In the trees behind my house I made a pile of crickets, small and black, wings fluttering wildly, and next to them a pile of tiny cricket legs like thin plastic shavings. Without their legs the crickets wiggled helplessly, abdomens curling like stubby fingers, wings flailing against air and dirt and gravity. They couldn’t take off from the ground, it seemed—they needed legs to leap up and catch the air. It was fascinating to watch.
I thought perhaps their leg stumps would bleed, either blood or whatever was inside a cricket, but the joints popped apart like petals from a flower, separate and whole. There were no wounds.
I buried the squirming pile and brushed off my hands. I needed to get ready for tonight.
Brooke was in absolutely no danger from me—and for a lot of reasons. First were my rules: they stopped me from doing anything I shouldn’t do, and I’d been following them strictly for days without a slip. The second reason, related to the first, was the simple fact that Mom had been out of the house all day. She’d gone to Margaret’s, then to Lauren’s, to try once again to persuade her to file a report of domestic abuse. I had pushed them all from my mind, filling it instead with pleasant thoughts and calming mantras: 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21. I was at peace. Brooke had nothing to fear from a mind at peace.
The third reason, of course, were the crickets; any violent or dangerous tendencies I might have had were sated and still, buried with them in the dirt. Mr. Monster was happy, I was happy, the world was happy.
I paused in the woods behind my house. Brooke’s house was just a little ways off on the left; I could see the roof from here. During the winter I’d spent many hours in these woods, high up in a tree behind Brooke’s house, watching through her window. It was dangerous, but I was careful, and no one ever saw me. She never closed the curtains, probably because she never expected anyone to be back there—our street was right on the edge of Clayton, and there was nothing behind any of our houses but a mile or two of forest.
I’d stopped, of course—it was dangerous to spend that much time thinking about Brooke, which was why I’d started avoiding her in the first place. But things were different now. I was spending more time with her—and she wanted me to spend more time with her. I could think about her without feeling guilty. And I still had my rules, so nothing was going to happen.
There was at least one rule, though, that I really ought to change. It felt stupid, on our last date, that I hadn’t allowed myself to look at her shirt. It’s not like I was staring at her breasts or anything—I just wanted to know what kind of shirt she was wearing. There was nothing wrong with that.
I was standing behind her house now, still buried fifty yards or more in the cover of the trees. I could see her window from here, but it was too bright outside to see inside—and I wasn’t there for that, anyway, I was just passing by. Though if I could see in, I’d be able to know what she was wearing, and I could dress to match. I still had no idea what we were doing: something classy? Something messy? Something in between? I might dress completely wrong for whatever we were doing, which could ruin the whole date.
Don’t do it.
I caught a flash of movement in one of the lower windows. Maybe just a quick peek—I didn’t want to stalk her, like before, but a quick peek wasn’t stalking. I just happened to be in the area, and if I happened to see what she was wearing, there was no harm done. It would actually be a good thing. Considering how devastated she’d feel if I showed up in the wrong clothes, or in clothes that clashed with hers, I practically owed it to her to take a peek. She invited me on this date, after all—the least I could do was dress appropriately.
I crept closer, my eyes darting back and forth between the two rear windows. They had a sliding glass door in their kitchen, leading onto a low deck, and I could see someone moving around inside. Was it Brooke or her mom? The door opened abruptly and I stepped behind a tree as a small form dashed out. Brooke’s little brother, Ethan. What if I was found? Would she call off the date? I ducked down and began to walk backwards, crouching below the line of brush, when suddenly a voice rang out from the house, clear and beautiful.
I rose up slowly from my crouch, moving my head slightly to the side to peer through the trees. She was standing in the doorway, calling Ethan back inside. She was wearing jean shorts, as always, and a pink top with white flowers. She was gorgeous. Ethan ran back in, and Brooke slid the door closed again.
See? No harm in that at all. It was good to drop that rule and let myself look at Brooke freely.
This date was going to be perfect.
Back at home I picked out some clothes—nice, but casual enough to match what Brooke had been wearing—and then showered carefully, washing my hands five times to be sure the smell of dirt and crickets was gone. I’d been in the woods most of the day, and it was almost time to pick her up.
I dressed quickly and grabbed my wallet and keys from their spot on my dresser. Next to it was an old pocketknife, from my days in Cub Scouts; I’d started sharpening it over the last few days, just to fill the time. Should I take it tonight? I wasn’t likely to need it, of course, but you never know. What if I’d had it at the lake, for example, when we found the body in the reeds? I could have cut it out of the ropes. And after all, I still didn’t know what Brooke was planning for our date—we might very well come upon a loose screw, or one that was too tight; we might need to open a bottle or puncture a can. Brooke was dressed pretty casually, after all, and she’d said last time that she loved fishing at the lake, so for all I knew we were headed out there, and I might have to scale and gut a fish.
