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  Forge Books by James F. David

  Footprints of Thunder

  Fragments

  JAMES F. DAVID

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  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.

  FRAGMENTS

  Copyright © 1997 by James F. David

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

  This book is printed on acid-free paper.

  A Forge Book

  Published by Tom Doherty Associates, Inc.

  175 Fifth Avenue

  New York, NY 10010

  Forge® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, Inc.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  David, James F.

  Fragments / James F. David.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  “A Tom Doherty Associates book.”

  ISBN 0-312-86313-6 ISBN 978-0-312-86313-5

  I. Title.

  PS3554.A9155F73 1997

  813’.54—dc21 96-53979

  CIP

  First Edition: July 1997

  Printed in the United States of America

  0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My wife, Gale, deserves special thanks for her help with this book. She’s moved from spotting typos and spelling errors in my first book, Footprints of Thunder, to suggesting improvements in wording and plot in Fragments. Can co-author be far behind? Abby, Katie, and Bethany, thanks for showing my books around school and helping to promote your dad.

  Thanks to Carol McCleary, my agent, for her continued encouragement, and to Greg Cox, my editor at Tor, for his support.

  PROLOGUE

  October 19, 1953

  The flashing red lights of the police cars lit the crowd that had gathered to see something they could later tell their friends they wished they’d never seen. He joined them, acting curious, planning to stay just long enough to deflect suspicion.

  The crowd was thick, and those in the back whispered questions to those in front. What, who, how, and why? the new arrivals asked, and in reply came fact, rumor, and surmise. He joined the crowd and whispered his own questions to a short man with a brown hat. The man turned, anxious to share with a newcomer.

  “It’s another dead boy.”

  “College age?”

  “Probably. Someone said he has a university decal on his car window.”

  “Was he killed with a knife?”

  “Yeah, just like the others. Cut up too—you know—especially his private parts. It’s the same em-oh. That’s what the police call it. Modus operandi, or something like that. My brother-in-law’s a cop. He says you can always tell when it’s the same killer from the MO.”

  “Do they know the boy’s name?”

  “Naw, but they found his body in a ’49 Chevy. Know anyone driving a green one?”

  He shook his head—a silent lie—then let the man turn to answer the questions of a young woman.

  Now he moved on, quickening his pace to a brisk walk. He tried to look casual, like someone out for a walk on a warm October evening—someone going to the twenty-four flavors for a double dip, or down to Hickman’s for a cold pop. He strode up the tree-lined street, a feeling of dread growing with every step until it was almost too much to bear.

  He rounded the corner at Elm and turned down Lincoln. His house was there on the left, halfway up the block. It was a big house, much bigger than he needed now. Filled once with a family overflowing its six bedrooms, now the house—and his family—was little more than an empty shell.

  Every light was on, giving the empty rooms the glow of the living. He liked the house bright. If he couldn’t have the people in the house, he at least could drive out the shadowy memories they left behind. He looked up at her second-floor room but saw nothing but her white lace curtains fluttering out the open window. He went up the walk and then the flight of stairs to the porch. The front door was closed and locked, just as he had left it. Entering, he quickly climbed the stairs to the second floor, pulling himself along with the handrail. Checking her room first, he hoped to find her in bed reading, or playing her forty-fives. It was empty, as were his and the other bedrooms. Downstairs he found the living room, library, and den just as empty, so he cut through the dining room to the kitchen. There was an empty glass on the table, lined with a film of dried milk, and a plate with cookie crumbs next to it. He was about to search the side porch when he noticed the back door slightly ajar. The yard was dimly lit by the light coming from the kitchen windows, but there were too many shadows and shrubs for hiding places for him to be sure the yard was empty. Closing the door his hand came away sticky with blood.

  Blood drops on the floor led him through the kitchen to the basement door. There was more blood on its handle, and the lights in the basement were on. Softly, he walked down the stairs, trying to avoid the creakiest steps. The basement was filled with bits and pieces of his old life. There were mattresses and bed frames from the now empty bedrooms upstairs, and bicycles that would never be ridden again. Nearly new children’s clothes and toys were packed away in boxes—he couldn’t bring himself to give them away. His wife’s things were there somewhere too, long since removed from the room they had shared.

  When he reached the bottom he could hear the sound of running water. The laundry room was to the right, but the sound was coming from the left—his shop was there, a small room in one corner. He passed through the piles of rummage, careful not to make a sound, and past the shelves for canned goods until he could see. She was there.

  Bent over the stainless-steel sink she was washing her hands and arms. She wore a pair of white shorts but no top, only her bra—her blouse on the floor. Her washing was methodical and thorough. Over and over she soaped up her hands and then washed up and down her arms, clear to the elbow. First her right hand and arm and then her left. When done, she started over with her right again. He watched her wash, trying to imagine another explanation for why she might be in the basement doing this, but when she pulled a knife from the bottom of the sink to scrub, he felt all hope drain from him. He recognized the knife—it was from the set in his kitchen. He had used it many times since the murders began. Then he was filled with a terrible resolve.

  Slipping back past the shelves, he picked through the rummage until he found an old set of golf clubs. He pulled a driver from the bag, freezing when the other clubs rattled into the empty space. When he was sure the water was still running he crept back along the shelves. Intent on cleaning the knife, she didn’t see him coming.

  Raising the club above his head, he ran the last few steps, then swung down. She looked up at the last minute, understanding flashing across her face, but there was no fear in her eyes, only surprise that her father could do this to her. But in that she was wrong. He couldn’t kill her. At the last second he lost his resolve and tried to soften the blow. The club head came down as her arm came up to deflect the blow. The force left in his swing was too much and her arm was knocked down by the shaft, the club continuing down and contacting her head with a sharp crack.

