheets.

Entry here would be easy, but it wouldn't be wise to put myself so far away from the major sections of the building. The bedrooms were probably in the other wing, or on the third floor of the main building.

Circling around the front of the house, Scott checked the driveway and lawn to make sure they were empty, then scampered quickly across to the opposite side and hid behind a row of hedges. Now he had the building to his back and the hedges in front of him; unless he slipped up and made some noise, he was invisible.

Continuing his trek around the house, Scott came across a bulkhead leading into the cellar. There was a padlock on the handle, but it was unlocked and hanging loosely off of the door grip.

"Thank you, Jesus" mouthed Scott before leaving the hedges, opening the bulkhead, and climbing down into the darkness beyond.

Expecting to find a large cellar, Scott was surprised to find himself in a small fifteen by twenty-foot room. The electrical fuses were against the northern wall; Scott considered tripping the main circuit breaker but decided against it. Total loss of electricity would alert the residents, and he couldn't very well find the journal in darkness. He hadn't brought a flashlight with him.

Thin wooden stairs along the far wall led up to a door. Scott climbed these stairs and, after listening carefully for noise at the door, slipped through and into the main house.

Carefully closing the door, Scott found himself in a long hallway with several doors connected left and right. In front of him, with a suit coat draped over his left arm, was Mr. Jones.

The twin’s father stood facing in the opposite direction, thank God. Without a sound, he side-stepped into the first open door on the left and collapsed against the wall.

This must be the office, thought Scott as he quickly scanned the room. There was a desk that supported two computer terminals and a pile of papers and binders. Nearby were several bookcases and a glass display case that contained several golfing trophies. Along the south wall stood an old green couch; a colorful yellow and red afghan had been thrown carelessly across it.

"AMANDA!" bellowed Wally from the hallway, "Do you know where my keys are?"

"No, I don't" she screamed back at her husband from a distant portion of the house, "Why the Hell don't you carry them with you? Check in your study; they're probably lying around in there somewhere."

The bitter taste of terror swelled up with Scott. He was in the study. Where was he going to hide? From outside the door, He could hear Wally Jones head into the room.

* * *

Wally went into his study, swearing softly. "Arrogant woman" He muttered, "Can't rely on her for anything more than simple entertainment. Where are those fucking keys?"

Quickly slamming through the desk drawers, he found nothing. He lifted the desk blotter briefly, and then dropped it down in disgust. Normally, thought Wally, he kept them in his pocket: but this morning he was tired and hadn't been thinking straight. He had been spending too much time on the road.

Looking about the room, Wally spotted the couch. That's it. He had taken a nap earlier this morning: the keys must've fallen out of his pocket.

Walking over to the couch, Wally grabbed a corner of the afghan and lifted it from the couch. Nothing was there; no keys.

"Where the Hell could those blasted things be?"

Dropping to his left knee, Wally grunted as he leaned his head down towards the floor and looked underneath the couch.

The keys were on the floor. Grabbing them, Wally picked himself up and left the study.

* * *

A few seconds later, the afghan fell off of the couch. Scott pushed aside the couch cushions and carefully but silently extracted himself from the deep crack that could be found below the backing of the couch and above its foldaway mattress.

Scott stood next to the couch and replaced the cushions and the afghan. The couch had turned out to be a foldaway bed; there had been ample space to allow him to squeeze his tiny frame below the cushions and out of sight. The afghan had quite nicely served to cover up the remaining visible portions of his hip and leg.

Scott heard a car pull out of the driveway as he tiptoed through the hallway towards the main lobby. Mr. Jones leaving for the office, he figured. The bedrooms were probably in the main building, not the west wing. He had to find a way upstairs.

Carefully peeking around the corner of the hall, Scott spotted Amanda Jones sitting in one of the two plush guest chairs that sat against opposite walls of the lobby. She was sipping on a glass of iced tea and reading a magazine.

She wasn't facing in his direction, but if he made any noise, all she had to do was lift her head and turn to see him. Looking about the lobby, Scott found a stairway that led up to the second floor. It was on the opposite side of the lobby. Above him, a railed balcony connected to the top of the stairs. The bottom rung of the railing was about twelve feet above him.

Scott was certain he wasn't going to get away with sneaking over to the stairway. He'd have to take the direct route; the shortest distance between two points. Pulling a white hood over his head, Scott carefully stepped onto the shelf of a bookcase and began to climb the wall. If he could get his foot on top, he could grab the railing; then monkey his way over the balcony.

Once on top, Scott braced his palms against the wall and planted his foot to the left of a vase filled with roses. Counting silently to three, he jumped up and grabbed the bottom of the railing with his hand.

The vase of roses teetered. Scott's heart completely stopped beating as Amanda Jones noticed the noise, looked up from her magazine and stared absently back in his direction.

Twisting his position slightly, Scott tried to keep the white tops of his shoes forward and the black soles against the wall. Holding his breath, Scott saw Amanda look up towards the bookcase, frown, and then turn back to her magazine.

Carefully, Scott pulled himself up the railing and crawled over the edge and onto the balcony. He was sweating profusely and had to force himself not to gasp. It was a miracle the lady hadn't seen him.

Crouching down, he stole across the balcony and towards the west wing. A flashing form dressed in white startled him briefly as he reached the opposite side; he gasped and turned to find himself staring at his own reflection in a mirror attached to a door.

That must be the bathroom, thought Scott. At least five other doors opened up off the hallway; Scott looked about for a rug, foot trail, or anything that would indicate which one was the Master Bedroom. One of the doors he quickly eliminated; it had a large yellow and black Radiation sign that read, Unauthorized Personnel Denied Access'.

Esau's room.

Checking each of the doors, Scott found that the third door on the left contained a huge, canopied bed draped in pink silk and completely cut off from the doorway by a thin curtain of some white transparent material.

This must be the place. He slipped into the room and closing the door behind him. Moving past the curtain, Scott approached the canopied bed. On a circular white table, alongside an ornate white porcelain lamp, were three leather-bound legal notebooks.

The sound of a cat from his right side startled the boy. Spinning around, Scott stared deep into the midnight eyes of a huge Siamese cat curled in the corner. The cat stared back at him, and then meowed a second time, then a third.

"Nice Kitty," whispered Scott in a panic. "Good Kitty: Shut the Hell up, Kitty."

The cat got up off the floor and began to pad towards him. The sound of Amanda Jone's voice rang out from the balcony.

"Arsenic? Is everything all right? Are you hungry, my pet?"

Scott, in desperation, dove into the bed and buried himself beneath the covers. Good thing she didn't bother to make her bed this morning; she may not question its rumpled appearance.

The door opened as Scott, hidden under the covers, prayed Amanda wouldn't decide to make the bed while he was still in it.

"Arsenic?" cooed Amanda as she walked in the room. Underneath the covers, Scott breathed slowly. He could hear Mrs. Jones; he could even smell her perfume but could not see her.

"Arsenic, what is the matter with you? Why are you so upset suddenly?"

For the second time in the last fifteen minutes, Scott felt his heart stop. Something, hopefully the cat, had just jumped up onto the bed and had nestled itself into the hollow of his blanket covered thigh.

"Come along, Arsenic:" said Amanda Jones as she plucked the cat off of the bedspread. "Mommy will feed you now” she said as she left the room.

Beneath the covers, Scott breathed a sigh of relief and cried silent tears. The Test had suddenly become too dangerous; Time to get out before he died of fright.

Climbing out of the bed, Scott grabbed the three leather-bound journals and dashed out onto a connecting balcony in the north wall. The door to the bedroom, beyond the thin white curtain, had been left partially open when Amanda left the room with the cat.

No time to check these out, thought Scott in a panic as he stuffed the three journals down his pants, or to exit the building gracefully, for that matter. Spotting an electrical conduit running down the north wall, Scott vaulted himself over the railing, grabbed the pipe with his right hand, and slid down the side of the building and fell in a heap behind the hedges.

After waiting a few seconds to make sure his hasty exit hadn't been noticed, Scott ran along the edge of the hedges, broke into the sunlight and exposed air of the back yard, and ran like the wind towards the safety of the garden.

* * *

Esau, watching the house with binoculars, gasped as Scott jumped off the balcony. "Maggie, that had to be the smoothest, cleanest, most amazing getaway I've ever seen in my life” He crowed, "Lucky the stupid bastard didn't fall and break his damn neck."

Handing the binoculars to the girl, Esau said "Here he comes. But he doesn't seem to have the journal with him."

Scott crashed breathlessly into the garden clearing and dropped in a heap at Maggie's feet. His face was a ghastly shade of gray.

"Way Cool, Man" cried Jacob; patting Scott's sweaty back in reward.

"Do you have the journal?" asked Maggie.

Scott, breathing heavily, looked up weakly towards Esau. "Your Mom has a cat named 'ARSENIC'?"

Esau smiled and nodded. "Sort of appropriate, don't you think? Sounds like that damn cat almost killed YOU, huh?"

Maggie slapped Esau across the back of his head. "I said, do you have the damn journal?"

Scott nodded, then sat up on the grass and gasped for air. "They’re… They're in my pants” he wheezed. Pulling out the journals, he handed them to Maggie. "I'm not sure what they are. I didn't have time to check them out: Esau's Mother walked in on me."

Esau shook his hand furiously. "Congrats, Man: Congrats. You know; we've tried that little stunt three times in the past and failed each time; you're the first person to actually pull it off."

Scott stared at Esau, then Maggie. "I'm the FIRST? You've failed three times?"

Maggie turned away from the boy and folded her hands together. "I didn't say you had to succeed at the test; you just had to do it."

Rising shakily to his feet, Scott put a hand on Maggie's shoulder. "Well, that does it, then. I'm in. I'm the President of The Chameleon Club. Any objections?"

"Nope” said Jacob, with obvious pride.

"Not a one" added Esau with a smile, taking the three journals from Maggie and examining them.

Maggie said nothing. Her face furrowed; her eyes burned with undisguised rage. She stormed off into the woods that lined the back of the Jones Estate. Scott stared after her.

"What in God's name do I have to do to please that girl?"

"Listen" said Esau, "You've got to give the girl some room, okay? She's been having a rough time of it, lately."

"Tell me about it"

"Well, the reason we formed the club, the Secret Club Number Three, was because of Maggie and the problems she has been having with her Mother. Seems like Mrs. Thompson used to be a real sweet, kind lady…" said Esau.

"She gave us cookies" chimed in Jacob as he took the journals from his brother and began to flip through the pages.

"Then, for some unknown reason," continued Esau, "she's become mean and ornery lately. Maggie says she won't do the chores anymore, that her Mom and her Dad are fighting a lot, and that her Mom has started to bitch slap her around. Most days, Maggie doesn't even go home: she sleeps in the clubhouse."

Good Lord and I thought me and Dad had problems, thought Scott. "What can we do to help her?"

"Help her find out what's happening with her Mom. And, keep her a part of the club; even if you're the new President. She knows a lot about life around here, she can be really useful."

Scott nodded. "Guys, let's catch up to her. I can make her my First Lieutenant, or something: make her feel like she's still wanted. Then, we'll talk about her Mom; try and think of a plan."

Esau agreed, but Jacob held back. "You guys go on ahead; I'll catch up with you later. I want to see what Mom has written in this thing."

"Okay, we'll meet you up in the woods around suppertime". Jacob nodded absentmindedly and flipped open one of the journals.

* * *

Boring, thought Jacob, after looking at a few pages. This one is full of numbers and dollar signs, but no words. Throwing that journal over his shoulder, Jacob opened a second notebook. This one was a lot more interesting: it had words in it, and dates, too.

Jacob read one of the entries aloud:

Tuesday: June 7, 1994

It was unbelievable and fantastic.

How do I begin? It was past dinnertime when I finally managed to get away from Wally and sneak over to Representative Donaldson's house. He certainly didn't waste any time; he brought me upstairs, lifted my skirt, and mounted my black bottom right on top of the balustrade…

"What's a 'Balustrade'?" wondered Jacob.

Clutching my bare ass in his strong hands, he plunged his…

Jacob's eyes grew wide. His mom was using DIRTY WORDS.

… into me and tore me apart thirty feet above the floor below. I screamed; I cried; it became a part of me. It was absolutely Heaven, I tell you: if only Wally could learn to fuck like that, we probably wouldn't fight so much, and I would spend a HELL of a lot more time at home.

With every pull and every pump, there was the ever-present threat of Donaldson dropping me down to the hard-tiled floor below. I'm not sure what was more exciting: the feel of him in me, the…

'O - R - G - A - S - M' spelled Jacob; unable to pronounce the strange word.

… that threatened to eat me alive from the inside out, the knowledge that I was jamming this gorgeous hunk of a man right under Wally's nose and he was none the wiser, or the threat of death if this man shot his wad and dropped me thirty feet to my death during the excitement…

He could read no more. Jacob slammed the journal shut, scooped up the other two notebooks from the ground, and ran headlong into the woods after Scott and his brother.

"ESAU!" he screamed, "ESAU! YOU'VE GOT TO SEE WHAT'S IN THESE BOOKS!"

Five

Steven Langford was weeding his new garden when Carina's pickup roared into the driveway. Rising to his knees, the Reverend watched the girl climb out of her truck and walk in his direction; her right hand shielding her eyes from the bright sun.

"Hello" she said simply.

"Good afternoon, Miss Carlson” replied the Reverend, rising to his feet and wiping his soiled hands against his trousers. "What brings you back out to the homestead, today? We only talked a couple of days ago: I didn't think I'd see you again until Sunday."

"Oh, it’s nothing really important. I was just feeling kind of down. I remember how good you made me feel about things Wednesday and thought maybe we could pick up where we left off."

Steven wiped the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief and examined the furrows. Once free of weeds, he was hoping to plant a few rows of tomatoes, carrots and broccoli. It was already late in the season, and he wasn't even sure if they would come up properly.

"You should have called, Miss Carlson” said Steven softly as he reached over to the garden and plucked out a few stones, "Our sessions should be scheduled; for the record."

Carina sighed. "I'm sorry; I'm being a jerk. I shouldn't have come." She started back towards her truck, but Steven stopped her.

"Don't be silly. I don't mind the company; if you don't mind standing out here in the hot sun while I work in my garden. Besides: my son Scott isn't home; we can't go inside."

"Why not?"

Steven laughed; plucked a few more stones from the second furrow. "It's important for me to avoid all appearance of impropriety; even when none is intended, and none is assumed." Looking up at Carina, he shielded his own eyes and squinted.

"That's sound, good advice for everyone, Miss Carlson: Not just for simple Ministers of the Gospel."

Carina rolled her eyes, folded her hands across her waist. "Could you please stop calling me 'Miss Carlson'?"

"That is your name, isn't it?"

"No” said Carina, a little more crossly than she had intended, "My name is Carina."

Steven smiled and dug his hands deep into the rich soil. "Okay, Carina. And since we're on a first name basis, you can call me Steven whenever we're not in Church."

Carina relaxed and smiled. "What should I call you in Church?" she asked coyly.

"Reverend. Reverend Langford, of course. Carina, could you get the weasel for me?"

"Weasel?" asked Carina curiously. "Your son has a lizard…"

"No, that Hand Tiller over there on the lawn. The funny looking thing with a green handle and three star-shaped wheels attached to it."

Carina fetched the device, brought it over to the garden where Steven was working, and sat down cross-legged on the lawn beside him. Steven noticed she was wearing shorts. He also noticed that she had smooth, healthy, good looking thighs.

"Tell me what's ailing you, Carina” said Steven quickly, turning back to his work.

"Just more of the same, I guess. We were talking the other day about establishing new relationships; about not being afraid of History repeating itself. You had cautioned me not to confuse a relationship with a sexual relationship."

"Correct; that's very important. I can't stress enough the fact that a romantic relationship has to develop from a normal relationship; not the other way around."

"Anything less is fornication" quipped Carina with a smile.

Steven nodded his head. "Or, at least the beginning of it."

"All right. So, how do I go about this? What should I do to meet other people? My trust in other people has been pretty well ripped apart lately; thanks to my former best friend."

Steven sat up and looked at the woman. "Well, Carina. Didn't we go over some of this same ground the other day? Tell me how you've been trying to apply what I recommended. Tell me also about what you think about yourself. What does Carina think about Carina?"

"I think I'm afraid. Yes, I know what you said: Involve yourself in other people's lives, don't wait for them to involve themselves in yours. Keep a positive self-image and pray about the situation. Ask God to open doors and show me ways I could become more active with community and family…"

"And?"

"I guess it's been too soon” said Carina. "Like I said, I'm afraid: afraid of making a mistake, afraid of moving too fast; afraid of a lot of things. I've been trying to involve myself with…"

"Involve yourself with?" prompted Steven.

"With other people's lives. I've been friendly, outgoing. I haven't been hiding in my apartment and I haven't thrown myself at anybody. At least not yet."

"Okay, that's good for a start. Give me some specifics."

Carina almost jumped out of her skin. "What?"

"Give me some specifics. Tell me about your latest attempt to meet another person. What was that person's initial reaction to you? Do you think you might become friends?"

Carina fell silent. Steven turned towards her; she was biting her lip. She was, as she had said earlier, afraid.

"Well?" he asked a second time.

Carina suddenly rose to her feet and began to slowly pace up and down the length of the garden. "Oh, God” she whispered, a panicked look in her eyes.

"Carina," said the Reverend a little crossly, "Sit back down and let's talk. I don't have all day; if you came over to continue our discussion, then you should have the fortitude and desire to get on with it and stop trying to avoid the problem. I'm here to help you; not dish out sympathy."

Carina was looking a little pale. The Reverend wondered if she was ill; maybe she had stood out too long in the sun.

"You don't even have to use anybody's name; just tell me about how you've been trying to meet people."

"Oh, dear God:" said Carina softly, "I've really screwed things up, this time." A small tear slid down her left cheek and fell from her chin. "I never was very good at this."

"Carina?" said Steven, becoming worried by the girl's strange behavior. "Are you all right? Why are you here?"

Twisting a lock of her black hair between her fingers, Carina seemed ready to say something in reply, but thought better of it. Slowly she began to back away from the garden.

"What's going on here? Why did you come?"

Carina's face turned beet red; even in the bright sunlight Steven could see he had somehow managed to embarrass the woman. She fled the yard.

"Carina!" shouted Steven, getting up out of the garden and going after her. By the time he had reached the driveway, she had started up the truck, thrown it into gear and backed out of the driveway onto Paugasaget Road.

Standing in the middle of the road and covered with dirt; confused by Carina's strange reaction to his questions, Steven Langford watched her drive up the road and back towards Rutherford.

* * *

"My diary is missing; I think one of the boys have taken it" snapped Amanda.

Wally Jones sighed, folded his newspaper carefully and laid it on the couch beside him. "How do you know they took it? Maybe you just misplaced it. Where did you keep the silly thing?"

Amanda's mouth fell open in shock. "SILLY THING? Damn you, Wally: that book is not a 'silly thing', as you call it. There are some very personal bits of information about the both of us in there: neither one of us wants that to become public."

There were also two of Wally's financial ledgers missing along with the diary, thought Amanda, but Wally didn't know she had those. Better let that sleeping dog lie for a while.

"Fine. You're right” replied Wally, "If a personal journal is missing, then I'm very concerned. Have you spoken to the boys about it?"

"Yes; this morning."

Wally frowned and clicked off the television set with the remote control. "And, what did they have to say about the matter?"

"They wanted to know what a 'Journal' was."

"See?" exclaimed Wally with a wave of his hand, "They don't even know what the stupid thing is. How could they have taken it? They've got plenty enough money to go down to Rutherford and buy their own journals."

"They're lying. They looked like the proverbial cat that ate the canary. They looked like you did after signing that building contract with the Rutherford Town Council last April."

"I'm sorry, dear” said Wally, shaking his head sadly, "I just can't believe our children could be capable of such an action. They're such good boys…"

"Oh, come off it" scolded Amanda as she left the living room and walked towards the glass door that led to the rear veranda, "You know as well as I do how manipulative and conniving those two boys can be. They've had a great teacher: you. Damn, those children can be such a pain and a bother sometimes."

Wally followed her into the kitchen. "You're right, of course. But, there is another possible explanation. Maybe it wasn't the boys who took your journal, but that little red-haired bitch they run with. Maggie Thompson. Boy, how I hate that little snot."

Amanda considered the possibility. "Yes, that could be the case. After all, didn't we catch her two months ago sneaking into the house and rifling through the files in your study?"

Wally snorted. "Hell, we've caught the two boys doing that, as well. It seems to me like we've got a real dilemma on our hands here. Who do we talk to about this first? I'll lay even money it was the girl who took it."

Amanda poured a glass of iced water from the refrigerator. "But how do we tell? How can we know for sure? Should we ask the boys?"

Wally shook his head. "No, that would only tip her off. If she or the boys did in fact take your journal, I want to be able to nail them red-handed in the act. Why don't I get in touch with Benjamin Thompson, her Father? I'm sure if I tell him what's going on; he'll help us. Maybe we can search her room."

"Fine by me" said Amanda. She took a slow sip from her drink, licking the condensation from the glass with her tongue. "But we can't ignore the boys' part in this, Walter. Frankly, I'm worried about them. They've been behaving strangely lately; even more so now that we've fired Miss Hempkins."

"We didn't fire that old bat, Amanda: She quit."

"Yes, so she did. However, that still doesn't address the problem: We have two kids who are confused, bewildered, and possibly involved in some serious and maybe illegal activities. What should we do?"

Wally rose from the couch and walked over to his wife's side. Looking deep in her eyes, he placed his right arm around her shoulder and hugged her close.

"My dear: we're going to have to do the right thing."

"The same thing any other typical American parents would do under similar circumstances?"

Wally nodded; a look of concern and strength in his face.

"Yes, I'm afraid so. It's time to call a psychiatrist."

"Oh, dear” answered Amanda with a fearful look, "This parenting stuff can be so difficult…"

* * *

For the first time in a month, Benjamin Thompson was sober. He was still unemployed, but he was sober.

His feet were tired. He had walked all the way from the center of Rutherford up old Route 7-A, and down Paugasaget Road; about six miles. Even now, with the afternoon sun dipping in the sky, he had another mile to go before he reached home.

He had spent the better part of the afternoon at the Continental Paper Box Company. The local circular had advertisements indicating the Company was looking for maintenance people for immediate occupations; Butch had stopped drinking late yesterday evening long enough to read the ad, remember his brother's strong advice, and take action in the morning. He had been so serious about the opportunity that he had even stripped off the tee-shirt he had been wearing for two solid weeks and put on a clean, cotton collar shirt for the appointment. If he could have found a bar of soap, he would have even bathed for the occasion.

The interview had gone well. The personnel department employee that questioned him was a young kid (with freckles, no less) named Edward Dennison, according to the plaque on his desk. None of the standard questions really surprised Benjamin. He may indeed drink too much, but he still could manage his job; he still knew all there was to know about boiler, cooling, factory, and industrial maintenance.

Not until forty minutes in the interview, when Mr. Dennison pulled out his work records from the Rutherford School system, did Benjamin know for sure that he had missed out on yet another great opportunity. You could see Dennison's eyebrows rise as he slowly scanned the file.

Butch had never actually seen the file himself, but he could guess from his own knowledge what it said: Absenteeism, drunkenness on the job, warnings for misappropriations of School materials, etcetera, and so on.

"Damn it" muttered Butch, "I wish I still had that job. The hours were good, the pay was decent. I could set my own schedule; be my own boss, and the kids: The kids…"

Butch couldn't even bring himself to think about the circumstances of his eventual firing; he had long ago managed to block it out from his conscious mind by his drinking, months of isolation, and self-abuse. All he knew now was that it had finally been the Rutherford Town Council, led by a good old boy named Harold Jenkins, who had done him in.

The Council had never even bothered to give him the benefit of a hearing. "Look at it this way," Jenkins had said, his face split wide with a garish smile, "Least this way you don't have to go to jail; you skinny little prick-bastard."

"Boy, how I would love to knock that pimply little imp on the floor and pour an industrial-sized bottle of Drain Cleaner down his throat” said Butch; the rage building inside of him, "That would clean out his pipes, real proper."

Come to think of it, thought Butch as he headed off the road and into the hollow that contained the Thompson residence, he wouldn't mind cleaning Mr. Dennison's clock, as well: especially if he didn’t call with a job offer.

“‘we will call you sometime tomorrow'", mimicked Butch in a falsetto voice, "Fucking PANSY!" How in God's name did that wet-brained jerk become a manager of a whole damn factory department? Sometimes, thought Butch madly, there was just no justice in this world.

"No justice unless I provide it" he said. "First you, Dennison: right in front of your wife and kids. Then, I'll go look up Mr. Jenkins for good measure: shove his head right up the ass of one of those jersey cows he keeps on his farm."

Spotting his house up the path to the left, Butch crossed into the back field and headed for the front door. He didn't have to leave Paugasaget Road to reach the dwelling, but his habit over the last year had always been to approach the building from the back woods.

"Then, you Bobby Ole Boy" muttered Butch, "You'll be the last to die. This whole stupid fucking job search was your idea. You knew it would fail from the start, didn't you? Fat bastard. You only suggested it to humiliate me."

Victoria was waiting for him in the side yard. Butch whistled under his breath: His wife was wearing a short halter-top and knee-high shorts. Her beautiful red hair was tied back with a large, pink ribbon and a clip. She was stunning.

"Hello, Benji" she said, trotting over to his side. Her eyes fell as she studied her husband's countenance.

"You didn't get the job, did you?" she asked with concern.

"No, babe" he replied sadly, "I don't think I did. I'll find out for sure tomorrow afternoon when the factory calls."

"I'm sorry, Benji" his wife said, planting a soft kiss on his cheek. "Go on inside and fix yourself a drink: I'll clean up out here and then come in after you. Maybe we can watch a movie together on television; that will cheer you up."

Butch nodded glumly and continued towards the house. Victoria disappeared behind him.

Reaching the front door of the house, Butch noticed a note tacked to the door. He recognized Maggie's handwriting:

Dad:

I borrowed some of your saws from the back shed. I will return them when finished. Also, I helped myself to a sandwich.

Maggie.

P.S: The kitchen was so damn dirty, I took about twenty minutes of my time and cleaned up after you. Not doing you any favors: you owe me three bucks for the privilege.

Maggie? Benjamin ignored the dry parched taste in his throat for the moment. Damn, he was sorry he had missed her. The girl hadn't been home in a week. Bobby may be a shit and a weasel, but he was right about Maggie. He had to get that girl home proper and start keeping her out of the woods.

Entering the house, Butch headed for the cupboard and a special date with a dear friend named 'Jack Daniels'.

* * *

Maggie climbed over the last ridge; through the line of pine trees that bordered Paugasaget Road and found Scott and the twins digging a hole.

Scott looked up from the clay pit he was working in and smiled at Maggie. "Well?" he asked, "What do you think so far?"

Maggie dropped the hammers and nails she had brought from home on the ground and frowned. "This" she asked, "is our new clubhouse?"

"Not yet" answered Jacob, who was busy with a small sledge pounding thin, long boards down the sides of the hole, "But it will be. Give us another couple of hours."

"Maggie," screamed Esau, who was hammering two-by-fours across the wall supports that Jacob was positioning in the clay, "This is going to be fantastic. We've only been at this for about three hours: it will be finished and covered before the sun goes down."

Scott laughed and, using the roots of an old rotted tree that stood to one side of the pit, climbed out and came over towards his First Lieutenant.

"Look at what we've accomplished, Maggie” he said with pride. "See, the trick is to use existing terrain and materials. We didn't have to dig this pit: it was formed by the former owner of the Church Parsonage property. He used to dig up this clay and sell it to lumber companies. All we're doing is driving wall support boards into the clay on the bottom. Esau is fastening simple braces across these boards; to help keep them in place. As each of the four walls is completed; we'll build some simple triangular braces out of the remaining two-by-fours to support each of the four corners. Finally, we'll throw several of these long half-inch flats across the top for a roof."

Maggie scowled. "What? No Grass squares?" she asked, remembering Scott's description of his last cavern.

Scott snickered. "You're kidding, right? We're in the woods: we don't need them. All we must do is cover the whole thing up with pine needles and old leaves. Instant Invisible Roof."

Maggie nodded slowly and considered what the boys had done. She had to admit to herself that the whole project was quick, efficient, and amazingly easy to do. It sure beat the Hell out of crawling through the king thorns to get into their current Clubhouse.

And that thought reminded her of something. "How are we going to get in and out of this cave you're building?"

"We could just rig a ladder and trapdoor: that would be the easiest solution. But I have a better idea; one that will take a bit more work. See that rotted old tree over there?" he said, pointing to the dead oak standing above the pit. "I want to carve out the interior of that tree and use it to hide our trapdoor and ladder. The wood inside is quite soft; we can pull most of it out by hand. Underneath; we'll fasten a ladder or series of wooden slates to the wall supports. We can hide the topside door by cutting out a section of the tree's bark and hinging it from the inside with these…" Scott paused to open his hand and show Maggie five or six brass hinges.

"Won't that tree be dangerous? You said it's rotted out; and you're going to cut out it's inside to boot."

Scott shook his head. "No, its roots are still firmly planted; and most of its weight is supported on the opposite side of the ridge. It's not directly overhead the pit. It should work out fine."

Maggie remained silent and watched the two twins work on the wall supports. This was incredible, she realized. If they could pull off stunts like this in just a few hours, just think of what they could do over an entire summer.

"Maggie," continued Scott, "we can use some old crates and boards for furniture inside. It's the outside that really matters; not what we put inside. If you're ambitious, you could easily wet down the clay in the pit; add some bags of builder's concrete from the Jones Store, and fashion your own tables and chairs right out of the floor and wall material. We certainly have the money, don't we?"

Maggie nodded. "We've only spent about sixty bucks of Esau's spending money so far…"

Scott placed his right arm around her shoulder and waved his hand towards the pit. "So, what’s next? Where do we go from here?"

Maggie looked at him, surprised. "You're asking me? You're the damn President of The Chameleon Club."

Becoming serious, Scott faced the girl. "Look, Maggie. I know you and I have had our difficulties the past few days. It probably hasn't been easy for you; watching me move in on your operation like this. But consider this: I know how to hide; I know how to build things, but these boys still love and respect you. You're still the one with the plan; the one who can think up the ideas. That's why I insisted you be my First Lieutenant: I need your ideas. I wasn't trying to be nice to you."

Maggie turned away and dabbed her eyes. She was crying and didn't want Scott to know.

"Let's meet with the twins and discuss that, okay?" she asked in a broken voice.

"All right. Hey, boys: Take a break; Maggie wants to meet."

"No" shouted Maggie. "Not up here." Pointing towards the pit, she said "Down there, in our new Clubhouse."

Five minutes later, the children were huddled in the center of the pit; sitting on boards Esau had laid down on the clay. Scott opened the meeting.

"The second meeting of The Chameleon Club will now come to order" he said. The two twins cheered at the announcement; and even Maggie allowed herself a slight smile.

"My first action as President," continued Scott, "will be to insist on one thing: I want to see direction for this Club. I'm not here just to build caves and cover myself up with camouflage paint - I want to see us actually do something; accomplish something useful."

Maggie cleared her throat. "I guess then that it's about time I tell you why the original club was formed…"

Esau yawned; stretched his arms towards the sky. "We've already told him, Maggie. Scott knows all about your Mom going crazy on you."

Maggie glared at the boy, and then continued. "Why the original club was formed, and how I've been LYING to Esau and Jacob all of this time."

Jacob gasped at the news, Esau's mouth dropped open as he stared at their former leader. "You've been lying?" he asked accusingly.

Maggie nodded. "Sort of. My Mom hasn't become mean and hateful like I said. I just said that so no one would ask me why my clothes were dirty; why my hair was never clean, and stuff like that. I didn't want anyone to know I was scrounging around for my own food and stuff."

"Just what IS going on, Maggie?" asked Scott.

Without warning, Maggie broke down into tears. Jacob immediately dashed to her side and cradled the girl in his arms. Scott placed his hand on her shoulder.

"Well?" asked Esau impatiently.

"My Mother is missing" cried Maggie; her eyes now as red as her hair. "She just stopped being around. I haven't seen her in about three months, and my Father just keeps saying that they've had a fight and Mom went to visit relatives."

"You don't believe him?" asked Esau.

"No" roared Maggie. "Would you?"

Esau fell silent.

"Why can't you just ask your Father again; more direct?" asked Scott.

"He's a drunk; he'd hit me."

"Have you thought about calling the Police, or telling a teacher?"

Maggie shook her head.

"Same thing: He'd hit me. Worse yet; the Police would throw me into some Foster Home and I'd never see my Mom again."

The four children sat quietly for several minutes; saying nothing and allowing the impact of what Maggie had told them to settle completely into their systems. Jacob never once took his arms off of Maggie; Esau looked at the girl with sympathy but made no move to talk or comfort her.

Scott was shocked beyond belief. The parallel to his Father's situation was uncanny. Maggie was mourning the loss of her Mom; Dad was mourning the loss of his Wife, Scott was mourning the loss of his Mom. Surely God was playing a heavy hand in his part of this. There was no other explanation for his presence here. He had to get back home and talk to his Dad about this, as soon as possible.

Finally, Maggie spoke again. "There's more, I think. Have any of you heard about Elizabeth Edricks?"

"Who?"

Esau's head shot up at the mention of the name. "That's the girl they found murdered in the woods. They found her body on Dad's property, Jake: but they think she was killed somewhere else."

"I think her death might have been done by the same person who made my Mother go away” said Maggie. "The girl who died had bright red hair, like my Mom's. And she was wearing a pink ribbon; just like my Mom used to wear."

"Wow” said Jacob in undisguised awe, "This is turning out just like a ‘tective show on TV…"

Scott, watching Maggie carefully now, saw her fingers twitching nervously at her side. After Jacob's exclamation, he had seen her bite her lower lip. She may be telling the truth about her Mom's disappearance, and there may be some connection to the girl, but Maggie was lying to them; or at the very least, knew something she wasn't telling them.

"Maggie:" he asked her, "We're just kids. What do you think we can do?"

Maggie turned towards him and wiped one last tear from her eye. "We can watch, Scott. We can use all this stuff and all our hiding and all your building tricks to watch."

"Watch who?"

Esau stood up in the pit, walked over to Scott, and slapped him across the back of the head; as Maggie had so often done to him. "The adults, you idiot. If anything funky is going down here, who the Hell do you think is behind it: Kids? It's the adults we should be watching."

"These people are your relatives."

Jacob spoke. "Yea, but we didn't know our own Mom was flicking Mr. Donaldson..."

"FUCKING, Jacob. The word is 'fucking'" corrected Esau.

"Okay: We didn't know our Mom was fucking that politician until you grabbed her journal yesterday. I bet there's a whole bunch of things going on with the adults we don't know about. Maybe some of them might tell us what happened to Mrs. Thompson."

"True enough" agreed Esau. "And, once we find out what's going on for real; we can call the MAN. We'll give Mr. Rayford a shout and let him clean up the mess for us."

"Maggie" asked Scott, "if the person who killed this kid is the same one who caused your Mom to disappear, do you think…"

"That my Mom is dead?" finished Maggie, with a hard look in her eye. "No, I don't think so. At least, I hope not. There would have been a funeral or something if she was dead. No, I think she's somewhere else. See, all the electricity and stuff is still on in the house, and Dad still has money for his booze. He isn’t working or nothing; I think he's getting the money from Mom."

Maggie sighed and sat back against one of the wall supports of the pit. "That's what I think we should do with The Chameleon Club. Anyone disagree?"

No one disagreed; not even Scott.

"Okay” said Maggie. "What do we need, Mr. President?"

Scott thought carefully about his answer. It was a question he had spent several hours considering since his escape from the Jones Estate.

"First of all, we need to improve our hiding methods. Let's use some of that money Maggie has and get some camouflage paint and clothes down at the Army Surplus store in town. Throw away those stupid green blankets. Better yet: Let's get some thread and some of those grass patches I was telling you about; we can buy those down at the Cooperative Store in Rutherford. Stitch the grass squares to the blankets, and now you've got something worth hiding under, at least when you're on a lawn."

"Agreed” said Maggie. Esau whipped out a small pad and began to take furious notes.

