The Summer Man

Chapter TWENTY-SIX





The police came and took a statement about Eric coming to the house, though Bob left out the part about pointing a gun at the kid. A flinty-eyed, round-faced officer, Kyle Leary—Bob remembered not liking him at some point in the past, and the feeling was confirmed as reasonable—with a semiautomatic and a condescending attitude asked a few questions and then bothered John with a few more when he came home, asking if John was Amanda’s doctor, asking if her mother knew where she was spending her nights. Grace Young did, actually. John had called her and explained that Eric might be a danger, assured her that Amanda was all right—and Grace had asked bluntly, drunkenly, if he was f*cking her daughter yet, and then said she’d call the cops if he did, and then hung up on him. He’d told Bob about it the day before, while Amanda had been watching a movie in the other room; just hearing it made Bob want to go over there and give that barfly a piece of his mind and a boot in the ass. In spite of his denial, John felt pretty much the same. Bob could hear it in his voice, see it in the way he cut his eyes toward the living room, toward their persecuted, smart-ass little friend. Except for her taste in boyfriends, Amanda had turned out awfully decent, considering her life up until lately. Grace Young was a vampire.

“You had lunch?” Bob asked, still rummaging as John walked into the kitchen. He found a box of biscuit mix in the pantry. Biscuits and eggs, coffee…he had some vague idea of getting them all fed and clear-headed to talk about what Mo had told him.

“No, I was just going out when you called,” John said. “You cook?”

“Only when necessary,” he said, and found he couldn’t wait another second. “Listen, I think I found something. I talked to a friend of mine, and he gave me a name. A place, actually. Where, four years ago, they had a run of very bad luck. Big increase in impulse crimes, basically, including murder. There was some serious shit, in the same neighborhood of weird as what’s been going on here.”

John leaned against the counter. “You’re kidding.”

“Jenkin’s Creek, in California,” Bob said. “My friend got into it because he used to write a column for one of those supermarket alien conspiracy–type rags. He kept the post office box when the paper sank, and says he still gets these random letters from people about strange goings-on. Government conspiracies, UFOs, like that.

“He said he got several letters from a woman in northern California, an ex-hippie fan of his, documenting a ‘change’ in the air that she believed lasted from June until early in September in 2008. He said the letters seemed paranoid at first, and the woman had suggested that while she didn’t believe in aliens, she wasn’t ready to disbelieve in them, either, considering what was happening. Standard crank, right? Thing was, her letters were accompanied by articles. Not photocopies or printouts; they were cut from real newspapers. My friend, Mo, he checked. Articles about violent crime. There was some occult-influenced thrill murder…and a guy wiped out his entire family and disappeared.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah, but here’s the thing. Mo dropped her a line, asked him to keep her updated, and she wrote a few more times. Her initial fears, that perhaps there were aliens involved, disappeared; in the last letter, she talked about how good she was feeling, and how her close friends had become closer, and she was really feeling connected to her family, to her husband and children…Mo said that the letters were about everything changing, relationships, sense of self, sense of community…”

John was nodding. “Right, not just violence. Impulse control, sure, but that doesn’t necessarily lead to total chaos, not for everyone. Not even for most people.”

He rubbed at his eyes and looked at Bob. “So what happened?”

“Ah, Mo said she wrote a short letter sometime later that fall, to tell him that she believed the event, or series of events, was over. The tragedies of the summer were still being mourned, but the town was putting itself back together. She called it a summer of evolution and said that she hoped he’d file it with his ‘serious’ casework, because she—and several of her dear friends, according to her—firmly believed that something paranormal had been at play. He hasn’t heard from her since.”

John frowned and folded his arms. He seemed to forget that Bob was in the room, his gaze looking inward. Bob let him think a moment, found a bowl, and preheated the oven.

“What are you thinking?”

John blinked at him, still frowning. “She thought that some people gave in to positive influences, some to negative, is that the idea?”

“Obviously,” Bob said. “Maybe she was a kook about why, but it seems to me—”

“No, wait,” John said. “I don’t want to lose my way here. Before you consider the details, consider the whole. The same thing that’s happening in Port Isley, it happened somewhere else. Four years ago, in California. Also in the summer.”

“OK.”

“There’s a precedent,” John said. “I’d say our own activity started up in June, wouldn’t you? We can base the next search on clusters of events within the last five summers. Maybe it won’t mean anything, but it’s a starting point.”

“It’s a man,” Amanda said.