Don’t take it.
Nonsense; the knife was honed and sharp, perfect for sliding into the meat of a fish and slicing it clean from end to end. Brooke would love it. I patted the knife in my pocket and smiled. Time to go get her.
I arrived at Brooke’s house early and knocked on her door. There was a shout from inside, followed by the clomp of hurried footsteps on the stairs. When Brooke opened the door, smiling widely, she was in a different shirt: blue and white and black in jagged stripes. I frowned and stepped back.
“Hey John!” she said.
Why had she changed?
“You okay?” she asked.
“Yeah.” I smiled falsely. I thousand reasons ran through my mind: she knew I’d been watching, and changed her shirt as revenge; she guessed I’d been watching, and changed her shirt to gauge my surprise and learn the truth. It didn’t matter why—it was different, and it felt wrong. An afternoon full of imagined scenarios crumbled away, false and sickening in the face of this new, unseen, unplanned-for shirt.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” she asked. “You look kind of sick.”
She was worried about me. Which meant she cared about me. Which meant that I was stupid to get so worked up. It wasn’t the shirt that bothered me, really, it was the change—the shocking difference between my vivid fantasies and the dull, brittle truth. And the new shirt was nice—it was fitted but loose, and complemented her figure without showing too much. I needed to get over it.
I smiled again and stepped forward. “I’m fine; the shirt’s fine.”
“The shirt?” She looked puzzled. I thought quickly.
“My collar was a little itchy earlier,” I said. “It’s fine now. Ready to go?”
“Yup.” She grabbed a canvas bag from inside the door and stepped out onto the porch. She wore pants now instead of shorts, and her long blond hair was loose and wavy. She looked wonderful, and I allowed my gaze to roll over her appreciatively as she shouldered her bag and closed the door. She was thinner than Marci, less curvy, but more elegant somehow; the difference between the two girls was stark in my mind—Brooke was on a higher plane, elevated and graceful. I followed her to the car.
“You’re lucky today,” she said, smiling. “Dad said he’d already grilled you once, and you did fine last time, so he didn’t need to do it again.”
“I did fine?” I asked.
“Everyone else freaked when they saw the body, but you were the only one brave enough to do anything about it.”
“That’s because dead bodies aren’t scary,” I said. “When you think about it, dead bodies are the least scary kind of bodies, right? I mean, there’s nothing they can do to you, unless I guess you don’t wash your hands or something.”
Brooke laughed and stood by her door. I opened it smoothly this time, anticipating it, relishing the forbidden touch of the door handle. She hadn’t ridden in my car since the end of school, but the door still felt special; it had been hers for so long that it could never go back. I got in on my side and pulled out my keys.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“First things first,” she said, holding her finger up in mock reprimand. “You’re not dressed yet.”
I looked down at myself. “I’m not?” It was exactly what I’d been worried about—and despite all my efforts, I’d still done it wrong. She was much dressier than I was; I must look like a disgusting jerk next to her.
“Well, John and Brooke are dressed, I guess,” she said with a smile, “but we’re not John and Brooke anymore—we’re tourists.”
What? That wasn’t what I’d been expecting at all. “Where are we going?”
“We’re going to the exotic town of Clayton,” she said, digging in her bag and pulling out a handful of clothes. She handed me a bright Hawaiian shirt. “Put this on.”
My expectations for the evening crumbled further—I’d been expecting an activity like fishing, or a trip to the movie theater, but this was completely different. I’d played the evening out in my head a dozen times or more, and it had never gone like this.
Brooke was pulling more clothes out of the bag—a loud Hawaiian shirt for herself, and a big black camera on a multicolored strap. I didn’t go on a lot of dates; this was my second ever, in fact. I’d never seen kids around town dressed as tourists, though; this couldn’t be a common dating scenario.
“Do you do any good accents?” Brooke asked.
“I’m afraid not.”
“I do a really stupid Russian accent,” she said, putting on a wide-brimmed sun hat. “I guess that will have to do.”
I wasn’t sure what to do, but it felt so good to be with Brooke—to look at her, to talk to her. Whatever I had to do to stay with her, it was worth it. I picked up the Hawaiian shirt and looked at it, trying to think of something funny to say.
