Chapter 12 - Second Opinions
It was snowing again when Mark was quick-marched out of the house in sweatpants, his borrowed jacket, gloves, and wool cap, and herded out the front door for the trip to Alice Davenport's. On foot, it would have taken Mark the better part of an hour to get to the psychologist's house, and given him quite a bit of time to think things through. Unfortunately for him, a drive would take – at most – ten or fifteen minutes, even counting stop signs and traffic lights. What was worse, he might have to talk with Wallace before talking to Alice.
As if the idea of talking to Dr. Davenport wasn't hard enough...
Mark's boots crunched on the snow underfoot as he made his way down the front walk to the driveway, where Wallace's car – a black Infiniti sedan – was waiting with the engine idling and heater blasting.
Wallace pulled the front passenger door open and quickly herded his nephew into the car. He caught a brief look from Mark just before closing the door behind him – a strange mixture of confusion, fear, impatience, and anger. While he felt bad for the boy and thought that Susan was perhaps being a little too rough on him, there was most definitely something going on in Mark's head, something that only Alice could help sort out. Whether or not that something was dangerous was a whole other matter entirely, but again, that was Alice's area of expertise.
Mark was already buckled in by the time Wallace got around to the drivers' side and closed the door, finally sealing the car against the frigid Maine air. He cast a quick glance over at Mark just before putting the Infiniti in gear, turning it around and heading down the driveway toward the road, the tires crunching on the gravel and snow beneath the whole way.
Conditions didn't get much better once they left the driveway – which was hardly a surprise, given that they lived at the very edge of the town limits – something that hadn't improved much since Wallace himself was just a kid, back in the 1950s. The world itself had changed by leaps and bounds in his lifetime, but old Indian Cliff Drive had only been paved fifteen years ago, and probably hadn't even been touched by state work crews since. It was nothing short of miraculous that the road was still in such good shape after over a decade of constant salting and below zero temperatures.
Who knows, Wallace thought to himself, maybe they have repaired the road in the past, and I just never saw them do it.
That did actually make sense.
He had traveled quite a lot in the years before Connie was born, typically once or twice a month. After that, he ensured that his trips – be they cross-country or international – were a bit more infrequent so he could spend more time with his kids. Once Richard was born, the lag time between those trips was such that he was practically home 24/7 for most of the year. And when Wallace finally realized that running a mutual fund could be accomplished without even leaving town, he leased a decent-sized office space just off Main Street and his business trips ceased altogether (much to the relief of Susan and the kids, Henry especially so).
Fortunately, he had driven in far worse than this, and was well-used to what typically came with a Maine winter. Mark, on the other hand, wasn't. Hopefully he'd have the good sense to stay put at Alice's if the current weather deteriorated into a full-on blizzard.
The boy sat silently in the passenger seat, hunched down in his jacket, arms folded across his chest, mouth set in a grim line and wool cap pulled down so far it almost covered his eyes. Mark moved with the car as Wallace turned out onto Ridgeway Road (which connected to Main Street), and resumed his posture a few seconds later, without so much as even batting an eye.
Aside from the jacket, cap, and boots, Mark was still wearing his pajamas, most notably a pair of dark gray sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt. It was his own subtle way of protesting the current situation. Susan had been appalled at the state he was in when he finally came downstairs earlier that morning, clothes rumpled and hair all mussed up, looking like he'd just gotten out of bed. For the second day in a row, he refused to eat as well. When asked a question by Susan or Wallace, he either simply nodded or shook his head, without uttering a single word.
For reasons known only to him, Mark was most definitely not in a talking mood.
If Wallace were in his brother's place, he would now be worrying that something was truly wrong with the boy; indeed he was concerned with his nephew's current state of mind – as Jack himself most likely was, too. As a father in his own right, Wallace had done his best to try and get Mark to open up to him over the past few days, hoping that they could talk things out, but Mark had almost completely shut himself off from the outside world.
By the time they reached the turnoff for Harbor Bridge, the total lack of conversation – the only noise being that of the engine and the heater – was starting to feel a bit awkward. In an effort to, at the very least try and break some of the tension, Wallace turned on the car radio, which was already tuned in to the local news/weather station.