"Esau, can you get us some old newspaper and spray paint? Maybe some black and gray, for starters?" asked Scott with excitement. Esau nodded.

"I want to show you two boys how to make good old-fashioned papier-mâché. With the paint, we can create some pretty nifty fake boulders and stuff; use them to cover any pits and traps we may set up around the woods. Anyone close to one can tell it is fake but from a distance you won't be able to tell."

"Wow" said Jacob excitedly, "Special effects. Just like in the movies."

"Next; we need to set up several more hiding places around Paugasaget Road; sort of like 'Safe Spots'. Some of them we can build; others can be just special places or buildings that already exist."

"Oh" exclaimed Jacob. "I know one: there's this old well that's buried in the tall grass out behind my house; that would be perfect. Its way back from the house, and my parents never, ever go out there. It even has a wooden floor about eleventy feet down we can stand on."

Scott nodded. "That's the right idea. However, we don't want to run around calling these places by their real names, and we don't want to put up any SIGNS telling people where they are" he said, looking long and hard at little Jacob.

Jacob, now completely in the spirit of what the group was planning, raised his hand and jumped to his feet. "Can I name my well?"

"Can we just number the spots?" asked Esau with a frown.

"No, too hard to remember” replied Maggie. "Let's name them after states, like 'Connecticut'".

Scott agreed. "That's a great idea. And use state names that are meaningful, like 'Colorado' for a place that's in the Hills, or 'Washington' for someplace in the woods."

Jacob, still furiously waving his hand in the air, spoke again. "I want to name my well 'TRANSLYVANIA'."

The children laughed. "That's not a state, Jacob” said Esau. "You must mean 'PENNSYLVANIA'."

Jacob smiled brightly and sat down. "Yea, that's right: Pennsylvania. That's the name of my well: Pennsylvania."

"We're going to need some more lumber and tools" said Scott, "and soon. Esau, can you and Jacob handle the lumber? Maggie, you and I can gather the tools; either from our families or from the store."

Again, there were no objections to Scott's suggestions. The children sat for about another hour hashing out specific sources for their materials and trying to think of other safe spots and possible names they could assign to them.

Finally, Scott rose to his feet. "This meeting is over, guys. I've got to get home and do my chores before dark. We'll meet back here tomorrow, finish up the clubhouse, and try to figure out what our plan of action will be. We should probably pick one family to spy on first."

Maggie stood up. "No need to decide; we already know which family should be first."

"Who?"

"Mine” replied Maggie. "Let's find out what my Father knows about my Mom's disappearance."

* * *

The phone rang four times. Five, then Six times.

Wally Jones grunted in frustration, slapped the disconnect button of the wireless telephone, and dropped it on the patio table. His wife stood on the far side of the veranda that overlooked the back yard and pruned the flowers she had planted along the railing.

"Can't get a hold of him?" she asked. "I didn't think you would be able to. You may have to swallow your pride and pay him a visit at his home." Stupid fat bastard thought Amanda as she gazed back at her husband. I know where to find Mr. Benjamin Thompson. He's probably down at the Peterson Cafe, hustling drinks.

"I've done that” snapped Wally angrily, "I've been there twice already. I even went in to his house once; the door was left wide open. I almost choked from the fumes."

Amanda dropped her clippers on the railing and took a seat at the patio table next to her husband. "Then call him again later on, sometime after the package stores close."

Wally shook his head and gazed over towards the west wing of the house. "No, I've called him five times: no answer each time. Short of sitting outside his house with a damn rifle, I have no idea how we're going to get hold of the bum."

Amanda sighed, brushed back a lock of her black hair. The air was unbearably hot today, she thought tiredly. Maybe I should just leave Walter raving on the back porch, change into my swimsuit, and take a dip in the pool to cool off.

"Let's talk to the children again, Walter. I'm sure they're involved somehow."

Wally laughed sarcastically. "Assuming, of course, that we can find them. I don't know about you, but I haven't seen them in two days."

"I talked to them yesterday morning about this very affair."

"Fine, so talk to them again” he snapped. "Frankly, I'm still having a little difficulty believing they're involved. Those boys are simple boys; I don't think they even know what larceny is."

Amanda looked towards her husband and cast him a wicked smile. "Course they do, dear. They learned it from you."

"Stop being such a snide little ass, Amanda: They don't know anything about my fucking business affairs."

Puckering her lips, Amanda looked out towards the back garden and began to long for the cool, clear waters of the pool. "They do now, Walter: They took the two financial ledgers when they stole my diary."

"WHAT?" screamed Walter, jumping to his feet and hitting his head on the patio table umbrella, "HOW DID THEY GET THEIR HANDS ON THOSE?"

"I was looking them over in my bedroom; left them on top of the nightstand with my diary. All three books are missing. I wouldn't lose any sleep over it, dear: they won't be able to make sense of any of the numbers."

"Great" fumed Walter, walking over to the west railing and slapping the concrete with the flat of his hand. "I sure as Hell won't be too happy if those other two accounts become public."

Amanda nodded. "That's why I believe our boys are involved: Little Miss Maggie wouldn't know what she was taking without their assistance; wouldn't even know the value of the books. The boys must have been coaching her. They don't know what the books will tell, but they know that we know."

"Damn!" shouted Wally. Leaving the railing, he headed back into the house. "Where do you suppose we could find the boys, Amanda?" he asked his wife. "It's high time we got to the bottom of this, before we both end up in Jail. Those books will sink us."

Shrugging her shoulders, Amanda reached into her purse for her nail file. "Your guess is as good as mine. They're probably traipsing through any one of twenty different miles of forest even as we speak. If you're going to go looking for them, I'd suggest strongly that you go get your hunting boots out of the back closet."

"No" replied Wally as he slid open the glass door and stepped into the cool air of the kitchen. "We'll wait. These kids still get hungry. Sooner or later, they have to come home to eat."

* * *

Lieutenant Rayford watched Sarah Jameson and Clarissa Corbeson sit nervously on the couch in Clarissa's living room and stare with fear at the policemen. Both Sarah's and Clarrisa's parents stood silently behind them listening to the conversation.

Rayford wondered which of them would be the most helpful. The Jameson girl was pale, shaky: She was obviously afraid of what was happening. Was she involved somehow?

"Let's start from the beginning” said Rayford, "Tell me where you were, what you were doing."

Clarissa wiped a tear from her left eye, looked towards her frightened friend for a brief second, and then spoke.

"We were in the back meadow; the one below Paugasaget Mountain near the cornfield. We were talking about boys."

"Who was?"

"Myself, Sarah, and Paula Riant. We were there about an hour or so. Everything seemed just fine. Then, Paula left and the two of us came back here for something to drink. That's the last we saw of her."

Yancey came forward and addressed the girls softly. "Clarissa, why did Paula leave? Did you have an argument?"

The two girls looked at each other carefully before Sarah answered. "No, she just left. Like Clarissa said, everything was fine."

"Did Paula tell you girls about any problems she was having at home? Was someone bothering her lately?"

Both girls shook their heads. "No," said Clarissa, "She didn't say anything like that. She was perfectly happy; eager to do stuff during the summer. Oh, wait” exclaimed Clarissa, a look of terror in her eyes, "She did say something. She said something about Norman."

"Norman who?" asked Rayford.

Sarah jumped up from the couch. "Norman Taylor. He lives over on Cat Hollow Road. Paula said something about him following around this girl he liked; Maggie Thompson."

Rayford looked back over his shoulder to make sure Yancey was getting this on paper; Elizabeth was indeed taking notes.

"Okay, that might be useful. Did Norman come over to the meadow while you three were talking?" he asked. They shook their head.

"Did you see anyone, ANYONE, in and around the meadow while you were there?" Again, the girls shook their heads.

Rayford rose from the floor and spoke to the two sets of parents behind the couch. "That will be enough for now. Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Jameson, for bringing your daughter over here on such short notice."

"Not a problem, Jon" said Mr. Jameson, shaking the Lieutenant's hand. "We're all very deeply concerned about this; it could have been Sarah who was attacked, and not Paula Riant. We're all going to be very frightened around here until you catch this person."

"Clarissa..." said Mrs. Corbeson, "Tell Mr. Rayford what you told me earlier; I think it may be important."

"Mom!" pleaded Clarissa; a pained look in her eyes.

"Tell me what?" asked Rayford, looking back at the girl. Clarissa and Sarah looked at each other; Sarah nodded her head slowly.

"Sarah, I CAN'T!" shouted Clarissa, "The other kids will be angry."

"Tell me what you're talking about, Clarissa” said Yancey, sitting next to the girl and placing her arm around her shoulder. "We'll make sure the other children don't find out, okay?"

Clarissa began to weep softly; Yancey took the child into her arms and rocked her on the couch. "I can't…" she sobbed.

"Yes, you can" soothed Yancey. "This may be important: You don't want anyone else, any of your friends, to be hurt: do you?"

Clarissa stopped crying, dried her eyes, and looked towards Rayford. "It was the whistle. Paula left the meadow when she heard the whistle."

"Whistle?" asked Clarissa's Father, puzzled, "What whistle?"

"It's kind of a code used by the kids in the neighborhood. Whenever anyone wants a kid to sneak away from their house and meet them somewhere, they'll sound two whistles. Any kid who hears two whistles is supposed to go meet the person who's doing the whistle. They use the sound to find out where the other person is located."

"Why didn't you want us to know about this?" asked Rayford.

Clarissa smiled weakly and shrugged. "You're an adult. Adults aren't supposed to know about it."

Yancey rose from the couch and stood next to Rayford. "Jon," she whispered, "It's a child. A child could have signaled Paula into the woods…"

"Would an adult ever use the whistle?" Rayford asked the two girls.

"No, I don't think so. We didn't even tell our own parents about it; and they've heard people call us that way hundreds of times."

Rayford faced the parents. "Thank you again for your cooperation. If we need anything further from you or your children, we'll give you a call. You may want to keep your children close to home for a while; until all this is settled."

Spinning quickly on his heels, Rayford left the living room and headed back to the police cruiser. Yancey and Peters followed behind him.

Back outside, Rayford asked his wife a pointed question.

"Lizzie, could a child have carried Elizabeth Edrick's body up that ridge? A child of about the same age and height?"

"Jon, we can't even establish the two murders are connected. Different locations, different weapons…"

Rayford raised his palm into the air facing his wife. "I know that" he snapped angrily, "Humor me and answer the question, will you?"

Yancey shook her head slowly. "No, I don't think so, but an older child could do it; perhaps a teenage boy. Or, maybe even a group of children, working together."

"Hell. There would have been more physical disturbance…"

"It rained that night, Jon" replied Peters. "Plus, you're forgetting another possibility. Anyone with the guts and foresight to move the corpse could also have been smart enough to clean the area afterwards; remove any traces of their presence."

"Good God, what have we stumbled into?" asked Rayford with a pained look. Yancey opened the cruiser door and slipped into the driver's seat; Rayford went around the car and got in the opposite side.

"Oliver's going to absolutely love this one: ‘Excuse me, Commander'", said Rayford, talking into a make-believe telephone, "'But we've not only got a serial killer, but a child serial Killer. That's right; a kid who kills other kids, not an adult who kills kids.'"

"I'm not sure," said Peters, climbing into the rear seat, "but if Elizabeth Edrick's body was dragged up that hill, then you may also have a whole pack of killer children."

"Shut up, Peters” growled Rayford. "We've got nothing at this point but a thinly veiled suspicion. We're going to need proof of this new fear of ours. Until then, nobody outside this automobile hears of this, got it?"

The other two policemen nodded slowly. Rayford, chilled to the bone, turned towards the front windshield of the car and stared coldly into space as Yancey put the car into gear and left the Corbeson property.

* * *

Too cool in here, thought G. Robert Thompson as he walked over to the air conditioner controls and adjusted the thermometer. The air was annoyingly crisp and had an antiseptic odor to it. Yesterday must have been the day for the cleaning crew to wash the walls.

A pretty blond face appeared in the doorway. "Bob" said Sally, one of the company's area marketing representatives. "I heard you nailed that group from Concord, New Hampshire, big time. It's about time you get a break; the pickings have been pretty slim for you lately."

Bob smiled. "Yea; three hundred units. We'll gross about a hundred and fifty grand."

Sally walked into the office and slapped her fellow employee on the back. "Way to go, Bob. Have you picked out your summer cottage on the cape, yet?" she asked with a wink.

Bobby, reminded by the antiseptic smell about Maggie and Butch, slowly staggered back to his desk and collapsed in the chair. Folding his hands in front of his face, he frowned and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"Bobby?" said Sally. "What's up? You want to grab a bite to eat?"

Robert shook his head slowly. "No, go on without me. I've got some things here I need to clean up…" Yea, He had some things to clean up, but not here. On Paugasaget Road.

Sally, clicking her tongue, sat down opposite Bob. "Your brother, again: isn't it?" she said. "I can tell. Didn't we go through this just about a year ago?"

Bobby nodded, stared back at Sally with sleepless eyes. "Yes, we did" he said wearily. "I still remember how you drove me out there that night and pinned his wife Vicky to the floor when she tried to cut me with that butcher knife."

Sally, remembering the incident, laughed gaily. "Well, what are fellow salespeople for? I always told you I'd take a knife for you."

"So long as we're on the same side of the bargaining table, right?" added Bobby. His eyes fell towards his desk: to the right of his lamp was a photograph of Benjamin, Victoria, and little Maggie that had been taken during happier days. I miss you, Vicky, thought Bobby to himself. Where are you? What's happened to you?

"Sally, I can't seem to pound any sense into that thick skull of

His,” exclaimed Bobby, "The drinking is getting out of hand. It's costing me a fortune to pay for his utilities and food; I don't know if I can keep this up any longer."

"Why don't you just cut him off? Turn off the financial spigot, and he'll have no choice but to stop drinking."

"I'm afraid if I did that, he'd hurt Maggie. Besides, I promised Vicky that I'd look after them."

Sally sat back, took a pencil from her pocket, and began to tap it against the arm of her chair. "Bob, is your brother hurting Maggie now?" she asked him pointedly. Bobby looked at the woman.

"You've told me about the condition of the house; isn't that abuse?" she continued. Again, Bobby offered her no reply.

Standing up, Sally grabbed the receiver from Bob's telephone and thrust it into his face. "Call them."

Bobby, startled by her tone, shook his head. "No, I can't…"

"CALL!"

"I can't" he repeated, "Don't you understand? I can THREATEN Butch with that, but I can't actually do it…"

"Why not? I don't know much about that brother of yours, or his daughter, but this much I DO know: You're not eating, Bobby. You're not sleeping at night. You come into work looking like a zombie that just crawled out of the Rutherford Cemetery. Your sales are off as a result; despite that last contract. You're a MESS."

Bobby gently took her hand and pushed the receiver back into its cradle.

"Bob, I don't have to lecture you like this" raged Sally, "I could just go back to my own office, pretend everything was fine, and take over all your contracts when you end up in a Mental Ward. The reason I don't is that I care for you, as a friend, and I don't like what's happening to you. God Damn it,

Call that Social Worker."

Bobby smiled slightly and looked at the woman. If only Vicky had a friend like her, he thought, things might have turned out differently than they had.

"Sally, I love you: do you know that?"

Growling with frustration, Sally got up from the chair and headed out of the office. "Cheap talk, Bobby: and you're not even drunk. If you love me, then you'll listen to my advice. Call that Social Worker; her number is in your contacts."

Sighing softly, Bobby watched Sally storm out of the office. If it hadn't been for Vicky, he would have married that obstinate woman.

Tapping quickly on the keyboard that rested to the side of his desk, Bob found the number Sally had logged for him. Janine Hallorin. (203) 555-1283 Ext. 150.

Bobby began to dial. Maybe after he made the call, he could visit Butch and try one last time to talk some sense into him. He may just decide to change if he heard that the State had been contacted.

He'd have to tell Ms. Halloran that Vicky has been missing for several months. He'd have to tell her about the mess at the house, Butch's drinking, the lack of money, and the fights He had been having with Butch over Maggie.

The phone began to ring in his ear. "With any luck, however," said Bobby, "I won't have to tell her about the relationship between Vicky and me…"

Six

Maggie was underneath the dark stairwell of the Thompson home; a flashlight in her mouth providing the only illumination into the crawlspace.

She stopped her work with the handsaw briefly and mopped her brow with a handkerchief. Getting here from the cellar had been easy but cutting out this section of the wall into the house was sheer madness. The dust from the disturbed plaster was making it difficult to breath.

She should have brought a face mask; Scott and his bright ideas.

Finally, Maggie gave up on the handsaw. Using the flashlight to examine her work, she hoped that the triangular wall section had been cut away enough to allow it to be forced free. Leaning back against the wall, she lifted her tiny legs and kicked at the final slat that held the section in place beneath the stairs.

There was a small 'snap' as the board gave way; Maggie quickly reached out and grabbed the wall piece to make sure it didn't fall completely out into the hallway and waited. She hoped her Dad was drunk and wouldn't notice the noise.

He hadn't. Lifting the wall section free of the stairwell, she crept into the house; carefully replacing the triangular section back under the stairway. Almost a perfect cut. Unless you knew the wall had been disturbed, you could never tell the secret entrance even existed.

The child crawled on her hands and knees down the hallway and turned left into the living room. She could hear, but not see, her Dad: he was talking to someone.

"It wasn't my fault, damn it” he shouted in a drunken slur, "Leave me the fuck alone!"

Maggie crept behind the couch her Father was sitting on and hid against the wall of the living room. So far, so good: Now, if only he'd start talking again…

* * *

Victoria stood stoically near the living room window and gazed out into the bushes lining the road beyond. "So, why don't you try again?" she asked her husband. "You said yourself the interview went well…"

"Oh, yeah" sputtered Butch, taking another sip of his beer. "It went so well that he called me today and said 'Thanks, but no thanks'. Real great interview: I should be employed in no time the way things are going."

"Come on, Butch. You can't give up now. Too much depends on this" said Victoria, shaking her head.

"Sure, I can. Watch me” replied Butch in a low voice.

"Fine!" spat Victoria, spinning around to face her husband. "Go ahead, give up. That seems to be the only thing you're good at lately, anyway."

"Okay, I will" replied Butch; toasting his wife with the can of beer, "I give up."

Just like he given up on her. He had tried it Vicky's way: he had cleaned himself up, tried for the job. Hell, he had even tried to find Maggie. But, as usual, his life was plagued by a persistent problem.

Nothing worked. No matter, what he did, nothing would ever work for Benjamin Thompson. The only things that worked for him were the wonderful, mind-numbing liquids that poured from his bottle and cans.

* * *

Who was he talking to, wondered Maggie? She couldn't see from this position.

A sharp glint of light caught Maggie's eye, and she looked up towards the ceiling. One of her Mother's old makeup mirrors was slowly descending into the living room from a heating vent. Someone (probably Scott) had tied a piece of yarn to its handle and was using it like a reverse periscope. The thing must've caught the reflection from the Sun. She hoped her Dad didn't spot it.

Moving forward slightly, Maggie tried to stretch herself out along the floor and catch a glimpse of her Dad's visitor from underneath the couch. Her right foot slapped against an empty liquor bottle during the attempt and sent it spinning backwards against the leg of the couch.

Maggie held her breath, fell flat on her stomach, crawled sideways under the couch, and tried not to move.

* * *

Victoria, hearing the noise, spun her head around quickly. "Butch, what was that noise?"

Butch burped, took another swig of his beer. "What noise? I didn't hear anything."

"I'm telling you, you drunken old bastard, I heard a noise, behind the couch."

"No noise” slurred Butch. "Maybe it was mice. We've had lots of mice in here lately. I should fix that front door sometime..."

"It wasn't a mouse, you idiot. Check it out."

Butch rose wobbling from the couch. "Where'd it come from?" he asked his wife, "Behind the couch?" Walking slowly around the couch, Butch moved towards the door so he could catch a glimpse along the wall without bending over.

Victoria was out of her mind with anger. "Why didn't you tell me we had mice?" she screamed. "You know how unhealthy that can be. I don't want any of those little beasts in the food."

"Don't worry: I'll set traps in the morning." Nothing was behind the couch that Butch could see. "Nothing here; It's all your imagination, bitch". Walking back around to the front of the couch, Butch plopped back down into the cushions and struck something hard below him. "What's this?" he said, puzzled by the lump.

A hard, tapping sound came from the living room window. Victoria walked over to the dirty glass and peered out into the sun. The Jones boys stood side by side outside the window.

"I know what the noise was," she said, pointing to the window, "It is Jacob and Esau; the Jones boys. Get rid of them: I don't want those little brats poking about our property."

Butch muttered an oath, staggered over to the window and threw it open. "What the fuck do you little bastards want?"

Esau held up his hand. "Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Thompson. We just wanted to know if Maggie could come out and play."

"Yeah," piped in Jacob, "Come out and play today…"

"NO!" roared the drunken man, "She can't; she's not home. Went into town with her Mom to do some shopping; won't be back until late tonight." Slamming the window shut, Butch avoided the couch and collapsed into the rocker instead. The twins disappeared from the window.

Victoria moved to the couch and sat. "My, Butch, but you've gotten good at lying, lately."

Butch nodded and drained the last of his beer. "Yeah; I've had lots of practice at lying these last few months. I'm getting to be a real fucking expert at it. Hell, I married you, didn't I? I had to lie to MYSELF to pull that one off."

Victoria groaned; rubbed her eyes. "Forget it, Butch: Just forget it. Let's not fight anymore: that isn't getting us anywhere. What about Maggie? Has there been any change in her lately?"

"Yeah, I talked to her" lied Butch. "She said she was sorry for being away so much; even decided to clean up the kitchen the other day. Place looks pretty good, now."

"For a few days” finished Victoria in disgust, "Then your collection of rotted food and booze bottles starts to pile up again."

"AW, JUST SHUT UP” screamed Butch, jumping to his feet, "JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP. JUST LEAVE ME ALONE, WILL YOU? What the Hell do you want out of me, woman?" roared Butch, stalking off towards the kitchen with Victoria fast on his heels.

"I want you to sober up; stop drinking and take care of my daughter” cried Victoria.

"Aw, Good Lord” cried Benjamin, looking around the kitchen for a bottle. "I've done everything in my power; everything humanly possible, to get rid of you and yet YOU'RE STILL HERE. What do I have to do to get your sorry ass out of my life?"

Victoria stalked over to the counter near her husband and pounded it with her right hand. "There's an obvious answer to that stupid question, Butch. But it would only end up hurting Maggie, so I won't suggest it. Besides: you're too much of a DAMN COWARD to swallow a bullet."

* * *

Behind the couch, Maggie heard the voice of her Father grow dim. Leaving the wall, she crept back into the hallway and tried to see who he was talking to in the kitchen. She couldn't; they were too far away from the door. She could, however, hear him yelling.

"Go away, Victoria" he screamed; his face black with rage, "Just go away. I don't need you; you've known that for months now. Let me tell you something else, Miss High and Mighty: Your daughter Maggie doesn't need you, either. We're both doing just fine and dandy without you!"

Victoria? Maggie’s heart jumped in her throat. Was Dad talking to her Mother?

"Maggie!" hissed a voice from the top of the stairs. Looking up, she saw Scott leaning over the railing and motioning to her. Without a second thought, she crept up the stairs.

"Come here; I think I've found something." Leading the girl into her Father's room, he brought her to the bureau and motioned towards some papers.

"Your Dad's bank account is empty, Maggie" he whispered, looking back towards the door, "But I found this. It's a check for four hundred dollars, made out to your dad. Who is 'George Robert Thompson'?" he asked; handing her the check.

Maggie looked at the signature dumbly. "He's my uncle. My Dad's brother."

Scott motioned towards a window on the south side of the room. "That's how I got in. There's a tree outside we can reach from the window. Let's get out of here and catch up with the others."

Maggie nodded and followed Scott out the window.

"I think my Dad was talking to my Mom” whispered Maggie as they climbed down the tree. Scott, surprised by the news, halted his descent and looked up at her. Maggie thought for a moment that he was going to say something, but he remained silent. They continued their descent towards the lawn.

* * *

Once safely on the ground, they dashed through the back yard and into the woods behind. The boys were waiting for them in a clearing.

"Caught?" asked Esau.

Scott shook his head. "No, we got out okay. We found something, as well. Maggie, I think it has been your uncle Bobby who's been paying the bills, not your Mother. Why would he do that?"

Maggie thought for a moment. "I don't know. Uncle Bobby makes good money, but he and Dad hate each other's guts: I can't imagine him giving my Father the time of day; never mind four hundred dollars."

Jacob's eyes grew wide. "Four big ones? Gee, that's an awful lot of money."

Esau slapped him across the back of his head. "No, it's not. That's only half of our allowance, for crying out loud."

"Quiet, the two of you” ordered Scott. "We'll talk about this tomorrow morning when we meet at the Clubhouse. For now, let's get home and spend some time with our families; we've been staying away too much lately. I'll see you tomorrow…"

The two boys nodded and dashed into the woods towards their newly completed Clubhouse. Scott started to follow but held up when he heard Maggie crying.

"You guys go on ahead; we'll catch up with you in the morning" he told the boys.

Maggie, shivering slightly, sat on the ground, wrapped her arms around her dirty legs and wept.

"Maggie, what is it?"

"Dad was talking to my Mom. I heard him use her name. Why would she still be around and not be home to take care of me? Why would she hide from me?"

Scott swallowed hard and tried to decide what to do. He should've talked to his Dad before doing this. Things were starting to get a little weird, and he wasn't sure how to handle it.

"Maggie..." said Scott cautiously, "Your Mom wasn't there."

"Yes, she was!" said Maggie; her damp green eyes flashing in the sun that filtered down through the leaves of the trees. "I heard him talking to her."

"So did I, Maggie: But I was watching the living room with the mirror, remember?"

Maggie looked at the older boy with dismay. Her mouth fell open; her skin turned noticeably pale. Scott was about to tell her something she already knew.

Scott swallowed again before completing his thought. "Maggie, your Father was ALONE in the room. There was no one there; not your Mother, Not your Uncle: no one."

"No! You must've had the mirror pointed in the wrong direction…"

Scott shook his head. "No, Maggie, I don't think so. Your Father was alone."

* * *

Rayford, Yancey, Peters, and two State Police Detectives met in Rayford's office concerning the murders. It had already been two days since the last murder; Rayford was quickly becoming a little anxious about the prospects of locating a suspect.

"All right, let's go over it again. Start with the similarities."

Yancey cleared her throat. "Both victims were female children. Both found in the same general area of town. Both were in the woods. Both had red hair…"

"No, that's not right” interrupted one of the State Police Detectives, holding up a photograph, "Paula Riant; blond hair."

Yancey smiled coyly. "Mr. Gunderson, you're not thinking like a woman today, are you? Paula Riant's hair wasn't blond, it was STRAWBERRY BLOND; had red highlights."

"Whatever” growled Rayford, "Can we continue with the similarities, Yancey?"

Elizabeth glared at her husband. "Could you please address me as Detective Rayford, Mr. Rayford? My name is no longer 'Yancey', in case you haven't noticed."

Rayford rolled his eyes in frustration. "Oh, for the Love of Christ, could we PLEASE get on with this, Detective 'Rayford'?"

Yancey nodded with a smile. "Both were widely known to everyone who lives in the area. Both attended the same school. Both go to the same church; Rutherford Congregational. Both had Fathers who were members of the local chapter of Elks."

"Mark that one," said Gunderson, "could be important."

"Yes, I agree” said Peters with a smile. "Add my name to that list, Yancey: I'm an Elk, as well."

Rayford rose from his desk and walked over to the window. "Now for the differences: Anyone?"

The second State Police Detective flipped through his notes. "Both were different ages; one eight and the other eleven. Edricks was found on the Jones property, Riant was found on property belonging to the Rutherford Congregational Church…"

"We'd be foolish to ignore that, Jon: That's a double match..." offered Yancey.

Rayford nodded, then waved to the State Police Detective to continue. "One wore a skirt, the other a pant suit. One was smothered, the other one was shot. One had clay particles in the clothing, the other did not."

Peters shook his head. "Not true. That last report I got this morning confirmed the presence of clay on Paula Riant's body, as well."

"WHAT?" said Rayford and Yancey in unison?

"Yes, we found clay in the ankle injury on the Riant girl. We think it came from the trap she got caught in."

"Damn" said Rayford, rubbing his chin, "Have we been able to pin down the source of that clay? Did it come from the Callahan Church property?" he asked Peters.

"Could have, but there's another, larger source of the clay as well. The Thompson property has larger amount of clay deposits than the Callahan does, and a lot of it is exposed because of road work that was done on Cat Hollow Road last year."

"Cat Hollow?" said Yancey, consulting her notes, "That Norman Taylor kid that was mentioned during the Corbeson interview lives on Cat Hollow. That’s another double match."

Rayford's phone rang. The other officers fell silent as Jonathan took the call.

"All right; ring it through” he said after a few seconds. Rayford motioned the Officers towards the door.

"Give me some time with this. Why don't a few of you start checking out these four families: what do the Langfords, Thompsons, Jones, and Taylors have in common? Peters, keep bugging Montville for those ballistic tests on the two slugs from the Riant shooting: I want to be ready to match them with a gun as soon as possible."

Peters nodded and left; all but Yancey followed him out.

"Rayford" said the Lieutenant into his phone.

"Lieutenant Rayford, this is Janine Halloran; Department Of Children and Youth Services. I'm calling you to see if I can have a check run on a Mr. Benjamin Thompson, 175 Paugasaget Road, Rutherford."

"Benjamin Thompson?" asked Rayford out loud; Yancey's eyebrows rose; she dashed off to check the records.

"Yes" continued Halloran, "I'm currently investigating Mr. Thompson for possible child abuse charges. I'm afraid He has had some pretty severe allegations made against him by a relative. There's a young child involved; his daughter, Maggie; ten years old."

"I have an officer running the records right now, Mrs. Halloran, if you can just hold on the line a few minutes. How serious are these charges? Anything we should be involved in?"

"At the moment, I don't think so. I'm due to visit the household sometime over the next couple of days; I was hoping to get as much of the initial legwork out of the way as I could before I drive down there."

"I understand” said Rayford as Yancey came back into the office and slapped down two different sets of folders on his desk. Rayford scanned the files with interest; his eyebrow rose slightly as he saw the second one.

"Mrs. Halloran, Benjamin Thompson's sheet is as clean as they come; nothing but a two-year old speeding ticket. I'll have someone fax it out to your office if you give me the number. Who was the person, the relative, who called in the complaint?"

Rayford smiled when the social worker protested. "Now, Mr. Rayford: You know I can't divulge that information to you; at least not over the telephone."

"Did it happen to be someone named George Robert Thompson?" he asked as he threw the folder back towards Yancey. Elizabeth quickly scanned the sheets, then held up three fingers in the air.

"Uh, no..." stammered Mrs. Halloran, "Why would you ask?"

"He has a record that may prove to be relevant: Assault on a minor; three years ago. He was convicted: no term, timed served and community service. I'll send that sheet out to you as well, just in case."

"Thank you, Lieutenant. That will be fine. I appreciate you helping me on such short notice; I'll contact your office before I begin my on-site investigation."

Rayford rose from his desk. "Mrs. Halloran: Please don't go down to the Thompson's without one of my Officers accompanying you. I'm not at liberty to discuss the case, but you may have stumbled across one of our own investigations in progress."

The phone remained silent for a second. "I'll consider your offer, Lieutenant. I don't think I'll accept it, however. It's been my experience that the presence of a police officer during questioning tends to cause people to clam up. Good day to you."

Rayford hung up the phone and faced Elizabeth. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but your three fingers in the air mean you think this is a three-point match?"

"It has to be. His niece runs with the other children from the four listed families; the Thompson property has clay deposits, and now there is evidence of possible violence in the family towards children. Ignore this one, and I'll divorce you."

Rayford laughed, grabbed his briefcase, and took his wife's arm. "Yes, Ma'am: I'll be sure to remember that. Have one of the officers spend some time watching our friend G. Robert Thompson over the next few days. If we're understaffed, maybe you and I can put some of our own time on the tail."

* * *

Jacob and Esau dashed up onto the veranda behind their house and opened the glass door into the kitchen. The sun had already started to settle in the western sky; above their heads the blue sky was turning gray.

"Esau, why couldn't we go back to the Clubhouse? I wanted to look over those journals some more” said Jacob.

Esau nodded his head. "We will, we will, as soon as you and I get something to eat. I'm famished."

Entering the kitchen, Esau stepped into the middle of a firestorm.

"WHERE THE HELL HAVE YOU TWO BEEN FOR THE LAST TWO DAYS?" screamed Amanda; standing just to the side of the glass door. Grabbing each boy by the earlobe, she dragged them screaming to the kitchen table and threw them down onto chairs.

"WHAT DO YOU THINK WE RUN AROUND HERE, A COMMUNITY HOUSE? I EXPECT YOU FUCKING KIDS TO BE HOME AT CERTAIN TIMES; AT CERTAIN HOURS. I EXPECT YOU TO OBEY ALL RULES THAT WE'VE ESTABLISHED AND RESPECT OUR PRIVACY” She screamed; her hands twisting and knotting in the air as she ranted at the boys.

"Good afternoon, Mom” said Esau with a weak smile, "Have a rough day?"

With a mighty roar, Amanda slapped her son across the back of the head and sent his face smashing into the table. "Don't you get smart with me, you little thief. WALTER. THE BOYS ARE HOME, AND THEY HAVE SOMETHING TO TELL YOU” she screamed towards the lobby.

A few seconds later, the boys heard heavy footsteps coming down the stairs.

"Uh, oh” said Jacob in a whisper.

The footsteps, heavier now, came around the corner and into the lobby.

"Double ‘Uh, oh’" whispered Jacob, his eyes wide with fright as he saw what his Dad was carrying.

Wally Jones came slowly marching into the kitchen. Around his left wrist was wrapped a long, leather belt; the belt buckle swung slowly near his ankles. Walking to the table, he pulled out a chair between the boys and placed his foot on the seat.

"Where's the journal, Jacob? Esau? What did you do with your mother's journals?"

Esau raised his hand. "Dad, what's a journal?"

CRACK! The belt buckle slapped down hard on the surface of the table. Jacob cried out and wet his pants.

"Don't you go giving me that 'what's a journal' nonsense: Your Mom has told me all about that line of bull, and I'm not buying any of it. We know you took those journals, and we want them back. You've got about ten minutes to start talking or produce those three notebooks."

"Dad, we didn't take any journals. Honest” said Esau quietly.

"YOU'RE A LIAR. YOU'RE A LYING LITTLE BASTARD WEASEL; YOU SCUZZY, SNOT-NOSED, UNAPPRECIATIVE LITTLE BRATS” hissed Esau's Mother.

"Amanda, SHUT UP, will you?" snapped Wally. Angered, Amanda stormed off to the corner of the kitchen, took her nail file from her pocket and began to furiously file away the nail from her right index finger.

"I want those journals back, boys” said Wally sternly; his face firm and his tone harsh, "Who took them? What is it one of you two or was it Maggie? Or, maybe it was that Langford kid who's been hanging around with you lately."

Esau, his cheek still hurting from his Mom's last attack, got brave. "Dad, we wouldn't lie to you: we don't have them."

"Jacob, is your brother Esau lying?" asked Wally suddenly. Esau's heart stopped. Would Jake rat him out? He and his brother had been through a lot together, but Jacob was always weaker. Would he be able to keep the faith?

"Jacob, I'll tell you what. Tell me if Esau is lying. If you say he's lying, then I'll whip him. If you say he's telling the truth, then I'll whip YOU for lying. Think about it, son: You've got fifteen seconds to decide."

Lifting Jacob from the table, Wally threw him up against the refrigerator and began to slowly swing the belt buckle in the air. Jacob began to cry; Esau was silently counting out the seconds and praying for a miracle.

At the countertop, Amanda began to slow the pace of her fingernail filing and watch the sorry affair with renewed interest.

"Wally?" she asked her husband as he swung the belt buckle through the air, "Is this going to take long? Remember, we're supposed to have cocktails with the Andersons tonight…"

His jaw firmly set, Wally Jones swung the belt buckle backwards in a wide arc.

"Time's up, Jacob..." he announced.