“You mean your Russian accent’s stupid,” I asked, “or your accent sounds like a stupid Russian?” Wow, I needed to do a lot better than that.
“Don’t make fun of accent,” she said thickly, sounding for all the world like a villain in a Bond movie. She must practice a lot. “You are Boris and I am called Natasha. Put on shirt.”
I watched her pull her Hawaiian shirt on over her clothes. Being with her this way, being able to look with no restrictions, gave the same forbidden thrill I’d gotten from opening her door. She pulled her hair up and out of her oversize costume, and it flowed down her back in golden waves. It was an odd visual dissonance: she was still Brooke, the untouchable fantasy, but she was someone else, too. Someone real and, yes, very touchable.
Just stick to the rules.
“You know,” I said, “you’re really kind of strange once people get to know you.”
Brooke arched an eyebrow melodramatically. “You don’t like plan?”
“Are you kidding?” I asked, pulling the tourist shirt on over my own. It gave me the dizzying sensation of being somebody else, as if I’d stepped outside of John Cleaver altogether. I was Boris now, and Boris didn’t have any of the problems John did. “I think this sounds awesome.”
“Good,” she said, putting on a pair of gaudy plastic sunglasses. “Travel brochure say good things about Clayton. We start with local cuisine: Friendly Burger.”
“You sure you want to eat at Friendly Burger?” I asked. “There’s nicer places to go.”
“You do not know this,” she said sternly, wagging her finger. “Boris has never been to Clayton.”
I sat back and stared at her—she was really going to play this role, and be strict about the ridiculous rules of her scenario. Well, little did she know, I was an expert at ridiculous rules.
“If I’ve never been here,” I said, “then I don’t know where anything is.”
Brooke smiled triumphantly and pulled a sheaf of papers from her bag.
“Is okay,” she said, “I download maps from Internet.”
I laughed and started the car, and she started reading me driving directions. We followed them to the letter, feigning complete ignorance about the town, and arrived at Friendly Burger only slightly later than we would have otherwise. As soon as we parked Brooke jumped out and grabbed a woman on the street, pressing a camera into her hands.
“My friend and I visit from out of town,” she said, her Bond villain accent as thick as ever. “You take picture?” The woman stared at her in shock, then nodded her head uncertainly. Brooke and I stood in front of the weather-beaten Friendly Burger sign, pointing at it stupidly, and the woman took a picture. Brooke thanked her, took back the camera, and did the same inside with other people, getting pictures of us by the counter, the menu, and even the rickety old model train that ran around the borders of the ceiling. I watched her flow easily from one conversation to another, leaving each person confused but cheerful. Finally she ordered two ‘cheesy burgers with fries from France,’ and we sat down to eat. I bit into the burger, feeling the flesh in my teeth, and smiled.
“I like this place,” she said, biting a fry in half. “Is good American food. Make us fat, like Americans.”
The muscles in her neck moved slightly as she chewed, in and out, in and out, rippling sensuously beneath her skin.
“We go other places,” she said. “Places tourists would go if they came here. County Courthouse. Shoe Museum.”
“Ooh, a Shoe Museum,” I said, grinning at the idea. The shoe museum was pretty much just some crazy guy’s house, which he’d filled with shelf after shelf of shoes and other shoe-related junk he’d accumulated throughout his life. One of those classic “American Heartland” kind of places that survived on kitsch value alone. It was a laughingstock among the local kids, but it was the only real tourist location in Clayton, and going with Brooke might actually be fun. I imagined her breathlessly taking pictures of the shoe displays, pretending to be amazed at everything she saw, and I smiled.
“We are tourists,” she said innocently. “Billboard on highway says visit shoe museum, we visit shoe museum.”
“Awesome,” I said. “Or whatever we say in Russia when we mean awesome. Sputnik.”
She laughed. “Sputnik?”
“It’s Russian for ‘awesome,’ ” I said. “The name of the satellite was an accident, really: they built it, looked at it, and said ‘Sputnik!’ The name stuck. They’ve been embarrassed about it ever since.”
Brooke laughed again, then shook her head. “You mean we’ve been embarrassed about it ever since,” she said. “We are, after all, native-born Russians.” She fell back into her accent. “This is first time out of country.”
I smiled. It was fun to think of myself as someone else—it was liberating, as if all my baggage, all my fears, all my tension had disappeared. There were no worries.
There were no consequences.
I ate a fry and leaned forward. “So who are Boris and Natasha?” I asked. “How do we know each other?”
She looked back, meeting my eyes, studying me through her cheap plastic sunglasses.