"The National Weather Service has issued a Winter Storm Warning, in effect until 7 a.m. Thursday for the following counties: Sagadahoc, Kennebec, Lincoln, Knox, and Waldo. Up to twelve inches of snow and strong winds, as high as thirty miles-per-hour along sections of the coast, can be expected with this storm," a lightly-accented male voice intoned from the radio, interrupted by an occasional burst of static.
Wallace spared a brief glance over at Mark.
"You can always switch it over to a different station..." Wallace suggested. "If you want."
Mark nodded wordlessly.
Wallace held back a sigh as he turned out onto South Main.
It was worth a shot, I suppose.
The wind seemed to pick up as they crossed onto the bridge – likely because there were no trees out here to shield them from it – evidenced by thin clouds of snow that swept across the bridge deck and the churning whitecaps below. A sudden gust of wind buffeted the car from the right, and Wallace briefly had to fight for control of the steering wheel.
"Shit..." he quietly cursed under his breath.
Even then, Mark still didn't say or do anything, which only mildly surprised Wallace.
Either he's just used to hearing Jack swear – which wouldn't be very much of a surprise – or he's not even paying any attention to me. Personally, Wallace was kind of hoping for the latter, because the last thing he wanted was to be a bad influence on his nephew.
Unlike a lot of kids these days – teenagers, mostly – Wallace knew when and when not to curse at something. Usually it was for a good reason, and only when he got angry or when something unexpected (and bad) happened. Like almost losing control of the car a few seconds ago. There were just some things that you could never get used to, even living in New England your entire life, and sudden weather changes was one of them.
"...in other news, state and local police are still investigating the cause of the pileup on Route 233 last Wednesday, which may not have been an accident as it was initially viewed. Firsthand accounts have led to the belief that it was either a prank gone wrong, or worse, a deliberate act – supporting these theories was the discovery of what has been described as 'a crudely constructed mannequin' below the Old Forest Road overpass. Those same firsthand accounts reported seeing it fall from the bridge mere moments prior to the incident, and the potential perpetrators as well..."
The man continued talking, but Mark had already zoned out. He flinched ever so slightly at the word 'perpetrators'.
Wallace took notice of this, but having no idea what it meant, he filed it away under the ever-growing category of not knowing what a kid was thinking. And as good a psychologist as Alice was, even she couldn't possibly know exactly what was going on in someone's head at any given point in time.
But with any luck, in the next couple of hours, she just might be able to give them a better idea of what was going on inside of Mark's.
By the time Wallace parked on the street outside Alice Davenport's front gate not twenty minutes later, Mark was fidgeting nervously, and even with the boy's cap pulled down as low as it was, Wallace could still see the fear in his eyes.
He turned off the radio and lowered the settings on the heater, decreasing the noise to a level much more appropriate for conversation.
Wallace let out a sigh and turned to his nephew.
"I know you don't want to talk right now, Mark. Believe me, I understand how you feel."
If only... Mark thought to himself.
"But I also know that you need to talk with someone. You can't keep what's eating you bottled up forever, either. It's not good for you."
If I knew for sure that someone with authority would actually believe me, I'd have talked about this all days ago. I'm definitely not going to tell Alice, and not now.
"Look," Wallace continued, "take all the time you need. If you want to just sit and pretend like you don't know how to talk for an hour or two, that's your choice, but for your sake and mine, at least listen to what she has to say."
Mark nodded slowly. He then unbuckled his seatbelt and was just reaching for the door handle when Wallace pulled out his wallet and handed Mark a twenty dollar bill.
"If you don't make it back in time for lunch. Get yourself something to eat at the diner on Main. And keep the money – don't worry about paying me back."
"Thank you," Mark said quietly.
With that, he opened the door and got out, letting in a burst of frigid air and a swirl of snow. Without another word, he slammed the door closed behind him.
Mark was gone so quickly, not to mention the fact that Wallace was still a bit surprised that the boy had actually spoken to him, he didn't even get the chance to respond.
Mark briefly glanced back at his uncle out of the corner of his eye as he marched up to Alice's front gate and let himself in. A moment later, the car pulled away from the curb and was soon out of his line of sight.