"NO! NO, NO, NO, NO, NO!" screamed Jacob; desperately trying to cover his ass with his arms. That's it, thought Esau glumly, the jig is up. The boy was broken.

"WE TOOK THE JOURNALS. WE GOT THEM” the terrified boy screamed, "PLEASE DON'T WHIP US!"

Spinning the boy around against the refrigerator, Wally jammed his nose into his son's frightened face like a berserk Drill Sergeant.

"Why, Jacob?" he yelled, "Why did you take the journals?"

"Because we wanted to know more about you and Mom; what you do during the week. You're so busy making Money, Dad: you never have time for us. At least this way, we would know what was going on around here when you weren't home…"

"Aw, damn it, Jake. You've ruined everything. Why did you have to go and tell him THAT for?" shouted Esau in frustration.

Suddenly, Esau felt a hand at the back of neck. He was dragged from the table and thrown up against the refrigerator by his Mother. Never in all his life had he seen his Mom this angry, he thought as she stared at him through dark eyes.

"I don't understand” moaned Amanda, turning to gaze calmly out into the back yard, "We've given you boys everything, absolutely EVERYTHING. Maybe you've become spoiled; maybe we've given you too much…"

Esau shook his head. "Mom, that's not true: You haven't given us everything” he said slowly. "You've never given us Love."

The belt buckle flew across the bridge of his nose before Esau even realized he was in danger. Jacob, seeing the blood spout from his brother's face, fell to the floor screaming in terror and cradled his brother in tiny arms.

Amanda scowled, ran her fingers back through her hair, and scolded Wally.

"Not in the face, Walter: turn them around and whip them in the back. You don't want to bring those vultures in Social Services down on us, do you? Don't we have enough problems as it is?"

Wally grunted, and took his wife's advice. Spinning Esau around backwards and dragging Jacob back to his feet facing the refrigerator, Wally Jones whipped his two boys with abandon. Blood, sweat, and leather flew through the cool, kitchen air. The belt buckle ripped into the back of first one twin, then the other: repeatedly. The boys, lost in agony, screamed themselves into silence.

Finally, as little Jacob began to pass out from the attack, Esau could stand it no longer. Grabbing Jacob's hand, he dashed for the glass door of the kitchen and escaped into the back yard with his brother in tow. His Mother made only a half-hearted attempt to stop them.

"COME BACK HERE; YOU BRATS!" screamed Wally in black rage, "I'M NOT THROUGH KILLING YOU YET!" Dropping the belt on the linoleum floor, he dashed out into the yard after his boys.

* * *

Out in the yard, Esau dragged his limping brother to the right side of the garden. As best he could tell, the two boys had a ten second head start on their enraged Father.

"Jacob" he wheezed, "Remember our grass blanket we placed near the elm tree yesterday? You hide there, and I'll try to get him to chase me."

Jacob, his eyes glowing white with fear, nodded and dashed off to the left.

"I'll meet you in 'FLORIDA'”, screamed Esau, as he veered to the right.

* * *

Wally saw the two children split directions and made a last-minute decision to follow the weaker of the two. He headed left after Jacob. Moving past the edge of the garden, Wally saw the far shadow of Jacob approaching a tree just beyond the water fountain.

The shadow stopped. The shadow sunk into the ground. Wally shrieked.

Reaching the tree, he stomped angrily around and around the tree looking for Jacob. The shadow had completely disappeared into the earth: Jacob was nowhere to be found.

"Son of a fucking BITCH!" screamed Wally into the sky, "How in Heaven's name did he DO THAT?"

* * *

One week after she had first asked for counseling, Carina Carlson was back at the Reverend's home.

Steven and the girl walked slowly through the yard that lay just beyond the garden. The sun was rapidly setting: Soon the light would be gone; the air would be much cooler than it now was.

"I'm sorry how I acted the other day, Steve” said Carina slowly; a smirk appearing on her face, "I guess you don't know me well enough to predict how I would react: Sometimes, when things aren't working like I thought they would, I freeze up and panic."

"You should learn to relax," said Steven, smiling. "You'd probably save thousands of miles of wear and tear on your truck tires."

Carina laughed gaily; Steven led her to the back yard and a small bench Scott had constructed Saturday. The two of them sat down.

"Now, Carina..." started Steven carefully, "I'm going to ask you the same question now I asked you the other day. Please don't got psychotic on me, will you? I'm just trying to get to the truth; same as you."

"I promise” said Carina, lifting her hand in a mock scout salute, "I'll sit still and suffer through the worst of it."

"Why are you here, Carina? Forgive me for saying so, but I don't think it is for counseling."

Neither of them said anything for several minutes. Carina stared back at Steven with an astonished look.

Dear God, I am losing all control, thought Steven as he stared back at Carina and waited for her response. Look at her eyes, those jet-black eyes, he thought feverishly. He was losing himself in those eyes.

"You're right, Steven: I'm not here for counseling. I've had so much counseling lately I can practically quote Scripture chapter and verse."

"Then, why?" the Reverend asked a second time; afraid he just might know the answer.

Carina sighed. "Something happened to me three weeks ago that I didn't know how to handle. I felt something I hadn't felt in a long time…"

Her hand slowly slipped into his. Steven stopped breathing; fear numbed his body. Through her fingers, Steven felt an electrical shock; a charge that ripped into his heart and began to nestle firmly in his soul like a deadly virus.

"I saw you preach a sermon” said Carina quietly.

"Oh, dear" muttered the Reverend.

Carina giggled. "You have such a way with words, Reverend: I guess that's why you became a Preacher, right?"

Steven was flabbergasted. He had no idea what to do or what to say in response to Carina's touch. God forgive him, but he had slept through this particular class in Seminary.

Slowly slipping his hand from hers, he rose from the bench.

"I… I could use a drink. I mean, something COLD to drink."

Carina laughed. "I know what you meant. Could you fix me a glass, as well?"

Steven nodded dumbly and staggered towards the house. After a minute or so, he was out of sight and Carina was alone on the bench.

Once safely in the kitchen, Steven collapsed against the wall, loosened his collar, and took several deep breaths before pouring the drinks.

* * *

From just to the left of the bench, a voice rang out.

"I had a feeling this was going to happen."

Carina, startled by Scott's sudden appearance, shrieked. "God, you scared me half to DEATH!" she stammered.

"Only half?" asked Scott, "Turn around and let me try again."

Carina shoved the teenage boy rudely in the chest. "What is it about me you don't like, Scott? Why are you so hostile?"

Scott, his eyes locked with hers, deftly slapped her hand away from his chest. "I get to ask the questions around here, lady" he snapped. "I've known this guy almost all my life; I'm not the one who's trying to pick him up like a cheap date after only my third appearance at his house."

Carina exploded. "Why, you little smart-mouthed imp" She screamed, shoving him a second time, "How DARE you?"

"What are your intentions?" he asked her pointedly, "Just what is it you're trying to do?"

Carina suddenly began to cry. "I just want to HEAL" she sobbed at Scott. "I think I've fallen in Love with your Father, and I want a chance to make it real. Ever since my last disastrous relationship two years ago, I've been afraid to even try; afraid to even go out of my apartment. Then, all of a sudden, I attend a stupid Church service, and there he is in the pulpit: and everything I was afraid of in the past simply melts away."

"How many times do you think that sort of thing happens in a person's life, Scott? Once? Twice? What should I do; walk away because both your Father and I are hurting, and his personal Guardian Angel doesn't want us to risk hurting each other a second time?"

Scott frowned at the woman's words. "Miss, I think you're making a big mistake. My Father thinks you're his dead wife, Julia."

"Oh, really” snapped Carina, hurt by Scott's remark. "Then, why is your Father in the house, now? Why did he run away when I held his hand? Would he have reacted to your Mother that way?"

"He's afraid, that's all. He's been hiding for so long…"

"I'M AFRAID, TOO!" said Carina firmly. "AND I'M THE WORLD CHAMPION OF HIDING! No one on God's green earth is more afraid of a relationship than I am, Scott."

"If you're not sure about how you feel for him, you should go away."

"I can't" said Carina with conviction and a firm shake of her black hair, "You don't think I have any control over this, do you? Believe me, I would rather that this develop over a longer period; I'd be a whole lot better prepared to deal with it than I am now. But Scott, Love doesn't work that way. It's a gift from God: It weeds its way into your soul and haunts you until you either feed it or burn it out of your life. I couldn't leave now if I wanted to. I tried to run away the other day and failed."

The two combatants fell silent for several minutes. Carina fought an invisible struggle between the part of her that wanted to stay and the part of her that, embarrassed by the confrontation with the boy, wanted to run away screaming into the night.

* * *

From inside the kitchen window, Steven swallowed hard and tried to clear his head; the conversation he had overheard was still drilling into his brain. Carina's words of affection, her testament of love, didn't sooth him: it scared him in the worst possible way. Steven was falling for the woman; he had known that even before Carina's last visit. His search of her dark eyes tonight had only confirmed his suspicions.

But somehow, he fought it. He couldn't give into this; he was her Pastor. He was also her counselor, her advisor. He was the stranger who had only talked to the woman three times; THREE TIMES. And, most important of all, he was the widower who still couldn't get to sleep at night without suffering the beautiful and sacred memories of his dead wife.

Steven found himself feeling anger, as well: Anger at Scott for his interference; anger for Scott's self-appointed status as guardian and protector. How dare that child consider himself that way? He wasn't a little boy anymore; he could take care of himself.

* * *

Scott watched Carina take a seat and look longingly back towards the house. I don't know whether this person liking Dad is a good thing or a bad thing, he thought, but would it really hurt anything to stand out of the way? God knows that Dad has suffered enough lately. Maybe he needs to heal, too.

"You Love him, don't you?" asked Scott in a whisper; his voice full of awe at the prospect. "You wouldn't fight for him if you didn't Love him…"

Carina nodded. Scott could see tears on her cheek in the fading afternoon light of the day.

Scott sat next to the weeping girl and carefully touched her shoulder. She looked at him through wet eyes and waited; her fingers clenching the bench beneath her.

"Damn, lady: you better be right about what you say you feel” said Scott slowly. "If this is frivolous, you're going to hurt him, and I'm going to become your worst enemy. Go for it, if you're sure: I'll keep out of your way."

Carina cried out and, taking Scott in her arms, hugged him fiercely. Awkwardly, Scott returned the hug and hoped his Father wasn't looking out the window of the kitchen now.

"Just don't play with his emotions, all right?" asked Scott after the two of them had separated, "He's been through the proverbial ringer and back again the last year or so. He needs love and understanding. He needs someone who'll be willing to take his hand and very gently lead him out of his shell and back to the real world. He doesn't need the pleasure of a school-girl crush; an affection that's here today and gone tomorrow."

Carina laughed easily at the boy's words. "Scott, how old did you say you were?" she asked jokingly. "I pity the fool who falls in love with you, Scott. I pity the fool."

* * *

Maggie Thompson carefully climbed down the steps to the clubhouse; a plastic shopping bag filled with food slung over her shoulder.

Inside the dark interior of the clubhouse, Jacob and Esau sat quietly with a flashlight. They had tended to their injuries the best they could during the previous evening, but the risk of infection was high; especially since they had spent the night sleeping on the cold, dank clay in the clubhouse.

"Here we are," said Maggie as she handed Jacob a sandwich. The boy was so hungry from his overnight ordeal that the bread and bologna disappeared down the little boy's throat almost as soon as she handed it to him.

"I got you peroxide, bandages, a jug full of punch, some apples, and a few more sandwiches. This isn't much of a breakfast, but it's the best I could get on short notice; my Dad doesn't keep much food around our house. I also got a battery-operated lantern so we can see what we're doing in this hole." Leaving the food with the boys, Maggie walked to the corner of the cave and set up the lantern on a large rock.

"It'll be fine, Maggie” said Esau, grabbing an apple. "Where's Scott today? Wasn't he supposed to meet us this morning?"

Maggie shrugged. "I don't know; maybe he's grounded or something. I think we should go on without him." Grabbing the peroxide and a rag, Maggie lifted the back of Esau's shirt and began to tend to his wounds.

Jacob looked doubtful. "Gee, I don't know. We could in get in big trouble if we're caught; my Dad will sure kill us if he catches us."

"That's exactly why we want to do this now, isn't it? Your parents BEAT you. This is like revenge” answered Maggie as she jammed a bandage onto Esau's back.

Esau nodded, "Let's do it. Jacob. Remove their crutches…"

"What?" said Jacob, confused by the reference?

"We're going to hit them where it hurts” said Esau fiercely. "We're going to take away their excuses for not dealing with us."

Maggie agreed. "In the meantime, it might also scare my Dad into contacting my Mother again. If he has no money for food and booze; he'll have to call her.”

Jacob was unconvinced. "Sounds pretty lame to me, but if you guys are in, then I'm in too. What do we do first?"

"We’ll do my Dad's place. Esau: leave a note for Scott and tell him what we're doing; just in case he comes up here while we're gone. Come here, Jacob" ordered Maggie, "I want to patch up your back before we take off."

An hour later, the three children stood in the woods to the far side of the Thompson home. Late last night, Maggie had gone home long enough to fix her Dad a plate of supper and find out he was going into Rutherford for another job interview sometime after nine in the morning. The children had arrived here in just enough time to see him stagger up Paugasaget Road with a bottle under his arm.

"Let's do it” whispered Maggie. The children ran quietly towards the house.

Esau and Jacob made quick work in the kitchen. Jacob attacked the refrigerator and amused himself by popping open each of the beer cans and pouring the frothy yellow liquid onto the countertop. Esau ransacked the cupboards, found all of Butch's liquor bottles and stacked them behind the kitchen door in the form of a make-shift pyramid.

"Maggie!" he screamed, "Look at this. When your Dad comes home and opens the door, POW: Booze and glass all over the floor” He said with pride.

Maggie took a quick look and scowled. "Esau, it won't work. Our kitchen door opens out, not in."

Stunned, Esau took a look for himself. "Whoever heard of a house door that opens out?"

Maggie headed upstairs to her Father's room; the same room that her and Scott had been prowling through the day before. Sitting in plain sight on the headstand of her Father's bed was his wallet.

Fifty bucks, thought Maggie after she had rifled the wallet. That's all Dad had, was fifty bucks? Leaving him a five (so he'd have money to call Mom, thought Maggie), she took the rest of the cash and stuffed it into her pockets.

The sound of a loud CRASH sounded from below her. "Sorry, Maggie” said Esau from downstairs, "My pyramid fell over."

On top of the dresser was a carton of filterless cigarettes. Maggie walked over to the dresser, ripped the loose packs of smokes from the box, and started to destroy the cigarettes one pack at a time.

No booze, no food, no smokes. What was her Dad going to do when he was bored, watch Television?

Thinking better of the cigarettes, Maggie left him four packs untouched on the dresser and went back downstairs. She normally would have ransacked her Mother's stuff, as well: but Maggie didn't bother: she knew from Scott's search yesterday most of that stuff was already missing; probably pawned by her Dad to help pay the bills and buy food.

At the base of the stairs, Maggie came across Jacob sitting on the bottom step drinking a can of beer. Slapping him across the back of the head, she grabbed the silver aluminum can and threw it into the living room.

"Don't you EVER let me catch you drinking that stuff, Jake”, she screamed at the frightened boy, "I've lost my Dad to that stuff and maybe my Mom as well: I'm sure as Hell not going to lose you or Esau to it, either."

Esau popped into the hallway. "Come on, guys; let’s get out of here before Butch comes back."

"What's the hurry?" asked Maggie, "It's going to take him at least an hour to walk into Rutherford."

Esau frowned. "Sure. But what if he gets thirsty on the way and changes his mind? In case you haven't noticed, Maggie: there ain't a Hell of a lot to destroy around this dump anyway. Shit, the place looked pretty trashed even before we got here. Come on."

He's right, thought Maggie glumly. We can't destroy something that's already dead and gone. She followed the two boys out of the house and into the yard.

Esau and Jacob's house had more treasure, by far, than the Thompson household. After checking the driveway to make sure both cars were gone, the three children came in through the kitchen.

"We'll split up: You and Jacob check the first floor," said Maggie, "I'll hit your Parent's bedroom. Meet back here in the lobby in about fifteen minutes." The boys bounded away down the hall, Maggie took the stairs to the balcony.

* * *

The boys started in their Father's study.

"Hey, Esau:" said Jacob as they began to tear apart their Dad's files looking for valuables, "I don't feel right about destroying this stuff. Wouldn't that be kind of like destroying our own future?"

Esau, rifling through a pack of files, nodded. "Yeah, that's why we're not going to destroy it. We're just going to gather it up and take it out of here. Maybe we can hold the damn stuff for ransom, or something. Dad won't listen to us, but he'll sure as heck listen if his precious money is at risk."

Jacob held up a piece of gold foil lined parchment. "Esau, this one says 'INDEMNITY'. Is this a good one?"

Esau laughed. "I don't know; I'm just a kid. I wouldn't know what a Treasury bill looked like if you rolled it up and shoved it up my ass. Jake, just ask yourself this question every time you find yourself holding some paper that may be important. Say: 'Would Dad get mad if I stole or destroyed this?', and if the answer is 'YES', then throw it onto the pile over there."

* * *

Maggie found the master bedroom after only a brief search. Most of the junk in here belonged to Amanda, not Wally. A quick search of the closet revealed a small tin box filled with necklaces, gold bracelets, jewels and several strands of pearl.

Playfully, Maggie took out one of the gold bracelets and placed it onto her tiny wrist. Looking into the dresser mirror, she pouted her lips and looked at her own reflection through half-opened eye lids.

"I absolutely HATE those damn little brats," mimicked Maggie, "Let's throw them all into Military School. Off to Military School for the whole damn LOT of them."

Next, an ornate silver and gold necklace with a huge purple stone in the center came out of the box. Maggie slipped it over her head and checked her reflection in the mirror one more time.

"Looks pretty cool” she said, "but I need clothes to go with it." Turning back to the walk-in closet, Maggie burrowed around through the dresses and came back out with a garish, pink stole made from some fluffy material, and a huge red floppy hat with colorful feathers sticking out of the top.

"Excuse me, Mrs. Donaldson," said Maggie to the mirror, "but I'm here to see your husband. Is he in? Could you hold my hat for me: I shan't need it while I visit your husband… No, I will keep the rest; Mr. Donaldson can dispose of them for me."

Something was still not right. Maggie wondered what it could be as she stared back into the mirror. Hat, shawl, jewelry…

"MAKEUP!" screamed the girl ecstatically. Opening the vanity that stood to the side of the dresser, Maggie pulled out a huge tube of lipstick and ripped the cap off. The color was purple.

"Purple lipstick?" marveled Maggie, as she smeared the sticky stuff onto her lips, "Oh, Amanda Jones: Please. Get a LIFE. Who in God's green earth wears purple lipstick?"

Once the makeover was complete, Maggie capped the lipstick and stood back to examine her reflection in the mirror. The makeup job was atrocious; the purple goo had somehow managed to spread off of her lips and onto her cheeks and chin. The jewelry, however, was quite nice.

"I look like my Mom” said Maggie ecstatically, holding her shoulder-length red hair up behind the back of her neck. "This is what she might have looked like when she got ready for a date."

"Really?" said Esau behind her. "You look more like a New Orleans Hooker, to me. The only bad-looking thing about your Mom was the man hanging on her arm."

Maggie frowned, then got up from the stool and walked over to the boys. "Esau Jones, don't you talk like that to me”, she snapped, "You've never even seen a New Orleans Hooker!" With a loud Harrumph, Maggie stormed out of the bedroom.

The boy followed her. "What do you mean, Maggie?" asked Esau, puzzled. "Of course, I do. I went with my Dad to a business convention in Louisiana two years ago; I saw plenty of hookers. Dad bought me one for my eighth birthday…"

Outside in the yard, Maggie ripped the stole off her shoulders and jammed it into Esau's hands. "Esau, take this, all the money and papers you gathered and go hide them in 'OKLAHOMA' with the rest of our money. Me and Jacob are going to move on to the Langford House; see if Scott's home. I don't want to do anything to his house without his permission, okay?"

Jacob frowned. "We weren't going to do nothing there except bust up the pictures of his dead Mom, right? After all, this guy is new to the neighborhood…"

Esau shook his head. "Listen, Maggie: I'm a little leery of keeping this stuff where Scott would be able to find it: How about I go stick it down into 'PENNSYLVANIA', instead? I mean, he wasn't even here today."

"No" ordered Maggie, "He didn't help us, but I'm sure he had a good excuse. Besides, He's still the President of The Chameleon Club, and that's where he said we should stash all our valuables. Do as I said…"

"But, Maggie…"

"DO AS I SAID!" screamed Maggie; taking several threatening steps towards the boy, "I'm the First Lieutenant: With Scott not here, you'll do what I say."

Esau nodded and dashed off into the woods. Maggie took Jacob by the hand and headed up Paugasaget Road.

"Come on, Jake: let's go see what Scott's up to."

* * *

Dashing into the back meadow, Esau clutched his load of cash, jewels, and bonds tighter to his chest and headed for the Jones tool shed. Beyond this, to the immediate left of a large stump, was 'PENNYSLVANIA'; the old abandoned well where he intended to hide his family's wealth.

"Screw you, Maggie" whispered Esau as he ran, "These things aren't going to 'OKLAHOMA'; they're going somewhere where only a JONES can get at them."

* * *

Butch Thompson staggered slowly through a thick grassy meadow somewhere to the North of Paugasaget Road. If he had been sober, he would have recognized the place completely; he would have known he was in the meadow that bordered the rear of the Jones Family Estate.

Butch, however, was not sober. He did recognize the meadow, but not by the name of the family who owned the property. Taking another deep draught from the bottle, Butch tripped deeper into the meadow.

"I remember that shed" he said, looking westward towards a well-built tool shed. "This is the scene of my demise; this is where my downward spiral into Hell began” he said gleefully.

A funny thought struck him. "DOWNWARD" he laughed, slapping his left knee, "DOWN into Hell!"

Fuck the job interview, thought Butch as he giggled and collapsed onto a grassy knoll and nursed his bottle. What did he need to work for? He had no wife to take care of.

"No fucking daughter to feed, either” he muttered, drinking more of the bitter, warm liquid, "There’s no one but me. No one in the field but me" he sang. "No one in the field but me; and I need to pee" he laughed, rising to his feet and working on the zipper to his trousers.

"To my beloved wife, Victoria” Butch wheezed. "Welcome to the Field of your dreams, my dear; my pet. A TOAST to you..." he sang as hot, steamy urine began to arc its way to the ground.

"Drink up, my Love” said Butch softly, "I never drink alone."

Near the tool shed, a young black boy dashed into the meadow and began to race towards Butch. Startled by his appearance, Butch blinked his eyes a couple of times, and then shouted to the youngster.

"GO AWAY! CAN'T A MAN PISS IN PEACE?"

The boy stopped quickly; startled by the sudden shout. Slowly backing away from the drunken man, he struggled to hold his pile of jewels and money closer to his stomach.

"Money?" said Butch, squinting to see what the boy was carrying, "HEY BOY: ARE YOU CARRYING MONEY?" Zipping up his trousers, Butch began to race through the tall, thick grass towards the boy. The boy turned and fled towards the tool shed.

"COME ON BACK HERE, YOU LITTLE BASTARD. I ONLY WANTED TO OFFER YOU A DRINK..." screamed Butch as he began to gain on the boy. The child was fast, and he was drunk: but Butch's legs were longer and stronger than his: He'd catch him just beyond the tool shed; assuming, of course, that he didn't trip and fall on his ass in the process.

"COME ON BACK; I'M NOT GOING TO HURT YOU!" He may ROB him but he wouldn't hurt him. He'd just take the load of goodies, hop the first bus out of town, and forget all about the cursed name of Thompson.

"AW, COME ON BOY! WHY ARE YOU RUNNING AWAY?" bellowed Butch, now just mere seconds behind. The boy dashed around the back of the tool shed; it was just a matter of time before Butch would catch up to him.

"Thank you, God:" gasped Butch as he turned the corner, "Here I was thinking my life was over, and you dropped the solution to all my troubles right here in the middle of an empty field."

Rounding the corner, Butch reached out his hand to grab the child, but found that the field was empty. Frustrated, Butch screamed, then dashed to the far end of the shed to make sure the child hadn't gone around the second corner. Also empty.

The field was empty. The boy, who had been just a split second ahead of Butch, had totally and completely disappeared. One more time, thought Butch wildly, just to make sure he wasn't going completely crazy. He ran completely around the shed. Nothing: the kid had vanished. The only door to the shed was on this side, and it was securely locked.

"GOD, HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME?" roared Butch to the sky, the bottle of vermouth raised high and defiantly into the air, "WHY IS IT EVERY TIME I COME TO THIS FIELD, YOU TAKE AWAY SOMETHING VALUABLE OUT OF MY LIFE? DAMN YOU, GOD!"

Crying, Butch staggered towards the back of the shed and took another drink from the bottle. A thought slowly crept into his consciousness as he stood in the hot sun and mourned his loss.

Maybe it wasn't God who had robbed him. Maybe the boy wasn't here to start with. Butch pulled the bottle away from his lips and looked at it closely.

Maybe it was the booze giving him hallucinations. He could easily see how the thought of losing valuables could have come swimming up from his mind and trigger just the sort of vision he had just had.

"Damn you" he roared as he pulled back his arm and threw the bottle towards the shed. The glass exploded on contact with the back wall; a large stain of liquor swelled on the wood and began to drip towards the grass.

That's it, he thought with determination, No more of this damn booze. Even if he never worked again; even if he never get a chance to rebuild his life or his family, he was done with the demon brew.

"God" he muttered to the darkening sky, "help me keep this promise; help me keep my head straight."

Sobbing loudly, Benjamin 'Butch' Thompson veered left towards home and staggered through the meadow towards the dark woods separating him from his house.

* * *

After the drunk was gone, a single, thin board of the tool shed rotated on its axis. The top fell into the shed; the bottom extended out into the meadow. From underneath, Esau appeared and looked about. His breath was labored; heavy, and he was sweating up a storm.

Leaving the shed, Esau gathered up the treasure from beyond the board and once again began to run towards the well. What was that drunk doing on their property? There's absolutely nothing here that he could possibly be interested in; just an old shed, a meadow, and some trees; nothing else.

Except for 'PENNSYLVANIA', thought Esau. 'PENNSYLVANIA' was here.

Seven

The elderly lady in the doorway pulled her night robe tighter around her body and watched her guest cautiously.

"Mrs. Marsden? My name is Janine Halloran; Department Of Children And Youth Services. I realize it's early in the morning, but if you could spare a couple of minutes, I'd really like to talk to you about one of your students."

Gloria Marsden yawned, then motioned her into the hall. "Yes, I suppose I could spare some time, if you don't mind talking to a sleepy old lady in her pajamas. Come on in, I just put on a pot of coffee."

Halloran accepted the invitation and stepped into the house. Minutes later, the two women faced each other over a breakfast counter; two cups of steaming java sat between them.

Gloria Marsden was a keen old woman, thought Halloran, as she watched the woman drink her coffee. She was about sixty years old, with long gray hair and glasses. The woman's face was etched with hundreds of lines and wrinkles, too many for someone her age. She probably earned each and every one of them in the battle of the classroom, thought Janine.

"Maybe I can help you: This being summer and all, I'm not in contact with any children from the previous year. Which child are you inquiring about?" asked Marsden as she stifled a yawn. "Hopefully, this is about a recent student of mine: my records are back at the school, and this old memory isn't what it used to be."

"This is about Thompson; Maggie Thompson. She's ten years old, red hair. She lives on Paugasaget Road in South Rutherford…"

Gloria Marsden let out a harsh, low laugh; held up her hand. "Say no more. I had a premonition one of you State people would come around some day and ask about that poor child."

Halloran frowned. "You've suspected problems with her in the past?"

"Yes, I suppose I did. Nothing concrete enough to report, mind you: She never came in bruised, never came in crying or wailing. It was more of a sudden shift in the girl's attitude that started me to wonder."

"When did you first begin noticing this change?"

Marsden fought off another yawn and took a long drink from her cup. "This started sometime about October of last year. You see, this is the second year in a row I've had little Maggie in my History class. She's always been a very bright student, intelligent, eager to please. She got along well with her classmates and was a real active student; she absolutely loved to write. She couldn't SPELL worth a damn," laughed the teacher, "but she loved to write."

"Then suddenly, she changed. She started arriving late to school. Her hair would be uncombed, her clothes dirty beyond belief, and her personality foul and unfriendly. I talked to her immediately, but she only said that she was having difficulty sleeping at night."

"Did you contact her parents?"

Marsden nodded. "I tried to. I had met her Mother previously during a Parent's conference: nice lady. Victoria Thompson is her name. She was kind, soft-spoken, and very concerned about her child's development. After Maggie's change, however, I could never seem to get her or her husband to meet with me."

Janine frowned and put down her cup onto the breakfast nook. "Forgive me for saying so, Mrs. Marsden, but it seems to me like you already had sufficient grounds for calling us in on this."

"Listen" snapped Gloria Marsden, "You may think so, but I sure don't - and I didn't then. I've seen hundreds of these children slip in and out of different mood variations during the School year; I can't make such a snap judgment about the source of the change without further evidence. Sometimes, kids go through rough periods; just like Adults. Besides, there were no indications of physical abuse"

"But sooner or later, you thought something was up, correct?" interrupted the Social Worker, her eyes watching Gloria carefully.

Marsden sighed softly and nodded. "Yes. After Maggie's grades began to drop away and there was an increase in discipline problems, I had her interviewed by the School Psychologist, Mr. Robert Warren. He allowed me to sit in on that first session with Maggie."

"Maggie told Warren that her Mother, that kind and gentle Lady I told you I had met earlier, had, for some unknown reason, become violent and mean. She told us stories about her Mom disappearing for days at a time, not preparing meals, fighting with Mr. Thompson; the like."

Gloria Marsden leaned forward and spoke in a whisper. "Bob Warren had warned me not to accept anything that was said during a first session as Gospel, but Mrs. Halloran: I believed the girl. You should have seen her: She wept like it was the End of the World, I tell you. Her eyes were all red and sore, and SOB: that girl nearly broke my heart. And, it didn't just trickle out of her, either. When the reason for her strange behavior came out, it exploded into our laps. I had the distinct impression that Maggie had been forcing herself to keep up appearances and avoid telling anyone about what was going on for quite some time."

Janine made a quick note on her pad to talk to the Psychologist, then continued with her questions.

"Once again: You tried repeatedly to arrange a meeting with the parents but failed. Mrs. Thompson never responded to your calls?"

"No, but Mr. Thompson did. Once he heard from Maggie that she had been interviewed by the School shrink, he came roaring in to School the very next day; drunk as a skunk and mad as a brown bear in heat. He stormed right into Warren's office and slammed him right up against the wall. He threatened to sue both the Town and the School Board if his daughter was interviewed again without his permission."

"Not a very gentle man, I take it..." said Halloran.

"Funny about that: Maggie wasn't the only one with a bad case of severe personality change. Benjamin Thompson, her Father, used to work at the School as a janitor - He was a kind and peaceful man at one time. The kids in the school thought of him as sort of a mascot: They'd greet him every day in the halls, talk to him during lunch periods and recess. I don't know what happened to him to cause such a change; I had always thought the three of them - Maggie, her Mom and Dad - were just about one of the finest families in Rutherford. When I saw him with his hand wrapped around Bob Warren's throat, I was appalled."

"Does he still work with the School system?"

Marsden shook her head. "No, he was fired about six months ago. I'm not sure why - you'd have to check with the School Board to find that out. Maybe that explains why he and his daughter are so stressed out lately: Maybe it's because of financial pressures."

Maybe, thought Halloran as she closed her pad, or maybe not.

"Thank you, Mrs. Marsden, for your time and assistance in this matter” said Halloran as she rose to leave. "Here's my card: call me if you think of anything else regarding Maggie Thompson that may prove helpful."

Gloria walked the Social Worker to the door. "Ms. Halloran?" she said as Janine stepped out onto the porch.

"Maggie's a fine person at heart, and so is her Mom and Dad. If there is trouble in that family, it can probably be repaired. Please, don't go stomping into that house with every gun blazing; not unless you absolutely have to."

Janine turned and looked at the teacher carefully.

"I'm looking forward to seeing Maggie back in the Rutherford School system next year," continued Gloria. "Don't turn that poor child into a statistic if there's another possible solution to the problem."

Halloran smiled warmly but offered no reassurances to the concerned teacher. Shaking her hand, she turned towards the road and walked towards her car.

* * *

Benjamin Thompson was naked when he answered the front door. His guest, the Reverend Steven Langford, coughed.

"Mr. Thompson" said Steven, "I can come back later; after you're dressed…"

"Come on in, Pastor" he said, waving a weak hand towards the kitchen table, "Thanks for coming by on such short notice."

Steven nodded slightly and stepped into the kitchen. The room was in a horrible state of decay; broken bottles were scattered everywhere. Discarded food littered the counters, papers and rags lined every corner. The stale smell of beer and liquor hung in the air like a dark, musty cloud.

Steven sat in the chair closest to the door; Butch sat opposite him.

"Care for a beer, Reverend?" he asked, "You a drinking man?"

"No, thank you” replied Steven with a smile. "I only drink on weekends.” Butch laughed heartily, walked over to the refrigerator, and popped one open for himself. "I like that, I like that” He chortled. "I've been trying to cut down myself lately; all I have left is this one last six pack and then it's kaput – gone for good: You know what I mean?"

Steven smiled politely. "I wish you luck, Mr. Thompson. What is it you called me down here to talk about? I hear from my son Scott that your daughter Maggie and he are becoming fast friends. Is this about the children?"

Butch sat back down at the table. "No, this is not about them. They're okay, I guess. No, this is about me” he started nervously.

"Go on” urged Steven. Perhaps Thompson had asked to see him about the drinking problem.

"Okay. This is hard for me, Reverend” stammered Butch, "this is hard for me; do you know what I mean? I'm a proud man…"

"Pride can be good, Benjamin: If it's the right kind of pride."

"Yea, I know that. You see, Pastor: I've been feeling kind of down and depressed lately. It's affecting my life, as you can probably tell by taking a careful look around this dump. It's affected by daughter Maggie, too. I've been depressed, ornery more than I should. I've been drinking way too much."

Steven frowned. "Have you talked this problem over with your wife? Dealing with depression is something that a whole family, not just one person, should be resolving together."

Butch let out a quick laugh. "See, that's part of the problem, Doc."

Doc, thought Steven. Why was he calling him 'Doc'?

"My wife left me a couple of months ago. She's staying with relatives down in New York. I guess that's the root of my problem: I'm feeling down because my wife has left me."

"No, I don't agree, Benjamin” said Steven quietly. The man was lying to him, thought Steven as he carefully observed his eyes staring past him to the wall; the way he would swallow when he talked.

Butch, surprised by the sudden assessment, stared back at him.

"The world is full of people who are alone, Benjamin, and who don't end up depressed or lonely. I'm not trying to make light of your troubles, but in the end, it is always what's in your own heart that lifts you up or drops you down."

"But Doc, look around you” objected Butch, "Things weren't like this when my wife Victoria was still home."

"I know that” said Steven, "However, it wasn't her absence that caused your problems. All of this is a symptom of what's going wrong in here" he said, touching his own heart. The image of his wife Julia suddenly snapped into Steven's mind, and he shook it off before continuing.

"Tell me what's going on in your heart, Benjamin."

Butch swallowed hard and placed his beer can down on the table. "Guilt" He said. "Suddenly, I’m drowning in remorse, guilt, and a whole lot of pain” He said softly.

"You don't like yourself very much, do you?" asked the Reverend. "You're blaming yourself for your wife's absence, for the problems you're having raising Maggie. The first thing we need to do, Benjamin, is talk about forgiveness…"

"Look!" snapped Butch angrily, "Spare me the same old routine. I've been to Church; I know the whole story. 'I'm a sorry sinner; doomed to burn in Hell. Jesus Christ died on the cross; shed his blood for my sins. He forgave me those sins; blah, blah, BLAH.'"

Steven remained silent.

"None of that bullshit is going to help; none of it applies to what's happening to me here and now. This ain't Jerusalem, Preacher Man."

