Chapter Fifteen

At eight-thirty Monday morning, Maudie Perry greeted Benjamin Noone with a small coffee and a bagel with lox. She chirped her customary greeting. “Your usual, Benjamin.” She glanced around. “My goodness, Cole Harbor was certainly lucky the day you were hired as the town’s gardener.”

He stood, gripping the sack and wishing she’d go away. He’d listened to her repeat the same phrase every day for the last three thousand one hundred and seventy days. Her chattering hurt his head. “Thank you, Mrs. Perry.” He turned toward the gazebo.

“I know what a workaholic you are, so I won’t keep you.” She stepped closer and laid a hand on his arm. He flinched and drew back. “Did you hear the latest news?”

“Guess not. I don’t own a television. Prefer books and my record player. It needs a new needle.”

“Oh, yes, well, never mind that.” She leaned in closer and lowered her voice. “The skeleton of a woman was found, Saturday.”

The cap he wore suddenly felt too tight. He was certain his head would explode. “Where?”

She stretched her arm and pointed. “At the place you’ve enjoyed sitting and looking at for these last ten years. Pine Island.” She smiled. “I don’t blame you. We’d all like to own our own private paradise.”

His temples throbbed, and he wondered if the yakking old woman could hear the thudding of his heart against his chest. He wanted to press his hands against his head to shut out her screeching. He wanted to scream, Shut up…shut up…shut uuuup!

“Why, Benjamin, have you taken ill? You’ve turned white as a ghost. Except for the weekends and holidays, I don’t believe you’ve taken a day off since the city hired you. Perhaps you’ve been working too hard.”

“After I eat, I’ll be fine. Again, thanks for the food, Mrs. Perry. I gotta go.” This time he left her standing while he entered the gazebo and sat down.

“Of course, Benjamin. You heed what I say, and go home to rest.”

The clacking of her heels against the cement sidewalk kept on until he thought his ears would burst. He inhaled, deeply, and blew out a long breath. Calm…remain calm. Eat…drink…calm. Did I take my pill this morning? Can’t remember.

He looked out across the bay toward Pine Island, and then turned to look over his shoulder, and called out, “Mrs. Perry, who found it?”

“Laura Friday and her Aunt Phyllis.”

“What happened to it—the skeleton?”

She waved her hand. “You’ll read all about it. Laura put out a special edition this morning.”

His hand trembled when he removed the plastic cap from the cup. Without blowing to cool the steaming coffee, and with his thoughts on the skeleton, he gulped. The hot liquid slid down his throat, scalding all the way to his stomach. He coughed. His hand trembled more, this time spilling the cup’s contents down the front of his shirt. He yelped as he tried to brush away the blistering liquid. Go home. I have to go home.

He left the sack with the untouched bagel on the bench. He gathered his rake and hoe, and the wheelbarrow, and for the first time in ten years he carelessly plowed through his precious flowers to get to the gardening shack where he kept his tools and other supplies. After securing the lock, he jumped on his bicycle and pedaled away from town. At one of the houses, he skidded to a halt long enough to snatch a newspaper from the paper box. He rolled it into a roll and stuffed it inside his shirt pocket. This time, he didn’t stop until he reached the edge of the national park where his cabin sat hidden from sight, far off the road.

He was tired now. The sun, bright and strong, had kept him pedaling up the steep grade. Habit forced him to lift the bicycle up the steps to where he could lean it against the cabin’s outer wall. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he sat in a chair and looked beyond to the sea. There was no sound. He closed his eyes and allowed the hush to hover over him.

Benjamin reached up to swat a stinging black fly seeking nourishment. In the process, he knocked the newspaper from his pocket. He unrolled the tabloid. His eyes darted back and forth over the page and the picture of the hole in the ground. Most of the language was too complicated for him. He stopped and went back to the beginning of the article, skipping over the hard words. He did understand the part where the earth had opened up beneath Laura Friday’s feet to reveal a grave that held the skeleton of a female believed to be the long missing body of a young nurse, Lynnette Braswell.

He had a morbid need to chase death, having felt its hands crush the necks of those animals. He automatically flexed his fingers. He thought of his mother again and the sad expression she’d worn every time she watched the horizon steal the sun. She had left him. A mother should be a safe harbor. A protector.

The beginning of a headache throbbed against his temples, and he felt liquid oozing through the black holes to crowd his brain. A voice rasped, Bennie is a bad boy…bad boy…bad boy. He killed the dog, he killed the cats. Bennie killed one girl and then another.

He clasped his hands over his ears, and through the pulsating pain he cried, “No! Go away! Bennie is dead. I’m Benjamin. Benjamin is a good boy.”

His chest heaved until his breath came out in great gasps. Tears leaked from his eyes, and he used the sleeve of his shirt to wipe away the snot dripping from his nose.

He was tired, bone-deep weary in a way that people who had never killed would find impossible to appreciate. Bennie was hungry. His need was growing stronger. He would kill again.

When Benjamin awakened, he lay on the ground. He glanced around. His bicycle lay next to him. His last memory was carrying it up the steps to the porch. Darkness crowded the thick canopy of trees. Shadows grew and lengthened, and the horizon was streaked with the vivid pinks and bright oranges of the dying sun.

He brushed leaves and dirt from the front of his shirt. Weary, he climbed the steps to the cabin, walked to the bathroom, and washed his face. The cooling water refreshed him. Returning to the bedroom, he sprawled to the floor on his stomach and removed his special box. Sitting with his back against the bed, he opened the lid, removed the papers, and the little drawstring sack. Careful not to spill any of the leaves, Benjamin rolled a joint and lit it. He inhaled deeply, held it, and then swallowed. He closed his eyes and let the devil lettuce work its magic.

Relaxed and giddy, he giggled. The voice, that hateful voice, intruded.

Bennie, I see you.

He sobered as he eyed the shadowy image that crouched near him. He hissed, “Go away. I’m Benjamin. You’re Bennie.” He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “You’re not real.”

I’m your twin. We are one. I’m tired of waiting…aren’t you?

Benjamin placed his hands against his head and squeezed. Why wouldn’t the pain go away? In a frenzy, he ran to the front door and locked it, then did the same to the cabin’s back door. He raced into the bathroom and locked the door. He stripped down, kicked his dirty clothes aside, and climbed into the shower. With his knees drawn to his chin, he sat on the fiberglass floor under the cold spray, and bit his lip until it bled. Don’t scream. We don’t like screaming.