“We grew up in same small town outside of Moscow,” she said. “Claytonograd.”
“So we’ve known each other our whole lives.”
“Most of our lives, yes,” she said. “We are old friends.”
“We must be pretty good friends if we’re on a trip together,” I said. “I mean, Boris doesn’t go to America with just anybody.”
A tiny smile touched the corner of her lips. “Neither does Natasha.”
I wanted to reach out to her—to touch her, to feel her skin under my fingers. I’d never allowed myself even to think about touching her, though that had never stopped the dreams, night after night, of her body on the embalming table. I washed and brushed her hair; I cleaned her pale, precious skin; I massaged her rigor mortis-stiffened muscles until they were loose and warm in my hands. There were other dreams, darker dreams, but I pushed them from my mind now just as I always had before. I would not think about violence. 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13.
“I think,” I said, “that this trip to America is going really well. Thanks for inviting me.”
“Thanks for coming.”
The entire world seemed coiled and tight, focused on this moment. I wanted—I needed—to touch her hand. I would never have dared before, because of the thoughts it brought, but that was the old John. That was the John who wasn’t even allowed to look at her—for him, touching was completely illicit. But not for Boris. Boris could look. Boris had no rules; he had no fear. There was no danger in touching a hand—it was just a hand, a thing on the end of her arm. Her hand had touched the table, the bench, the food—why couldn’t it touch me? I reached out, steady and even, and put my hand on hers. Her fingers were smooth and soft, just as they were in my dreams. I held it a moment, feeling the texture of her skin, the lines of her knuckles, the sharp crystals of salt from her fries. She squeezed back, trembling and thrilling and alive.
She smiled. “Sputnik.”
We stared at each other, stared into each other, feeling a hum through our fingers that made the entire world brighter—the colors deeper, the edges crisper, the sounds rich and resonant. We ate our food one-handed, grinning like idiots, neither acknowledging our clasped hands nor daring to let go. There was a connection between us, vibrant and charged and . . .
. . . Something wasn’t right.
I pushed the thought away, but once my mind became aware of it the feeling was impossible to ignore. As wonderful as this was, there was something . . . missing. Something that should have been there but wasn’t, like a dark hole in a beautiful jigsaw puzzle. Was it my expectations again, angry that they had only been met halfway? But no. I had imagined this moment, or one like it, a hundred times—a thousand times—and there was nothing missing. I felt excited; I was in control of myself and of the situation; Brooke was beautiful and just as eager as I was. What could possibly be missing?
But something was missing, and it ate at me like a canker.
I looked around the room, searching for something amiss. There was no one I knew—no one laughing or crying or yelling at me. I saw the TV droning in the corner; I saw the drink machine dripping slowly, drop by drop; I saw the napkins and the straws and the plastic knives, stark white in their dispensers.
And then I knew what it was.
My eyes fixed on the plastic knives and I knew, like a bolt of lightning through my mind, that the connection I felt to Brooke was just a shadow of the earth-shaking connection I had felt once before, in the kitchen of my house, holding a knife while my mother cowered in terror. We hadn’t been two people then, we’d been one, united in body and mind by an overwhelming emotion: fear. We had moved together, felt together, and together we thought two sides of the same thought. It had been a pure, unbridled rush of emotion, the kind of connection that sociopaths were never supposed to have, but I had felt it all, and it had been more real and more powerful than anything I’d ever experienced.
This should have been the same—it should have been even better—but it wasn’t. And that was the hole. In all my dreams of Brooke we had felt that same intense connection, and now that the moment was finally here the connection was not. Why not? Had I done something wrong? Had Brooke? I looked at her now and saw her staring back, no longer cheerful but concerned. The lapse of emotion made me flare with anger, enraged that she would break the already-tenuous link, but I calmed myself. She was just sensing the same hole that I had. But now that I knew what was missing, I could plan for it next time—I could force it out like a knot from a tangle of hair.
Holding hands wasn’t enough, it seemed. I needed more.
“I can’t believe it,” said Brooke, her voice flat. “I can’t believe it.”
Was she talking about me? But no, she wasn’t looking at me at all—it was the TV. Everyone in the restaurant was staring at the TV, silent and pale as corpses.
I turned to watch, already guessing what I would see.
“Police say the body is far more disfigured than the first three,” the reporter said, “but it was bound in a similar way. The police have not released any further details at this time, but they do urge everyone in the area to report any leads or information that they may have. You, the people of Clayton County, are the only ones who can stop this killer.”