"Doesn't it?" replied Steven, "There is a big difference between KNOWING about something and APPLYING that knowledge, Benjamin. Yes, Christ forgave you; Yes, He loves you, but what about you, Benjamin? Have YOU forgiven you? Do YOU love you? The gifts that God gives us are part of a CONTRACT, Benjamin: each and every one of us needs to take those gifts and apply them to our own lives before they'll do us any good."

Now, it was Butch's turn to remain silent.

"There's this story in the Bible that may shed some light on this, Benjamin. It tells of this man who happened across an injured person in the road and decided to help him. He picked the man up, brought him to an inn, paid his tab, feed him, clothed him, and nursed his wounds. And then he went his way; promising the innkeeper he would check up on the injured man later on some future date. Don't you see? He helped the injured man and gave him the opportunity to heal and recover. But then he left him to fend for himself."

"I don't get it" scowled Butch angrily.

"People can help you, Benjamin: God can help you, too: but when all is said and done, it's up to you to take this assistance and apply it to your own life. YOU are the one who determines whether this assistance helps or not. He lends us a helping hand but, in the end, it's up to us to take that Hand into our own and allow Him to guide us."

"God loves you, and that should provide reason for you to love yourself. You won't be able to drink if you love yourself."

"God forgave you: now forgive yourself. You won't be able to sit around depressed and sad if you forgive yourself” Once again, the image of Julia flashed through Steven's mind. Had he forgiven himself?

"Doc, all this is just fine and dandy, but it doesn't help me any” said Butch. "I've got real problems going on in my life; all the love and forgiveness in the world won't make them go away."

Steven shook his head sadly. "I don't agree with that statement at all. Can't you see how simple it is, Benjamin? Forgive yourself, and you've begun to deal with the root of the problem. No one alive has the right or the privilege to blame their own difficulties on other people, other circumstances, or the general events of the day. It both starts and ends in the heart. You need to pray…"

"PRAY?" raged Butch, jumping out of his chair, "Is that the best advice you can give me, Doc: to PRAY?"

"Benjamin, it's the ONLY advice I can give you, simply because it's the only thing that works. Prayer isn't some big, scary word: It means to TALK. You pray all day long without even knowing it, but you pray to yourself. Every person alive who's turned away from God does that: They sit and think about themselves, their own situations, their own desires, their own lusts. They pray to themselves. I want you to redirect your thoughts and think about others. Pray to God and ask Him to straighten out your life. Ask Him to help you with your daughter. Ask Him to reunite you with your wife. Stop hiding from your problems and start dealing with them, instead."

Butch laughed weakly. "I don't think that's possible, Doc."

"Sure, it is. Prayer allows us to clean up our insides: When the insides are clean, then the externals begin to take care of themselves. Pray about it, and you'll find that you now have the ability to stop feeling sorry for yourself, stop hiding behind your current situation and face your fears…"

"Face my fears?" asked Butch with a faraway look in his eyes.

"Yes, face your fears. Get your eyes off yourself and onto God and the other people in your life: your daughter Maggie, your wife…"

"Get out" said Butch sternly; his finger raised and pointed towards the door.

"What?" asked Steven, surprised by the sudden change in the man's tone.

"I said, get out. Get out of my house, Reverend. I want you out, NOW!"

Steven rose and headed for the door. What did he say?

"Mr. Thompson, I'm only trying to help. Please consider what I've said…"

"I'll consider it, Doc, and I appreciate your advice. But now I want you out. Have a nice day; I'll call if you I get the urge to talk again."

Steven was rushed out the door and into the sun; the door violently pulled shut behind him. Climbing into his car, he started up the motor and pulled into Paugasaget Road.

* * *

Butch stood at the kitchen window and watched the Reverend slowly move up the road towards his own house. Behind him, his wife snickered.

"What's the matter, Butch?" she said with a sly smile, "Did the man say something that struck home to you? Something about 'facing your fears'?"

"Don't start with me, Vicky" He snapped at her, "I've had enough of your nonsense to last me a LIFETIME!"

"And then some, dear" said Victoria Thompson with a wink of her eye, "and then some."

* * *

Dr. William Gallagher unbuttoned his suit coat as the last strains of organ music from the doorbell drifted away from the Jones Estate. The door opened; an attractive young black woman opened the door. She was dressed in a very expensive power suit of rather exquisite taste.

"Dr. Gallagher?" said Amanda, pushing back a lock of her hair, "Come on in; my husband is waiting for you in the sitting room."

"Thank you. Mrs. Jones, I'm very interested in talking to you and your husband some more about the children. Frankly, what you've told me over the telephone was extremely fascinating."

"Dr. Gallagher” shouted Wally from the lobby. Pumping the man's hand furiously, Wally steered the hapless psychologist quickly over to the easy chair near the stairwell and threw him down onto a cushion. Amanda took the opposite seat near the wall; Wally began to pace back and forth as he talked.

"Let's cut right straight to the chase” demanded Wally; his eyes just a little too wide and too bloodshot for the Doctor's liking. This man looked like he hadn't slept in a week. Maybe he should've scheduled this appointment for next week and given these two some time to relax and unwind.

Pounding his fist, Wally kept his eyes away from the Doctor and talked to the wall. "My wife and I are very anxious for you to examine the two children, but first I feel it would be helpful if we provide you some background material."

"Background material?"

Wally nodded. "Our problem here; the central crux of the situation, is a lack of responsibility on my children's part. We've done our best to give them an upbringing that would mold them into the same sort of character and determination that I possess, but along the way the two boys have, how shall I say, drifted from the proper path."

"Drifted?"

Amanda, pouting her lips, turned towards the Psychologist. "These boys have such wonderful opportunities for growth; for educational and financial development: chances I never had until later on in life. Why do you think they are so, so … RESISTANT to what we're trying to do for them?"

Dr. Gallagher squirmed uneasily in his chair. "I'm not sure. Maybe after I actually meet the two boys we can discuss this at some further length."

"Responsibility is part of it, oh yes” shouted Wally, pounding his fist into the palm of his hand, "but PEER PRESSURE: that's another problem. The boys have been contrasting their own rather well-to-do lifestyle with that of those poorer little vagrants they've been running around with in the woods."

"Woods?" asked an increasingly confused Dr. Gallagher, "What woods?"

Wally turned towards his guest and stared at him with a worried look. "Do you mean to suggest, Doctor, that our attempts to develop a civilized and responsible nature in our child would be more successful in an urban environment?"

"No… Yes…" stammered Gallagher. "What I mean to say is that I can't make those sorts of determinations based solely on the judgment and observations of the Parents. I need to talk to the children."

Wally grinned and leaned back on the bookshelf. "Oh, yes: you'll talk to the children. But first: let's discuss a strategy; a plan of attack."

"Yes, I think that's a marvelous idea” repeated Amanda, looking up from a magazine. "Isn't that the way the Peterson's handled their own situation last year when little Cynthia decided to run away and work for the Sierra Club?"

"Sierra Club?" asked Gallagher, nervously looking at his watch.

Wally, again pacing the floor, nodded furiously. "Yes, that's it exactly. Okay, so we're all agreed. We need a strategy. Now, the first thing I see is that we should do some research and come up with a case history of similar adolescent occurrences in typical African American families and compare or contrast them to our own situation."

Amanda looked up from her magazine and politely applauded.

Gallagher rose from the chair and looked briefly towards the front door. "Excuse me for being rude," he said carefully, "but aren't we jumping the gun? Plans are fine, but it seems to me we can't development a working strategy without considered the base cause for concern in this situation, and we can't even begin to determine the base cause until we've met with all of the participants in the problem."

Wally looked at the Doctor, a worried expression on his face. "Base cause?" he asked, "Isn't that what we're doing now?"

"Isn't the lack of responsibility and the boy's rejection of the lifestyle we've provided them the base cause?" asked Amanda softly.

"No!" snapped Gallagher crossly, "No it is not. At least, I don't think it is. I won't know for sure until I've talked to the two boys…"

"Doctor," admonished Wally, "No one knows our children better than we do. I think you're making a mistake in judgment."

"THE CHILDREN!" shouted Gallagher, "I need to talk to the children. The two of you are paying me to help resolve some tricky and involved family issues involving the CHILDREN. You're having problems relating to your CHILDREN!" screamed Gallagher, his teeth gritted.

Wally walked to his wife's chair and defensively placed his arm around her shoulder. Amanda, shaking her head slowly, flipped another page of the magazine she was browsing.

"Frankly, Mr. Jones" continued the Psychologist, "Unless the children are here and both involved in this discussion, I think we're wasting our time. This discussion has been very helpful: it's certainly given me a good idea of some of the pressures your two boys have to face daily, but we're not going to make any progress in this affair until I've met with the children."

"Mr. Gallagher” snapped Amanda Jones as she threw down the magazine and bolted from her chair. "How DARE you talk about lack of progress to my husband? I'll have you know that Walter is one of the most prominent and successful businessmen in all Eastern Connecticut: if anyone knows about progress, it is him. He knows the boys, and he knows what he is doing."

"Just exactly what IS he doing?" asked the Doctor.

Wally laughed heartily, took the Doctor's shoulder, and guided him towards the hallway to the kitchen. "I'll tell you what I'm doing, Mr. Gallagher: I've created a PLAN."

"Plan?"

Wally nodded. "Yes, a PLAN; A GOOD plan. The way I see it, we need to arrange for the two boys to attend a private Military School. Let's separate them from the source of their distractions in this little town and give them a chance to develop unhindered in a more structured environment. Then, my wife and I should put more focus on their educational development: Increase their course load in the autumn to ensure their free time is limited and the majority of their facilities are focused on their own personal career and interests."

The Doctor rubbed his chin and nodded thoughtfully. "That sounds like quite a plan, Mr. Jones. It's obvious you've put a lot of time and thought into this."

"Yes, that's true” agreed Wally. "I've learned at an early age to never shrink back from a problem, but to attack it head on and viciously. No one in my family can claim I'm a procrastinator. I deal with my problems before most men of my social standing and net worth even finish their toast in the morning."

"Really?" replied Gallagher. "Tell me, Mr. Jones…"

"Yes?"

"About this plan?"

"Go on" urged Wally, his eyes bright and alive.

"Who does this plan benefit more: your children or yourself?"

Wally, lost for a moment in his mad visions, stared back at the Psychologist with his mouth open. "What?"

"This plan sounds like it resolves more difficulties for you and your wife than it does the children” replied Gallagher coldly. "What do the two boys think of this crazy idea?"

"Why you little Harvard-trained, Philadelphia-weaned WEASAL!" snapped Wally, "How DARE you talk to me like that?"

Amanda rushed to the side of the grumbling men and eagerly joined the fray. "Mr. Gallagher, do you know who you're talking to? Haven't you ever heard of my husband? 'WALLY'S HOUSE OF HARDWARE'? How can you, in your right mind, question the intentions and motives of a man who makes more money in a single bloody DAY than you do in a YEAR?"

"Mrs. Jones, where are your children now?" asked the Doctor.

"LEAVE THE CHILDREN OUT OF THIS" screamed Wally in rage, "THIS HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH THEM!"

"Oh, doesn't it?" laughed Gallagher uneasily, "Will the two of you listen to yourselves? You hire me to help resolve this conflict and to treat the children: yes, the CHILDREN, but when it comes time to actually take action you try to force them out of the picture."

Turning away from the irate husband, Gallagher took Amanda's hand into her own. "Mrs. Jones" he repeated softly, "tell me where the children are. Where are they right this moment?"

Walter Jones stared icily up towards the balcony. Amanda, pulling away from the Psychologist, nervously tugged on her dress and began to walk around the parlor in slow, small circles.

"Mr. and Mrs. Jones: where are the children now?" asked Gallagher, "I'll need to talk to them in order to determine what our best course of action is. Everything you've told me is fine, but without the children it will soon prove to be a meaningless exercise in frustration."

Wally coughed nervously and looked towards the Psychologist. "We, uh... we don't exactly know where the children are. You see, we had a little disagreement with the boys last night and they never came home afterwards."

Unbelievable, thought Gallagher. He had never in all his life seen a family so totally dysfunctional as this one. If he could resolve this mess, he could publish a paper on these clowns and be set for life once word of the miracle leaked out.

So, why did he feel like dashing out the front door? Why did he feel a half-suppressed scream forming in his throat?

"Have you contacted the Police?" asked the Doctor after a few minutes of silence. The two parents shook their head and held each other but offered no other reply.

That's it, thought the Doctor. He was out of here. Paper or no paper, he had been suckered into a shed full of dynamite and these two were holding lit matches.

"I'll tell you what, Mr. and Mrs. Jones: I'm going to head back to my office now. I'll make some phone calls; see if my schedule will allow for additional sessions both with you and your children" lied Gallagher; firmly convinced he was going to leave this house and never hear from the two of them again.

"Let me know if you hear from your two boys: we can continue this discussion then. Don't bother to show me out: I can find the way on my own."

Gallagher offered his fleeing hand to Walter Jones, but the man just stared at it dumbly and continued to clutch his wife.

"Thank you, this has been… uh, very interesting. I'll be in touch." continued Gallagher as he fled for the door.

* * *

Rayford left the warm sunshine that poured down into the cornfield and entered the dirt road leading along the base of the hill. The pine and maple trees lining the path created the eerie effect of a tunnel: their foliage intermingled about thirty feet above the ground and almost completely blocked out the rays of the sun from view. Entering this road was like descending a cold tunnel into the very pit of Hell.

Two hundred feet down the path, Rayford came to an area of the road blocked off with the familiar yellow police tape. Stooping down, he crossed into the marked off area and walked over to the center of the road. The bear trap had been removed; it was now tagged and sitting in the Rutherford Police Station evidence room. Its location had been marked with white dye in the center of the dirt road.

Someone went to a whole lot of trouble to set this up, thought Rayford. They lured the victim deep enough down the path to guarantee no one from the cornfield or the road would be able to see them, and to ensure it was dark enough in the shadows of the trees to remain unseen by anyone who might have walked down the path ahead of schedule.

It had been a easy task to isolate the position of the killer. Even now, a long length of string marking the trajectory of the first bullet was fastened to the boulder on the left side of the path and extended out through space to a tree about thirty feet beyond the road to the right. A similar string was fastened from the position of the trap to the same spot. No one had bothered to remove the lines once the initial site investigation had been completed.

Could it really have been a child that committed these murders, wondered Rayford? Ten years ago, he would have doubted it, but today the world that contained Rutherford had become a different, more violent place. Today, even children could kill.

His wife was afraid of having a child for this very reason. The two of them had discussed the possibility many times in their brief marriage. Jonathan had always wanted a family (a LARGE family, if the truth was known), but Lizzie was hesitant; concerned with the safety of a child in a murderous world, concerned for the security of a child whose parents were both Law Enforcement Officers.

Neither Rayford nor his wife had ever managed to resolve the conflict, but then again neither of them held enough evidence to justify their own position, until now.

Now, whenever Yancey looked through the case files of the two girls, she would tense up: no one but the man who shared her bed would even be able to tell something was bothering her. Her fingers would grasp the folders tightly; her right index and thumb would carefully caress the pages as she was reading them.

And Yancey would bite her lower lip just a little when she thought no one was watching.

Usually, Rayford solved crimes because he was paid to solve them, but this time it had become personal. He had to prove to his wife that the benefits were worth the risks.

Shaking the disturbing thoughts from his mind, Rayford began to follow the straight-line path towards the shooter's position. Moving slowly, he carefully examined the path in front of him.

When he reached the tree, he began to move about counterclockwise in ever increasing circles. Someone once stood at this very spot and ambushed a little girl with a gun. Someone may have spent a great deal of time here; may have smoked a cigarette or eaten a candy bar while they waited. Someone may have stepped in a soft spot of dirt and left a boot impression that was missed the other day during the shock of the initial investigation.

Someone had a NAME, and Rayford was determined to find out what it was.

An hour later, and about fifty feet away from the tree, Rayford halted his search. Nothing was here; nothing they hadn't already found. Why was he bothering? What was driving him to spend so much time going over old ground?

"The thought that a child did this" he answered himself. "I need more proof than a little girl's tale of a whistle to confirm that this killing was not done by an adult."

This was a total waste of time, Rayford figured after an additional ten-minute search. Leaving the woods, he walked diagonally back towards the path. His car was parked near the brook on Paugasaget Road and it would take him about fifteen minutes to reach it.

Angry at his failure to find anything, Rayford stomped carelessly through the brush and didn't bother to move aside branches from his path. About fifteen feet from the dirt road, his foot stepped onto something solid hidden deep in the overgrowth. His ankle twisted painfully.

Grimacing from the pain, Rayford moved his hands through the brush looking for the source of his injury. Underneath the bush he had just stepped over was a sneaker, dirty and torn.

It was a child's sneaker; a little girls’ sneaker.

Whistling, Rayford pulled a plastic evidence bag from his jacket pocket and used a small stick to pick up the shoe and drop it in the bag. Once it was sealed, he examined it carefully.

The shoe was torn, but from old age and excessive use more than anything else Rayford could see. The laces were frayed on both ends. Dirt was caked about the soles; both brown from the forest floor and white from clay. The plastic image of a young girl skipping rope was fastened to the tongue of the shoe.

Rayford limped the remaining distance to the path and headed back towards the cornfield. Maybe a child didn't do these murders, he wondered. Maybe it was an adult after all. Most children can't handle a gun; wouldn't be able to kill the Riant girl with just two shots.

Or, maybe it was a child who shot the girl; a child who wore this sneaker. At the very least, Rayford knew the sneaker would eventually place another child at the scene of the crime. If a child hadn't committed the murders, then there was one child who might have WITNESSED the crime. The Riant girl had been wearing both of her sneakers when she was found, and the mud on this new one was fresh, not dried. The new shoe did not belong to Paula Riant; Rayford was sure of that.

The shoe belonged to the child who had watched her die.

* * *

Jacob, Esau, and Maggie sat in the deep gloom of the clubhouse and discussed the latest events surrounding Paugasaget Road. Maggie held a paper sack of apples stolen from the Jones household; she handed one to each of the boys while they talked and kept a third.

"There are a couple of policemen asking questions of everyone in the neighborhood” whispered Esau, "This guy named 'Johnson' has talked to my parents twice."

Maggie nodded. "I heard from Clarissa yesterday that the cops think a kid might have done the killings. Imagine that: a kid."

Jacob looked doubtful. "I don't know about that. Kids like us aren't very strong..."

"What if they used a weapon?" asked Esau crossly.

"Paula Riant was shot with a gun" offered Maggie, "That's what Clarissa said."

The hushed conversation stopped when Maggie heard the trap door open and footsteps begin to climb down the wooden slats that lead into the cavern. Seconds later, Scott Langford stepped into the cavern and threw a small package to Maggie.

"Here are some more batteries for your lantern, Maggie." The red-haired girl scooped up the package and went over to the lantern to replace the weakening batteries. For a few seconds, the cavern was plunged into darkness.

"What the Hell were you guys thinking about when you robbed your parent's house?" asked Scott. "Did you know Maggie's dad was telling people at the Peterson's cafe he was going to call the cops on you?"

"That was Maggie's idea, Scott” said Esau in the dark, "She thought it was a good idea for us to get rid of the things that were causing our Parents the most amount of harm. We would have hit your place, too, if you had showed up yesterday."

The lights came back on after Esau spoke.

"Couldn't," Scott replied, thinking of Carina's visit, "Something came up. Just what in Hell would you have wrecked at my place: My Dad's Bibles?"

Maggie rejoined the group and sat cross-legged in the center of the cavern. "No, the way we see it, reading those things might just be a good idea for him. We would have busted up your Dad's pictures of your Mother."

Scott opened his mouth to object but then hesitated. Not a bad idea, he realized. He wished he had thought of it himself.

"Just what gives you guys the right to go on such a rampage like that without my knowledge or permission?" he asked the three of them hotly, "That isn't the sort of thing we should be doing with the club"

Maggie glared back at their leader; her red hair flying about her shoulders as she tossed her head. "Get off it, Scott. You're the one who said we should use the Chameleon Club to accomplish something practical."

Jacob frowned. "Esau, we've been gone three days now. Do you think Mom and Dad will call the cops on us? Mr. Thompson only lost a lot of booze; they lost their entire collection of Dad's 'G-BILLS'…"

"T-Bills, Jacob:" corrected Esau, "T-Bills."

"Whatever. Maggie, maybe we ought to bring the stuff back before we get into trouble."

"No. Nothing is going back."

"Why keep it?" asked Scott as he sat down and shifted his position in the cavern, "Why take it in the first place? Just what did you accomplish with that little stunt, Maggie? What did you learn? Tell me: How did that stunt help you find your Mother?"

"When my Dad runs out of booze, we figure he'll have to contact my Mom to get some more money..." she started to reply, but Scott waved her off.

"No. Don't you remember that check I showed you the other day?" asked Scott, "It's your uncle Bobby that's been paying the bills at your house, NOT your Mom."

Maggie fell silent; the twins shifted awkwardly.

"Things are getting out of hand around here” said Scott, "I think we're getting in over our heads. Maybe it would be a good idea if we disbanded the Club for a while and wait a few weeks before doing anything else…"

"NO!" screamed Maggie; her shout so quick and unexpected that Jacob cried out and jumped from his seat.

"We're going to continue the Chameleon Club and try to find out who's behind the killings” she said firmly. "We've already agreed on that. Besides, I think whoever is doing the killings might also be responsible for my Mom being gone."

"Look: we can try to use the Club to find out what's happened to Mrs. Thompson," said Scott quickly, "but I don't think we should get messed up in the murders."

"I don't know," said Esau, "We may be able to find out stuff the cops can't. Look at what we've already discovered."

"We haven't discovered anything."

"Yes, we have” replied Esau, ticking off an invisible list on his fingers as he talked. "We've learned that Maggie's uncle is paying all of their bills. We've learned that My Mom is having sex with Representative Donaldson behind my Dad's back. We've learned that Dad has been selling bad construction shit to the Town and overcharging them in the process. We've learned that the Police think a local kid killed those two girls."

Jacob brushed some dirt off of his pants. "We've learned that this damn clay doesn't come out of your pants in the laundry until about the second or third washing…"

Maggie stood up in the cavern and squared off in front of Scott. "Esau's right, Scott: it may not be much now, but we've managed to learn a lot more in the last few days than we ever knew before you took over the Club. I think it's worth continuing. Let's put it to a vote."

Scott sighed deeply. "Maggie, I wish I could be as sure about this. I hope we manage to find your Mom and convince your parents to change their ways, but I'm just worried you guys are going to get hurt or get in trouble."

"Scott, this was all your idea” Maggie reminded him gently. "None of what we've already done would have been possible without you. Don't give up on us now."

Silent for a few seconds, Scott looked over each of the three children and considered Maggie's words. A stern but small voice in the back of his head still clamored for his attention; warned him that things were taking a bad path. Maybe he should just quit this club and start finding some kids his own age to hang around with. Just what was it about these three kids that kept him down in this cave?

"All right” he finally agreed. "We'll put it to a vote. All in favor of continuing to use the Club to investigate the murders raise your hand."

Three hands shot into the air: Maggie's and the twins.

Scowling, Scott slapped the clay in front of him and stood up. "Okay, the motion is carried: we continue to investigate."

Jacob cheered and clapped his tiny hands together furiously; Esau slapped him across the back of the head to stop him.

"Only this time," added Scott quickly, "We do it the RIGHT way. No more robbing our Parents. Let's spend the next couple of days checking out the woods near the places where the killings took place: maybe we can spot something we recognize, and the cops don't."

The other three children nodded their heads in agreement; then rose from the floor of the cave and headed for the exit. Scott waited until the tree tunnel was clear and then followed them up to the surface.

Maybe this isn't such a bad idea after all, he thought as he reached the surface. With kids getting killed around these woods, maybe he should tag along with them; help keep them alive and out of trouble. It might even give him an excuse to avoid babysitting his Father and Carina. Who knows: Maybe if these guys COULD solve the murders, their Parents would respect them more and start spending more time with them?

Then the Chameleon Club could be disbanded for real, Scott knew, its purpose would have been served and its existence made pointless.

* * *

Reverend Steven Langford was waiting patiently in the checkout line of the Rutherford Grocery when he overheard the two women in the back of the line talking about him.

"Did you hear about that new Preacher at the Congregational Church?" asked one woman; her voice slightly lower than the others.

"No; what about him?" asked the second women.

"Well, I heard Marcie tell Janet last night that he might be something of a lady killer."

Steven gasped and froze in place. How could anyone possibly think that of him, he wondered?

"NO!" gasped the women with the higher voice. "That just can't BE!" she protested, "He seems like such a nice, quiet, RIGHTEOUS man."

"I'm sorry, Maggie” said the lower-voice women, "but it's true. Did you know he's a widower?"

"Yes, Loretta: I did hear that. People tell me his wife was such a fine and wonderful person."

Scott frowned. No one at the Rutherford Congregational Church had ever met his wife Julia: how could this woman named 'Maggie' had heard that?

"I've also heard he's been seen cavorting around the Church Parsonage with a woman from the church; one Carina Carlson."

"CAVORTING?" asked Steven openly; shocked by the claim. The women, apparently unaware of his outburst, continued their gossip.

"Loretta, that can't be SO. I know Carina; she used to sing in the choir. She's not that sort of a person…"

"Well, that may be, Marcie, but I know what people have seen and you can't argue with the word of two or three witnesses. It says so in the Bible."

"Ma'am, you're taking that particular verse of Scripture out of context” snapped an angry Steven Langford over his shoulder. The couple in front of him collected their groceries and left the store: it was the Reverend's turn to check out.

"Excuse me?" asked one of the women to Steven, "Did you say something?"

Angered by their brash attitude, Steven did not turn around but stared stonily at the checkout girl as she rang up his groceries. "I said, you're taking that verse out of context. A person who is a witness to a crime or a moral sin and a person who THINKS they witness an assumed crime of passion are two different things. You can't judge the man guilty of 'cavorting' as you put it simply by the word of a person whose judgment is uncertain, at best."

"Who are you to make such a remark?" asked the woman with the low voice; her tone becoming irritated. "I'll have you know that my friends, the ones who witnessed this horrible event, are fine, outstanding members of the Rutherford Congregational Church. They would never make up such a story if it wasn't true."

“‘they wouldn't make up a story if it was true'?" asked the Reverend. The checkout girl had finished ringing up his groceries. Scott handed her a twenty-dollar bill for payment and noticed she was staring over his shoulder at the women with a strange look in her eye.

"Don't you realize how foolish that sounds?" asked Steven.

"Now, Loretta” said the second women, "Listen to the nice man. I TOLD you this whole nonsense was just a big bunch of hooey."

The checkout girl's eyes grew wide with delight. She covered her mouth with her hands, Steven's twenty-dollar bill forgotten, and began to laugh.

"Marcie” snapped Steven, "I must insist you stop carrying on about this. I happen to know a little about the new Reverend, and I don't think he is the sort of person who would be 'cavorting' with a member of his own church."

"Maggie" corrected the women with the lower-voice, "My name is Maggie, not 'Marcie'".

"Your friend called you 'Marcie', earlier..." replied Steven, puzzled by the discrepancy. The checkout girl continued to laugh; Steven rudely shoved the money back into her hands and forced her to finish his purchase.

"No, Reverend:" continued the woman behind him, "My name is actually 'Maggie' as I said earlier."

Unable to contain his curiosity any longer, Steven turned around and confronted the two gossiping women.

Woman: Only one woman stood in line behind him at the register. The woman was not Maggie or Marcie. It was Carina Carlson, and her face was lit with a wide, sinister smile. There had never been two women behind him; Carina had been playing both parts while using two different voices. The checkout girl, seeing that only one person was speaking, had become aware of the joke before he had.

Steven was shocked and embarrassed. Both Carina and the checkout girl laughed at him openly: the redder his cheeks became the more the two of them howled at his plight. Finally, Carina placed her hand on his shoulder and pushed him towards the cart that contained his groceries.

"Say something, Steven” she giggled as she escorted him out of the store with his purchases. "You look like you're having a heart attack."

Steven was absolutely dumbfounded. His mouth hung open and he stared at Carina with eyes that were wide with horror.

Finally, he managed to speak. "'Thou shall not lie'?"

Carina exploded into a new wave of laughter as the two of them reached the front door and headed out of the store. Steven, embarrassed by all of the attention, prayed to God no one else from his congregation was watching them.

Once out in the parking lot, Steven looked over at the still giggling girl and swallowed hard. His attraction for Carina was overwhelming him, her beauty absolutely haunted him both day and night. And now that his embarrassment had been forgotten, her laughter was settling pleasantly in his mind. He smiled at her, and she looked up at him curiously.

"Carina..." he stammered.

"Yes?" she asked, her laughter gone but her eyes still twinkling furiously in the bright sunshine.

"I… What I meant to say is…"

Carina frowned. "I'm sorry, Steven, for that nasty little prank. I didn't mean to embarrass you; I was just trying to make a little joke; get you to laugh and lighten up a little bit. Forgive me if I was out of line."

"No, that's not it at all” said Steven weakly. "What I want to know is…"

What he wanted to know was if Carina would go out with him. Unfortunately, he kept getting glimpses of Julia flashing through his mind as he considered the possibility. He didn't even know Carina that well; they had only met about three or four times over the past two weeks. He was anxious about his position at the Church, unsure of whether it was even the best course of action to attempt a relationship with this woman. He wasn't even sure he was past the death of this wife enough to even consider a relationship. What would Julia think if she could see him carrying on in a grocery store parking lot like a simple school boy?

Carina, curious about Steven's difficulty, gently took his hand in hers as they walked. "Just what is it you're trying to ask me, Steven?" she asked him.

The presence of her hand brought the issue to a boiling point in Steven's mind. The very thing he had wanted to happen was now happening; her hand was in his. Did he allow this to continue, or give in to his fears and back away?

The two of them reached Steven's car. Carina continued to hold his hand; Steven made no move to remove it. Finally, he pushed the cart up against his fender and turned to stare into her lovely, dark eyes; lost in her gentle gaze and completely unable to speak.

"I could get thrown out of the Church for this, I suppose” said Carina finally, "but one of us has got to take a first step around here, and it obviously isn't going to be you." Leaning up to him, Carina gently pressed her lips against his and kissed him.

Lost, thought Steven in a panic, this girl was kissing him, and he was completely powerless to stop her. Putting his arms awkwardly around Carina, Steven pulled her tiny form into his own and carefully returned her kiss.

After a few blissful seconds, Steven gently pushed the girl away from him and watched her reaction. Carina smiled gently and kept her hands on his arms.

"I'm scared” she said simply.

Steven laughed. "YOU'RE scared? I'm absolutely terrified." Backing away from Carina, the Reverend opened the door to his car. "Maybe this is all happening too fast; maybe we should think about this, Carina."

Carina, becoming thoughtful, kept a hand on his arm. "I've thought about this a lot, Steven: more than you could possibly know."

Steven stared back at her, then climbed into his car and turned over the engine. "I'm sorry, Carina” he said finally, "I've got to pray about this. I'm not sure this is the right time for me to begin a new relationship; I'm still suffering pains from my last one. I'll see you at services, okay? Please forgive me for kissing you…"

"You didn't kiss me," objected Carina, "I kissed you. And I won't forgive you for doing something I didn't object to."

Steven shook his head. "Whatever" he said quickly then grabbed the steering wheel in his sweaty hands and began to back the automobile out of the parking spot. "I'll talk to you later."

* * *

Jonathan Rayford stood in the main station room and listened quietly to Detective Yancey discuss with Officer Peters the sneaker he had found in the Paugasaget Woods.

"This shoe is an exclusive brand; it's only sold locally at one store - the 'Big Buy Department Store' on Route 17. They still have about fifty pairs of these on stock, but their records show they've only about ten of them. Have Officer Johnson take a photograph of this and bring it with him when he interviews the families on Paugasaget Road."

Peters frowned. "Isn't there any way to find out who bought those ten pairs?" he asked.

"No; there are no records" said Yancey, "Each of the ten pairs was paid for with cash. No credit card receipts to match to a product number. I'm afraid we're going to have to play 'Cinderella' with this one, Jim."

"Lizzie" interrupted Jonathan, "Have Johnson take the original with him; just make sure it's bagged. You can't accurately determine shoe size from a photograph, and I want to know this shoe matches the width of its twin once you find it."

Yancey nodded briefly and then talked to a second Officer who had brought her a message. She nodded at him and held up five fingers.

"Jon, there's a Janine Halloran waiting in the briefing room for you - She's here about Maggie Thompson."

Rayford nodded. "I talked to her the other day about Benjamin Thompson. We should probably meet with her, Lizzie, and see what she's found out since then. Peters, go with Johnson when you interview the families."

Peters nodded and walked off into the station. Taking Yancey's arm, Rayford headed for the briefing room.

Janine Halloran was, Rayford could tell immediately, a no-nonsense type of person. She was conservatively dressed; wearing a simple brown slacks suit with a dim yellow scarf. Her brown hair was tied up in a bun and, from her seat at the conference table, she stared back at the two Policemen with a calm yet hard look through horn-rimmed glasses.

"Lieutenant Rayford, I'm Janine Halloran: Department of Children and Youth Services" she said, offering her hand to first Yancey, then Rayford. "We talked on the telephone the other day."

"Yes, I remember" said Rayford, "Are you considering visiting the home? Do you need an escort?"

Halloran grimaced and looked towards the door. "No, I'm not quite ready to make that trip. I want some more information on the family and some of the charges that the… that my source has given me."

Rayford laughed weakly. "Ms. Halloran, I'm afraid I've already confirmed as much as I know. Give me some more detail on the charges; maybe that will jog my memory."

"You know I'm not prepared to do that, nor am I legally required to."

"You may not be required to," said Yancey quickly, "but one would think you'd want to." Rayford scowled at his detective's choice of words and warned her off with a glance.

"Just why are you here, then?" he asked. "Our office has received no complaints, other than second hand from your office, about Mr. Thompson's behavior: our hands are tied on this one. I can't investigate a crime that hasn't been committed."

Halloran rose from the table and walked over to a water painting carelessly displayed over a nearby filing cabinet. She ran her gloved finger over the edges of the imitation brass frame and struggled to choose her words carefully.

"'Can't' or 'Don't want to'?" said Halloran. "I've heard from sources this department is currently investigating the Thompsons and other area families as part of a homicide investigation."

"Yes, that's true" agreed Rayford, "But I'm not at liberty to discuss the case."

"Are children involved?" she asked him, "Are any of your suspects minors?"

Rayford looked towards Yancey for a few seconds. His wife, with a glint in her eye, puckered her lips at him and pouted. It was a familiar gesture to Rayford: Yancey thought there was a leak in the Station. Someone had tipped the Halloran lady off; someone who knew about the sneaker and was close to the investigation.

"Lieutenant, I understand your difficulty in discussing the case" said Halloran as she moved away from the picture and around the conference table, "Now, understand mine. I have my own information about possible violence in that family; violence on the part of several members; not just Mr. Benjamin Thompson."

"As do we” said Yancey softly.

"As do you” agreed Halloran, "It's not a secret any longer that Thompson's brother, George Thompson, was arrested and convicted of assault on a minor; nor is it a secret that this attack occurred on School property. I've talked to Council members about the family; they tell me Benjamin Thompson was fired from his maintenance job because of this incident."

Yancey was startled by this. "Why was he fired for something his brother did?"

Halloran sat on the edge of the table and sighed. "He was a witness to the assault; did nothing to prevent it. He didn't even report it. The parents found out from the child, there was an investigation, a lawsuit, and the Town cleaned house to prevent a scandal and minimize their own liability."

"Who was the child?" asked Rayford; his mind sensing a connection.

"Are you prepared to make an arrest?" asked Halloran hotly.

"No."

"Then, I can't tell you. This was a privileged conversation; I promised the Council Member I talked to that I wouldn't reveal their identity or the identity of the victim."

Rayford snorted furiously and walked angrily away from the table. "So, once again: I can't tell you anything and you can't tell us anything. This is getting us nowhere. Ms. Halloran why are you here?" he snapped. "This Department has better things to do than to sit here and spend a lot of time gossiping with State employees."

"I'm here to find out about the Mother, Victoria Thompson. Do you have any information on her possible involvement in violent activities? Has she ever been arrested?"

