The Horror of Devil's Root Lake, Page 2

  Figuring that I need to sleep, I close my eyes.

  “Goodnight, Mommy.”

  Chapter Two

  Alison Mackenzie's house looks nice, at least from the road. White picket fence, flowers in the garden, chairs on the porch. It looks like my house used to look. Then again, I guess there hasn't been much time for the damage to show here. The cracks are probably new, probably just starting to reach up from the foundations and split the wood. Either that, or Alison is somehow managing to hold herself together.

  Daniel Mackenzie only died three months ago. Three months, two days and twenty hours, to be precise.

  ***

  “There were roadworks on the interstate,” Alison continues, holding a piece of tissue paper in her left hand as she stares toward the window. “That's why the road here was so busy that day. A lot of traffic was being diverted through Willow Heights to the east, but a few of the drivers cottoned onto the fact that coming through here would be quicker. Even though this is a residential area, and trucks aren't supposed to...”

  Her voice trails off for a moment.

  “Trucks aren't supposed to come this way,” she adds, her voice cracking as if she's about to burst into tears. “It's not against the law, but it's just common sense not to come this way. This is a residential area, it's not...”

  She dabs at her eyes. She's strong, I can tell that already, but anyone would be on the verge of collapse after what she's been through. I'm just grateful that she was willing to talk to me today.

  “And Daniel was playing outside?” I ask.

  She turns to me, momentarily shocked, before nodding.

  “Was he alone,” I continue, making a note in the folder, “or -”

  “He was with two friends. Sheila Abbot and Marcus Gray. They used to play together all the time. Those three were inseparable.”

  “I'm going to need to talk to Sheila and Marcus.”

  “Why?”

  “Just to find out if they saw anything.”

  “They didn't.”

  “I'd still like to talk to them,” I tell her. “Don't worry, I can get their details later.” I look back down at my notes for a moment, while reminding myself that there's no need to push Alison when it comes to the smaller details. I can look Sheila Abbot and Marcus Gray up online.

  Glancing back at her, my attention is momentarily drawn to some books on a nearby shelf. Rumpelstiltskin, Hansel and Gretel and a few other fairy-tales. I guess not every part of her son's life has been packed away.

  “So Daniel was playing out in the street,” I continue, turning to her again, “and -”

  “In the garden,” she says quickly, a little defensively. “Not in the street. God, what kind of mother do you think I am? I never let him play in the street!”

  “I wasn't implying that you -”

  “He was in the garden,” she continues, “and the gate was shut and bolted, as always. He shouldn't have been able to open it. He was only three. I checked it was secure, I swear. People have been suggesting that I didn't, but I did! I'm not a bad mother! I always made sure Daniel was safe! People just...”

  She sighs.

  “People love to gossip, you know,” she adds, sniffing back more tears. “They like to pick other people apart, but I promise you, that gate was shut and locked.”

  “I'm sure it was.”

  She pauses, once again staring into space as if she's reliving that awful day.

  “But somehow he got out,” she whispers, and now her voice is trembling again. Her bottom lip is shaking, too. “Like I said, there was a lot more traffic going past the house that day. Big trucks, long-haul monstrosities that had no business going through a residential area. The windows were rattling all the time, the noise was awful. We tried calling the companies and asking them to not come this way, but they wouldn't listen. So we had these huge trucks lumbering through the streets all day. Do you know the stopping distance of those things?”

  “No, but -”

  “Fifty meters in some cases! Some of them even more! I mean, what in the name of God were those people thinking, driving those things down these narrow streets?”

  I make another note.

  “I've started a campaign group,” she continues, with a hint of anger in her voice. “We're trying to get the city to set up special districts where big trucks are banned. They shouldn't be around children, it's just not right. It's not easy getting people to listen, but we're slowly gaining a little traction. We'll get them banned in the end, even if it's the last thing I ever manage!”

  She mutters something else under her breath, something angry, but I can't quite make out the words.

  “Okay,” I say after a moment, “so Daniel got out of the garden and into the street, and -”

  “People whisper behind my back and say I should have noticed,” she continues, “but I thought he was safe in the garden! I was loading the dishwasher, I couldn't keep my eyes on him all the time, and he was with his two friends! I was always so careful, always so vigilant. And then, just as I was taking out the wine glasses, I heard...”

  She pauses, frozen for a moment, and then a faint shudder crosses her face. Clearly, she's reliving that awful day. I hate to put her through this, but I have no choice.

  “And then I heard the horn and the truck's brakes,” she stammers, as her eyes fill once more with tears. “Then there was a scream.”

  I wait for her to continue, but she seems lost in the memory.

  “The scream was... Daniel?” I ask finally.

  She turns to me. “What? No. No, of course not. He didn't even have time to scream. The scream was the lady who lives opposite. She saw everything. She tried to run out and stop it, but she couldn't get there in time. She's old, she has a bad hip, but she saw it all. She hasn't really been the same since. I asked her once to tell me exactly what she saw, but she insisted she didn't actually see Daniel go under the wheels. I'm certain she's lying.”