He slowly trudged up the front walk through the snow, ascended the porch steps, and rang the doorbell. Mark stomped his boots on the welcome mat, kicking away dirty clumps of snow and ice. As the seconds ticked by, he turned his gaze out to the choppy gray waters of the Atlantic, the curling whitecaps, and the great columns of cold, salty spray as each wave crashed against the rocks down at the shoreline. The sight was both beautiful and depressing at the same time, thanks owed to the fact that the current weather matched his mood almost exactly.
He had taken those first few days here last week for granted. It had snowed quite a bit last Wednesday, starting around the same time as the 'incident' with Mr. Highway and not letting up until sometime that night, but that had just been snow. This was a full-on storm, and according to the radio, the real action hadn't even started yet. Not only that, it very well could last for a couple of days.
A gust of cold air made Mark shiver.
I'm not built for this. It gets cold back home, sure, but that's only at night. Here, its' either below or near-freezing 24/7 a good chunk of the year, probably even with the sun out in the daytime hours.
"Amazing sight, isn't it?"
Mark whirled around, and was quite startled until he realized it was only Alice. The middle-aged therapist stood just inside the screen door, wearing a dark blue skirt, red sweater, and a heavy wool shawl around her shoulders.
Mark nodded in agreement.
Alice held open the door and invited him in.
"Why don't you come on inside? Getting out of this cold might do you some good."
Mark stood there on the porch for a moment or two, lost in thought.
On one hand, the cold air was somewhat refreshing and helped him think a bit clearer than he had in days. But on the other hand, it did nothing but remind him of Henry: cold, merciless, and unrelenting.
So, in a word... Yes.
Getting out of the cold, and into a warm house where a menacing presence wasn't lurking in every corner and shadow would indeed do him a world of good.
He nodded politely and quietly thanked Alice before stepping inside.
Instead of going into her office, like Mark expected, she ushered him out to her living room, where a nice warm fire blazed in the hearth and a steaming mug of hot chocolate sat on the coffee table. As she seated herself in a cushioned armchair catercorner from the sofa, Alice gestured to it.
"Please. Sit. You look exhausted."
Mark sat heavily on the sofa and shrugged off his jacket. For a time, he just sat there, staring at either the mug of hot chocolate – presumably meant for him – or the fire, his mind a complete blank. After a few minutes of near-silence, Alice finally spoke up.
"You're allowed to drink that hot cocoa if you want. I made it just for you."
Mark reached a hand toward the mug and gave her a questioning look.
She nodded.
"Go ahead. It should have cooled enough by now."
Mark took a tentative sip and was rather pleasantly surprised.
It was the best hot chocolate he'd ever had.
He then took a longer slurp, just enough that he didn't burn his mouth.
Alice smiled at him.
"Do you like it?" she asked.
Mark nodded, and a slight smile curved the corners of his mouth. It was only for a brief second, but it had been there. That was progress.
"I'm glad. It's an old family recipe, and I have yet to meet someone who didn't like my eggnog hot chocolate. Including your own father, I believe."
"Really?" Mark asked, eyebrows raised in surprise as he set the mug back on the coffee table.
Alice nodded affirmatively.
"Oh, yes. I've known Jack – your father – and Wallace for many years, and your grandparents even longer. In fact, I used to babysit for them, until your father was in middle school. The more I look at you, the more I know without a doubt that you are Jack Evans' son. You're the spitting image of him at your age, Mark."
"He looked like me? Really?"
"Indeed he did, though, just between you and me..."
Alice lowered her voice to a mock whisper.
"You clean up a little better."
That elicited a slight laugh and an actual smile from Mark.
Alice knew that it would take some time to get him to open up about what was going on –after all, small talk and establishing a friendly rapport were two of the most vital instruments in Alice's psychological arsenal – but she could already see a bit of improvement over the last time she'd seen him.
Progress, indeed.
Mark had no idea why he was so willing to be friendly with Alice.
Perhaps it was because she had been nothing but kind to him since he arrived. Not to mention the fact that Mark simply felt more comfortable in her house than in Wallace's.
