The Best American Mystery Stories 2016 by Elizabeth George Page A
Authors: Elizabeth George
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boyâs voice, the boyâs hoarse cry for help rising out of the dark.
As soon as Kelly heard the boyâs voice the moment split, and in the aftermath of that cry Kelly thought he lived both possibilities in simultaneous sequence: there was an empty basement or else there was a basement with a boy in a bed, and it seemed to Kelly he had gone into both rooms. Kelly thought if he had fled and left the boy there and disappeared into the night he might never have had to think about it again, couldnât be held responsible for everything that followed. Instead he had acted, and now there would be no knowing where this action would stop.
Kelly climbed downward, descending the shaft of light falling through the basement door. His clothes clung to the nervous damp of his skin as he stepped off the stairs toward the bed at the back of the low room, toward the boy restrained there, all skin and skinny bones, naked beneath a pile of blankets and howling in the black basement air.
One by one each element of the scene came into focus, the roomâs angles resolving out of the darkness, each shape alien in the moment, the experience too unexpected for sense: the humidity under the earth, the musky heat of trapped breath and sweat, piss in a bucket; the smell of burrow or warren, then the filth of the mattress as Kelly slid to his knees beside the bed, his headlamp unable to light the whole scene; the boy atop the stained and stinking sheets, confusing in his nudity, half hidden by the pile of covers, a nest of slick sleeping bags and rougher fabrics partially kicked off the bed, and beside the pile of blankets a folding metal chair.
The boyâs screaming stopped as soon as Kelly lit his features, but Kelly knew the boy couldnât see him through the glare. He shut off the headlamp, removed the glow between them, let their eyes readjust to the dimmer light. He leaned closer, close enough to hear the boyâs rasping breath, to smell his captivity, to touch the boyâs hand. To try to bring the boy out of abstraction into the sensible world.
Kellyâs body was moving as if disconnected from thought, but if he could retouch the connections he would begin to speak. He tried to say his name, pointed to himself, failed to speak the word. He shook his head, reached down for the boy. The boy flinched from Kellyâs touch, but Kelly took him in his arms anyway, gathered him against his chest and lifted quickâand then the boy crying out in pain as Kelly jerked him against the metal cuffs shackling the boyâs feet to the bed, hidden beneath the bunched blankets.
The sound of the boyâs voice, naming his hurt into the black air: this was not the incomprehensible idea of a boy abducted but the presence of such a boy, real enough. And how had Kelly come to hold him, to smell the boyâs sweat, then the sudden stink of his own, their thickening musk of fear? Because what if he had not left the South. If he had been able to find work instead of resorting to scrapping. If there had not been the fire in the plant so that afterward he worked alone. If he had not met the girl with the limp. If she had not been working today. If she hadnât had another attack the night before, keeping him from drinking so much he couldnât scrap. Providence or luck, it didnât matter. He told himself he believed only in the grimness of the world, the great loneliness of the vacuum without end to come. You could be good but what did it buy you. You could be good and it meant more precisely because it bought you nothing.
Kelly cursed, lowered the boy back onto the bed, felt the boyâs heat linger on his chest like a stain. He touched the place where the boy had been, felt the thump of his heart pounding beneath the same skin, listened to their bodies huffing in the dark as he relit the narrow beam of the headlamp, its light scattering the boyâs features into nonsense.
I have to go back upstairs,
Kelly
As soon as Kelly heard the boyâs voice the moment split, and in the aftermath of that cry Kelly thought he lived both possibilities in simultaneous sequence: there was an empty basement or else there was a basement with a boy in a bed, and it seemed to Kelly he had gone into both rooms. Kelly thought if he had fled and left the boy there and disappeared into the night he might never have had to think about it again, couldnât be held responsible for everything that followed. Instead he had acted, and now there would be no knowing where this action would stop.
Kelly climbed downward, descending the shaft of light falling through the basement door. His clothes clung to the nervous damp of his skin as he stepped off the stairs toward the bed at the back of the low room, toward the boy restrained there, all skin and skinny bones, naked beneath a pile of blankets and howling in the black basement air.
One by one each element of the scene came into focus, the roomâs angles resolving out of the darkness, each shape alien in the moment, the experience too unexpected for sense: the humidity under the earth, the musky heat of trapped breath and sweat, piss in a bucket; the smell of burrow or warren, then the filth of the mattress as Kelly slid to his knees beside the bed, his headlamp unable to light the whole scene; the boy atop the stained and stinking sheets, confusing in his nudity, half hidden by the pile of covers, a nest of slick sleeping bags and rougher fabrics partially kicked off the bed, and beside the pile of blankets a folding metal chair.
The boyâs screaming stopped as soon as Kelly lit his features, but Kelly knew the boy couldnât see him through the glare. He shut off the headlamp, removed the glow between them, let their eyes readjust to the dimmer light. He leaned closer, close enough to hear the boyâs rasping breath, to smell his captivity, to touch the boyâs hand. To try to bring the boy out of abstraction into the sensible world.
Kellyâs body was moving as if disconnected from thought, but if he could retouch the connections he would begin to speak. He tried to say his name, pointed to himself, failed to speak the word. He shook his head, reached down for the boy. The boy flinched from Kellyâs touch, but Kelly took him in his arms anyway, gathered him against his chest and lifted quickâand then the boy crying out in pain as Kelly jerked him against the metal cuffs shackling the boyâs feet to the bed, hidden beneath the bunched blankets.
The sound of the boyâs voice, naming his hurt into the black air: this was not the incomprehensible idea of a boy abducted but the presence of such a boy, real enough. And how had Kelly come to hold him, to smell the boyâs sweat, then the sudden stink of his own, their thickening musk of fear? Because what if he had not left the South. If he had been able to find work instead of resorting to scrapping. If there had not been the fire in the plant so that afterward he worked alone. If he had not met the girl with the limp. If she had not been working today. If she hadnât had another attack the night before, keeping him from drinking so much he couldnât scrap. Providence or luck, it didnât matter. He told himself he believed only in the grimness of the world, the great loneliness of the vacuum without end to come. You could be good but what did it buy you. You could be good and it meant more precisely because it bought you nothing.
Kelly cursed, lowered the boy back onto the bed, felt the boyâs heat linger on his chest like a stain. He touched the place where the boy had been, felt the thump of his heart pounding beneath the same skin, listened to their bodies huffing in the dark as he relit the narrow beam of the headlamp, its light scattering the boyâs features into nonsense.
I have to go back upstairs,
Kelly
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