Yancey began to reply, but cautiously looked at Rayford first. He nodded, and she spoke.

"Victoria Thompson has no criminal record, Ms. Halloran. We've tried to interview her ourselves but failed: she's been missing from Rutherford about five months now."

Halloran jaw fell open. "No, that can't be. I've talked to School System employees who've talked to her about her daughter."

"Within the last five months?" asked Yancey.

Halloran spent a few moments recounting her conversation with Maggie's teacher, Gloria Marsden, and her claims that Maggie's change in behavior was related to mistreatment by the Mother.

When she was finished, Yancey frowned and quickly scribbled some notes on her pad. "This may be an accurate account of what happened BEFORE February of this year, but it can't be accurate for afterwards. Victoria Thompson has been missing since mid-February."

Frustrated, Halloran threw her arms into the air and began to pace around the table. "Lieutenant, what have I stepped into here?" she asked, "I'm supposed to go visit that house and investigate these charges, but I'm a little leery of doing that with all this other nonsense going on."

"Visit the house” advised Rayford, "but limit your investigation to Benjamin Thompson, at least for the time being. We can't divulge any more information until our own investigation has progressed further, but if we do find any confirmation of child abuse within the family, you'll be the first to know. When are you going down to the Thompson house?"

"Tomorrow"

"I'll send one of my Officers with you; maybe Ms. Yancey can accompany you."

Halloran shook her head fiercely. "No, I've already refused that offer. Thank you, but I'd rather question the Thompsons without a parade of Policemen standing behind me." Yancey opened her mouth to protest, but Halloran stopped her.

"No, I'm serious: I'll take my chances with Mr. Thompson. If he gets out of line, I'll let you know. Thank you for your time, Lieutenant” said Halloran as she handed him a business card, "I'll be in touch."

After she left, Yancey spoke softly to her husband. Rayford, who already had Janine Halloran's name and number on file, turned her business card over in his hand; lost in his own thoughts.

"Someone should go with her."

Rayford shook his head. "No, I don't think so. This lady may be foolish, but she's also powerful, and very head-strong. The last thing we need around here is a call from Hartford accusing us of pushing around one of their people. No, someone should NOT go with her."

Stopping at the door, Rayford turned back towards Yancey and winked.

"Someone should FOLLOW her tomorrow..."

* * *

White upon White, thought Steven as he watched the Rutherford Congregational Choir assemble on the podium in their brilliant white gowns. It would be a blinding color combination if the ceiling lights were too high, or if you were tired when you watched.

Like now. The Reverend Langford was exhausted. Sitting back in the pew, he closed his eyes and breathed deeply as the choir began its practice. The song 'Amazing Grace' began to drift up towards the ceiling in practiced, smooth four-part harmony. Steven smiled slightly to himself and rested the back of his head against the tall, hard backing of the pew. The music would sooth him, and the hymn was one of his favorites.

Suddenly, a loud commotion erupted in the rear of the church and the song came to a halt. Langford awoke from his reverie and looked back towards the disturbance. The Jones were storming down the center aisle of the sanctuary; angry looks plastered on their faces.

"YOU!" screamed Amanda as she spotted the Pastor. "We want a WORD."

Well, you've come to the right place, thought Steven wearily as he stood up and moved to intercept the invaders, although he didn’t think the word they wanted was the one he had to give.

"I am SICK and TIRED" screamed Wally Jones in rage, "of all this sanctimonious BULLSHIT you've been dishing out to this community." Several voices in the choir gasped.

"Please, watch your language” admonished Steven gently, "This is the house of the Lord you've marched into."

"I don't care if it's the White House” roared Wally, his raised finger jabbing in the air towards the Reverend, "I've got some things to say to you, and I demand to be heard."

"All right: Let's move into a side room and allow the Choir to continue their practice in relative peace, shall we?" Steven shepherded the two angry parents out of the main sanctuary and cast an apologetic look towards the frightened Choir Director before joining them.

Amanda Jones, dressed to kill, nearly assaulted the Reverend once he entered the chamber. "How DARE you allow that rotten, miscreant of a son to corrupt our children like he has?" She screamed at him.

A puzzled look crossed Steven's brow. "Corrupted? Scott?" he asked.

Wally roughly shoved his wife aside and took her place in front of Steven. "Yes, CORRUPTED” he roared. "My kids haven't been home in three days, and I've come to find out that they've hooked up with your rotten kid with this new Club of his and have been running around the woods for the past few days terrorizing the neighborhood."

"That doesn't sound like my son, Scott, Mr. Jones. I assure you, Scott is a fine, upstanding boy: There has never even been the slightest hint of difficulty with his activities…"

"Mister Langford, I'll have you know my two boys have walked off with my entire financial portfolio sometime during the last week, and I have reason to believe your Son is responsible. Now, I demand that you tell us what you're going to do to stop his criminal activities. How are you going to prevent Scott from hurting our children?"

"You know, Mr. Langford, we could have called the Police; but because of your new tenure in our community we decided it would be best for all involved to deal with this ourselves, more directly” added Amanda with a haughty look.

"What you're telling me is deeply disturbing. Of course, I will talk to Scott and try to find out what his side of this situation is. I must assure you, however, that what you're describing sounds totally alien to my Son's character. I've never even seen the slightest hint of such juvenile activity in him. He's active in School, sports: He's been attending Church services faithfully since the day my former wife and I adopted him…"

"Oh, PLEASE” interrupted Amanda hotly, "Don't talk to me about your religion. That's just a lot of foolishness: Maybe it was your Son's misguided and errant religious beliefs that's caused him to shepherd our sons into violent and criminal activity."

"I agree" added Wally, now pacing the floor like a caged animal, "This religious bullshit of yours is just a feeble excuse to avoid your problems; a primitive man's shot of whiskey."

"Watch your language, Mr. Jones!"

"Never mind my fucking language” he shouted. "Just tell us what you intend to do about this problem your Son has caused."

Steven fought desperately to control his rising temper. "Why don't we meet with the boys and talk this over? Let's confront them with your suspicions together and work out the truth. If my Son is indeed involved, I assure you: his punishment will be severe."

Amanda clutched at her husband's shoulder. "Wally, this is getting us nowhere. This wicked man is no more cooperative than Dr. Gallagher was."

"We don't want your counseling, Preacher” shouted Wally in rage, his finger once again jabbing the air, "We want your action. Stop that child of yours from corrupting our children; Keep his sorry ass away from our boys. If you don't act, I will."

"Are you threatening my family, Mr. Jones?" asked Steven; his eyebrows raised.

"Take it as you like, Langford. Keep that moron you call a son away from our children and our property, or all the Angels in Heaven won't be able to stop me from bringing him down."

With a loud Harrumph, Walter Jones stormed out of the office and back into the church, slamming the door behind him. Amanda sighed and handed the Reverend an envelope.

"Please forgive my husband, Mr. Langford: He's been under a lot of stress lately because of the boys. Take this donation for your Church; I'm sure you'll find we've been very generous. If we can't get any cooperation from you, maybe we can buy a little cooperation from God, eh?"

Shoving the envelope back into her hands, Steven finally lost temper. "How DARE you even suggest that? The God I serve can't be bought with all of the money in the world, never mind the few bills you throw in my direction. Don't you know that, at this very moment, you're standing in the presence of God? Don't you have any conscience?"

Amanda, still smiling, protested. "I'm just trying to be cooperative…"

"If I really, REALLY, believed you were trying to help your boys, I'd cooperate” snapped Steven. "But something, Mrs. Jones, tells me your husband and you are here to act out a part: play the roles of angry, determined Parents while covering your own butts in the process. I don't really believe you are interested in helping the boys at all."

Amanda smiled coyly and slipped the refused donation into her purse.

"Just what is it you want from me, Mrs. Jones?"

Amanda paused for a second, then took her right index finger and gently traced it along the line of Steven's jaw. Her eyes grew misty, and her lipstick-covered mouth opened slightly to reveal a perfect line of white, smoothly positioned teeth.

"I want a lot, Mr. Langford. And what I want, I get…"

Dear God in Heaven, prayed Steven, how could you possibly allow this demon to enter your Holy place? This mad lady was trying to proposition him!

"Get out, Mrs. Jones. This conversation is over” said Steven as he slapped her hand away from his face. "You're SICK. You and your husband are in severe need of repentance and counseling."

Amanda, still smiling wickedly, waltzed to the door and opened it. Turning back, she cast one additional sensual glance back towards Steven; mocking him with a lick of her lips.

"Call me, Preacher, if you find yourself some night in a more cooperative mood…"

The door closed. Steven collapsed into a chair and breathed deeply for a few seconds as the shock of the bizarre confrontation slowly wore off. Sometimes he thought that maybe he had made a mistake taking this job.

Things were more peaceful in New Hampshire.

* * *

Yancey sat in her car on the corner of Lawson Avenue and Fourth Street eating a ham sandwich. The sky was overcast; a slight breeze moved just enough air to create a chill. Looks like we could have some rain, thought Yancey somberly, as she took another bite of her sandwich.

The car door opened. Yancey turned to her right and saw her husband climb in with a foam cup of coffee. Taking the coffee, she pointed down Lawson Avenue with her sandwich.

"Our friend G. Robert Thompson is the one in the blue blazer," she said, pointing to a sidewalk cafe about three blocks down the road. "I'd give anything to join him: He's having a REAL breakfast."

Rayford squinted as he watched the man eat. "Anything?" he asked her with a slight smile.

Yancey, her mouth full of sandwich, nodded vigorously. "ANYTHING!" she mumbled.

"When are you supposed to start tailing Halloran?" asked Jonathan, "I thought Matherson was taking this detail?"

Yancey nodded; took another sip of the hot liquid in the cup. "He is; he relieves me in about an hour. I'm assuming Halloran will head down to Paugasaget Road shortly after her office opens at nine, but I could end up spending the entire day there."

Rayford yawned briefly; turned towards his wife. "Mr. Thompson is registered to carry a pistol. Did you know that, Ms. Rayford?"

"No, I did not, Mr. Rayford. Per chance, it wouldn't be a thirty-eight caliber, would it?"

"It would."

"Have we asked him nicely to show it to us?" asked Yancey as she finished her sandwich.

"No, we have not. I still hoping the little bastard will try to use it while we're watching him” replied her husband; his eyes darkening at the prospect of another child dying.

"Jon, do you really think it was Robert? What about the Father, or his daughter, for that matter?"

Rayford frowned. "It’s too early to tell. I feel like a fisherman who's watching three or four poles at once. I could have several bites, but they're still in the water and I'm not sure yet what I've hooked..."

Yancey slowly nodded. "It would be really nice to find out where Victoria Thompson is and see what her angle on the situation is."

"I've got the State Police in Montville trying to track down her relatives."

Both officers fell silent for a while. Three blocks down the road, G. Robert Thompson had apparently finished his breakfast and was now glancing at the morning paper over a cup of coffee.

"Lizzie, do you remember the discussion we had back at the station a few days back with Peters; about the two victims both having some form of red hair?"

Yancey nodded; drained the last of her coffee and threw the cup on the floor.

"Maggie Thompson has red hair, also” continued Rayford.

"Yea, I know that. If our killer has a fixation on red hair, Jon, then Maggie's probably his last possible victim in town. Not many people carry that color, you know what I mean?"

"What if Maggie herself is the killer? Think about it: Her Mom is missing; she's distraught by her absence. So, what does she do? She lashes out at every kid in the neighborhood who reminds her of her Mother. It would certainly help explain that sneaker I found."

"Why would the children remind her of Mom?" asked Yancey; puzzled.

"Maggie's Mother has red hair just like the children. Take a look at the file photo when you back to the station. She was quite a handsome lady."

"I knew that" replied Yancey, "Maybe if you could match that sneaker to Maggie you might have something, but I still think that Benjamin Thompson is our best bet."

Rayford shook his head. "No, I don't think so. Too drunk, too upset by his wife's disappearance. The man can hardly walk straight lately; never mind plot a murder."

Yancey laughed. "Jon, that sounds like 'motive' to me. Couldn't that have set him off? Maybe he's looking to bump his old lady, so in her absence he shoots anything even remotely resembling her?"

"Maggie resembles her more closely than any of the other two victims could: She's her daughter. She's still alive."

Yancey cast her husband a hard, condescending look. "Maybe that's why she's still alive: She's his daughter."

Three blocks down the road, Robert Thompson paid his bill and headed off on foot down Lawson Avenue; his morning newspaper folded and forgotten under his arm.

Yancey quickly started up the car. "Sorry to cut this psychology class short, dear: but my Man's on the move. I’ve got to go."

Rayford nodded and hopped out of the car. "Give me a call later, Liz, about the Halloran trip. I've got a meeting this morning with some of the Town Council; I'll be in to about one o'clock."

Once the door was shut, Yancey nodded briefly then pulled the car slowly into traffic and began to crawl down Lawson Avenue after Thompson.

* * *

It wasn't until about Eleven O’clock that Janine Halloran finally managed to get out of her office and down to Paugasaget Road. She stood on the front step of the Thompson house and knocked twice firmly on the door. When it opened, she jumped back: startled by the appearance of her host. A grizzly, dirty man stood beyond the door. He was still half asleep and dressed only in his underwear.

"Come on in, Vicky..." groused the man as he turned back into the kitchen, "You don't have to knock, for God's sake."

Halloran puzzled over the reference. "Vicky?" she asked as she walked into the home. Butch had taken a seat at the filthy kitchen table and was popping leftover remnants of cereal into his mouth. The room was an atrocious, filthy mess, and Halloran had to stifle an impulse to vomit.

"Who is Vicky?" asked Ms. Halloran; her nose curled up in distaste and feeling sick to her stomach, "Your wife?"

Butch looked up at the woman and came completely awake. "Yea, that's my wife. She's visiting relatives for a few weeks. Who the Hell are you?" he demanded, "And how did you get into my house?"

"You just let me in a few seconds ago” replied Halloran cautiously, "I'm Janine Halloran; Department of Children and Youth Services. I'm here to investigate charges that Maggie Thompson has been abused. You are her Father, Benjamin?" she asked.

Butch burped, rose from the table, and presented a greasy palm towards the lady.

"Call me 'Butch'. I’m pleased to meet ya."

Halloran, still squeamish, refused his hand. Her eyes slowly scanned the room and made mental notes of the desperate situation little Maggie Thompson called home. The floor hadn't been washed in months; the tiles were so blackened by weeks of mud, food, and grease that she couldn't even hope to guess the color of the linoleum. Old bottles and cans were strewn about everywhere. In the far corner of the room, near an old high chair, small squadrons of horseflies were competing for possession of a large puddle of brackish yellow liquid.

"Well" said Halloran slowly, "I can see this investigation isn't going to take too long."

Butch rose drunkenly from the chair and staggered towards her. "Never mind this mess, Ms. Janine: I've been busy conducting a rather in-depth job search lately and, with my wife gone, I haven't quite had the time or the… the RESOURCES to clean up the place. My daughter will help with this later on; she's real good with household chores and such."

"She'll need to be a bloody Miracle Worker to make a dent in this slop” whispered Halloran as she walked carefully out of the kitchen and towards the living room.

"Say, Lady” slurred Butch, "Just where in God's Name do you think you're going? I haven't given you my condolences to walk through this house."

Halloran, intrigued by the use of the word 'condolences', stopped for a second and cast a withering look back at the drunkard. A few seconds later, she left Butch scratching himself in the kitchen and resumed her journey into the living room.

Moving past the couch, she stopped quickly and shrieked. In the center of the carpet, near a large full-length mirror, was a dead cat: It's skin and interior organs were almost (but not quite) completely eaten away.

"And just what is THAT?" snapped Halloran angrily to the man who had stepped up behind her.

Butch snorted and waved his hand in the air. "Oh, don't you go paying no mind to that. It's not what you think."

Halloran slowly turned around and faced the man. "'Not what I think'?" she said, "What do you think I think?"

"Well, you know…" stammered Butch, embarrassed by her question, "It's not like I… I can tell you've seen all these dirty dishes and stuff lying around… I mean, that isn't FOOD or anything…"

Food, mouthed Halloran in silent horror.

"That there is 'Petunia'. She is, uh… she WAS our family pet. Pay no attention to her; she hasn't been feeling very well lately."

"SHE'S DEAD!" roared Halloran.

Butch scratched his head and farted. "Well, I guess that goes a long way to explaining a lot of peculiar things about her behavior lately, don't you think? I began to suspect something was wrong when the damn thing didn't want to be rubbed behind the ear anymore."

Janine Halloran bellowed in rage; her voice carrying such force that Butch shrank away from her and lifted his hands to his face for self-protection. Storming away from the filthy man, she swept viciously into the bedroom to continue her investigation.

"Uh, Ms. Janine: You aren't angry with me or anything, are you?" said Butch.

Marching back out of the bedroom, Halloran stormed up to Butch and glared at him. "Where's your wife, Mr. Thompson?"

"Where’s my wife? You mean, Vicky?"

Halloran nodded furiously. "It's quite apparent that she's not here; I would have seen her lying on the floor next to the damn CAT. I want to know where she is!"

"She's away visiting relatives in New York for a couple of weeks; I'm expecting her back sometime near the beginning of July” he said quickly, "AUGUST. Did I say July? I meant 'August'."

Pushing roughly past Butch, Halloran dashed back out into the tiny hallway that connected the living room to the kitchen and up the stairs. Butch, in frustration, slumped back into the kitchen and retrieved a cold can of beer from the refrigerator.

* * *

Five minutes later, Butch was relaxing at the kitchen table with a cold can of beer when the Social Worker stormed down the stairs and came marching into the kitchen, her cheeks red with rage and a thick vein throbbing in her forehead. Butch watched her pull back her arm and throw something at him; he tried to duck but was struck in the face by several of the tiny, sharp objects.

"Look at these!" yelled Halloran; her shaky finger pointing towards the objects. Butch looked.

The table was covered with bullets; thirty-eight caliber bullets, about forty of them.

"What are these things doing in your daughter's room?"

Butch swallowed; tried to refocus his eyes on the angry Social Worker. "They're not mine" he said in a thin voice.

"I KNOW THAT, YOU LITTLE CRETIN!" screamed Halloran. "I found these in your daughter's bedroom. Whose are they? Why would your daughter keep BULLETS in her room? For God's sake, the place looks like a fucking U.S. Army Ammunition Depot. There's HUNDREDS of these things up there; lying all over the place."

Butch swallowed again. He could sense the copper taste of bile in the back of his throat. He said nothing to Halloran: He had nothing to say.

"Does she have a God Damn PISTOL to go with them, Mr. Thompson?" raged the Social Worker. Again, he offered her no reply.

"ANSWER ME, DAMN YOU!" raged Halloran, her fists pounding furiously on the kitchen table, "What does your daughter need bullets for? Most children her age are playing with Barbie dolls, or compiling Photo Albums. YOUR daughter is preparing herself for ARMAGEDDON!"

Butch could only sit silently and stare in drunken fascination at the exploding behemoth in front of him. He was in serious trouble here and knew it. This lady could destroy his life with what she had seen or take Maggie away to a foster home.

As if that wasn't bad enough, Butch noticed he was also getting an erection. The mad, screaming lady was turning him on. Her emotional resemblance to his own short-tempered wife was just too much for him to handle.

"How do you explain the MESS this house is in, Mr. Thompson?" she asked, her voice lower in tone. "Why is it that your refrigerator…" said Halloran, pointing to the wide-open door containing Butch's beer deposits, "contains a veritable PACKAGE STORE of alcohol, but no milk? No eggs?"

Butch remained silent.

Halloran sighed and looked out a window towards the driveway. "Mr. Thompson, can you at least tell me where the gun that goes with these bullets is? I couldn't find it up in Maggie's room. I'd be very, very concerned if your daughter had access to a pistol."

Butch swallowed hard and managed to squeak out a response. "I don't know."

"Where's Maggie now?" asked the angry lady, "I'm not going to allow her to stay in this filth and disease, I'm going to take her with me”

Butch, physically exhausted and mentally beaten, turned back towards the table and placed his face in the palms of his hands. "I don't know, Ms. Janine. She's probably up in the woods somewhere; she doesn't come home much anymore."

Halloran moved towards the door quickly. "Which woods?" she asked him, "The ones beyond that barn?"

Butch nodded. "Probably. She's somewhere in the woods. She was always in the woods. I didn't put her there; she went of her own accord. It wasn't my fault, and it wasn't my idea; can't you see that?"

After receiving no response, Butch looked up from his hands. The Social Worker had left the building; probably to find his daughter.

"She's in the woods", slurred Butch; his voice thick with both alcohol and raw fear, "running around with all of those other God-forsaken animals."

* * *

Scott could hear noise coming from the Thompson house.

"Maggie; someone's at your house!” he whispered. Maggie stopped near Scott; her ears bent to the wind and listened for voices. The two boys came up behind them, and she motioned them to be silent.

"Jacob” hissed Maggie, "You're the one with the magical ears. Can you hear anything over to the south?" she asked.

Jacob put a hand to his ear and, after a few seconds pause, nodded. "Somebody just slammed a door at your Dad's place, Maggie” he said in a whisper, "And now they're arguing. Two people: a man and a woman."

Esau tapped Maggie's left shoulder. "Your mom?" he asked with a hopeful look.

"Can't tell" offered Jacob quietly.

Scott moved past Maggie and peered through the trees towards the south. "I can see a car in the driveway: a white sedan. What do you think, Maggie? Should we check this out?"

Maggie nodded furiously. "Is the Pope Protestant?"

Jacob, confused by the reference, shook his head. "No; I don't think so…"

"Come on" said Maggie. Scott stood aside and allowed the other three children to pass him; then followed the group about ten yards behind. Maggie led the boys down a slim, winding trail towards the southern valley below.

This could be the break they've been waiting for, thought Scott gladly. Maggie's been gone so long that Mr. Thompson probably doesn't even expect her to come home. Maybe Maggie's Mom is meeting with him about money; maybe her Uncle was there, as well.

Stepping over a rock, Scott fell back from the group a few yards. If they could only find Maggie's Mother, he reasoned, he could put an end to the nonsense this Club has been getting messed up with. They'd have no reason to pull the stunts they've been pulling.

If only the sedan belonged to Victoria Thompson.

A strong hand shot around Scott's neck and clamped securely over his mouth. Scott tried to scream, but the dark hand prevented him. Losing his balance, he felt his attacker pull him backwards into the bushes.

With a high-pitched shriek, his attacker threw him viciously up against a tree. The back of his head smacked violently against the sharp bark and began to throb.

Scott slid to the ground and stared up into the dark, angry eyes of Amanda Jones. Her left hand was clenched at her side; her right hand held some small electrical device Scott could not recognize.

Dabbing at his cheek, Scott noticed blood on his fingers.

"Hello there, little Preacher Boy” whispered the Amanda, her eyes flaring madly in the dim light of the woods, "I've got a few questions for you."

"I've got nothing to say to you. Why did you grab me?" snapped Scott; trying desperately to hide the fear in his voice.

"SILENCE!" roared the lady; raising the electrical device and activating it briefly. A thin, but deep purple arc of electricity shot quickly between two short metal pins that extended from the weapon.

"I'll ask the questions around here, you fucking little SHIT!" she hissed. "I'm sick and tired of everyone ignoring me around this little town. I'm sick and tired of everyone not cooperating with me and my Husband. I'm sick and tired of my children running around like scavengers in the city and not respecting their fucking parents like they should."

Moving her twisted face closer to Scott's, the lady fired off the device a second time and clutched the front of his shirt. Scott could smell the dangerous electricity; the faint hint of burning leather drifted into his nostrils from the device.

"I know all about this God-Forsaken CLUB of yours, you weasel!" she raged, "and I know what you've been doing to convince my children to stay away from home. It's going to end, and it's going to end NOW!"

"Ma'am, I don't know what you're talking about…"

Amanda Jones clipped off another electrical pulse; Scott shrieked and fell back against the tree in terror. Why couldn't the Club hear this? They couldn't be far away.

"Where is this stupid Clubhouse my two boys keep talking about?" asked Amanda, her hair twisting wildly in the breeze as she shook the boy.

He was in big trouble. What if Mrs. Jones was the one who has been killing those kids, he wondered as the panic began to rise in his throat. Was he her next victim?

"I don't know anything about a clubhouse…"

Amanda smiled and laughed softly but did not threaten him with the taser again. "Oh, yes you do, Scott: You may not want to admit it now, but after two or three shots of this little baby," she said, waving the taser, "you'll be singing a different story."

Throwing back her head, the crazy lady roared with laughter. Scott tried to slip his way around the far side of the tree but stopped when the lady looked back down at him with a strange, sickly smile on her face.

"This toy is pretty cool stuff, Scott: I wouldn't screw around with it if I were you” she said with a chuckle. "I can train you like a PUPPY with this little thing. With just the right amount of coaxing and just the right amount of happy juice from this gizmo, you'll be cuddling up in my lap and sucking my big, black tit like a baby in absolutely NO TIME!"

Scott, overcome with shock at the lady's words, fell back against the tree. His jaw dropped open; his hands clenched the fabric of his shirt in terror. He wanted to make a run for it; he'd probably die if he didn't, but he found himself completely rooted to the ground near the tree like a plant; his petrified eyes were locked onto the sight of Amanda Jones taunting him with the taser and couldn't be torn away. Inside his young chest, his heart hammered away like a runaway train.

"Tell me, Scott:" said Amanda with a slight smile; her face only inches from his. "Where are the boys now? Why haven't they come home the past few days?"

Scott swallowed hard and summoned up all the courage he could muster. "Maybe they're staying away to save their hide," he squeaked, "Maybe they just don't want to be beat up by their parents again…"

The woman slapped Scott hard across his cheek and spun his head back against the bark of the tree. Pulling him back by the front of his shirt, she jammed the taser viciously into the left side of his neck and shook him.

"Don't you get smart with me, little one!" she threatened in a thin voice, "You're never going to get any of Mamma's milk that way. Tell me where this Clubhouse of yours is located. You're going to get hurt if you don't. Be a good little boy; once you tell me what I want to know, we'll play a few friendly little games and then I'll send you home with just a soft little spank on your cute little bottom."

Scott, clenching his teeth, glared up at the monster that stood over him.

"Never!" he hissed madly. If he was going to die, he thought, he might as well do it with a little bravery. There was no way he was going to rat on his friends.

Pouting briefly, Amanda suddenly loosed her grip on his shirt. With a brief shake of the head, she leaned over the frightened teenager and kissed him tenderly on the lips.

Then, pulling away from the kiss, she jammed the taser back into the side of his neck and pulled the trigger. Scott grunted fiercely as the hot voltage shot through his body. His mind screamed in pain and then went mercifully blank; his upper teeth bit almost cleanly through his lip, his legs curled up involuntarily into a ball and his arms flailed madly at his sides.

Scott continued to convulse for several minutes; his eyes rolling back into his skull and a thin layer of white foam drooling down the side of his mouth.

Eight

The morning after his Son had been assaulted Steven Langford sat at the plain, wooden desk in the conference room of the Rutherford Police Station. The woman across the desk was brisk, cold, and too business-like for Steven's liking; even now he noticed she was frowning slightly as she organized her papers. He wanted to be done with the interview; the Officer seemed perfectly willing to stretch the affair out until lunchtime.

"Mr. Langford," asked Yancey without looking up from her papers, "Why didn't you report this incident last night? Why wait until this morning?"

The Reverend swallowed quickly and loosened his collar. "My son was shocked by the incident," he began, "but he wasn't injured that severely. He came home about an hour after the attack. I wanted to make sure he was all right before I took any action. It was already past Ten O’clock."

"Tell me more about the incident at the Church."

"Few days ago," said Langford slowly, "Mr. and Mrs. Jones came crashing into the Church Choir practice. They told me there would be serious trouble if I didn't keep Scott away from their two boys. I'm assuming the incident with the taser was the punishment they had intended. That was the first time I ever met the two of them; I really didn't know at the time what to make of their actions."

"Your son: is he okay now?"

"Yes; I had him checked out by our physician this morning just to be sure there were no long term affects. He's outside, if you need to talk to him."

Yancey nodded. "I already have one of our Officers interviewing him, Mr. Langford. It is important we talk to the boy: we need to find some way to confirm his story before we can make any move against the Jones family."

Startled by this news, Steven jumped from his chair. "Confirmation?"

"Yes, I'm afraid so, unless there was some other witness to the attack. Was he walking with any of his friends?"

"There were no other witnesses, unfortunately. My son has been associating with the two Jones boys and their friend Maggie, but they were gone at the time Mrs. Jones assaulted him. At any rate, I'm not sure the Jones boys would say anything against their own Mother."

"Did Scott discuss this incident with the two Jones boys?" she asked. The Reverend shook his head.

"No, they were already gone by the time he recovered. When he came home and told me what had happened, I had considered going to the Jones house and discussing it with them but decided to talk to you first." Pushing his glasses back on his nose, Steven sighed and looked towards the far wall.

"Ms. Rayford, what else can I do to help? I'm very concerned about this attack, and I don't want to see him harmed again. Surely, there must be some way to put a stop to this nonsense; some way I can prove to you my son isn't making all of this up."

"We'll need to find some form of incriminating evidence" said Yancey, after a brief pause, "Otherwise, it will end up being Scott's word against the Jones. I can have someone talk to them; maybe they'll slip up."

Langford let out a short laugh and slowly shook his head. "He was burned on the neck; our Physician can confirm that. Doesn't that count for anything?"

Yancey slowly nodded. "It may, in fact. I'll talk to him myself this afternoon. Did Scott give you any reason why Mrs. Jones would attack him?"

Langford nodded. "He told me she was upset about her two boys playing with him in the woods. The boys had been spending the night away from home a lot, and she blamed Scott” Steven paused for a second and sighed. "Maybe it would help if I talk to her…"

Yancey laughed. "No, I don't think that would be such a good idea. Let us talk to them, Reverend. Keep your son out of the woods for a day or so; I'll see that someone talks to Mr. and Mrs. Jones."

The Detective rose and shook Steven's hand. "Thank you for coming down; I'll be in touch. You can wait out in the lobby until the other Officer is finished with Scott." Turning towards a rear door, she scooped up her file folders and left the table.

Steven rose and moved towards the opposite door. A thought came to him as he opened the door into the hallway beyond, and he turned back towards the Detective.

"You don't suppose this attack had anything to do with those murders, do you?" he asked her.

Yancey stopped at the door; pursed her lips. "I don't think so," she said, "Why? Do you think they do?"

Langford shrugged his shoulders, "I don't know; it's just a thought. I'll tell you one thing: I'm going to be monitoring my Son's activities a lot closer than I usually do because of this."

Yancey nodded. "So will we, Rev. Langford," she said, "So will we..."

* * *

Sometime after Noon, G. Robert Thompson drove down Paugasaget Road towards his Brother's house determined to find out if Maggie had been removed from the home.

She damn well better be gone. With Maggie's care attended to, he would have fulfilled his Mother and Vicky's request to watch out for the family. He could stop feeding his paycheck every week to Butch and his incessant drinking. Something had to change; he couldn't afford to carry him anymore. Besides, Maggie needed help; Butch would destroy her if given the chance.

Rounding the corner, Bobby came into view of the house. A car was in the driveway; a middle-aged woman with horn-rimmed glasses stood staring at the house. The driver-side door carried the State Of Connecticut seal on its door.

Tapping his brakes, Bobby came around the far meadow and approached the driveway slowly. Should he stop, he wondered? He could show the worker around; make sure she sees everything there was to see: every mess, every bottle, and every bit of rotted food.

On the other hand, it wouldn't be good to be there if Butch was home. He may be a drunk, but he'd be a dangerous drunk if he saw him here when his daughter was being removed from the home. Better to let the State of Connecticut do its dirty work without any assistance.

Gunning the gas, Bobby roared past the Thompson household and flew around a sharp corner near the end of Paugasaget Road. Looking back in his rearview mirror, he noticed the woman gaze towards his vehicle briefly, then walk towards the house.

Turning his view back to the road, Bobby sped away from his brother's house. He had just passed over the small wooden bridge spanning the creek when he spotted the small, red-haired girl about fifty feet into the woods.

Is that Maggie, wondered Bobby as he slammed his foot on the brakes. The child, spotting his car, ran deeper into the woods.

"MAGGIE!" yelled Bobby, pulling his car into a dirt road that ran along the old Burlingame Family Cemetery. He followed the child up the path as far as he could with the car, then left the vehicle and dashed off into the west woods after the fleeing child.

Maybe I'm nuts, wondered Bobby. Maybe that wasn't Maggie after all. Why would Maggie run away from me? I've never done anything to hurt her. Maybe she's hiding from the Social Worker; maybe she spotted the woman near the house.

"MAGGIE!" screamed Bobby as he climbed a small hill and followed the child deeper into the woods. His lungs hurt from the sudden exertion; his legs felt thick around the thighs. He wasn't going to catch her; she was too young and fast. He was too old and slow.

Jumping over a stone wall, Bobby crashed through a series of small bushes and headed west along a small section of cliff. The red-haired girl was now completely out of sight, but he could see only one possible path along this ravine, and that was straight ahead. If he was lucky, he would catch up with her on the opposite side when the grade began to descend back towards the valley.

Several minutes later, Thompson crashed into a clearing at the top of the hill and stopped. In front of him was an old tree standing majestically over a small hill covered with pine needles and dried-out maple leaves. Bobby gasped; amazed at the sight in front of him.

The door of the tree was open.

Slowly approaching the door, Bobby marveled at the ingenuity the door's creator had shown. That person had fashioned the door from a thick cutaway section of bark; Bobby could see where several brass hinges held the bark in place along the trunk. Inside the door was a pit leading down into the ground.

Backing away from the door, Bobby laughed softly. "Maggie, Maggie, Maggie. No wonder you've been spending all your time in the woods. You've been a busy little girl, my niece…"

A branch snapped beyond the tree. Someone was just around the trunk of the old Oak tree. He could hear the thin, raspy sound of the person's breath.

"Maggie, come on out" said Bobby in a sing-song voice, "I'm not going to hurt you: why did you run away from me?"

The person behind the open door stepped slowly into the clearing. It was not Maggie.

Bobby's eyes grew wide with delight. "Oh, Sweet Jesus" He laughed, "I should have known you were messed up in this somehow. What's the matter? Couldn't stay out of the woods, could you? Where's Maggie?"

Pointing towards the door fashioned in the tree, Bobby roared in laughter. "You out did yourself, this time. This little hidey-hole of yours is really something. Did you build this baby for Maggie or for yourself?"

A loud explosion roared through the woods, startling the crows perched overhead in the branches. Bobby gagged as a thick, tearing sensation ripped viciously through his throat and sent hot blood spurting onto the maple leaves. Falling to his knees, Bobby clutched at his neck and convulsed.

His killer stood over him; blocking the rays of the Sun and casting him in shadow. Bobby tried to speak; tried to beg for his life, but the blood was filling his throat and cutting off his breath. Spitting out one last bloody bubble, Bobby choked violently for a few seconds before collapsing onto the ground.

Unfazed by the struggle, Bobby's killer turned, tossed the pistol into the bushes, closed the door of the tree, and calmly walked away towards the North.

* * *

Maggie was walking down the southern path behind Esau when the gunshot sounded. She screamed; Esau turned around and grabbed the girl by the shoulders.

"Jesus, Maggie!" screamed Esau, "That was close by. It came from back up the hill…"

"Near the clubhouse!" added Jacob; his eyes wide and his head shaking.

Maggie looked back up the hill in horror. The killer must have followed them. Maybe Scott came over to the clubhouse and now he's lying on the ground bleeding or something.

"Back!" she snapped at the two boys, "Hurry: we have to get back…"

Esau shook his head. "No, I don't think that's such a great idea; I don't want to get shot, girl. Let's head down the hill towards your house and get your Father."

Maggie shook her head. "My stupid Father's so blasted right now he wouldn't recognize a gunshot if someone blew it off right under his nose. Come on!"

Breathing hard, Maggie climbed the last few feet of the hill on her hands and knees; her fingers digging painfully into the soft white clay of the hill. Pulling herself over the crest, she collapsed onto the ground and looked cautiously towards the clubhouse.