Probably has something to do with the fact that there isn't a cold-blooded killer – AKA Henry – lurking in every corner and shadow.
Whenever Henry was around, no matter where it was, it seemed almost like he brought an aura of darkness and oppression with him. That had been especially so for Wallace's home ever since the incident with Mr. Highway.
But when he was outside, or the boys were no longer under the same roof, that feeling of oppression seemed to dissipate, and Mark's surroundings automatically felt a bit more inviting. At the very least, it didn't seem as if the shadows were going to swallow him whole. It was a nice (and very much welcomed) change of pace from the dark cloud he'd been living under the past several days.
But no matter how nice Alice was to him right now, Mark knew it still wasn't the right time to tell her about Henry. Would there ever be a 'right time?'
In all honesty, which was something in short supply these days, Mark knew that he was –at least, in part – just stalling, putting off something he didn't really want to do. But he also knew there was no choice in the matter.
Henry had to be stopped.
"Miss... Miss Davenport?"
"Yes, Mark? What is it?"
"You – you remember our talk last week, at the playground?"
Alice nodded.
"I do indeed. What about it?"
Mark took in a deep breath before replying.
"I asked you a question before I left. 'What if there was a boy – a boy my age – who did these terrible, awful things, only because he liked doing them?' I asked if you thought that boy would be evil, and you said that you don't believe in evil. But what if I told you now that I know someone just like that back home? A boy who deliberately harms others – people and animals alike – because he enjoys watching them suffer. What then?"
A brief look of surprise flitted across Alice's face, and she sat in silence for a few moments, mulling over what Mark had said.
"Is this boy a friend?" she finally managed to ask.
Mark nodded hesitantly.
"At least, I thought he was a friend. I know everyone has their dark side, but this was something else entirely. I never could have seen it coming..."
His voice trailed off.
"Can you tell me who he is?"
Mark shook his head.
"I can't. Not right now."
Not right now...
Alice hung on those words, because she knew they meant that Mark would be willing to tell her sometime. Just when that time would be was anyone's guess.
For now, she'd let her last question rest.
"If you can tell me something specific, anything about what he did, that just might help us come up with a solution," she suggested.
Mark sat quietly, carefully contemplating the idea before replying.
"OK."
Taking care to leave out the actual specifics, Mark proceeded to tell Alice everything he knew.
An hour later, Mark found himself sitting at a small booth in the local diner, browsing through the lunch menu. A lot of things here looked good, making him even more aware of just how little he'd eaten in the past couple of days. Which was, essentially, nothing. He had been so focused on Henry and keeping an eye on him that average necessities – like food – had kind of slipped into the background.
But now that he was out from under Susan's harsh glare and Henry's cold, empty gaze, Mark's appetite had returned with a mind all its' own. At present, he was trying to decide between the specialty cheeseburger or chicken tenders with French fries.
A moment later, he looked up at the sound of approaching footsteps to see a pretty young woman – a casually-dressed waitress in a sweater and jeans who couldn't have been more than ten years older than him – walking in his direction with a pad and pen in hand. She stopped in front of Mark's table and offered him a smile. Mark smiled back.
"You're new around here, aren't you?" she asked.
Mark nodded.
"I only ask because I've never seen you in here before," she added.
"I'm just here visiting my cousins for a couple of weeks," Mark replied.
"Who are your cousins?"
"Henry and... Connie Evans," Mark answered, his tone somber.
The young waitress's eyes grew wide with surprise.
"And what's your name?"
"Mark. Same last name."
"Your father wouldn't happen to be Jack Evans, would it?"
"That it would," Mark replied, a hint of pride in his voice.
"Wow..." the waitress blinked in surprised before extending Mark a hand. "I'm Samantha. Samantha Penbrook. My mom and dad run the diner."
Mark shook her hand. "I'm pleased to meet you, Samantha."
"Both of my parents went to school with your dad – and your Uncle Wallace, too – back in the day."
"Really?" Mark asked. "That's pretty cool. I never knew."
Samantha nodded.
"Yep," she replied.
Mark glanced back down at the menu for a second.
"Not to change the subject, but... what do you recommend? I'm currently trying to decide between the specialty burger and the chicken tenders, either of them with fries."