  Again I wait, but again Alison seems to be slipping into deeper thoughts that take her away from our conversation.

  “Was...”

  I pause, wondering quite how to phrase this next question.

  “Was Daniel killed instantly?” I ask. “The reports in the newspaper weren't entirely clear.”

  She turns to me, and I can see that she's a little shocked.

  “I'm sorry,” I continue, “I... I'm just trying to establish...”

  My voice trails off, and we sit in silence for a moment.

  “He was run over by a fully-loaded long-haul truck,” she says finally, “so what the hell do you think? Of course he was killed instantly. We couldn't even have an open casket at his funeral.”

  I make another note, feeling as if perhaps I was a little tactless. Sometimes it can be difficult to know how to approach these things. I need details but at the same time I know how I'd feel if I was the one being interviewed. I remember all the questions that people asked me five years ago when Charlie died, and how I felt as if I was constantly under suspicion. The last thing I want is to do the same thing now to this poor woman, but at the same time I came all the way here and I can't miss my opportunity. I need to keep pushing. She's my last shot right now. If she can't help me, the trail goes cold.

  “Was anyone unusual seen in the area around the time that your son died?” I ask.

  She sniffs back tears as she turns to me.

  “Like maybe...” I pause again. “Like maybe... A man? Watching?”

  “What do you mean, watching?”

  “That's kind of the problem,” I continue. “I don't know exactly what he would have looked like, or what he would have been doing, but the reason I wanted to come and talk to you today is because I'm researching some claims that have been made and -”

  “Wait a minute,” she snaps, suddenly seeming a little agitated. “When you emailed me and we talked on the phone, you said you'd lost your own son and -”

  “I did lose my son.”

  “And that you were
conducting a study about grief.”

  “Well, that's...”

  I pause for a moment. I guess she's right, I did mislead her a little. Then again, I doubt she'd have let me through the front door if she'd known the real focus of my visit. I always try to preface these interviews by claiming I'm here for more general purposes, before zeroing in on the stories about the man who watches these accidents. Sometimes people become quite angry if they think I've deceived them, but I'm always able to talk them around. I've had to learn how to be a little deceitful.

  “Here's the thing,” I continue, setting my notebook down. My hands are trembling. “I've been investigating cases like your son's, and like my own son's, and there's a common element that ties some of them together. Something the police have never really taken very seriously, but -”

  “What are you talking about?” she asks, interrupting me. “What common element? You came in here, pretending you were interested in talking to me about my son's accident, and now suddenly it seems you're rambling on about something completely different.”

  “There's a man,” I tell her, trying to stay calm, “who has been seen at more than one incident. This goes back decades, by the way, it's not a new thing. I'm sorry to be so vague, but I really don't know very much more than this. As I told you, I'm researching -”

  “You didn't mention any of this on the phone!”

  “I know, I just -”

  “Why didn't you tell me the reason you were really coming?”

  “It's not -”

  “Were you just trying to trick me? Is that it?”

  I shake my head. This is rapidly unraveling, but I have to make her understand. “It's just one avenue of exploration that I feel hasn't been exhausted yet,” I explain, as her eyes widen with shock and anger. “Maybe it's nothing, maybe I'm completely wrong. I'm absolutely willing to admit that possibility, but if there's even a chance that -”

  “How fucking dare you?”

  I open my mouth to reply, but she's staring at me now with pure hatred in her eyes.

  “How fucking dare you lie to me and come to my house under false pretenses?” she continues. “How dare you try dragging my son's death into some kind of ridiculous fantasy?”

  “That's the thing, I'm investigating the possibility that...” I take a deep breath, realizing that I need to try a different approach if I'm going to have any hope of explaining this situation. “You said it yourself. The gate was locked and Daniel had never shown an inclination to wander off before. Yet on this one day, he not only opened the gate, he also began to walk away from the house, and then he suddenly stepped out in front of a truck. Doesn't that seem a little unusual? Have you never asked yourself why he -”

  “Of course I've asked myself!” she hisses, getting to her feet. “Do you think I haven't asked every single day why he went out there?”

  “Please don't be angry,” I continue, “I just -”

  “You're one of them, aren't you?” she snaps. “Jesus Christ, I should have known it! You're one of those internet weirdos who sees a conspiracy or a mystery in everything that happens!”

  “No, I -”

  “I told the last ones who came here, and now I'm telling you. Leave me alone! My son died, and it's tragic, and every day I feel the grief crushing my chest, but if you think it helps to have idiots showing up at my door and spouting these insane theories -”

  “What last ones?” I ask. “I'm sorry, but -”

  “Get out of my house!” she says firmly.

  “Let's try to go back a little,” I stammer, forcing a smile. “Why don't we talk about -”

  “Get out of my house now!” she screams. “Before I call the police!”

  “Wait -”

  “Get out!” she yells, grabbing my arm and trying to pull me out of the chair. “Get out! Get out! Get out!”

  ***

  The frame rattles as the door is slammed shut, leaving me standing alone on the porch.

  “And get off my property!” she yells a moment later, from inside the house. “You're trespassing! Get out of here and don't ever contact me again! If I ever even see your face again, I'll sue you for harassment!”