A man was lying on the ground near the Oak tree; blood pouring from his neck in a small, thick stream. Kneeling over the man, his hand pressed against his neck, was Scott Langford. Maggie screamed as Esau came running up over the hill behind her.

"SCOTT!" roared Esau as he pounded towards the tree. Scott, surprised by the shout, jerked his hand away from the dead man and looked towards the noise. Scott's left hand was covered in blood.

"Esau!" said Scott, rising slowly to his feet, "I heard the shot from over near 'Illinois'; I came here as fast as I could." Esau, saying nothing, stared dumbly back at the Club leader.

Maggie came up behind Esau and carefully peeked around to see the dead man. She gasped as she recognized the form on the ground; her hands flew to her mouth and the blood drained from her face.

"Maggie, that's your uncle Bobby, isn't it?" asked Esau, "Is he dead, Scott?"

Scott, ignoring the question, moved towards the children; Maggie backed away from him. "This happened only a few minutes ago, Maggie: He's still warm."

The two stared back at him; Maggie made sure that she kept Esau's body between her and the older boy. She, too, had seen the blood on Scott's hand and was now convinced he was the killer.

"Say, I didn't do this, guys” protested Scott, "I didn't shoot this guy. I don't even know who he is…"

"That's Bobby Thompson," said Esau slowly, "Maggie's uncle. Scott, you just shot Maggie's uncle."

"NO! I didn't shoot anybody; I just heard the noise and came up here to see what's going on. I was just checking for a pulse."

Maggie backed away from the two boys and bumped into Jacob as he came over the crest of the hill. Her jaw was shaking badly; tears were streaming down her cheeks and onto her clothes, and her fingers twitched at her sides.

Jacob tapped Maggie on the shoulder. "Maggie, I think I found the gun. It's over to your right; near the path."

Maggie turned towards the young boy, her eyes blank and distant.

"Over here, Maggie” insisted Jacob as he began to pull his friend towards the side of the path, "This is the gun we heard. This is what caused the noise we heard."

"Maggie, get that gun!" snapped Esau; still watching Scott carefully. "That might be 'evidence'. Maybe Scott used that same gun to kill Paula Riant…"

"I didn't kill ANYBODY” pleaded Scott, "Why don't you guys believe me? We should go call the Police, or something."

Jacob pulled the girl the last few feet across the path and pointed urgently towards the ground. Maggie looked and saw a large, black shape lying in the bushes. Slowly kneeling to the ground, she reached under the brush and retrieved the weapon.

"Maggie, it's bloody” whispered Jacob, pointing to the barrel of the gun. "Look, it's got blood on it." Maggie nodded slowly; her eyes examining the weapon carefully. This gun killed my Uncle, she thought sadly. Shot him dead; and now I'll never see him again.

"You're right, Esau" said Maggie in a whisper, "maybe this gun also killed Paula…"

Jacob nodded thoughtfully and then, almost as an afterthought, added "Maybe that gun killed your Mom, Maggie."

Maggie snapped her eyes towards the boy, and gasped; the pistol dangling from her fingertips. Her knees shaking, Maggie dropped the bloody weapon in the bushes and fled the hilltop.

"MAGGIE!" yelled Jacob, chasing her down the hill. Esau started after the two of them but then hesitated. Turning towards Scott, he shook an angry fist at the boy.

"Scott, this ain't over” he said angrily, "God help you if I find out you really did this. I'll shoot you dead myself if you did this."

Scott started to protest, but Esau waved him off.

"No, SHUT UP!" he snapped as he headed back down the hill after Maggie and his brother, "God help you if we find out you killed those kids."

* * *

Janine Halloran watched the Rutherford Police Cruiser pull into the driveway of the Thompson home. The nerve of those bastards, she fumed, I TOLD them I didn't want them to escort me down here.

Detective Yancey stepped out of the cruiser and slowly walked over to the front step where the Social Worker stood pounding on the door with her fist. She seemed nervous to Halloran; almost jumpy.

"I thought I told you I didn't need a babysitter, Officer” snapped Halloran.

"Yeah, well I just happened to be in the neighborhood: thought I'd drop in. Quite accidental, I assure you. Is Mr. Thompson home?"

Halloran shook her head angrily. "I think so, but he won't come to the door if he is. I was here yesterday, as well: This house is probably the single, most deplorable residence I've ever been forced to walk into."

Handing a thick wad of legal papers to Yancey, Halloran resumed her pounding on the door.

"These are temporary custody papers for Maggie Thompson, dutifully signed and sealed: I'm taking the child to a State facility in Windham until I can place her with a foster home."

Yancey looked over the papers carefully; a sad look on her face.

"Ms. Halloran, has there been anybody else around this place since you've been here?" asked Yancey, "Has Benjamin's brother Robert stopped in?"

"No, the place is deserted. I didn't see any sign of Maggie, either. Now, if those papers are in order and to your liking, it would be nice if we could force this door open and see if anyone's inside. I'd like to get this child out of here as soon as possible…"

A sharp, echoing scream came from the Northern woods beyond the Thompson home. Yancey spun towards the noise and spotted Maggie Thompson running down the path towards the house.

"There's the girl, now” said Halloran, "Something is wrong."

Yancey dashed towards the barn and intercepted the child; scooping her off of the ground and into her arms. Maggie, surprised by the Officer's actions, began to beat on her shoulders with her fists.

"SOMEBODY SHOT MY UNCLE!" screamed the child, "SOMEBODY SHOT MY UNCLE. HE'S GOT BLOOD ON HIS NECK, AND HE WON'T MOVE!"

"Dear God!" gasped Halloran.

"What did you say, Maggie? Are you sure?" asked Yancey.

Maggie reached up and grabbed Yancey's cheeks in her tiny hands. "YES, I'M SURE! HE'S NOT MOVING; HE'S GOT BLOOD COMING FROM HIS NECK. YOU'VE GOT TO GO GET HIM!"

"Maggie," asked Yancey, "Where is your Uncle now? How far into the woods is he? Who shot him?"

"He's in the north woods. Go past the first knoll and up the trail; you'll see where my Uncle is. HURRY!" screamed Maggie.

"Ms. Halloran, take the child: leave your papers with me. I'll make sure they get served to Mr. Thompson later on." Yancey left the crying child with the Worker and dashed back to the police cruiser. "Give the Station a call later on; I'll need a statement from you."

Halloran took the screaming girl and tried to sooth her. "Easy now, Maggie: everything will be all right. You and I are going to take a drive, okay?"

Maggie screamed. "NO! I want to stay here. My friends are with me; I want to stay here!"

"I'm sorry, but I can't allow that” replied Halloran as she guided Maggie into the front seat of her car, "Your Dad's not home and I can't allow you to stay here with all this confusion going on…"

"ESAU!" roared Maggie, her eyes desperately scanning the trees in search of her friends, "JACOB! SCOTT! HELP ME! I DON'T WANT TO GO; I WANT TO STAY!"

* * *

The three boys, watching from the safety of a small wooded rise just beyond the barn, watched Janine Halloran force their friend into the car and tried to figure out what to do next.

"We should help her” said Esau. Scott, standing slightly behind him, nodded.

"You're right, but not now: Not while that cop is down there. We'll have to find some other way to get Maggie back."

"'We have to find a way'? I don't think so. You mean, ME and JACOB are going to have to find a way to help her!" snapped Esau, "I don't think we can trust you anymore. You just plugged her Uncle."

Scott walked up to Esau and grabbed the boy by the front of the shirt.

"Yeah, and if that's true," he growled, "would I be stupid enough to come back here when there's a cop in the neighborhood? Hello, Esau? Do you really think I shot that guy?"

Esau said nothing; Jacob moved over behind Scott and tugged on his shirt.

"You shouldn't grab Esau” he said softly, "Look; you're getting blood on his shirt: that stuff will never come out in the wash. Why don't you put him down and be friends again?"

"Esau, if you really think I did this to Maggie; if you really think I shouldn't be helping you get her back, then go ahead and yell for that lady cop. Go ahead, give her a shout: I'll stay right here and wait for her." Angrily, Scott dropped the boy roughly on the ground and stomped off to sulk near the base of a large pine tree.

Esau shrugged his shoulders. "Okay: You've got a point. You wouldn't be hanging around if you had just got done shooting somebody, I guess. Besides, I don't know how to help Maggie on my own; we may need your help."

"That lady just drove off with Maggie” said Jacob suddenly. The boys turned to watch Halloran's car pull out of the driveway.

"Aw, damn” said Esau sullenly, "How we going to catch her now? We can't outrun a damn car."

"We could cut across the creek and catch her near the four corners” offered Jacob hopefully. Scott shook his head at the suggestion.

"No, we'll never get there in time, I'm afraid. Come on, guys: I've got a better idea. We won't be able to help Maggie until tomorrow, but I think I have a good idea where she's going to be in the morning."

"Where?" asked Esau.

"You'll see” replied Scott, "Come on: we need to find a phone book."

Scott dashed back into the woods and headed toward home. Esau grabbed his brother by the collar and pulled him afterwards. By the time two additional Rutherford Police Cruisers turned onto Paugasaget Road, the three children were at the Langford House planning their next move from the safety of Scott's bedroom.

Nine

Steven Langford looked up to the overcast sky and grimaced.

There had never really been any chance of sun, but he had hoped it wouldn't rain. Now, the light drizzle came down and dampened his face, plastering his thinning hair against his scalp.

Turning towards Carina's apartment building, he tried to steady his nerves, and walked up the path to her door. No sense standing out here all afternoon like a complete idiot. He hadn't come all the way to town just to take a bath with his clothes on.

The Reverend was half way up the stairs to Carina's apartment when a second attack of nerves stopped him. Gripping the banister, he thought quickly about leaving.

This was no good. She'll probably answer the door in a nightgown; her hair wet from the shower. She'll invite him in, sit next to him on the couch, offer him a drink, and then ruin his professional career with a single, perfect kiss.

What would Jesus do in a fix like this?

The front door opened.

"Well?" said the voice from the door, "Are you going to stand down there all day or are you going to come up and have a cup of tea?"

"How did you know I was here?"

Carina laughed. "Your car is out front. My downstairs neighbor is Muslim: I figured it was a good bet you weren't here to see him."

Steven climbed the rest of the stairs and followed Carina into her apartment. She wasn't wearing a nightgown; she was dressed in dark pants and a loose-fitting white, cotton shirt. Her black hair was tied up in a handkerchief, and there were spots of white paint on her cheeks.

"I've been touching up some cupboards; please excuse my appearance. Have a seat and I'll fetch the tea." Steven watched her walk into the pantry, and then took a seat on the couch. His fear hadn't left him; it sat down next to him on the sofa and twisted apart his thoughts. He still wasn't quite sure what he was going to say.

A minute later, Carina returned with two steaming cups on a tray and sat next to him.

"Tell me, Reverend" said Carina, "What brings you here to the apartment of a church member: More counseling, or perhaps some private Bible study?"

Steven choked; spit out his tea across the living room rug. Carina laughed and handed him a tissue.

"Will you PLEASE stop doing that?" demanded Steven after regaining his breath, "Woman, you're going to be the death of me."

Carina giggled; hid her mouth behind her hand. "I'm sorry: couldn't resist. Seriously, I wasn't expecting you. Is anything wrong?"

"No; nothing’s wrong that a quick lesson in humility won't fix."

Carina frowned. "Excuse me?"

"Carina, I came to apologize about the episode in the parking lot the other day” said Steven slowly. “I shouldn't have run off like I did."

"You were scared."

"I still am” agreed Steven, "Scared to death. What I said at the store was true: I'm not sure allowing a relationship to develop between us is such a good idea right now."

"So says the man who just sat on my couch and spit up on my rug."

Steven laughed. "Yes, that guy. That guy almost turned around in your stairwell and went home."

Carina placed a gentle hand on his. "Steven, what are you afraid of?" she asked.

Steven thought about the question carefully.

"My wife" he said with a distant look, "I'm afraid of my wife."

"She's dead" said Carina, "Almost two years today."

Steven shook his head. "Sometimes the body dies before the memory does, Carina. You'd be surprised how much impact a memory can have on a person's life…"

Carina stood up and marched quickly over to the window on the far wall; her hands on her hip and her hair flying across her dark eyes.

"Oh, come off it, Steven. Weren't you the one who spent all that time telling me I should forget the past and get on with my life? What about you? Why isn't it you can't practice what you preach?"

"Carina, my wife…"

"Is DEAD!" snapped Carina. "I'm not trying to make light of your relationship with her: I can tell from the look on your eyes that she meant a great deal to you. But somehow, I get the feeling that, if you could speak with her now, she'd be the first person to tell you to move on."

Steven remained silent; turned his eyes towards the floor.

"Look, I happen to think you and I care about each other and, if given the chance, that affection could grow into something special; something important. I would like that to happen; I haven't had a chance at that for quite some time now. But, even if that doesn't happen, you've got to get over this, Steven."

Taking his chin in her hands, Carina lifted his face towards her.

"This isn't about me, Steven: This is about you and Scott. You've been hiding yourself away from your pain and your anger for a long time now, and it's going to destroy you if you don't get over it. I care too much for you to allow that to happen."

Steven shook her hand away from his chin. "No, it's not hiding, Carina. That's not the word: the word is 'mourning'. I'm in mourning…"

"You're hiding!" interrupted Carina, "You're hiding like your son's lizard does; the one in the tank."

"Chameleon" said Steven, "It's a Chameleon."

"I don't care if it is Kermit the Frog" said Carina hotly, "The shoe fits. You're hiding from your problems, just like the Chameleon does. Poor Reverend Steven Langford; watch him sit on the branch in his little glass tank. Watch him change colors when he thinks no one is looking. Watch him hide behind his rock when Reality peeks its big, ugly nose up against the clear glass of his tiny, secure universe…"

"Stop it!" screamed Steven, removing his glasses. "That will be about enough!"

Carina paused for a second, moved over to the pantry, and leaned up against the wall.

"Funny thing about that Chameleon, Steven” she said finally.

"What's that?"

"Every time it hides, you can still see the thing in the tank. It's not really hiding. It's not fooling anybody, at least not a real person. It's still there."

Steven straightened his collar and rose to leave. He was embarrassed, he was hurt, and he was not going to sit around in this woman's house and let her preach to him.

"Oh, great” said Carina angrily. "Sure, run away. Go ahead: Hide behind your rock!"

Steven opened the door and walked out onto the landing.

He was halfway down the stairs before Carina decided to follow him. Pausing at the top step, she cried out to him.

"Don't forget the Chameleon, Steve. When you hide like the lizard, you're not fooling anybody: You're hiding from YOURSELF. It doesn't help your problems any; they're still there. They follow you like a hungry puppy until you finally wake up and deal with them!"

Steven paused at the front door; looked back at her one last time.

"You're not hiding from your problems, Steven: You're hiding from YOURSELF!" said Carina, a single tear flowing down her cheek.

Steven turned the doorknob and fled the building.

* * *

Rayford stared back at Amanda Jones through cold eyes. To his left, Jim Peters scribbled a few notes. Their discussion with Mr. and Mrs. Jones about the alleged assault on Scott Langford had been going on for about an hour.

The intense hatred that radiated from her eyes had been burning for more than forty minutes of that time.

"One more time: let's review. You were not in the woods yesterday about two o'clock. You never saw Scott Langford and you never assaulted him with an electrical device."

"I'd like to hit the lying little weasel across the head with a toaster: does that count?" muttered Amanda.

Rayford ignored her and continued. "You were here at the house the whole time with your husband. Is that right, Mr. Jones?"

Wally, lost in his thoughts, awoke with a start "What? Oh… Let's see… Yes, that's right: she was here with me."

"And you didn't threaten his father at the church the other day?"

"Of course not!" snapped Wally, "What kind of people do you think we are, Officer?"

Amanda laughed brightly. "Sit down and shut up, Wally. Yes, Mr. Rayford: we did threaten the Reverend. We threatened to drag him off of his pulpit and cut his dick off with a weed whacker if he didn't keep his son away from our kids."

"AMANDA!" roared Wally. Rayford's eyebrow rose; Peters began to furiously scribble some new notes. This woman was dangerous, thought Rayford. Great, just what he needed: another suspect.

"What do you know about Paula Riant, Mrs. Jones?"

Amanda rolled her eyes. "I know her mother owes me money. Why do you ask?"

"Mr. Jones, do you or your wife own a taser?"

"Mr. Rayford, I don't even know what the damn thing is. How could I possibly own one?" snapped Wally.

"We'll find out if you're lying. Look at it from our perspective, will you? This neighborhood is in turmoil lately, and it's all centered on your family. I've got dead children, one of them found on your property. I've got angry parents disrupting a church service and threatening the pastor. I've got a kid with a wicked burn on his neck who claims to have been attacked by your wife."

"Look; we didn't attack that child” said Wally, rising from his chair, "If you think we did, and you can prove it then arrest us. If not, then get out of my house and leave us be. If you're interested in fishing, let me direct you to the creek down the road; you'll have better luck down there."

"Mr. Jones, just don't try to…"

"Don't tell me what to do, Rayford. And don't go throwing around charges at my family you can't confirm; not unless you like the smell of lawyers. You push this, and mine will be eating breakfast with your wife every morning."

Rayford squared off against Wally Jones; his shoulders firm and his jaw locked. Wally tried to stare him down, but tiny beads of sweat on his forehead gave away his nervousness.

"Mr. Jones, You want to hire a lawyer? Be my guest; go right ahead. My guess is you're going to need one before this is all done with. Just do yourself a favor and keep your wife away from the Langfords and the Thompsons. If there's another incident with them, I'm going to drag your sorry ass down to the station and make sure each resident of Rutherford knows you're there. Got it?"

Amanda stared back at the policemen with icy eyes.

"Come on, Peters" said Rayford, "We're out of here. Oh, Mrs. Jones: your lipstick has smeared a little; I'd look at that if I were you."

Amanda gasped; dove into her handbag for a cosmetic mirror. Rayford and Peters let themselves out of the building.

* * *

Wally held open the blinds of the window and watched the two policemen pull out of the driveway. Behind him, Amanda fussed with her makeup.

"Amanda, we got lucky that time. The stupid cops didn't even ask to see the children. What are we going to say the next time someone asks where they are?"

Amanda snapped shut her compact and walked over to her husband's side. "We need to come up with some sort of a story."

"Visiting relatives?"

Shaking her head, Amanda took her husband's arm and walked him towards the kitchen. "No, that won't do, I'm afraid; too obvious. Can we enroll them in Rienholt Military Academy in abstentia?"

"No, they'd have to be there to attend classes. Could we try again to find them? They must be hiding out somewhere around these woods: it can't be that difficult to track them down."

Amanda started to reply, but hesitated.

"Why don't we hire a private detective?" asked Wally, "or a security agency? I'm not concerned about the cost."

Amanda laughed; sat at the kitchen table. "Gee, Wally: why don't we just stick a big sign on the front lawn that reads 'Children, come home we love you'? No, I don't think that's the answer, either. Frankly, I'm enjoying their absence. Why did we ever decide to have children in the first place?"

Wally took a seat next to his wife. "It was the right time, remember? We thought it would help our business to appear as family-oriented people. Funny that: I never did use them in our commercials like we wanted to."

"Family-oriented people?" said Amanda with a slight laugh, "Yes, that's what we are. We're family-oriented people. We’re rich, prosperous, well-bred, family-oriented people."

Wally nodded thoughtfully.

Amanda frowned, picked at her nails. "Then why do I feel so poor? Why am I so miserable, Wally? Why is everything in my life suddenly turning to shit? Can we fix that with all our money? Tell me, Wally: is there a special tool at 'Wally's House of Hardware' that can repair that breech in our confidence?"

Wally slammed his fist down on the table. Amanda sighed, glanced at her index finger, and began to chew her nails.

* * *

No way out, thought Butch as he stood in the tall grass and looked down into the abandoned well. He had worked himself into a corner this time and had completely run out of options. It was just a matter of time before the remaining pieces of his life came crashing down upon him.

"Eighty feet down” he said with a tear. "Wooden platform about twelve feet down blocking the hole, but I weigh about a hundred seventy pounds; that platform should crumble to dust when I hit it. Maybe I'll be dead before I hit the bottom."

Butch stared at the label of the bottle he carried. He was sober, for once in his life; hadn't had a drink in two days. Today, however, he might just open up this old friend. He might just take off the cap and take a deep, rich swig of the poison that had claimed his life, destroyed his family.

"Just one more for the road: eh, Vicky?" he cried; tears now flowing down his cheeks. "Just one more for the low road, and off to Tupelo we go, right?"

Butch felt soft hands on his shoulder. Turning, he saw that his wife Vicky had followed him into the field.

"Damn, woman: I thought I told you to stay home…"

Victoria put her arm around his shoulders and held him close. "No, Benjamin. I couldn't bear to be away today. Why are you here? What is it you're planning?"

Butch remained silent; looked down towards the well.

Victoria gasped as she realized what her husband was about to do.

"Dear God in Heaven, No!" she cried "Benji, don't do this. This doesn't help us any. This doesn't help our daughter. Go ahead, have a drink: rip open that bottle and drink yourself back to the safety of the house. I'll even have one with you; just don't do this."

Grabbing at the bottle, Victoria tried desperately to move Butch away from the well.

"Here, let me open it for you…"

"NO!" screamed Butch as he backed away from his wife and the well. "No more of this damn liquor. If I could have only stayed away from this stuff, things would have turned out…"

"Butch, taking your life isn't going to solve anything."

Butch laughed; threw the bottle down into the grass. "Yes, it will. I have nothing left to live for anymore. You're gone; my daughter has been taken away from me. No jobs, no friends, no… no hope. All I have left is my bitterness and regrets."

Falling to his knees in the grass, Benjamin Thompson cried; his face buried in his palms and his shoulders heaving. Victoria knelt next to him in the grass and held him close.

"You dive into that well and kill yourself, and the only thing that's accomplished is that we both end up a failure. Now, there's a lovely thought: the two of us sharing eternity together in our pain. Is that what you really want, Benji?"

Benjamin looked up at the blurred image of his wife; still weeping.

"It's too late, Vicky” he said, "What can I do? I'm out of options: The boiler has vented; I don't have a pipe wrench, and the whole damn thing is about to blow."

Leaning her thick, red hair against her husband's shoulders, Victoria wept with her husband.

"No, it's never too late” she sobbed. "We can still turn this thing around; If not for us then at least for our daughter. Come on home, Benji. Come on home with me and let's start turning things around."

"I can't, Vicky. It's too late for that."

"You HAVE to!" said Victoria. "I'm not here; I can't do it by myself. Butch…" she said, taking his tear-soaked chin in her hands and staring into his eyes. "You're all I have. I NEED you now."

Benjamin gasped; watched his beautiful wife through wondering eyes.

"I may not have always admitted it, Benji" said Victoria sadly, "But I ALWAYS needed you. I've always loved you. I only got mixed up with your brother because of your drinking; because of that damn episode with the school system. I was trying to escape the pain…"

"Just like I am" said Butch, eyeing the well.

"Yes, just like you are; just like you did when you fell asleep in that bottle and never woke up. Forget all that: Let's cut our losses and rescue our daughter, okay?"

Butch rose from his knees; retrieved the bottle. She loved him, he thought sadly. All of this time, all of these mistakes, and now he found out the truth. She loved him.

"You love me, Vicky?" he asked tearfully, "You REALLY love me?"

Victoria stood, nodded, and wiped tears from her eyes.

Butch placed a tender hand on her shoulder. "I've always loved you, Victoria. You knew that: you knew that all this time, didn't you?"

Victoria nodded.

With a mighty roar, Butch swung the bottle hard across the bridge of Victoria's nose. She screamed as the hard glass slammed into her face, sent a spray of blood fanning through the air, then collapsed hard into the grass of the meadow.

Butch staggered a bit and then stood over the lifeless form of his wife.

"Victoria, I'll always love you. Thank you for finally sharing that with me, after all these years. I am, truly, forever in your debt."

Leaving Victoria in the grass, Benjamin strode quickly away from the well and headed home.

* * *

"I'm sorry," said Judge Ellen Witherspoon, "But you're going to have to convince me. You suspect children to be responsible for the three murders?"

Rayford looked briefly towards his wife and nodded. "Detective Yancey, investigating the murder of George Thompson, found footprints of at least four children."

Witherspoon nodded; remained silent.

"We've documented the case of Paula Riant; how her friends say she was summoned by a whistle code used by neighborhood children. We've found a sneaker at the scene that matches the size and type worn previously by our suspect, Maggie Thompson."

"Did you find the matching shoe?" asked the Judge.

Rayford frowned. "No, we did not. All I have is the testimony of a store clerk who helped size the shoe when her uncle bought it for her."

"We've got more, your honor” interrupted Yancey, "The clay samples found on both child victims match deposits found in the area where George Thompson was murdered; where these four children have been meeting."

"Both of the child victims had red hair: Maggie Thompson has red hair, as does her missing Mother” added Rayford with a frown. This wasn't going as good as he had hoped; he didn't fully realize how little they had until they had recounted it for the judge.

Witherspoon laughed, looked towards a window.

"Thompson had blond hair: if you're looking for motive, you just failed. Lieutenant, you've got NOTHING. How can I possibly issue an arrest warrant for this? Have you talked to Family Services about this? What's their recommendation?"

"We've talked to the DCYS Worker in charge of the Thompson investigation. She confirms the abuse that was going on in the home. Maggie Thompson told her it was the boy, Scott Langford, who had killed her uncle. She was a witness. That ought to be enough to at least bring him in."

"Perhaps, at least for more questioning. I've talked to Ms. Halloran myself, just last evening. The girl is being placed today at the Windham Rehabilitation Center. Rayford, are you sure you're on the right track? You have no clear indication of any adult involvement at all?"

Rayford sighed and shook his head. "I've got some crazy adults down on Paugasaget Road, but nothing concrete that indicates they might be behind this. Maybe if I could find the gun that shot George Thompson…"

"Which is why you're requesting the search warrants, right?"

Rayford nodded.

Witherspoon sighed, and penciled a document on her desk. "All right: I'll authorize two of the three search warrants; for the Thompson and Jones estates. Stay away from the Langford house: I don't believe you've convinced me that the boy might be involved. Limit your investigation to the three murders and any associated evidence: the abuse case falls squarely into the domain of the Family Relations Division and is beyond the scope of these warrants. Is that clear?"

"Arrest warrants?" asked Yancey.

Witherspoon laughed. "Oh, no you don't. Not without more concrete evidence, and even then, I'll want to meet with the Town Attorney before we take that step. Find your murder weapon, Mrs. Rayford: Find your bear traps, your pistol, and your clay source. Find the other sneaker. Then, we'll talk."

* * *

Maggie watched Janine Halloran climb into the front seat of the car parked in front of the Rutherford Family Relations building and turn the key. The child was angry; her arms were crossed and her legs shaking. The nerve of that lady to steal her from her home, she thought angrily. These people were destroying her family: first her Mother, then her Uncle Bobby, now her.

The back seat bumped against Maggie's shoulders. She sat forward and turned towards the rear window. The seat back dropped inward and revealed two sets of eyes peering out from the darkness of the trunk.

Covering her mouth, Maggie watched Halloran carefully as Jacob and Esau climbed into the back seat of Halloran's car. Esau handed Maggie the gun Jacob had recovered from the clubhouse. Maggie took the weapon, nodded at Esau, and then jammed the barrel into the back of Halloran's neck.

"Sorry, Ms. Halloran: but I don't think we're going to Willimantic after all: Too noisy; too many people. I hate crowds."

Maggie saw Halloran's eyes grow wide in the rearview mirror; felt the car begin to slow down.

"Aw, no you don't” said Esau to the driver, "Take your next right and stop at the convenience store: we need to pick up a friend."

Maggie gasped. "Not Scott?"

Esau nodded.

"Esau, how could you? That bastard shot my uncle."

Jacob tapped her on the shoulder. "No, he says he didn't, and we believe him. He offered us to call the cops; never even budged an inch."

"Maggie, we need him now more than ever” added Esau as he pointed out the store for Halloran. "He's the one that jimmied this lady's trunk for us; showed us how to snatch you back. None of this would've happened if it wasn't for him."

"Maggie" said Halloran slowly, "you and your friends are making a big mistake. I'm just doing my job: I'm taking you where you'll have friends, people who care about you; where no one can hurt you again…"

"SHUT UP!" screamed the three children in unison.

"Ma'am" said Esau, "Pull over. That's our friend over there next to the mailbox."

Maggie watched with horror as Scott Langford climbed into the front seat of the car.

"Hey, Maggie!" said Scott with a smile, "You're not trying to run away from your club responsibilities, are you?"

"Scott, what are you doing?"

"Why, rescuing you, of course. Ma'am, I want you to drive us down to Country Club Road: there's a small bridge there that runs over Maelstrom Stream. You can drop us off there and then be on your way. We don't want to hurt you or anything…"

"NO!" screamed Maggie, the gun shaking dangerously in her hands. The three boys stared at her.

"Mrs. Halloran, take us down to Cat Hollow Road."

"Cat Hollow?" said Esau, "What do you have in mind, Maggie? We're just trying to get you free."

Maggie clenched her jaw and drew back the hammer of the pistol. The social worker gasped as she heard the metallic click of the weapon.

"This bitch took me from my home when I didn't want to go. She probably took my Mom as well. We're taking her into the woods with us."

"Why?" said Scott. "This is dangerous. We could get into trouble. Let's just get the Hell out of here."

"We're already in trouble, in case you haven't noticed, Langford. We're going to take this lady with us.

Maggie gently released the hammer and then sat back in the seat; making sure the barrel of the weapon was constantly visible to Halloran in the mirror.

"This lady is going to tell us what happened to my Mother" she said with a wicked smile.

* * *

Benjamin Thompson walked slowly through the woods bordering the Jones Estate and headed back towards the well where he had left his wife.

Guilt had driven him back. Funny that. Guilt was what had caused him to hit her in the first place. Now, it was guilt leading him back to her side.

Guilt is what had caused most of his problems in life.

Victoria was sitting in the grass next to the well when he arrived; her nose was broken. A huge purple and red bruise now swelled from her upper lip and cheek. Spotting Benjamin, she staggered to her feet and met him.

"Great, Benjamin” she snapped, "Just great. You screw up and who gets punished for it? Your daughter, your damn daughter does!"

Benjamin tried to hold her, but she pulled away. "Vicky, I'm sorry for what I've done" he said, "I’m sorry for everything I've done. Please: stand aside. Just let me take my dive down that well and then everything will be right again."

Victoria laughed, and then grimaced from the pain that resulted. "Oh, sure: You dive down that well and kill yourself, and it will be your daughter that's punished for your cowardice. I don't think so, buddy: I REALLY don't think so."

"Okay, then let's go back to the house. We can talk this all over; you can tell me what I've got to do. You're right: we can still fix this."

Victoria frowned, gently touched her injured cheek.

"Come home, Victoria. Please come home. I'm sorry for putting you here." pleaded Benjamin.

Victoria shook her head sadly. "I can't: It's too late for that now. It's not possible. Tell you what: go into town and find your daughter. She's the one you have to talk to now; not me. You need to tell her what happened; you need to tell that Social Worker what happened. You need help, Benjamin. You can't hide anymore; it's killing your daughter."

Butch laughed weakly and headed out of the field.

"I can't Vicky. Don't ask me to do that; I'm just not strong enough." Picking up his pace, Benjamin stumbled through the tall grass and headed for the Jones House. No more hiding. So what if they spotted him? There was nothing he could lose by being spotted now; nothing that hadn't already been ripped away from him.

"All right, Benji” cried Victoria from behind him. "Have it your way. Let me know if you change your mind. COWARD!"

Ignoring her, Benjamin quickened his pace through the meadow.

* * *

The Chameleon Club forced their stumbling hostage through the woods. Beyond them, a meadow bordering the Jones Estate lay serenely in the afternoon sun; oblivious to the lady's tortured pleas.

"HELP!" screamed Halloran, struggling against the cords that lashed her wrists firmly behind her back. "SOMEBODY HELP ME, FOR GOD'S SAKE!"

Esau laughed. "Scream all you want, Lady: but no one can hear you. We're taking you to 'Pennsylvania'; ain't anybody been up there except us for quite some time now."

"Yeah, Mom thinks there are too many ticks" added Jacob.

Scott pleaded with Maggie. "Are you sure there's no other way? This is going get us ALL thrown into the rehabilitation center she was taking you to."

Maggie ignored the boy and took the lead as the Club stepped into the meadow and headed for the abandoned well known as 'Pennsylvania'. Once there, the two Jones boys carefully lowered Janine Halloran down the hole and onto the wooden platform that blocked off the well.

"Maggie, you can't do this!" pleaded Scott.

"Shut the fuck up or I'll blow a goddamn hole in you!" snapped Esau, waving the pistol in his face. "We're going to do this: we're going to make that witch tell us what she knows."

"Or what: You're going to kill her? Is that how you solve your problems, Maggie: by killing people? Tell me: have you had any arguments with Paula Riant lately that we don't know about?"

Maggie walked over to Scott and calmly placed her tiny hand on his chest.

"Stop, Scott: Just stop. We're not going to kill her; that would be wrong."

"Says so in the Bible” said Jacob thoughtfully.

"We're going to keep her until she tells us what we want to know. And don't talk to me about killing Paula: I had nothing to do with that. Who knows, maybe Mrs. Halloran shot her. She tried to take me, didn't she?"

"You children are making a big mistake" screamed Halloran from the pit, "Can't you see that you're making things worse for your friend? LET ME OUT OF THIS WELL!"

"Lord, I wish she'd shut up” said Esau, holding his temple. "She's giving me a headache. We should have taped her mouth."

Maggie shook her head. "No, we want to starve her, not suffocate her to death."

"Maggie, this isn't over” said Scott, "Let's go back to the clubhouse; you have to talk to me about this and make sure you know what you're doing."

"Yeah, and we sure as heck can't talk here" said Jacob, holding his ears. There’s way too much noise."

"All right, Scott" said Maggie with a determined look. "Let's go back to the clubhouse and talk. She ain't going anywhere; we'll deal with her later." Maggie headed north out of the meadow; the two Jones boys followed her.

Scott dropped on his knees and looked into the well.

"Hold on, Mrs. Halloran: I'll talk some sense into their heads for you. Just try and be patient."

"Scott, they're in danger of Foster Homes when I'm out of here, but not you” said Halloran with the coldest voice she could muster. "You're going to jail. You realize that, don't you?"

Scott gaped at the woman; knew she was telling the truth. Rising from his knees, he ran off to join the others at the clubhouse.

Ten

Rayford didn't bother to knock.

Opening the flimsy door to Butch Thompson's house, he marched into the filthy kitchen and directed the other officers to various rooms. Benjamin Thompson sat at the table and watched him without concern. A bottle of whiskey, unopened, was in front of him. Rayford drew up a chair and sat next to him.

"Time to talk, Mr. Thompson"

"Come on in, officer" laughed Benjamin, "The door is open."

Rayford slapped the search warrant onto the table in front of him. "This is a search warrant authorizing us to search your property and home for materials, evidence, weapons, and other items that may, directly or indirectly, implicate you and your family in the murder of Elizabeth Edricks, Paula Riant, and your brother, George Robert Thompson. You may accompany my officers on their search but may not interfere in any way. If you have any questions regarding this search, I or one of my officers will endeavor to answer them."

"Help yourself, officer: I've got nothing to hide."

"Mr. Thompson, where is your wife, Victoria?" asked Rayford.

Benjamin groaned; glared briefly as Jim Peters rifled his refrigerator and began removing his stockpile of beer. "I told your people: She's in New York visiting relatives..."

"No, that's not true. We've checked with her relatives: they haven't seen her for months. We've checked bus, train, and airport records: no indication of travel."

Benjamin laughed harshly. "Maybe she drove. Thought of that, wise ass?"

"You don't own a car; neither does she. There's been only one car theft in this town in the last two years, and that was the Wilkerson kid who lives down near the Laundromat. I repeat: where's your wife?"

Benjamin looked off towards the living room. "All right, I confess. My wife isn't visiting relatives, Officer. She left me. She took off about five, six months ago: somewhere around then. I haven't seen or heard from her since."

"Do you have any idea where she might be? We checked the records dating back a year: there's no sign of her traveling anywhere since then."