"Personally, I'd recommend the specialty burger, but in your case, I'd say the chicken tenders."
"Chicken tenders and fries it is then," Mark answered. "Oh, and a cup of hot chocolate. I assume you serve that."
Samantha smiled and nodded as she scribbled his order down.
"Chicken tenders and fries. And yes, we do have hot chocolate. Would you like some marshmallows with that?" she suggested.
"Sure," Mark shrugged.
"All right, then. It shouldn't take too long. In the meantime, do you want an appetizer or something to tide you over? My mom just made a fresh batch of rolls, straight out of the oven."
Mark nodded.
"Sounds good."
"OK. Be back in a jiffy."
He then watched as Samantha walked off and disappeared into the kitchen. Less than a minute later, she came back out, carrying a small basket with a couple of the fresh-made rolls inside and set it down in front of Mark.
"Here you go. Hope you enjoy."
Mark smiled at her.
"Thanks. They smell great."
He picked one up and took a bite. The roll was warm and soft, and had a buttery taste with a hint of cinnamon. It was delicious, just like Alice's special hot chocolate.
Better still, it was food.
"They taste just as good as they smell," Mark amended.
"I'm glad you like them. My mom really likes her job, which is something not many people can say, and the quality shows."
"That it does," Mark replied, nodding in agreement.
"Sometimes I like to say we're internationally recognized for that. You want to know why?"
His interest piqued, Mark nodded.
"A couple years ago, we had a family from Canada – New Brunswick, specifically – stop in on their way south. They couldn't stop complimenting us on how good the food was, and they tipped pretty generously, too."
"I guess the rumor about all Canadians being polite is true," Mark replied, a hint of a grin curling the corners of his mouth.
"So far as I can tell, it is. Speaking of which, food that is, it shouldn't take much longer for your chicken and fries – my dad already had a batch of the chicken going. Oh, and don't worry about paying for the rolls. They're on the house."
Mark nodded.
"Wow... Thanks."
Samantha gave him a friendly smile.
"You're welcome."
With that, she once again walked off, but this time went behind the main counter and began arranging white coffee mugs on a small metal rack.
Mark quickly devoured what remained of the first roll and waited only a scant moment before starting on the second. It was gone so fast that he surprised even himself. His stomach still grumbled, just a bit less now, thanks to the rolls having taken some of the edge off his hunger. This food was probably great already, but being as hungry as Mark was right now made it ten times better.
He took off his hat, showing just how mussed his hair really was, then his jacket, and set them both aside. He tried to make his hair look a bit less sloppy, and only partly succeeded.
At least I don't look like a complete slob now...
While he waited for his meal, Mark stared out the window into the street, watching cars roll on by and pedestrians darting about trying to get indoors. Fortunately, the weather had calmed down considerably on his way over from Alice's to the diner. But now it seemed as if the wind had picked back up and the snow was still coming down pretty good, too, though not as much as earlier. He watched in absent fascination as each gust of wind and passing car twisted the clouds of falling snow into multiple random patterns and shapes.
For a split second, he thought he saw a face in the snow, and then the wind blew it away just as fast as it had formed.
Maybe, just maybe he was going crazy, but Mark could've sworn that face looked like Henry's.
Either way, it was still creepy.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw someone with blond hair, dressed in a heavy green jacket, wool cap, and jeans – a kid, probably – on the opposite side of the street, hunched down and struggling to make any headway against each new gust of wind.
Was that Henry?
Mark's eyes went wide in fear.
Could he be spying on me?
His mind once again entered panic mode, putting an unfortunate damper on his not-inconsiderable appetite.
He watched in growing fear as this person made a sudden dash across the street, heading straight for the diner. Whoever it was, they were in a hurry.
Mark's fear rose almost to a fever pitch, so much so that his hands were shaking as the blond figure entered the diner. But when they lowered their hood and took off their hat, Mark let out a quiet sigh of relief.
It wasn't Henry. Thank God...
Whoever this boy was, he took up a seat at the counter, right in front of where Samantha had been just a few minutes ago.
Speaking of which, where is Samantha, anyway?
"Are you OK?"