Both of them looked toward the open arch of the kitchen. Amanda stood there, her expression thunderstruck.

“That’s what I’ve been hearing and picking up,” she said, and looked at John, at Bob. Her short hair was still wet, slicked back from her face. She looked about twelve. “It’s him, the guy, the he’s here guy. He’s causing this. That’s totally it.”

“Since when?” Bob asked. “What are you picking up? How do you know?”

“Last couple of days,” she said. “I’ve been getting this…like, a different channel. I don’t know, but the way he thinks, what I’m thinking…I don’t know how to explain.”

“You’re sure about this?” John asked.

“F*ck no,” she said. “Are you making coffee?”

John did so, while Bob filled Amanda in on what she’d missed…and Amanda filled them in on her new feeling from this person, this man who she insisted was responsible for the changes in Port Isley, only able to describe him in single words. Words about him, or from him, or because of him. Prisoners. Mirrors. Lines of numbers, maybe. Shadow, movement, something about seashells…Bob listened, trying to let the information become part of his understanding, realizing how much he trusted Amanda’s psychic perceptions—he didn’t question her assertion. A man, a human being, was responsible for those people dying. For people changing.

“Why do you think you’re picking it up now?” John asked. Bob had the biscuits in and was cracking eggs into a bowl. Hope you like ’em scrambled…

“Yeah, that’s fine,” Amanda said, as though he’d said something aloud. She didn’t seem to notice, though Bob and John exchanged a look, Bob raising his eyebrows.

“I dunno,” she continued, back to John’s question. “Maybe…maybe he’s getting stronger? His influence, I mean?” She shrugged. “Or maybe he’s closer.”

“Is he doing it on purpose?” Bob asked.

“No. I don’t think so.”

“A man,” John said. “You’re certain.”

“I keep saying I’m not, don’t I? I’m pretty sure.” Amanda accepted a cup of black coffee. “It’s got to be a tourist, right? He was in Jenkin’s Creek four years ago, and now he’s here for the summer.”

Bob and John looked at one another. “That makes sense,” Bob said.

“If it is a man,” John said. “And there are thousands of them here for the season, or some part of it.”

“Yeah, but we can track down a man.” Bob grinned. “If she can read his mind—”

“I didn’t say that,” Amanda said. She lowered her coffee mug, looking alarmed. “I can’t. I mean, I’m getting these impressions, but nothing specific, I told you. No way I can track him.”

“We shouldn’t assume anything yet,” John said. “This is a lot of information, a lot to consider.”

Bob felt a surge of frustration with both of them. He poured the eggs into an overheated skillet, the crackle loud enough to kill the conversation for a second or two. These things Amanda kept seeing, that she was sure were going to happen if no one intervened—how long did they have? There were officially missing children, at least two boys. A building had already burned down, and not the one Amanda thought she was seeing, which suggested a budding arsonist in their midst, no joke in an old, dry town like Port Isley, swept by constant winds. No joke anywhere. The traveling carnival was due to open on Friday, which meant they’d be pulling into town in the next day or two, presumably with their hall of mirrors in tow. Amanda had heard gunfire and screams, she’d seen a possible infanticide, a probable killer—why couldn’t she get any names or times? Why didn’t she recognize anyone? He’d been digging, hard, and true, Mo’s story had provided a possible picture, that was a lucky break, but he was sure they were finally getting somewhere, and John’s initial reaction was, naturally, to stop and think things over. Amanda’s was to backpedal.

Yeah, well, yours was to drink, he reminded himself, and kept his mouth shut. He served up the eggs, and they went to their respective silences as they ate, both of them clearing their plates with enthusiasm. Bob felt like he had an appetite for the first time in a week. Amanda started to talk about Eric, saying that she thought she should call her mother, to warn her—then looked at John sharply. Considering that she’d answered his thought about scrambled eggs, Bob had it figured before she spoke.

“Oh,” she muttered, her face flushing. “I’m sorry. She’s got issues.”

“You don’t have anything to apologize for,” John said, glancing in slight amazement at Bob.

“She’s getting stronger, too,” Bob said, and John nodded.

“She’s right here,” Amanda said. “And she knows.”

She took a sip of her coffee, her expression turning bleak. “Don’t ask me why I think this, I don’t know, but I keep thinking that it’s all going to be over before we even know anything has happened.”

“What is?” Bob asked.

She shook her head, her wise eyes in her child’s face troubled. “Everything.”