"Maybe she hitchhiked? How the Hell should I know? Most people's wives don't exactly share their travel plans with their husbands just before they split, do they?"

"Okay, you've got a point. Did she leave anything behind that may relate to her disappearance: Notes, letters?"

Yancey appeared in the doorway. "Jon, we found these upstairs in the girl's room." She held out her hand.

Yancey showed her husband a handful of Thirty-eight caliber bullets.

Rayford turned back towards Thompson. "All right then, let's try again. Where's your wife, Mr. Thompson? Where might she be staying?"

A glint appeared in the man's eyes, and he smiled at the cop.

"Maybe she's in the woods with those damn children. I could call her for you, if you want."

Benjamin Thompson whistled twice.

Yancey gasped. Rayford, shocked by the drunk's actions, stared back at him without a word. The sound of the search dropped away, and all was silent.

Rayford's pager beeped. Checking the number, he rose from the table and nodded to Yancey.

"Mr. Thompson; I need to use your telephone."

Benjamin snorted; waved a hand in the air. "Sure, if you can find it. It’s somewhere over there; next to the trash can."

Rayford left to search for the phone while Yancey moved behind Thompson and handcuffed him to his chair.

* * *

Janine Halloran positioned herself against the wall of the well and, with one final cry to the sky, dragged her bloody wrists against the sharp stones. The ropes that had bound her wrists tore and fell finally to the floor.

Tearfully, she wiped her hands on her blouse and moved slowly and carefully around the well. The stones that jutted out from the wall were irregular and fairly flat: she might be able to climb out once she regained some feeling in her arms.

Looking up towards the top, the sky was darkening; another two or three hours and the well would be pitch-dark. If she was going to escape, it had to be now. The climb would be tough: her hands were soaked with blood and the damage to her wrists had sapped her strength.

Wedging her foot into a crack in the wall, Halloran jumped up and grabbed a stone with her hand. If she could choose her hand and foot holds carefully, she might just make it out of the well, or at least close enough to the top that she could grab a hold of the edge and pull herself over.

About four feet up the wall, Halloran moved her left foot onto a stone ledge in the wall and lifted herself higher. The stone slid from its position; her right hand lost its grasp and she fell back onto the platform. The back of her skull smacked hard against the timber of the platform.

Twice more she attempted the climb: both times she fell back onto the wooden platform. During her last fall, one of the boards splintered beneath her, threatening to drop her further into the shaft. Halloran was forced to admit defeat: There would be no escape from her prison until someone came around to help.

A thought occurred to her. One of the boards that comprised the wooden floor had cracked under her weight when she fell. Maybe she could pry one of them up, position it against the wall, and use it as a makeshift ramp. She could wedge it against the far side, close enough to the wall that the stones would give her a handhold as she inched her way up the board to freedom.

Halloran carefully examined the platform. Most of the planks were securely nailed to underlying beams; she wouldn't be able to rip these up. A few of them, however, were loose and cracked. In the far corner of the platform, several of the boards had broken off from decay and formed a fairly large hole.

Retrieving a small flashlight from her purse and lying on her stomach, Halloran slid across the platform and looked down into the hole. She gasped as she realized how high she was from the bottom. If she was going to rip up floor boards to make her escape, she would have to be extremely careful about which board she chose: the wrong choice might just collapse the entire floor and drop her a hundred feet into the water below.

A brilliant blue sparkle of light suddenly caught her attention as she scanned the depths. Something was in the well; lying in the water. She couldn't tell what the object was, but it reflected light back at her. Pulling herself further towards the hole, Halloran dropped her shoulders completely into the darkness and probed the depths.

A second flash appeared; a tiny dot of brilliant blue in the darkness. Carefully fanning the light across the bottom, Halloran finally spotted the source of the reflection. A small, circular stone or piece of colored glass was lying at the bottom of the well.

Curious, Halloran carefully tore up several pieces of the rotted platform. There was still enough sunlight shining into the well; if she could widen the hole, she could determine what was causing the reflection. Maybe she was wasting her energy when she should be escaping, but the mystery intrigued her. Maybe the object lying at the bottom of the well would answer some of her questions.

After a few minutes of work, Halloran finally managed to expose enough of the well to allow sunlight into the lower depths. Lying on her stomach, she pushed her head carefully over the edge and looked down into the well.

Halloran screamed and jerked back; striking her head on the platform. Rolling over, she pushed away from the hole with her legs until she came to rest against the far wall.

Her screams echoed out of the well until the air in her lungs finally gave out. She sat in terror against the wall and mumbled incoherently; her eyes painfully wide and her fingers clawing desperately at her blouse.

The blue object causing the reflection was a gem. The gem was lying in a pool of shallow water on the bottom of the well. The gem was connected to a chain of gold; a necklace.

The necklace was hanging around the neck of a bleached, human skeleton.

* * *

Rayford hung up the phone and went to talk to Yancey in the kitchen.

"Well? Are you charging this guy? Why the cuffs?" she asked him, pointing towards Thompson.

"No. Not Yet. I just wanted to teach him a lesson in humility. That was Robertson on the phone: He found Halloran's car abandoned in a ditch on Cat Hollow Road. The trunk had been forced open; rear seat was pushed in."

Three new sets of Police Sirens sounded from the front yard.

"Good: reinforcements” said Rayford. "Yancey, have Williams take two of those officers down to Cat Hollow. I'll need a thorough search of the vehicle and a fingerprint workup."

"What about him?" asked Yancey with a nod towards Benjamin.

"Un-cuff him but keep a close watch on him. Dignity school is over. Besides, he didn't have anything to do with Halloran's disappearance. Williams found fingerprints in the backseat of Halloran's car: tiny, chocolate-covered fingerprints. One of our missing suspects had himself a Hershey bar."

Yancey nodded and went outside to meet the arriving officers. Rayford sat back down at the table and faced Benjamin.

"Well, Mr. Thompson?" asked Rayford, "Where do you suppose we can find your daughter, Maggie?"

"Ask your pal Halloran: Isn't she the one who dragged her out of here yesterday?"

"Halloran's gone; your daughter has run away. I've a got a funny feeling she's probably headed back here. Assuming that's true, where do you think we should start looking for her?"

Benjamin shrugged; nodded his head towards the north. "Up there, in the woods where she always is. I'm not sure where: you'll have to figure that one out for yourself. Don't go up there much myself."

The front door opened; Yancey and two Rutherford police officers entered the room leading Mr. and Mrs. Jones in front of them.

"Welcome to our little party" said Rayford with a smile, "Have a seat at the table. Refreshments will be served shortly. My officers, as you probably know by now, are serving a search warrant on your property. I asked these gentlemen to bring you down here so we could discuss some of the problems that have been brewing in this neighborhood lately."

"God Damn you, Rayford" screamed Wally; his lips trembling as he shouted. "I'll have your fucking ass for this. How dare you drag us out of our home like common criminals?"

"Walter, they're searching our house, our home" moaned Amanda, "My precious house!"

"And, why bring us to this sewer?" continued Wally.

"Watch it, bonehead" said Benjamin crossly, "This sewer is my home."

"Who you calling 'bonehead', you little weasel? If anyone around this stupid neighborhood is killing kids and corrupting children, it's probably you” snapped Amanda.

"Amanda, SHUT UP” roared Wally. "Rayford, I'm sick and tired of watching our police force cater to the likes of miscreants like Thompson here and dragging honest, law-abiding citizens like my wife and I through the mud in the process. If your stupid policemen knew what they were doing, then ALL the children would be accounted for. Damn it, Rayford: It's his damn daughter that's been keeping our children away from home."

"Is it?" asked Rayford, suddenly interested. "How do you know that, Mr. Jones?"

"Simple. I saw them in the woods. They were together just after Maggie Thompson was taken away."

"Mr. Jones, I thought you told me that you and your wife were together that day? How could you be having dinner with your wife and walking in the woods at the same time?"

"I… I did” stammered Wally, turning towards the front door as he spoke. "That was later. They… The kids walked up past our house…"

Rayford grabbed Wally by the shoulder and spun him back around towards the table.

"I'm tired of your lies, Jones. I'm tired of you two storming into other people's lives and trying to force your will on them. But, most of all: I'm tired of the way you're constantly trying to put the blame on other people for your own damn problems!"

Amanda Jones rose from the table, but Yancey grabbed her by the shoulders and forced her back into the chair.

"Now," said Rayford, "this is how we're going to deal with this. It seems to me like all of the trouble I've seen in these woods traces back to the laps of the three of you."

Benjamin coughed nervously and reached for a cigarette.

"I've got a whole crew of missing kids here. I've got three dead people; two of them children. Two of them were shot, Mr. Thompson. Someone in this room has to know a little more than they're telling. We're going to sit here and discuss this like adults until some answers are forthcoming. Any questions?"

Amanda raised her hand.

"Could we please move this little interrogation to my house? This place is such a pig sty. I'm going to catch a disease if I stay here."

"Lady," laughed Benjamin, "You're already diseased. You're infected with yourself…"

"Don't you talk to my wife like that, you little hoodlum!" shouted Wally.

"'Hoodlum'? Now, which pot is calling the kettle 'Black'?"

Wally Jones roared, lunged towards Benjamin at the table. Rayford signaled two officers to separate the men.

"That's enough” he screamed. "Williams, get these assholes out of here. Yancey, call Peters and Evans: have them round up Robinson, Kendall, and Lacey. Have them meet us at the bridge on the south side of the road. Bring these idiots with us: I'm not through with them yet."

"Why the bridge?" asked Yancey. "What should I tell Peters?"

"Tell him to fetch his hiking boots" replied Rayford, "We're going into those woods to find those damn kids."

* * *

The Chameleon Club huddled in the clubhouse and discussed their plans for the Social Worker. Maggie Thompson looked over the group before speaking. How easy would it be to convince these guys to do things her way?

"I'm telling you guys; this lady could very well be the person who took my Mom away. I say we keep her in the well and starve her: sooner or later she'll start talking. When she tells me what I want to know, we let her go."

Scott snorted. "You're kidding, Maggie, right? You really think this is going to work? You guys were way out of line kidnapping this woman: All we were supposed to do was free you and then let her go."

Jacob raised his hand. "Excuse me, Mr. President: but if she took Maggie's Mom, didn't we do the right thing by catching her? Otherwise, she might have gotten away."

"Jake, you don't know it was her” said his brother, "For all we know, maybe Mr. Thompson killed his wife and that's why he drinks so much."

"Stop it, Esau” snapped Maggie, "Your own damn parents are no angels: we learned that much from those journals. It could just as well have been them."

Jacob and Esau looked at each other, and then nodded.

"You're right” admitted Esau, "It could have been them. Anyone who could sex half the entire Town Council would probably be capable of anything…"

Jacob frowned slightly and shook his head. “I guess this means we’ll all need counseling when we’re older. That might get expensive…”

"Maybe we ought to throw ALL the damn adults into the well!" said Maggie irritably.

"There's a thought…" said Esau with a nod.

"Will the well hold that many people? Won't it collapse or something?" added Jacob.

Scott groaned, stood up, and crossed over to the trap door.

"This is getting us nowhere. I don't believe you guys are actually considering this."

Maggie frowned at the boy.

"Scott, sit down, will ya? You're too messed up in this to back out now. We've got the lady; we might as well squeeze her for some information."

Scott stared at Maggie in disbelief, and then headed quickly up the ladder.

"Sorry, Maggie: this gamble of yours has become too rich for my blood. I'll see you guys later: do what you have to do without me. I quit."

When Maggie looked up again, Scott Langford was gone.

* * *

The telephone rang in Steven's study as he was preparing a sermon. On the third ring, he decided to answer the call. On the fourth ring, he changed his mind and let the answering machine take it.

"Hello: You've reached the Langford Residence" said the tired voice from the machine, "We're not available to take your call. At the tone, please leave your name and number and we'll return the call as soon as possible. Thank you, and may God Bless you."

Steven cringed. The word 'Bless' on his message was just a little too drawn out; a little too emphasized. It made him sound like he was contemplating suicide. He'd have to change it.

The call was from Carina.

"Steven" she said, "I know you're there. Please pick up: we have to talk."

Again, Steven almost picked up the receiver, but held back.

"Steven, I can't let things stand the way they are. I apologize for arguing with you. Please stay at the house; I'm coming over. We need to straighten this out once and for all. There's too much at stake, and I'm not going to let you walk away from this one. I'll be down in an hour: Please don't run away on me. Please?"

There was a pause on the tape; Steven looked towards the answering machine.

"I love you…" said Carina before the line went dead.

Steven left his desk and headed into the living room. He felt alone. All the weight of the world had been heaped upon his shoulders. He was in pain; pain he hadn't felt in a long time. Pain that brought tears to his eyes, made it difficult for him to breath.

He hadn't felt like this since his wife had died. Now, it seemed like he would be forced to relive her death all over again. The urge to run from the house and spend the afternoon at the church was overwhelming.

Steven stopped at the fish tank and watched his son's lizard climb across a branch. The creature's color was a constant, dull brown; a perfect match for the limb he was perched on, but not enough to render him invisible.

"Carina's right. You can't hide from me: You can only hide from yourself. I see you, little fellow…" he said, tapping the glass of the tank.

The Chameleon looked up at him with large, soupy eyes, and then scampered down the branch towards the far side of the rock.

He should go. Nothing good could come out of a relationship with Carina Carlson; he knew that. Kneeling in front of the couch, Steven prayed about the problem; asked God to guide him. Steven cried for his pain, cried for his dilemma.

Steven cried most of all for the loss of his beautiful, young wife.

Eleven

Lieutenant Rayford sat the parents down at a picnic table he had commandeered from the Jones Estate. Here, he could keep his eyes on them while his officers searched the woods. He wanted them nearby, but not right on top of him as he conducted his business.

He wanted to watch them closely. He wanted to see them sweat.

Yancey signaled him from the bridge.

"Excuse me" he said to the Jones, "I'll be back. Stay right here." Wally Jones looked away at his words; his wife Amanda smiled and politely nodded her head. Benjamin Thompson stared off into the woods.

"Jon, our search turned up no sign of the weapon at either house” said Yancey with a worried look. "Either it's been hidden off of the property, or one of the children has the damn thing. I've got Williams going over the Thompson property with a metal detector, but it's a shot in the dark: I don't really expect him to find anything."

Rayford scowled; looked back at the parents. "Damn it, Liz: One of them knows something they're not telling. I'm screwing this up, aren't I? Trying to resolve two sets of unanswered questions at once?"

"It's not like you have much choice. Both issues are pressing; both crimes present the possibility of more violence occurring…"

"Both events are related” said Rayford hotly, "I'm convinced of it. Round up the men: Let's start going through those woods. If we can find the kids and sit them down at the same picnic table with the parents, I think we can start to come up with some answers."

Yancey nodded, and then headed off towards Jim Peters. Rayford went back to the picnic table.

"All right, you three" said Rayford. "I'm going to level with you. I'm going to tell you something I shouldn't."

"Your dick size?" said Amanda with a sly smile, "Don't bother, Officer: I don’t impress that easily."

Rayford frowned; hoped to himself that the wicked lady in front of him was the murderer: He would enjoy throwing her ass into jail immensely.

"No. I'm going to tell you my suspicions concerning the murders in hopes that something I say will jog your memory and help us to find the missing Social Worker and put an end to these killings."

"So, you think they're related?" asked Wally Jones.

"As a matter of fact, I'm convinced of it. Maybe something I tell you will cause you to think of something we haven't been able to piece together yet. We know a great deal, but not enough to put an end to this, I'm afraid."

Benjamin Thompson looked away from the woods and watched Rayford closely. Amanda Jones reached into her purse and retrieved her favorite nail file.

"Based upon current evidence, I believe it was one of your children who performed the three recent murders."

"WHAT?" roared Wally Jones, jumping to his feet, "You can't be serious?"

"I am" replied Rayford. "Unfortunately, we haven't been able to find the revolver used in two of the murders, but we did manage to find this at the Thompson house."

Rayford held up a plastic evidence bag. Inside was a child's sneaker.

"Mr. Thompson, this shoe was found in your closet: not your daughter's closet, but YOUR closet. It belongs to Maggie, doesn't it? I have the matching shoe down at the station; it was found at the scene of the Riant killing. As far as I'm concerned, that places all four of the children at the scene of the murder."

"All four?" asked Amanda. "How does that sneaker implicate our boys?"

"It doesn't. But the chocolate fingerprints we found in the back of the car do, I'm afraid. They belonged to your son Esau."

"They can't be Esau's. He's never had his fingerprints taken."

Rayford shook his head. "Yes, he has. Three months ago. Isn't that right, Mr. Jones?"

Amanda stared at her husband in horror; Wally dropped his eyes and nodded. "Fingerprints are required as part of the entrance certification to RienHolt Military Academy. Both of the boys went through that process just before School let out for the summer" he said softly.

"Since Maggie Thompson was last seen with Ms. Halloran, I can only assume it was her friends that helped her to escape. We'll know more once we find them and can question them. That's not all we have, either. Clay deposits on the two children victims have both been isolated to deposits found on your property, Mr. Jones. And George Robert Thompson was murdered in the woods near the Thompson property. The children hang out in that very area, according to your own words. That, plus the fact Maggie Thompson collected bullets of the same caliper as those that murdered her uncle…"

"Why would they murder people?" asked Wally, "They're just kids, for God's sake. Sure, they run around the woods, do strange things, and act mysterious. But what reason would they have to kill someone?"

Rayford shrugged. "I'm not quite sure, but I have some ideas. Have you noticed, Mr. and Mrs. Jones, that both of the victims had red hair? Mr. Thompson, does that strike a bell with you: what does red hair and pink ribbons have to do with dead children?"

Thompson looked at him; his eyes red from sober, silent tears. "My wife has red hair. You think my daughter is killing kids with red hair, don't you?"

Rayford remained silent.

"Yeah, well my damn brother didn't have red hair: He was blond” snapped Benjamin. "How do you explain that?"

"I can't" replied Rayford. "Can you? Tell me what happened with the Rutherford School System, Mr. Thompson. Maybe that will shed a little light on the question."

Benjamin turned his eyes back towards the woods.

"Fuck you, Rayford” he said softly. "Fuck you."

"Fine: have it your way. The three of you wait here: I need to get this search going. Once my officers are in the woods, we'll talk some more."

"Damn it, we want our lawyer here” screamed Amanda fearfully.

"No problem” replied Rayford. "Give his name to Officer Yancey: I'll see that she has someone contact him. Mind you, you're not under arrest. You can leave if you want to. I wouldn't advise it, however. Not if you care about your kids."

Benjamin cleared his throat and approached Rayford.

"Lieutenant, maybe I can help. I know these woods pretty well. I spent the better part of last week looking for Maggie. Maybe I can show your Officers through the trails: Jim Peters is the only one that knows this area…"

"No, that's okay, Mr. Thompson: I think we can manage. Stay with the others."

"Rayford, your policemen: they're not going to…" started Wally. Rayford looked at the man; saw the fear in his eyes.

"They're not going to hurt our children, are they? I saw some of your men checking their weapons. I mean, For Christ's sake, these are CHILDREN you're looking for."

"No, Mr. Jones. These are not CHILDREN we're looking for. Not any more” said Rayford with a hard look. "I've already lost three people in this town, Mr. Jones. I don't know what to expect of those children when we find them and, frankly, neither do you. I'm not going to lose any more people; especially my officers. These men are going into those woods fully armed and ready to defend themselves."

Rayford headed back to the road.

"I'm not looking for children, today” he called out over his shoulder. "Today, I'm looking for killers…"

* * *

Jacob pointed up the hill towards the large maple tree.

"Maggie, that's the spot. The cops said that 'LizBeth Edricks was found up there."

Esau kicked over a small stone and snorted. "This is dumb: real dumb. Man, we're not going to find anything out here. Why bother?"

Maggie ignored him and started up the hill. A few minutes later, the three children stood on top of the rise and looked around for clues.

"Whoever brought Elizabeth up here was strong” said Maggie breathlessly, "That's quite a climb."

"Maggie, I tell you: this is downright crazy. Who you think we are: the Junior Patrol, or something? We should be back at the clubhouse."

Maggie whirled about and thrust her tiny fist in Esau's face. "Just SHUT UP. You'll do what I tell you to do. This isn't dumb: we're looking for clues. You don't think the adults are smart enough to figure this out, do you?"

Jacob tugged on Maggie's sleeve. "Maggie…"

"Not now, Jake. I'm busy. Esau, why would anyone kill a person down there and then drag them all the way up here?"

Esau frowned; looked back down the hill. "Keep her away from the road; don't want any passing cars to spot her, probably."

"Maggie!" said Jacob, desperately tugging on Maggie's sleeve.

"Jacob, I said 'NOT NOW'. We're trying to do some work here."

"Maggie, there's a cop coming" said Jacob urgently, pointing over the next knoll, "I saw a cop over there."

Maggie gasped, turned towards the south. A small streak of blue appeared between the trees.

"Everyone back to the clubhouse” whispered Maggie, "Now!"

"Why?" asked Jacob. "He's a cop: he can help us find clues…"

"No. Let's move: we don't want him to spot us. He's not looking for clues. I think he might be looking for us, or that Halloran lady."

Esau took a few steps to the south and watched the policeman.

"Maggie, you go on ahead: I'm going to check this guy out; see what he's up to."

"All right but be quick about it" said the girl as she took Jacob's hand and guided him back into the woods.

"And whatever you do, don't get caught."

Esau mumbled a quick reply before jumping off of the hill into the thin brush below.

* * *

Commander Oliver of the Connecticut State Police arrived an hour after Rayford briefed the parents. The six extra officers he provided were immediately put to work: four of them joined the search effort in the woods; two of them remained at the bridge and monitored radio traffic.

Rayford gave his clipboard to Oliver.

"This is a map of the forest the local Extension Center gave us: I have ten men, four of mine plus yours, checking out each squared off section."

Oliver frowned. "Not enough, Jon: You're looking to find these kids before sundown, correct?"

Rayford nodded. "Maybe we'll get lucky. I've only got so many bodies, and I'm not all that crazy about putting the locals to work” he said, casting an ugly glare back at the parents.

Wally Jones approached the two men.

"Lieutenant, we don't you call in the Rutherford Fire Department?"

"Thank you: we can handle things from here” said Oliver crossly.

"Really?" snapped Wally, "Then, by all means, go ahead. Silly me: I thought maybe you could use the help of four to ten men trained in wilderness search and rescue; people who live and work in this area. I'm terribly sorry: I should realize that I'm just a stupid civilian and go sit down next to my wife, huh?"

Oliver nodded.

"Wait; he might be right” said Rayford. "Liz, give Chief Halderman a call; see if he can spare us some of his men."

"Maybe dogs would be a good idea” said Oliver, "Might speed up the search."

"Dogs: Can we get dogs?" Rayford asked his wife. Yancey nodded.

"I can call Ben Wilson, over on Palmer Street. We've used his bloodhounds before."

Oliver nodded. "That'll be quicker than anything I can come up with; you'd better go with it, Jon."

One of the State Policemen handed Rayford a radio.

"One of your men, Williams, has found a shoe that might belong to the social worker."

Rayford ripped the unit from his hand.

"Williams. Where'd you find the shoe?"

After a few seconds of silence, Rayford grabbed a pen and circled a spot on the map. "Okay, great: I'll have Lizzie send Evans over to meet you. Stay in the area; widen your circle out another five hundred feet or so, and stay quiet, for God's sake."

Oliver looked at the map and frowned.

"That's a pretty big parcel of land. Who owns it?"

Rayford pointed at Wally Jones. "He does. I won't know until we see the shoe, but if it belongs to Halloran, then she's probably somewhere on the Jones Estate."

Wally stared at the two officers; his wife gasped.

A few minutes later, while Rayford and Oliver planned their strategy, Benjamin Thompson carefully slipped away from the table and disappeared into the woods.

* * *

Steven Langford was sleeping in his favorite easy chair when the two police cars sped down Paugasaget Road past his house. The wail of their sirens stirred him from a light nap.

Peeking through the blinds, he saw the last cruiser fly down the road and disappear into the woods beyond. Something was happening: something serious.

He thought of Scott. Were the police cruisers somehow connected to the activities of the club Scott was involved with? Was the boy in danger?

Rising from the chair, Steven paced nervously across the living room floor. Maybe he should follow the police; see what was going on. Maybe he should try to find Scott and make sure he wasn't in trouble.

On the other hand, maybe he should sit back down in the chair and wait for Carina to visit. She had called an hour ago; she should be arriving at any moment. Scott was a big boy: He could take care of himself.

The sirens from the police cars reminded him of his wife's death. The two of them had been at home when her labor began; they had spent the day pruning flowers in the garden Julia kept outside the front steps. When her pains began, Steven could tell right away something was wrong: the look in his wife's eyes and the tension in her voice as she insisted everything was fine gave away her distress.

In the ambulance, she poked fun at her plight. "I'm just not very good at this childbearing stuff," she had said with a weak smile. "Never did this before; not enough practice." Six hours later, she and her daughter were dead. Six hours later, Steven's nightmare had begun.

He should have taken her to the Hospital earlier; he knew that now. He hadn't taken her initial pains seriously; didn't want to risk a two-hour trip just to find out his wife had gone into false labor. He had waited; worked on the flowers instead.

Three days later, those same flowers rested on his wife's coffin.

A small scratching sound caught Steven's attention. Turning back towards the kitchen, he saw Scott's chameleon clawing at the glass walls of the tank. Removing the lid, he scooped up the animal by its belly and ran his finger along the back of its tail.

Three days and four hours after his wife's death, those same flowers were carefully placed on her grave. Scott had quietly stood beside him as he knelt down in the fresh gravel and laid the flowers in front of the tombstone. The boy had cried all night long: he stood there with dark patches under his eyes and a distant look on his face. Steven hadn't cried: he had saved his tears for late at night, when Scott wasn't around to see them.

For months afterwards, Steven had relived those terrible days in his mind. Had he been too busy living his own life? Could his wife's death have been avoided? He had prayed about this dilemma many times over the last year and a half, but God had chosen, in his infinite wisdom, to remain silent on the subject.

Now, as a new minister in a new church in a new town, he found himself on the verge of hating God: hating Him for taking his wife, hating him for not warning him of the danger she was in, hating Him for allowing Steven's own fallibility to threaten the safety of his family.

He hated God for reminding him of Julia every time his son walked by.

A sharp pinprick of pain exploded in his wrist. Steven looked down and saw that he had grasped the beast around the neck and, without thinking, had nearly choked it to death. The lizard was scratching him with its hind claws in a desperate attempt to free itself.

Steven dropped the chameleon back into its tank. The lizard immediately bolted underneath the branch that served as its roost and stared back at him with large eyes from the safety of the shadows.

Shaking his head sadly, Steven turned away from the frightened creature and moved back to his chair. He no longer wanted to look at the beast; the terrified look in its eyes bothered him. He knew that look all too well.

He saw it in his own eyes every morning when he shaved.

* * *

Benjamin Thompson collapsed on the lawn and gasped for air. He had run aimlessly through the woods for a half hour before heading home; now there was nowhere else to run. In front of him, the door of his house slapped against the wall; caught in the afternoon breeze. The cops had long since retreated; his property was empty.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a small metal flask. It was Whisky; just for emergencies. He was trying to stay sober, but now he felt the urge to drink. Just a nip, he thought, to cool him off. Then, he'd put it away and quit drinking all over again.

Tears came as he realized that he was lying to himself. He wouldn't take a sip and put the flask away: he'd guzzle the damn thing dry and then stagger into the kitchen for a refill. Who was he trying to kid? He couldn't stay away from the booze: it was his life blood.

Collapsing to the ground, Benjamin cried. He cried for his wife, he cried for Maggie. He cried for the children missing in the woods. He even cried for his dead brother Bobby; even though the creep was an arrogant, self-righteous little bastard and had deserved to die.

"I knew you couldn't do it" said his wife, coming up behind him. "I knew you wouldn't fall off the wagon. Not this time."

Benjamin sighed; put his arm around the woman when she sat on the grass.

"It’s a fancy seeing you here. I always thought you hated this place: you worked so hard to get away."

Victoria laughed; the afternoon sunlight creating dazzling sparkles in her eyes.

"Benji, I spend a LOT of time here. You know that."

Benjamin wiped his eyes and allowed himself a slight smile. "Yeah, I guess I do. I guess there’s no one to blame but myself for that, huh?"

"Are you feeling sorry for yourself?"

Benjamin nodded slowly.

Victoria gazed towards the house with dark eyes. "It's about time you did. You could have saved yourself a world of grief if you had allowed yourself to sober up a year ago and see things the way they really are."

"Things don't always work out the easy way, Vicky. Sometimes you have to live through the pain in order to learn the easy lessons."

Victoria turned Benjamin's face towards hers and lightly kissed him on the forehead.

"It's time, Benji. It's time to make things right again."

"I can't do it. I know what you said, and, in my heart, I know you're right, but I just can't bring myself to do it."

"Yes, you can!"

Rising quickly to his feet, Benjamin began to pace back and forth in the grass. "Vicky, I can't do it. There's too high a cost to pay…"

"For whom: You?"

"Yes. Me” he said harshly. "Do you have any idea what you're asking me to do?"

"I wouldn't be here if I didn't."

"Why now? Why don't I wait a few days; make sure I can stay off the booze? That's important to this, isn't it?"

Victoria nodded.

"Yes, it is. But Benjamin: we no longer have the time. You've got to do this for Maggie, and with no thought for yourself."

"To Hell with this sobriety nonsense: I need a drink…"

Victoria frowned. "No, you've got to stay sober if you're going to help Maggie. You've got to do it tonight. If you wait any longer, it will be too late for her. She won't listen to you if you're drunk."

"Why?" roared Benjamin, his fingers twitching nervously at his side, "Why tonight?"

"Because your daughter has run out of time, that’s why. You've got to do it now, Benji. You've been hiding too long, and it will be your daughter who pays for that mistake for the next forty years if you don't act soon."

Benjamin, still crying, walked over to the edge of the road and looked down towards Cat Hollow. The flask of whiskey was still in his hands. Just a quick turn of the cap, a quick swig of the hot liquid, and all his troubles would fade into merciful mist.

"Benji…" said Victoria with a concerned tone.

"All RIGHT!" screamed Benjamin. "Stop nagging me, woman! Just tell me what I have to do."

Victoria rose from the ground and stood beside him.

"Tell the truth” she said; placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Stay sober, find your daughter, and tell her the truth."

Benjamin took a long look at his wife, then turned away from her in frustration.

"Fuck this," he said as he unscrewed the cap to the flask and gave into temptation. "I can't do this, Vicky. I'm sorry, but the child just isn't worth it. I'm going inside: save the damn kid yourself and leave me alone."

"Damn it, Benji" screamed Victoria, "I won't let you drown your troubles this time! Put that damn flask down before it kills you!"

Taking a second swig of the liquor, Benjamin stumbled away from his wife and towards the house.

Twelve

Scott Langford finished his story.

Jim Peters sighed, shifted his position a little. The ropes lashing his legs together were cutting off the circulation in his thighs; his injured ankle was throbbing like a mad drummer stoned on heroin.

The boy remained on the boulder; dangled Peter's pistol carelessly from his fingers. There were tears on his cheeks that glistened in the fading afternoon sunlight.

He had talked for two hours, as best as Peters could tell. He had told of everything he knew. Whatever gaps that did exist in the tale, Peters could fill in from his own knowledge of the events that had recently occurred.

He had to get back to the bridge. He knew where the Social Worker was. More important, he had a damn good idea who the killer was.

"That’s a hell of a tale, kid" Peters said slowly. "Now: what are you going to do about it?"

The boy tensed; looked back at the officer.

"You realize there's no easy way out for you, don't you? You've got to come back to the road with me; talk to the Lieutenant."

The boy wiped his eyes, stood up from the boulder. He had the look of a cornered raccoon on him, thought Peters.

"Scott, let's face the facts, shall we? Unless you start cooperating right now, you're guilty of felonious assault, assault with a deadly weapon, kidnapping, and a host of other minor charges I can think of. You're what, fifteen: sixteen?"

Scott remained silent; stared off into the woods beyond Peter's left shoulder.

"I don't want to be the one that drags your sorry ass up to Windham and locks you in Juvenile Hall until you're twenty-five. Cooperate with me, and you get to go home to your Momma…"

Scott glared harshly at Peters; a look of terror mixed with sadness in his eyes. Peters became quiet: he knew he had said something wrong and didn't want to push the kid off over the edge.

After a few seconds of awkward silence, Scott tossed the revolver into Peter's lap.

"You're right: I've nowhere else to turn. Let's go talk to your boss. I won't rat on my friends, but I can probably help you out in other ways; tell you what I know."

"Scott: did you or your friends do any of those killings?"

Scott shook his head as he moved to Peter's side and knelt down next to him.

"No, we didn't. At least, I don't think so."

Peters breathed a sigh of relief as the boy unwrapped the ropes from around his injured legs, helped him off of the ground, and hobbled with him back down to Paugasaget Road.

"You're doing the right thing, you know."

The boy laughed. "Let's hope so," he said. "I probably should have run away and left you in the woods. By helping you, I'm destroying everything I've worked for the past year and a half."

* * *

Steven Langford was in his car and half way out of his driveway when Carina's pickup pulled in behind him and prevented his escape.

Steven sighed, killed the engine, and left the car: Carina leapt out of her own vehicle and stormed over to him.

"I thought I told you to stay put?"

Steven held out his hands. "I was on my way to the church: I've… some loose ends to tie up in my office; stuff that can't wait until Sunday."

"What about the loose ends you've got to tie up around here?" she replied. "I just passed a whole herd of Rutherford Policemen down the road. Half the neighborhood is down there. What's going on?"

Steven closed the door of his car. "They're looking for the children; the ones that hang around with my son. I gather they're missing, or something."

Carina, surprised by his answer, gaped at him.

"Carina, I've got work to do: can we talk about this some other time?"

"I don't believe this. I came down here to talk to you about us. I asked you not to run away, and what's the first thing you try to do? Steven, what's going on in that tortured mind of yours? Where's Scott? Is he mixed up in that mess?"

Steven turned back towards the house. "I guess so. He may be. I mean; I don't know."

"Aren't you going to find out?"

"No, I'm not… I'm not sure. He'll come home, eventually. I've got more important things I've got to do."

"Good Lord: this is worse than I thought” said Carina, "To think, I thought you were only running away from me!"

"Carina, I'm not running away from you” said Steven, grasping her hands, "I'm just not sure if I'm ready for this relationship to happen."

Carina laughed awkwardly at the man and pulled her hands away from his.

"Steven, to HELL with our relationship. I mean, sure: that's important to me, but you just told me those Police might be looking for your son, and you're thinking about going to church and cleaning up some paperwork? Isn't this just a little more important?"

Steven was surprised by her boldness.

"What in God's name is going on between the two of you? Is this why he nearly bit my head off last week? Am I a threat? Have the two of you been having problems?"

"Yes, I guess we have: I'm sorry, but I'd rather not talk about it."

"Why not? Aren't you the one that told me to face my fears? Aren't you the one who told me there was nothing to be gained from hiding from my troubles?"

"Carina, that's not the same and you know it…"

"Why, because you're the Reverend and I'm not? Don't you practice what you preach?"

Steven glared back at the girl. Her words were too close to those of his Son: too close to those he had given her just over a week ago during their counseling sessions.

They were a little too close to the truth for his liking.

"Look, this is between and my son. Please, stay out of this, Carina. I'm not a child; I can deal with my own problems, all right?"

"Could have fooled me" said Carina softly.

Steven grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her. "Look, just what do you want from me? Why are you questioning my judgment suddenly? You don't live here; you hardly know my son and me at all. You're not my…"

He paused; embarrassed to finish the thought.

"Your wife?" she asked with a slight smile, "You were going to say, 'I'm not your wife', weren't you?"

Steven collapsed on the lawn, put his face into his hands, and cried. All of the worries, all of the stress had finally conspired against him: His nerves were shot, his resolve was gone, and the woman he loved had just stumbled blindly across the truth.

Carina sat next to him on the lawn and held him close.

"Steven, I'm so sorry” she said softly. "I understand now what's happening. This is my entire fault, isn't it? I'm the one who started the trouble between you and Scott."