Mark flinched ever so slightly and turned his head.
Samantha was standing off to the side, a small metal tray in-hand. On it was Mark's food – a plate with six breaded chicken tenders, a medium-sized pile of fries, and a mug of steaming hot chocolate.
"Are you OK?" she repeated.
Mark nodded.
"I'm fine. Just a little distracted is all."
"Hopefully not too distracted to eat," she joked, eliciting a smile and a slight laugh from Mark. "One plate of chicken tenders and fries, cup of hot chocolate with marshmallows, as promised."
Samantha set the plate and mug in front of Mark. He eyed the food hungrily.
"Thank you," he said gratefully.
"You're welcome. If you need anything else, just holler, OK?"
"I will."
But just as she turned to leave, a question flashed through Mark's head.
"Oh, uh... Samantha?"
She turned back to face him.
"Yes?"
"Do you happen to have a phone I could use?"
Conners, Michael and Nikki. 232 Fall Hills Road.
Mark had memorized those names and that address backward and forward from the phone book at Wallace's last night before going to bed. And their home phone number as well, which he had called from the diner not half an hour ago so as not to drop in unannounced and demand to speak with Dylan, which would have been rude, to say the least. Not to mention the fact that he had only met the kid just last week, and, frankly didn't know him very well, most definitely not enough to tell whether or not Dylan was of the same inhuman, cold-blooded 'type' as Henry.
But for the moment, Mark saw little choice in the matter.
Just as he rounded the corner onto Fall Hills Road, a gust of frigid air briefly staggered Mark and made him shiver like a leaf. Hunched as deeply into the jacket as he was, and with his cap pulled so low, Mark very nearly missed the house altogether.
The Conners residence was a two story of solid (but obviously weathered) red brick construction, and though fairly impressive in its' own right, as one of the bigger houses on the block, it was still noticeably smaller than Wallace's place. At this point, that was a nothing but a plus for Mark. The less he was reminded of anything that had to do with Henry, the better.
He gingerly made his way between two rows of snow-topped evergreen hedges – a path that he presumed was the front walk – up to the porch, providing a measure of protection against the icy wind. Mark then stamped his boots off on the mat, rubbed his hands together in the hopes of getting some better circulation going, and finally rang the doorbell.
Fortunately, Dylan answered, and immediately invited Mark in.
It was warm inside, but not oppressively so, lending the house somewhat of a cozy, inviting atmosphere that was very unlike the one in Wallace's house, which was rather quickly devolving into a cold, oppressive darkness with each passing day. Also, even more unlike Wallace's were the myriad of colorful Christmas decorations that adorned the main hall of the Conners home, everything from strings of multicolored lights along the banisters to an enormous wreath hung on the back of the door, or the Nativity scene near the foot of the stairs. Most recognizable of all, however, was the scent of fresh pine that met Mark's nostrils.
Now this was what the Christmas season was supposed to look like.
"It's good to see you again," Dylan said as he and Mark exchanged a quick handshake.
Mark nodded curtly.
"You, too."
After a few moments of silence, in which he appeared to be gathering his thoughts, Dylan spoke up.
"So... From what I hear, things have been pretty rough on you and Henry the past few days, with what happened to Connie, and all."
Mark nodded again.
"Yeah, you could say that... It's at least part of the reason I came over."
"Oh. And what is that, anyway? You were really cryptic about it on the phone."
"We need to talk," Mark said, lowering his voice. "Somewhere no one else can hear us."
"What about?" Dylan asked, curious.
Henry, Mark mouthed his cousin's name silently.
It seemed that was all Dylan needed, and a moment later, he was putting a black and gray Adidas winter jacket on over his red sweater and motioning for Mark to follow him. They stopped by the back door in the far corner of the spacious kitchen for Dylan to slip into his own pair of well-worn boots and put on his hat before heading outside.
"I've got a treehouse out back," he whispered to Mark. "We can talk there."
Mark started slightly, a hint of fear in his eyes.
"How high is it?" he asked nervously.
"See for yourself," Dylan replied, pointing out through the window.