  “I'm sorry if I upset you,” I reply, “but -”

  “Get out of here! Go! You fucking lying, evil bitch!”

  I open my mouth to ask if she can give me another chance, but a moment later I hear the sound of her bursting into tears. I want to help her, to make her feel better, but I guess we're way past that point now. I wait for a moment, listening to the sound of her sobs, and finally I realize that I've already done enough damage for one day. I usually manage to stay tactful, but this was the first time I've ever interviewed someone who lost their child so recently. I guess maybe I'm not as good at this as I'd thought.

  “I'm really sorry,” I stammer, before turning and making my way down the steps, heading toward my car. Just as I'm about to unlock the door, however, I spot someone watching me from the window of a house opposite.

  I know I should get out of here, but I can't help stepping around the car and crossing the road. Based on the descriptions I've read of the incident, this woman might be the neighbor who witnessed Daniel Mackenzie's death. As I reach her gate, however, she pulls her drapes shut, and then I see a shadow hurrying to the frosted glass in her front door. A moment later, I hear the tell-tale sound of a bolt sliding across, and I realize that nobody here wants to talk to me.

  Turning, I look along the street and see the stop sign at the bottom of the hill. That's where the truck finally came to a halt on that awful day, with little Daniel's mangled body wrapped around its wheels. And if I'm right, then there was a man lurking on this street somewhere, watching. A man who somehow knew that there was going to be an accident.

  Chapter Three

  “Sometimes you have to kick it to get what you want.”

  Turning, I see the motel's manager wandering over. I guess he saw me struggling with the vending machine, which this afternoon took my money but then decided not to spit out a can of soda.

  “Go on,” he mutters with a smile. “Don't be scared, give it a kick.”

  I turn back to the machine for a moment, before giving it a gentle kick next to the dispensing hatch.

  No soda can emerges.

  “Harder,” he tells me.

  “Listen,” I reply, “it's only -”

  “Kick it harder!”

  I try again, still without any luck.

  “Ah, get out of the way,” he says, stepping around to the side of the machine. “Let a professional handle this.”

  Before I can tell him not to bother, he unleashes a brief, ferocious kick that shakes the entire machine, causing it to rock back and forth. Startled, I step away, just as there's a bump from the hatch. The manager reaches inside, and sure enough he pulls out the can of soda that I was trying to buy.

  “See?” he says with a grin, handing the can to me. He's clearly immensely proud of his achievement. “Am I a knight in shining armor, or what? Like I told you, sometimes you just have to kick it real hard.”

  “Thanks,” I mutter.

  “So are you enjoying your stay?”

  “I...” How do I answer that? “I'm fine. Thank you.”

  “Do you mind if I ask what you're in town for?” he continues, sticking his hands in his pockets and leaning against the wall, as if he's getting ready for a good long chat. “We don't get many tourists around here, especially not of the long female persuasion. Are you here to see the sights?”

  “No,” I reply, taking a step back. This guy seems nice, but I really just want to seal myself in the room and get on with some work for the rest of the day. “I'll be in my room. Thank you again.”

  I turn to walk away.

  “There are a couple of good bars in the area,” he continues. “I could point you in the right direction, if you want.”

  I stop and turn to him. I don't want to be rude.

  “Thank you, but -”

  “These a
ren't dives I'm talking about!” he adds. “Hell no. These are places where a pretty girl like yourself can go without getting bothered too much, if you know what I mean. Now, there are some other bars where you'd have guys crawling all over you, joints with disreputable, disrespectful types, but I can really recommend some classier places where -”

  “Thank you,” I say again, interrupting him, “but honestly, I'm fine.”

  “Just gonna sit in your room, huh?”

  “Something like that.”

  “All alone?”

  “I... Yes.”

  “Seems a shame.” He pauses, before turning and looking over his shoulder as a vehicle pulls into the parking lot. “Well, I guess I should go see what those folks want. But hey, if you get lonely, feel free to wander over to the office for a chat. I mean, I always hate to think of any of our guests just stuck in their rooms all alone, and I pride myself on being a pretty friendly guy.” He pauses again, ignoring the couple who have stepped out of their car and made their way toward his office. “No-one should be lonely,” he adds finally. “No-one. It sucks big time. It's like a goddamn epidemic and there's no need. People should hang out more, don't you think?”

  He takes a step back, inadvertently bumping against a parked car.

  “Thank you,” I tell him. “That's very kind of you, but I think I'll be fine. I have a lot of work to do and I really just want to get on with it, without being disturbed.”

  “Remember to kick the vending machine if it gets stuck,” he calls after me, as I head back into my room. “You've gotta kick it like you mean it! Or if you can't kick it hard enough, give me a shout! I'll be happy to do it for you! Me and that machine, we've got history!”

  ***

  There's a pattern here, I know it. There's a pattern staring at me from the map, but I just can't quite figure out the details. Maybe I just need to keep staring until I go cross-eyed. Maybe it'll suddenly leap out at me. Maybe there'll be a miracle.