Steven ignored her; continued to weep.

"You didn't move away from Portsmouth, New Hampshire to get a new Pastoral position: you were running away from your wife. When I came around and expressed an interest in your life, I was ripping open an old wound. I was reminding you of her. Scott probably does the same thing without even realizing it, doesn't he?"

Steven looked at her through red, swollen eyes.

"It shouldn't have been like that. I wasn't supposed to fall in Love with you. I don't have the right to love you. I don't have time. I don't even have time to deal with Julia's death, or Scott's isolation. I've got a job to do. I keep telling myself that all I have to do is concentrate on work and everything else will take care of itself."

"Has it?"

Steven shook his head; dropped his head back into his hands. Carina sat up suddenly and reached into her pants pocket.

"Oh, one of the reasons I wanted to talk to you today: I was reading the Bible yesterday and I found something that made sense to me: It kind of applies to all this trouble."

She pulled out a thin piece of white paper and held it up for Steven. "I didn't think I'd be able to remember it, so I ripped it out and brought it with me."

Steven looked at the torn scripture; stared back at Carina with horror in his eyes.

Carina scowled at him. "Lighten up, Reverend: It's just a book. It's the words that matter; not the paper they're written on. Listen to this, it's from Ezekiel"

"'If the watchman sees the sword coming and does not blow the trumpet, and the people are not warned, and the sword comes and takes any person from among them, he is taken away in his iniquity; but his blood I will require at the watchman's hand.'" she read.

Steven nodded. "Ezekiel chapter thirty-three: That’s Verse five or six, I think. I know that verse."

Carina shook her head. "No, you don't."

Staring back at her, Steven started to reply, but Carina waved him off.

"No, you don't know that verse. You know what it says, but not what it means. That verse describes what I was doing after my friend Jessica destroyed my life, but it also describes what you're doing now. You're the watchman. That's what a Minister is, isn't it: A Watchman?"

Steven dropped his eyes to the lawn; avoided her gaze.

"The Sword has come, Steven, and it's cutting you and your Son to shreds. You knew it was coming but didn't say anything. You just hid away, licked your wounds, and tried to blame everyone else for the damage it did. Your son was suffering the same way you were, and you never said a word."

Carina put away the parchment.

"Maybe I didn't cause all this, after all” she said finally. "Maybe you did, by hiding away all these years. Maybe God brought me around to remind you of what you were losing; remind you of what you've thrown away."

"Stop it, Carina” snapped Steven, "Just stop it. All right: Maybe I've been hiding away from my own sorrows; maybe I've been feeling sorry for myself all this time. Maybe I'm a drunk without a bottle." He paused; tired of the angry words and unsure of his own argument.

"Then change, Steven. Do what you told me to do two weeks ago: Let's go face your fears."

Steven rose from the lawn, stretched his neck, and laughed harshly. "You make that sound so easy, Carina."

"I didn't think it was until you talked me into doing it myself. If I can do it, Steven, then so can you. Let's go down the road and talk to those police. Even if Scott isn't involved, it's high time you became more involved in this neighborhood anyway. You spend too much time in that stupid chair of yours. Maybe some of those parents down there could use some encouragement."

Steven shook his head. "Scott IS involved, Carina. I've known that all along. He was here just a little more than an hour ago trying to get me to come into the woods and talk to those kids. He knows where they are."

"Fine: Then, what are we waiting for? Let's go” she replied, rising from the lawn and brushing off her pants.

"Get a move on, Watchman” she said, pulling him towards the road, "and don't forget your trumpet."

* * *

Jim Peters hobbled out of the woods on the shoulder of the boy. Rayford went over to the child, hurried him over to the picnic table, and sat him down next to the Jones.

"There's your killer, Rayford” screamed Amanda Jones, pointing an angry finger at Scott, "He's responsible for the missing children. Why don't you deal with him, Lieutenant, instead of keeping us here like common criminals?"

"Shut up, Mrs. Jones," said Yancey quietly, "or else."

Amanda stood up and defiantly placed her palms on the table.

"Or you'll do what?" she asked hotly.

Yancey reached into her jacket, retrieved her taser, and shot off a quick, crackling charge of electricity. Amanda shrieked, fell back onto the bench, and clung to her husband.

"Or I'll shut you up” said Yancey with a smile.

Scott talked to the Policemen for fifteen minutes; telling them the same story as the one he had told Peters, but carefully withholding any information that would lead the Police to the clubhouse or the safe spots. When finished, he dropped his eyes and stared down into his lap, ashamed and embarrassed by all the attention.

"If this kid is telling the truth," said Peters afterwards to Rayford and Commander Oliver, "I don't think it was any of the club members who did the killings. I think it might have been Maggie's father."

"He certainly is unstable enough," said Oliver, "although I'm a little foggy about his possible motive."

"Jon, the kid says it was Bobby Thompson who was paying the bills at the Thompson house. If that's true, then there's the motive. Maybe he turned off the financial spigot and forced Butch Thompson to dry out. He certainly doesn't look drunk today, does he?" said Peters, looking about for Benjamin.

"Don't bother: He ran off about an hour ago. I've got one of the State Police looking for him. What about the two kids who were murdered: How does that kid's story explain the sneaker?"

"It doesn't. Maybe the shoe was left there before the Riant killing. Maybe there's more to this red hair connection than we thought."

Rayford scowled; scratched at his chin. "This isn't getting us anywhere. If we can use this kid to find Halloran, I think the rest of the pieces will start falling into place. Does the boy know where she is?"

Peters nodded. "He isn't going to tell us. He mentioned she was being held in an old well, but there's probably dozens of those things scattered around town."

"Well, we'll just see about that. LANGFORD!" screamed Rayford. The boy jumped off the picnic table and came over to the bridge.

"You know where your friends are keeping the Social Worker? You know about this well?" Scott nodded.

"Are you going to tell us where it is?"

Scott shook his head. "No, I can't do that, Lieutenant. I'll help you any way I can; answer any of your questions. But I won't tell you anything about the club."

"So, she's being held somewhere near your clubhouse: is that it?"

Scott remained silent.

Oliver jabbed his thick finger into the boy's chest.

"Son, we think it was your friend Maggie who killed those other people. We also think she has a gun and might just kill Ms. Halloran if we don't stop her. You've got to tell us where those kids are, or where they're keeping Halloran."

Scott stared back at the policeman with a fierce look of contempt and slapped his hand away from his chest.

"I don't have to tell you ANYTHING if I don't choose to. Stop pushing me around."

Rayford moved between them and spoke in softer tones.

"Look, these friends of yours are in trouble, Scott. You came down out of the woods to help them, now do it. Where can we find those kids? If you can't show us where they are, then show us where they're keeping the Social Worker."

Scott considered the cop's words; thought about his own father and his inability to come to grips with his pain. He had just chewed out his father for not getting involved; how could he remain silent now? How would he be able to face his Dad again?

"All right: I'll show you where the clubhouse is. I won't show you where the Social Worker is, but I'll lead you to where the rest of the club probably is holed up. Okay?"

Rayford nodded his head and motioned for Peters.

"Let's go find that clubhouse."

* * *

The three remaining members of The Chameleon Club crept carefully through the thick brush of the Paugasaget Forest towards the road. Each of them wore raincoats that had dead tree leaves glued to them for camouflage.

Maggie, in the lead, held back her hand and forced the Jones boys to move slower: She knew there were cops looking for them and wanted to make sure the noise was kept to a minimum.

"I'm scared” hissed Jacob, "Why are we going towards the road?"

"We told you” whispered his brother, "We're going to see what the cops are up to; see if Scott ratted us out."

"Quiet, you two!" hissed Maggie. Motioning with her arm, she directed Esau over to the right side of the trail, and then led Jacob to the left along the brook. They would watch the bridge from three different positions; left, center, and right. If one of them was spotted, chances were the other two could get away.

"Over here!" shouted a voice from behind them. Maggie tensed, dropped to one knee. The two boys froze in place.

"I've got a track…" cried out the voice, "Three sets: heading east."

"Down" Maggie whispered. Without a word, all three children collapsed to the forest floor and drew their legs under the raincoats.

Had they hidden themselves well enough, wondered Maggie as a State Policeman and a Rutherford Fireman appeared down the trail from her position. Pulling her hood over her head, she squirreled herself deeper into the brush and held her breath.

If they were discovered, she would take off running through the woods towards the north. They'd catch her, for sure: but maybe it would give Jacob and Esau a chance to get away.

The two men came up the trail and paused a few feet away from Jacob. Maggie, peeking out from underneath her hood, saw the boy squirm under his disguise.

"Damn" said the Fireman, "They came this way; I'm sure of it. That back trail is soaked from the rainstorm the other day; ground is still soft. Best tracks I ever saw."

"It is dry here, however” replied the cop, "No tracks, but they can't be that far ahead of us. They probably stuck to the trail. Give Yancey a shout and let her know what we've found."

The fireman nodded and fiddled with his walkie-talkie as the two of them continued down the path. Maggie slowly let out her breath, waited until they were completely out of sight, and then lifted herself from the brush.

Esau, looking a little pale, stood up as well.

"Mag, that was AWFUL close. We're not going to be able to shake these clowns forever…"

"Yes, we will. Doesn't that last scene prove anything to you? These clowns couldn't find us if their lives depended on it. We could put up some of Jacob's signs telling them where we are, and they STILL wouldn't be able to track us."

Jacob, his head bent sideways, started to cry.

Esau playfully slapped him across the back of the head. "Chill, brother: they're gone."

Maggie frowned; remembered something.

"Jacob, why are you crying? What's the matter?" she asked the frightened boy.

Jacob, unable to answer, looked back at her with wide, tear-stained eyes. His knees were shaking, and his hand was cupped next to his ear.

"What is it? What do you hear?"

The children listened to the sounds of the trees carefully. Jacob, too scared to talk, continued to cry: Maggie and Esau tried to catch the sound their friend was hearing.

A minute later, Maggie finally heard the noise. She gasped; covered her mouth with her hands. A few seconds later, Esau fell to his knees out of sheer fright and began to pull at his hair.

Dogs: The three children heard dogs baying in the distance.

"Mag, we're fucking screwed” hissed Esau. "That's it: I'm out of here. Take this club and shove it up your little white ass; Jacob and I are walking."

Maggie reached into her pack and pulled out the blood-stained revolver.

"I haven't met a dog yet who could stand up to one of these babies" she whispered, "What's your rush?" Jacob, when he saw the weapon, began to scream: Esau quickly clamped his hand over the boy's mouth and wrestled him to the ground.

"No way, Maggie: This is it: ballgame is over; called on account of damn dogs. Lord, Scott was right, and I am SUCH a butthead: We ain't going to pull this off. Time to cut our losses…"

Maggie swung the gun towards the two frightened boys and waved it in the air.

"Go ahead, then. Run away. Who needs you? I can do this by myself: I'll find out what's going on by myself. I should have done this all along: I only waited to avoid scaring you two."

Jacob pulled his brother's hand away from his mouth. "Maggie, you're mud."

"'MAD'" corrected Esau, "Maggie's mad. Insane. Cuckoo. Crazy. Two Queen’s short of a full deck! The boy's right: you're out of control: Let's go back to the clubhouse and think this over, girl."

Ignoring her friend, Maggie turned and stormed west towards the Jones Estate without answering him. Jacob and Esau watched her walk away for a few seconds, then tore off into the woods when the dogs resumed their howling.

* * *

Wally Jones exploded as soon as Steven and Carina appeared at the bridge.

"Do you know what your damn boy has been doing all this time, Langford?" he raged; his face turning a ghastly shade of blue, "He's been leading our kids through the woods, murdering children, kidnapping people, and it's all your fucking fault."

Carina slipped in front of Steven and slapped Wally hard across the face.

"How dare you? Scott's a fine boy who was only trying to help your kids; give them some love and attention."

Amanda grabbed Carina by the hair and pulled her away from her husband. "That's it, bitch: You're dog food. The nerve of you hitting my husband: don't you know who he is?"

The two women fell kicking and scratching to the ground. Yancey and two other Officers came over to pull them apart, only to find themselves pulled into the pile as well.

"Enough" said Steven, "Stop it, you two!"

"How's it feel, Reverend?" said Wally; still angry, "How does it feel being Father to a murderer; a kidnapper? Good thing you invested all those years in Sunday school: It really has paid off for you, hasn't it?"

Steven cast him a withering glance, then tried to grab Carina from the pile.

"STOP IT!" he screamed at the women. Yancey managed to pull herself off the ground for a split second, and then dove back in to the fray. Amanda Jones, with a mighty roar, threw Carina onto her back and began to claw at her opponent's earrings. Carina grabbed the black woman by her hair and pulled her neck back in an arch. Below them, one of the State Policemen found himself pinned to the ground by their thighs; unable to squeeze his way to freedom.

"I said, IN JESUS' NAME: STOP IT!" roared Steven; his hands shaking in the air.

The fight stopped. Amanda stood up from the ground and staggered over to her husband. Carina mouthed a silent apology to Steven and sat at the table.

"I'm sick of this” snapped Steven. "That episode at the church was bad enough, but now you jump my friend?"

Amanda snorted in disgust. "Your little whore is no better, Reverend: She nearly scalped me just a few seconds ago."

"Who are you calling a 'whore', whore?" snapped Carina.

"That's ENOUGH!" roared Steven. "All of us are under tremendous stress: Not just you, Mrs. Jones. In case you haven't noticed, my son is up in those woods as well. I'll tell you something else you probably already know but won't admit to. It's your fault those children are up there: Your fault and mine."

"How do you figure that?" asked Wally gruffly, "We've done everything possible to monitor those children and give them a good home. We've worked; slaved, planned and organized…"

"But through all of that," said Steven, "you made the same mistake I did; the same mistake I've been making for a year and a half. You weren't there: you tried to rule your family during your own absence."

Wally became silent.

"These kids, yours plus mine, never wanted our houses, our money, our jobs: they wanted us. When things got rough for us, we withdrew back into our favorite hiding places; our favorite little shadow spots and let the world and our children go on without us."

"Look at Butch Thompson," continued Steven, "When things went sour for him, he fell into his bottles. You can't blame his daughter Maggie for that: she's only ten years old. She's not responsible for her Father's neglect: he is."

"My own son, Scott: Life got so dull for him with his Father mourning for a dead wife that he decided to break the cycle on his own. That's why he started The Chameleon Club; he was trying to build a sense of community and cooperation he should've gotten from me. Your two boys joined for the same reason; can't you see that?"

Amanda brushed back a lock of black hair and looked up at Steven. She was shaking.

"I never knew the name of their club. What did you call it, 'The Chameleon Club'? The boys never told us that."

"You never gave them the chance, did you?" whispered Carina. "Scott didn't start the club, Maggie Thompson did. He just took it over and improved it. They were practicing how to hide from people; use camouflage and disguise."

"Oh, come off it!" screamed Wally, wiping his brow with a handkerchief, "That's preposterous. My two boys have everything they could ever desire in life: they've got nothing to hide from. Where the Hell did you ever come up with such a ridiculous lie, Langford? How could you possibly know what my kids were up to all this time?"

Steven laughed; moved over to the table and sat down next to Wally.

"I know all of this because I'm the proverbial King of The Chameleon Club. Your wife is our Treasurer; you're the Secretary who records the meetings."

Wally scowled. "What kind of nonsense is this? I'm a member of the Elks, maybe, but I've never involved myself in the boys' activities…"

"Absolutely never" said Amanda seriously. "That's why we hired nannies, like Mrs. Hempkins."

Steven rubbed his tired eyes. "Listen to yourself. Of course, you're involved in The Chameleon Club. Don't you get it? Don't you understand what's happening here?"

The Jones looked up at him warily; confused by his words. Even Carina struggled to grasp what he was saying.

"Scott didn't form The Chameleon Club: WE DID. WE'RE THE CHAMELEON CLUB: we're the ones who've become experts at hiding. They're only copying us" he said forcefully. "Those children are cheap imitations of the original. They're clones; genetic mutations."

The picnic table became quiet. Wally dropped his head, breathed heavily. Amanda began to wipe her eyes with a small hanky. Even the policemen who had broken up the fight turned away and shuffled their feet out of embarrassment.

"Those kids are our treasure; our TALENTS, to coin a Biblical phrase. When we should have been investing our time and interests towards them, we were burying them in the back yard; pretending everything was fine and dandy while we chased about after our own selfish interests. We hid ourselves away from life and the children copied us."

"He's right, Amanda” said Wally finally. "Damn his soul to Hell, but the man's got a point…"

"Yes, I am" agreed Steven, "but I'm just as guilty as the rest of you, if it's any consolation. We ought to thank God Almighty our kids are as responsible and sensible as they are: most children who have been abandoned by their parents would have run away from home, or gotten themselves involved in some serious drugs, crime, or whatever. Our kids invented a family to replace the one they lost."

"Don't talk too soon" said Yancey, "Your kids DID run away from home, technically speaking. They ARE involved in some serious stuff. Scott was here earlier; turned himself in. The Lieutenant took him back into the woods about fifteen minutes ago to find the other three children."

"Reverend, I don't believe for a second that you're right, but suppose you are" said Amanda, "Let's suppose that we've been so wrapped up in our own sordid little affairs that our families have become unraveled in the process. So, what do we do about it now? How do we get our kids home?"

"That's our job, Mrs. Jones” interrupted Yancey, "Not much you can do about that now. Maybe when this is all over, you can repair the damage that's been done. Maybe the two of you can meet with the Reverend and talk this thing through. For now, you can help us by trying to find those kids. They're somewhere on your property: come give us a hand; point us in the right direction."

Amanda nodded her head; walked over to the policemen. "I'll do what I can, but I'm afraid I don't know the little brats well enough to be of much use." She looked back towards Steven as she spoke; frightened by his words and terrified by her own.

"Why don't you start by telling us about wells?"

Wally joined the two of them and pointed to the map on the clipboard.

"There's about ten of them," he said. "Our land used to be divided into about eight or nine house lots, back in the 1800's. The original builder of the house bought them out and consolidated them into one parcel; the old wells fell out of use when Rutherford crammed the town water system down our throats back in the Seventies. I can point out most of them, but a few are buried deep in the meadows: I don't know anyone who knows where they all are."

"I do" said Steven.

The Jones stared at him curiously.

"Your children know where they are. Your children know where all of them are” he said softly. "They live there; you don't."

Thirteen

It was almost dusk when Janine Halloran heard a young girl crying. She looked up towards the disappearing sky and saw a small shadow move up to the edge of the well, staring back down at her.

It was Maggie Thompson. She was sobbing. She was holding a gun.

"Maggie…" said Halloran, "Help me out of here. This doesn't have to go any farther: all I want to do, all I ever wanted to do, was help you. Please…"

Maggie looked down towards the frightened Social Worker.

"Mommy, I'm sorry” she whimpered; her tiny shoulders heaving as she spit out the words. "I know I'm not supposed to come here, but I need to talk to you."

"Maggie?" asked Halloran; shivering from the rapidly chilling dusk air.

"Please come home, Mom: Please, don't stay away. I know I've been bad. Everything's my fault. I'll be good: Dad will stop drinking, and then you can come home."

"Maggie, help me out of here. We can find your Mom together. I know some people who can help."

"Shut up. SHUT UP!" screamed Maggie, waving the gun in the air above the well.

"What are you doing?" screamed the woman. "Please, think about what you're doing."

The girl, still crying, offered her no reply but tears. Raising the gun, she leveled it towards Halloran and carefully pulled back the hammer. The click of the weapon echoed down the well shaft and rose sharp shivers in the back of Halloran's neck.

"Don't do this…" she said, backing up.

"I have to, Momma” said Maggie tearfully, now bracing the weapon between both of her tiny hands, "I have to. Forgive me, Momma: I never meant to be such a bad little girl…"

"Maggie, I'm not your Mom. Listen to me."

The girl shook her head, stopped crying, and looked down into the well. The gun dipped in her hands.

"Where's my Mother, Mrs. Halloran? You took her away from me, and I want to know where she is."

Halloran shook her head but couldn't speak: the gun had robbed her of her voice.

"You're going to tell me what I want to know, Lady” said Maggie, raising the weapon a second time, "and you're going to tell me SOON."

* * *

Jacob and Esau tore breathlessly through the dark woods. When they reached the rotted oak, they collapsed in a heap for a few seconds and caught their breath.

"Jake, we should have gone home” said Esau. "Why did you want to come here?"

His brother coughed fiercely; slapped himself on the chest before answering.

"Only safe place we know. Not safe in the woods, not safe at home either."

Esau scowled; pulled open the concealed door to the clubhouse. He hated to admit it, but his brother was right. This tree was the only safe haven in the entire neighborhood they knew of. This was more than just a tree; more than just a cave in the dirt.

This was home.

Pulling his brother into the pit, Esau carefully guided him down the wooden slates and into the cave. Once on the bottom, he grabbed Jacob's arm, placed it around his neck and dragged him towards the far side of the cave. There was still some food and water here: if he could find Maggie's lantern, the two of them could relax for a while and regain some of the strength they had lost while running through the woods.

Esau switched on the lantern and jumped when his brother cried out.

Scott Langford was sitting on the box; on Maggie's chair. Next to him was a Rutherford Policeman.

The boys screamed and dashed back to the tunnel. The cop lunged at them; catching Jacob by the ankle and dragging him back down onto the clay. Esau continued for the tunnel in a desperate attempt to fulfill Rule Number One of The Chameleon Club.

Someone ALWAYS got away.

Racing up the slats, Esau threw open the hidden door and rolled outside into the night air. Pushing himself off the ground, he dropped his head, pumped his legs, and readied himself to race off into the woods.

Instead, he ran head-first into a policeman. Behind him, two other officers came out of the woods and blocked his path of escape.

"Hello" said the cop, holding Esau firmly by the shoulders. "I'm Lieutenant Rayford. And, you are…"

Esau groaned, avoided the man's gaze.

"Screwed” he said softly, "I'm screwed blue…"

Rayford laughed. "I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Blue. You're under arrest for the crime of felonious assault and kidnapping. You have the right to remain silent: should you refuse that right, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law."

One of the officers grabbed Esau by the collar, dragged him away from the tree, and started him down the path towards Paugasaget Road. Behind him, the policeman from the clubhouse came out of the tree dragging Jacob behind him.

"You have the right to an attorney” continued Rayford.

* * *

Back at 'Pennsylvania', the Social Worker continued her efforts to talk the gun away from the girl.

"Maggie, you've got it all wrong” said Halloran, "I didn't take your Mother away from you. Why would you think that? I never even met your Mother."

Maggie kept the pistol pointing towards her prisoner and repeated the question.

"I said, why did you take my Mother away from me? I want to know where she is, and I want to know now. No more lies!"

"I didn't do it. Your Father told me that your Mom was in New York visiting relatives. Maybe he was right…"

"I KNOW you took my Mom. You took ME, didn't you? Isn't that the same thing?"

"No, it isn't. I took you away because your uncle Robert called me and said your Dad wasn't taking care of you properly…"

Maggie screamed in frustration. "Now, I KNOW you're lying. My Uncle couldn't have called you: He's DEAD!"

Halloran continued to inch her way backwards towards the hole in the platform. Not much chance of surviving a fall, but it beat the Hell out of taking a bullet in the head. Better to have two broken legs than one broken skull. She couldn't see any other way out of her dilemma: her chances of talking the gun away from the girl were fading rapidly.

"He called me before he died, Remember? I was already at your house when you came running out of the woods and told me he was shot."

"You're not answering me!" screamed Maggie. "What are you doing?

Why are you moving backwards?"

Halloran froze. "I'm not going anywhere: where can I go?"

Maggie pulled the trigger; the bullet slammed through the wooden boards just a few inches from Halloran's foot. The Social Worker screamed and collapsed onto the floor.

"Tell me what I want to know, lady, or I'll shoot you. Where did you take my Mom?"

* * *

"Mom?" said Esau cautiously, "Dad?"

Wally Jones turned towards the voice and saw his two boys being led up the road towards the bridge by Rayford. With a tear in his eyes, he ran over to the two boys, took them fiercely into his arms, and hugged them.

"Something's terribly wrong, Esau” whispered a frightened Jacob as his Father hugged him, "He's never done this before. You don't suppose the cops BEAT him, do you? Made him hug us?"

"Jake, there's a lot of things we haven't done before" Replied Wally, "This is just one of them. Are you two all right?"

Esau nodded, and then turned quickly towards Scott.

"Maggie's got the gun: I think she's going to hurt that lady."

"Tell us where this well is, Esau” said Rayford, kneeling near the boy. "Tell us where Ms. Halloran is."

"I already told that guy over there," said Esau, pointing towards Peters, "She's in Pennsylvania."

"Yeah, right. Okay, she's in Pennsylvania. Now, tell us where that is."

Jacob groaned, slapped his forehead. "That's right below New York. Gee, don't they teach you stupid cops ANYTHING in Cop School?"

Scott tapped Rayford on the shoulder. "They're right: it's just below New York. Come on; I'll show you where it is."

Rayford shook his head. "Oh, no you don't. Show me on the map: you kids are staying right here with my wife. I'll fetch your friend."

Scott pointed out the location of the well on the map.

Rayford waved Peters over to the table. "Jim, you stay with the kids and the parents: I'll leave Kendall with you. The rest of you, come with me: let's go find this well."

The echo of a distant gun shot came roaring over the treetops. Amanda shrieked in terror; Wally hugged Jacob and Esau tighter. Steven and Carina dashed over to Rayford.

"We're coming with you” said Steven, "I might be able to talk to the child."

Rayford shook his head. "No, you're not. There are too many dead people in this town as it is. Stay here and make sure these two don't kill each other while I'm gone…" he said, pointing to the Jones family.

Wally went over to Steven after Rayford and all but two of the policemen took off for the well.

"Well, Reverend?" he said with a sly look, "What does your conscience say about a little 'civil disobedience': Against your religion? What would God say if you just decided to sneak away from here while my wife and I keep these two assholes busy?"

Steven stared back at him, and then grinned.

"Well?" continued Wally, "Would staying put be the right thing to do?"

"Hell, no” said Steven with a wink. "Carina and I accept your gracious offer. Watch Scott for us, okay?"

"Mr. Langford!" whispered Jacob as Steven started away from the bridge. He stopped, looked back at the boy.

"Keep her alive for me, okay?" asked Jacob tearfully, "She's my friend…"

Steven nodded, and then quickly stepped off the road into the woods with Carina.

"Hey, OFFICER!" screamed Wally in his most boisterous voice, "Where the hell is that God Damn LAWYER you promised us an hour ago?"

* * *

Benjamin stumbled blindly through the brush and stepped out onto a cliff overlooking the Jones Estate. In front of him, his wife sat staring into the meadows below.

"There you are" he said, collapsing next to her. "I thought you were gone for good, this time."

Victoria looked at her husband sadly.

"Why did you bother to look for me? I thought your booze was more important?"

"I'm not sure what's important and what's not anymore. Something you said back at the house got me to thinking. You said it was my fault that Maggie was in trouble."

Victoria chuckled softly, wiped her arm across her brow.

"Did you really mean that?" he asked. "Is that why Maggie's gone all the time; is she hiding away from what happened at the well?"

"She can't drink, Benjamin" said Victoria with a sad nod, "She's too young."

The unmistakable sound of a gun shot rang through the air. Victoria screamed; pointed down into the meadow with a shaky hand.

"Dear Lord, what was that?" asked Benjamin, rising to his feet and looking into the meadow. Someone was down near the well; he could see the dark shape of a child standing in the tall grass beyond the last ridge of trees.

"Benji, that's our daughter!" said his wife. "You've got to get down there now. Go talk to her!"

Hesitating, Benjamin stared back at his wife.

"GO!" she screamed. "Go on; I'll meet you down there. Do me this one last favor, Benji, and I'll go away and leave you alone for the rest of your life. I promise!"

Benjamin wiped away a tear. "I'm not sure I want that anymore…"

"Too late: You should have thought of that a year ago. Now, go!" she said, pointing down the path.

Benjamin nodded, then turned and raced down the hill towards the valley of shadows below.

* * *

Maggie raised the gun again, closed her left eye, and pulled the trigger. The bullet slammed against the rock wall of the well, ricocheted back to Halloran's right, and tore a jagged hole through her wrist. The unexpected kick from the weapon knocked Maggie backwards into the grass.

Screaming, the woman fell to her knees and scrambled towards the near side of the shaft. Blood poured out of her wound and soaked her pants, turning them into an obscene purple shade. The pain was unbearable.

Maggie stood up, walked around to the far side of the well, and took aim at Halloran again.

"For the last time: I want to know where you took my Mother."

Halloran screamed and ran around to the far side of the well. If she could only keep Maggie immediately above her, she would be safe from the weapon. If the child tried to shoot her from directly overhead, she would fall into the well herself.

Her foot slipped; Halloran fell into the platform hole and found herself wedged tightly against the wall of the well: one leg above the wooden boards and the other dangling in space below.

Maggie returned to her original spot in the grass and took careful aim.

"No more hiding, Mrs. Halloran. No more running away. It's time to start talking" she said as she pulled back the hammer.

* * *

Benjamin ran blindly through the tall grass towards the well. He saw his daughter fire off the last shot; watched her fall backwards into the grass. She stood up and moved before he could reach her.

A dark hand suddenly lifted out of the grass and grabbed his ankle. He collapsed face first to the ground. Turning on his hip, he saw the hideous black arm clawing at his pant legs, screamed, and kicked at it desperately with the heel of his left foot.

The arm continued to scratch at his leg. Closing his eyes, Benjamin shook his head, screamed, then opened one bloodshot eye and stared back at the monster.

The arm had transformed itself into a branch.

His wife appeared above him and helped him to his feet.

"Go!" she urged, "Stop her! Be careful, Benji: She's got the gun."

Benjamin nodded and continued to the well. He stopped about thirty feet behind his daughter.

"Maggie…" he said softly. The girl paused, and then turned around to face him. She was crying; there was blood on her hands and long, dark scratches on her face. Behind her, Benjamin saw the police arrive near the Jones Estate; saw Rayford hold them back with an up stretched hand.

"Daddy!" she cried, still holding the pistol between two hands. "This lady in the well knows where Mom is, and she won't tell me. I'm going to make her tell me!"

"Dear God in Heaven," cried Victoria, the tears streaming down her cheeks, "Look what we've done to our daughter, Benji! Tell her the truth, Please!"

Maggie turned back towards the well and pointed the weapon into the ground. "Where's my Mom: Where did you take her?"

"Maggie, this is silly" said Benjamin between sobs, "Stop this nonsense. Drop that gun, and come over here: You and I need to talk…"

"No more talking” screamed Maggie, "I'm sick and tired of talking."

"Child, things aren't what they seem” cried Benjamin, "That Halloran lady didn't take your Mother. She didn't hurt those children, and she didn't kill your Uncle Bobby."

"Yes!" screamed Maggie, whirling around in a rage and pointing the pistol at her Father, "Yes, she did. She took my Mother. She tried to take away me. She's trying to destroy our family."

Benjamin cried for his daughter, for his lost family.

The girl turned again towards Halloran, aimed the weapon, and closed her eyes. The woman in the well screamed; her terrified cries echoing across the meadow and into the trees.

"Maggie, please. Wait. She didn't do any of those things."

Maggie opened her eyes, looked back.

"We did" he replied mournfully. "We did. Or, rather, I did all those things. I killed those children; I killed your Uncle Bobby. I took your Mom away from you."

Maggie's mouth fell open; her head began to shake from side to side.

"I took your Mom away from you, and you know it."

Maggie mouthed a silent 'No' and lifted the gun towards her Father.

"You were there, Maggie. Remember?"

Maggie took a broken step forward and mouthed another silent 'No'; the well and its prisoner forgotten.

"Yes, you do. You remember. You were there. It was back in January, after…"

Benjamin hesitated. He had never talked to anyone about that horrible episode; no one except his brother Robert.

"It was just after I hurt that girl at school. Her parents were going to have me arrested. They were going to take our house away from us. Your uncle and I went back to school; Your Uncle Bobby threatened the kid; told her he would kill her parents if they didn't stop bothering us. He got himself arrested. I got drunk."

The child took another uneasy step forward. She was openly weeping now, her swollen eyes red like her hair. The pistol shook and swayed in her grasp.

"I kept on drinking: I couldn't live with myself for hurting someone that had looked up to me the way those children had. Your mom tried to help, but couldn't get through to me."

Victoria came up behind Benjamin and placed a soft, cold hand on his shoulder as he talked.

"Things went from bad to worse: Your Mom started to have an affair with your Uncle. They were sexing, Maggie: right out here in the field. You and I came home one afternoon and caught them when we took the shortcut through the woods."

You're a liar!" whispered Maggie fiercely.

Benjamin shook his head sadly; wiped another tear from his cheek. "You'll remember if I tell you, girl. It's for your own good. You can't go on living in a make-believe world. We can’t hide anymore, you and me…"

Maggie shook her head, raised the pistol.

"Uncle Bobby and I had an argument: he ran off scared after I threatened him. Your Mom started to slap me, hit me around. When she came at me with a rock, I… I…"

Maggie, her whole body shaking like a blade of grass in a stiff breeze, gritted her teeth fiercely and aimed the pistol. Far behind her, Benjamin saw the crowd of Rutherford policemen move quickly towards the well.

"I punched her. She fell, struck her head on a rock. She was dying, Maggie, and in a lot of pain” wept Benjamin bitterly. "I finished the job. I crushed her skull with the very same rock she was going to hit me with."

"NO!" screamed the child.

"I'm sorry, Honey: but it's true. You watched the whole thing. You cried then, too. Afterwards, you helped me hide her body. We dragged it through the grass and threw it into the well over there."

Maggie shook her head. "NO! YOU'RE A LIAR. WHERE'S MY MOM?"

Benjamin, his chest wracked with sobs and his vision blurring, nodded his head.

"She's dead, Maggie. I killed her. She's down in the bottom of that well, below the platform.

Victoria leaned over and kissed her husband gently on his sweaty forehead.

"Thank you, Benjamin" she whispered, her eyes wet with her own quiet tears. "I knew you could do it. You were always stronger than you gave yourself credit for."

Maggie screamed with blind rage, threw her head back and pulled the trigger. The bullet plowed into her Father's chest, ripped between his third and fourth rib, tore a huge hole in his left lung, and exited out his back in a warm explosion of blood and tissue.

Suddenly, the meadow was swarming with cops. Benjamin fell onto his side; his face landing on a small, sharp stone that gouged the skin of his cheek open. He saw the Minister, Steven Langford, cautiously approach his daughter and slowly take the gun away from her. A dark-haired woman next to him took his daughter into her arms, hugged her close, and whispered soothing words to the frightened child.

The world suddenly became dark and very intense: Benjamin could feel the life slowly ebbing out of him. He tried desperately to lift himself off the grass but couldn't get his arms to cooperate.

In front of him, Victoria began to back away from the well.

"Thank you, Benji” she said softly, "In the end, you did the right thing. You saved our daughter."

"Vicky?" Benjamin croaked. "Vicky, don't go…"

"I'm sorry; I have to. No reason to stay, now. I’ll see you soon enough. I Love you, Benjamin Thompson. I will always love you, more than you can ever know…"

"VICKY!"

Benjamin watched in horror as his wife took one step backwards and blew him a kiss. He screamed as the color began to fade from her dress; as the vivid red in her hair glistened in the fading twilight one last time and then was gone forever.

Victoria Thompson vanished.

Shaking his head and struggling against the weakness in his arms, Benjamin roared to the heavens, emptying both his lungs and the last of his guilt and anguish into his desperate cry. His screams echoed over the meadow, through the night, and into the sky beyond. They followed his wife homeward on her journey.

Maggie screamed, pulled herself away from the Reverend Langford and Carina, and ran suddenly back towards the well.

"My Mom!" she cried, pointing downward, "I remember. My Mom is in that well!"

Benjamin drew his last tortured breath, stared up deep into the darkened sky, and then stopped as the icy darkness claimed his consciousness and sent him sliding slowly into oblivion.

Night had fallen, and the meadow surrounding the well had grown deathly cold.

The End

(c) 2018 by Andurant Krinn - All Rights Reserved