Mark stepped forward and peered through the small window set into the door. In the far left corner of the spacious and snowy, fenced-in backyard, nestled in the lower branches of a sturdy old oak sat the treehouse – finished, as far as Mark could tell from this distance, and only a fraction the height of Henry's unfinished one.
Thank God...
He hadn't really been afraid of heights before last Sunday, when Mark had come within inches of death at the top of that tree, and gotten the first real glimpse into his older cousin's sick, twisted nature. But after that...
"Not very high at all," Mark admitted, relief evident in his voice.
"Mom!" Dylan called out, "Mark's here, and we're heading out back!"
"Okay!" his mother responded, her voice faint. She was probably upstairs. "Be careful!"
"Will do!"
With that, he opened the door and led Mark out into the snowy, windswept yard. A narrow pathway had been cleared all the way out to the old oak, with well over a foot of snow piled on either side. They passed a big white gazebo that sat almost dead center in the backyard, its' sloped roof buried in a thick layer of fresh snow, and mid-size icicles hanging from the roof's edge like a set of jagged, narrow, and unevenly-spaced gray teeth. At least, that was how the ice looked in the winter gloom.
Despite his self-reassurances and those from Dylan, Mark still cast the occasional nervous glance up at the tree as they drew closer. It seemed like an eternity, but it only took a minute or so to actually reach the base, at which point they were standing directly under the treehouse itself. At first, Mark wondered how they were even going to get inside, since there had been no visible entry point on the front wall – except for a small glass window – until he saw a trapdoor set into the bottom, almost right above his head, in fact, which was probably why he'd missed it in the first place. And in a way eerily reminiscent of Henry's treehouse, Dylan's 'ladder' also consisted of boards hammered into the trunk.
Mark swallowed hard as Dylan started to climb and he felt a rather strong sensation of déjà vu. But unlike the many other times he'd encountered this feeling – when the supposed recollections had been extremely vague – Mark knew exactly what he was remembering. Which, depending on another person's definition of the phrase, might not even make this déjà vu at all.
"Hey, Mark?"
It took a few seconds for Mark to finally respond.
"Yeah?"
"You coming, or what? Because freezing to death is a pretty nasty way to go."
Mark nodded, almost imperceptibly, but it seemed to be enough for Dylan, who finished his ascent, opened the trapdoor and promptly crawled up into the treehouse. Mark followed a moment later, and took his time, most definitely not wanting a repeat of when he last climbed a tree. Surprisingly enough, he managed to climb up into the treehouse without incident.
While probably nowhere near as ambitious as Henry's treehouse, Dylan's was still pretty cool, and more importantly, it was finished. Small glass windows set in the front and back walls provided most of the illumination, dim though it was, while Dylan provided the rest with a battery-powered electric lantern that hung from the ceiling. A couple of sleeping bags and blankets sat in one corner, while a couple of collapsible camping chairs occupied another. Dylan unfolded the chairs and quickly swept them clean of dirt before sitting down.
"So... Okay, what is it about Henry?" Dylan asked, his tone laden with curiosity.
Mark let out a deep sigh that came in a puff of whitish-gray vapor.
Now or never, Mark...
"Have you ever had a suspicion, one that there's more to Henry than meets the eye?"
Incredibly enough, Dylan nodded, almost without hesitation.
"A long time," he admitted. "Almost as long as I've known him, I could tell that there was something wrong. He's always trying to be the perfect kid, too perfect. And that's just putting on a show for pretty much every adult in this town, our teachers included. But without any supervision, Henry is a completely different person. He's a liar, a bully, and a cheat who has managed to beat up over a dozen kids singlehandedly, yet not one of our teachers or parents have ever believed that. Like they don't want to believe 'Henry the Angel' is really more like the devil. Most of the kids at school are either creeped out by him, or just plain hate him. The only ones who he even sort of gets along with are the other bullies, and even some of them don't like him, either."
Mark blinked, surprised.
For a short while, they sat in silence while Mark digested this new information. While he had at expected Dylan to at least have suspicions about Henry, this was something else entirely.
"Wait, I – I thought you two were friends," he finally managed to say.
Dylan shook his head slowly.
"We used to be. From Pre-K till about halfway through fifth grade."
"What happened? Was it something he did, or..."
