found again, somewhere in the Adirondacks, but from what I could tell the Lanton Police Department had had no hand in the rescue.
I said, “So you’re certain it wasn’t Grant?”
Steve sighed. “Again, yes, we are certain Grant Evans had nothing to do with your parents’ murder.”
“You talked with him?”
“Chris—”
“He has an alibi and everything?”
“Chris, believe it or not, we know what we’re doing. And for the final time, Grant is not a suspect. I know you two had your disagreements in the past, but trust me, he’s clean.”
Our “disagreements” was me beating the shit out of him a month ago in the cafeteria, for seemingly no reason at all.
“Anyway,” Steve said, stepping forward and patting me on the shoulder, “you take care of yourself. I’ll be in contact with your uncle daily. Hopefully in another week or two you’ll be back here and everything will have cooled down.”
He shook my hand, smiled once more, then got into his car. Just like with my uncle, I watched him as he backed out of the driveway and pulled away. Then, in the sudden silence, which somehow overpowered the typical summer sounds of birds chirping and busy traffic out on Rockwell Road, I noticed the distant growl of a lawnmower. Also there were kids playing somewhere close, probably in someone’s backyard. I tried imagining what they were doing; playing tag, maybe, or swimming in a pool. It didn’t really matter. All that mattered was that life went on just as it always did. People live, people die, and still the world turns. It all seems so obvious, so standard, until someone close to you actually dies, and you notice the world hasn’t stopped. Then the realization hits you that when you die, the world won’t even hesitate, because it doesn’t care at all.
Chapter 3
I was a half hour into packing—going slowly, taking my time in a room that had become alien to me—when the doorbell rang. I paused, thoughts of who it might be racing through my mind: Steve, my uncle, a reporter … or my parents, waiting dead at the door like the son in W. W. Jacobs’s “The Monkey’s Paw.” I shook the image from my mind—
my parents standing side by side, staring ahead with no eyes
—and hurried downstairs. When I opened the door, the officer who’d been waiting in his cruiser across the street stood staring at me.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Myers, but there’s a gentleman here who says he’s your neighbor down the street. A Darren Bannister?”
Before I could even open my mouth to ask who he meant—from all I could see it was just the two of us here on the porch—he stepped aside. Behind him, cowering like a lost kitten, was one of the oldest men in the world.
“Hello there, Christopher.”
I nodded to him, then told the officer he was fine. Once the man had left, walking across the lawn toward his car, I forced a smile.
“So, Mr. Bannister. How are you?”
Short, hair whiter than snow, he was dressed in baggy jeans and a yellow short-sleeved shirt. He wore thin glasses that looked as if they’d been made during the Depression. He’d lived three houses down from me all my life. His wife had died years ago, and ever since then he’d been living alone. When I was younger, I made twenty dollars mowing his lawn or shoveling his driveway, depending on the season and how much I needed the extra cash. In his hands now was a brown paper-wrapped package.
“Oh, I’m just fine.” He had a thick Irish accent and a rustiness in his voice from smoking all his life. He smiled, showing the yellow teeth he had left. Then, just as quickly, his expression became somber. “I was at me daughter’s house all last week. Just got back Wednesday. Heard about your parents. I’m sorry, Christopher, really. They both were fine people.”
I thanked him. “What can I do for you, Mr. Bannister?”
“Here you are.” He held the package out to me. “Yours.”
“Mine?”
He nodded. “Had it for … oh, five
I said, “So you’re certain it wasn’t Grant?”
Steve sighed. “Again, yes, we are certain Grant Evans had nothing to do with your parents’ murder.”
“You talked with him?”
“Chris—”
“He has an alibi and everything?”
“Chris, believe it or not, we know what we’re doing. And for the final time, Grant is not a suspect. I know you two had your disagreements in the past, but trust me, he’s clean.”
Our “disagreements” was me beating the shit out of him a month ago in the cafeteria, for seemingly no reason at all.
“Anyway,” Steve said, stepping forward and patting me on the shoulder, “you take care of yourself. I’ll be in contact with your uncle daily. Hopefully in another week or two you’ll be back here and everything will have cooled down.”
He shook my hand, smiled once more, then got into his car. Just like with my uncle, I watched him as he backed out of the driveway and pulled away. Then, in the sudden silence, which somehow overpowered the typical summer sounds of birds chirping and busy traffic out on Rockwell Road, I noticed the distant growl of a lawnmower. Also there were kids playing somewhere close, probably in someone’s backyard. I tried imagining what they were doing; playing tag, maybe, or swimming in a pool. It didn’t really matter. All that mattered was that life went on just as it always did. People live, people die, and still the world turns. It all seems so obvious, so standard, until someone close to you actually dies, and you notice the world hasn’t stopped. Then the realization hits you that when you die, the world won’t even hesitate, because it doesn’t care at all.
Chapter 3
I was a half hour into packing—going slowly, taking my time in a room that had become alien to me—when the doorbell rang. I paused, thoughts of who it might be racing through my mind: Steve, my uncle, a reporter … or my parents, waiting dead at the door like the son in W. W. Jacobs’s “The Monkey’s Paw.” I shook the image from my mind—
my parents standing side by side, staring ahead with no eyes
—and hurried downstairs. When I opened the door, the officer who’d been waiting in his cruiser across the street stood staring at me.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Myers, but there’s a gentleman here who says he’s your neighbor down the street. A Darren Bannister?”
Before I could even open my mouth to ask who he meant—from all I could see it was just the two of us here on the porch—he stepped aside. Behind him, cowering like a lost kitten, was one of the oldest men in the world.
“Hello there, Christopher.”
I nodded to him, then told the officer he was fine. Once the man had left, walking across the lawn toward his car, I forced a smile.
“So, Mr. Bannister. How are you?”
Short, hair whiter than snow, he was dressed in baggy jeans and a yellow short-sleeved shirt. He wore thin glasses that looked as if they’d been made during the Depression. He’d lived three houses down from me all my life. His wife had died years ago, and ever since then he’d been living alone. When I was younger, I made twenty dollars mowing his lawn or shoveling his driveway, depending on the season and how much I needed the extra cash. In his hands now was a brown paper-wrapped package.
“Oh, I’m just fine.” He had a thick Irish accent and a rustiness in his voice from smoking all his life. He smiled, showing the yellow teeth he had left. Then, just as quickly, his expression became somber. “I was at me daughter’s house all last week. Just got back Wednesday. Heard about your parents. I’m sorry, Christopher, really. They both were fine people.”
I thanked him. “What can I do for you, Mr. Bannister?”
“Here you are.” He held the package out to me. “Yours.”
“Mine?”
He nodded. “Had it for … oh, five
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