"It wasn't long after his little brother, Richard, died, and... well it was the way he said it, and just the look in his eyes... it was like he wasn't telling the truth. It was right in front of our teacher back then, so he was crying, and doing everything someone who is actually sad does, but I don't think he was sad at all."
Mark had harbored some suspicions that Richard's 'accidental drowning' may not have been accidental at all, but he hadn't dared voice them aloud, especially not to Wallace or Susan. Now it seemed as if Dylan was harboring some of those very same suspicions. Maybe now was the time to talk about them.
"Why then does it still seem like you two are friends?" Mark asked.
"Mainly to keep up appearances in front of our parents, who I think would either feel sorry for Henry or get a little suspicious if he didn't have any friends. Again, because he's so popular with a lot of the adults around here, they'd probably think that almost everyone at school was just being mean to him or something, and not the other way around."
"Dylan..." Mark began hesitantly.
"What?"
"Why – why do you think he wasn't sad after Richard died?"
Dylan closed his eyes, and a shudder ran through him. For a second, Mark thought the other boy might be shivering from the cold, but then realized he knew better.
"I pray that I'm wrong. I hope that I'm wrong, because IT is just so wrong..."
"What – what is wrong?"
Mark had asked the question, but he more or less already knew the answer, anyway.
Dylan Conners swallowed hard, another shudder coursing through his body.
"I – I..." he stuttered, "I think Henry... I think he might have k-killed Richard."
The only thing visible through the tiny window, especially at this distance, was a pair of shadows, presumably back-lit by an electric lantern. Neither of their faces were visible, but he didn't even have to see their faces – he already knew who they were.
Cowards and traitors, the both of them.
Gusts of wind rattled the dead underbrush right over his head, and he felt the cold, rock-hard ground beneath him slowly seeping into his bones. Any lesser person would have given up long ago.
But not him. He was no 'lesser person'.
And he had to see his plan through to the end, no matter what. If a few animals or people got hurt – or even better, killed – in the process, well, that was completely unavoidable. Besides, it was fun.
A howling gust of wind blew a thin cloud of snow over Henry Evans (all the better to further camouflage him and his winter ghillie suit), temporarily obscuring the line of sight through his high-power binoculars, a birthday gift from his father this past May. Little did Wallace know what his son would do with them. He probably thought Henry would be watching animals in the woods or boats out in the harbor, not spying on his cousin and fake best friend.
Henry had known the whole time since fifth grade that Dylan wasn't really his 'best friend' anymore. The kid wasn't half-bad at lying, but he was nowhere near as good at it as Henry. No one he knew was. No one else in the entire town was like him, which was somewhat frustrating, but no matter, he didn't want to share his private hunting grounds with anyone else, anyway. This was his town, and he'd be damned if someone took even one small part of that from him.
He carefully wiped the lenses on the binoculars, and by the time he had refocused them, one of the shadows had leaned in closer to the other, probably Dylan spilling his guts to Mark. Henry would rather take that saying literally, and actually spill Dylan's guts – Mark, too if he knew for sure he could get away with it. He wasn't too concerned about Dylan's seeming inability to keep his mouth shut. After all, the wimp had never told to anyone until now, and besides, who would believe him? Certainly no one important.
Mark was still just a marginal threat to Henry's plans at this point, though if the little sissy nerd from Arizona was doing what Henry thought he was doing, and trying to use disaffected kids like Dylan against him, that could very well change in the near-future. Though as smart as Henry was, even he had no idea just when that would be. The one thing he did know was this:
He was destined to win.
Henry Evans wanted to make his mark on the world – no pun intended – and in a big way. No one could stand in his path, least of all, his cousin.
And if Mark actually had the stones to challenge Henry, he would lose.
End of story.
A/N: Apologies for not posting this sooner, last month was a bit crazy for me.
Anyhow, I hope this lives up to the previous chapters. It's also the longest chapter yet for this story.
Samantha, or at least a member of the Penbrook family, will figure into the story later on.
Any other questions? Feel free to ask.
No estimate yet on Chapter 13, but it'll likely be quite a bit shorter than this one. Thanks for your patience and staying with me.