  She crumpled to the floor in a li
mp pile. He raised the club for a second blow, determined to finish what he had begun; then he saw her face. Her eyes were closed and her blond hair lay loose across her cheek. He’d seen the look many times before, at night when he would check on her and her sisters. His sleeping children always brought out the tenderness in him, and sometimes he would sit watching them until his wife came to drag him off to bed. He knelt now and brushed the hair away from her face. She had that look of a sleeping angel, and he was suddenly transported back to their common past, a time when they both were innocents. There was no murder in him now, no matter what she had done. A small streak of crimson spread through her hair, but it was a small wound and she was breathing strongly. He hoped she would live.

  He carried her from the shop, setting her gently on an old mattress, then tied her hands and feet. She was crazy, of course, but not so crazy that she couldn’t act normal. That was how she had fooled him and fooled the boys. She would never be his little girl again, or the woman she could have been. He didn’t blame her, she didn’t ask to be what they made her, but he couldn’t let it go on, and he couldn’t let the State finish the killing he couldn’t do himself.

  He went to work in his shop, dismantling the lathe, table saw, and jigsaw and moving them out. He had boxes of tools, a wall full of hooks with more tools, and two vises to move. After he had worked for an hour, she began moaning. A few minutes later she began to talk to him.

  “I didn’t do anything—” she began.

  He hushed her with an angry look. Her pleading expression instantly turned to flashing anger.

  “What did you expect? You know what they did to me.”

  He hushed her again, but she wouldn’t be still. She kept after him.

  “You didn’t do anything. I had to. Someone had to.”

  He couldn’t take it, and he pulled a dishcloth from the laundry basket and wrapped it around her mouth. She screamed and cussed him as he did, using words girls shouldn’t know. Then he went back to work dismantling the workbench. He worked through the night until he had the room emptied out. There was no window in the room and it had a sturdy door. He dug through the piles of tools and supplies he had dumped in the basement until he found a hasp and latch and attached them to the door and frame. She was asleep when he finished but she woke when he tried to pick her up. Her struggle made it impossible to carry her, so he dragged her into the room and laid her in the corner. She rolled over, venom in her eyes. He dragged the mattress into the room and then retrieved a blanket from the linen closet upstairs. He tried to move her to the mattress but she wriggled out of his grasp. Instead, he threw the blanket over her and then left, closing the hasp and securing it with a padlock. It was a temporary solution at best. Then he went upstairs and fell onto the bed and slept the sleep of the grieving. He’d just lost another daughter.

  He woke to the sound of a distant thumping. He was groggy and his head pounded a painful rhythm in synchrony with the thumping. His mouth was pasty; thick with mucus. He felt like he had a hangover, but he didn’t remember drinking anything the night before. He sat on the edge of the bed letting his body adjust his blood pressure to keep himself from blacking out; then he walked to the open window and looked into the street. It was another hot afternoon, and the street near his house was empty except for Mrs. Clayton, who was watering her shrubs with a hose. Mrs. Clayton watered incessantly. It was her way of keeping an eye on what was happening on the street. He turned back to his bedroom, trying to clear his thoughts. Why was he so confused? Then he noticed the thumping again. What was that pounding? When he heard splintering wood, he remembered.

  Down the stairs he ran at breakneck speed, into the kitchen and down into the basement. He jumped the last four steps and hit the floor running, turning in time to see the shop door kicked open, the frame splintering. She came out screaming in fury. He crashed into her with full momentum. His bulk gave him the advantage and he bowled her over, but he wasn’t prepared for her fury. She clawed and bit like a wild animal and he quickly found himself bleeding from a dozen places. He tried wrapping his arms around her to control her, but her violent motions made it impossible to hang on. When he feared she might get away and break to the stairs he hit her. Over and over he pounded at her head. Soon her arms came up, protecting her face. He stopped hitting when he heard the sobs.

  She would be manageable for a while and he worked fast. He carried her into the shop and put her back on the mattress. She turned away from him, curling into a fetal position, her body racked by sobs. He could see bloody circles on her wrists where she had worked at the ropes until her wrists bled, lubricating the ropes. He retrieved the bloody ropes and then left her and checked the door. The frame was split where the hasp had been pulled free. He found a hammer and nails and put the frame back together and then reattached the hasp. It wouldn’t be as strong as it was before, so he found a two-by-four and nailed it across the door to keep her in until he got back.

  He found what he needed at the hardware store and was back in thirty minutes. He’d dismantled his shop, so he worked on the basement floor. When ready, he pried off the two-by-four and opened the door. She was huddled against the wall, hugging her knees to her chest. The venom was back in her eyes.

  “Why are you doing this to me?” Her voice came out in a coarse whisper.

  He didn’t answer. How do you tell someone they’re not sane? Especially when you’re not sure you’re sane yourself. He ignored her and came in brandishing the two-by-four.

  “Turn around or I’ll let you have it!”

  She hesitated but then turned.

  “Put your hands behind you.”

  “You can’t keep me tied up forever.”

  “Give me your hands or I’ll hit you with this!”

  Her hands came around and he quickly tied them with rope. Then he tied her feet again. He left the gag off but ordered her not to speak. He went to work with a masonry drill and attached a steel plate to the concrete of the exterior wall. He ran a length of heavy chain through a ring attached to the wall plate and then snapped a keyed lock onto the chain to secure it to the ring. The heavier chain connected to another ring, which had a lighter chain looped through it. He then wrapped one end of the light chain around one of her wrists and secured it with another lock. When he had the other wrist secured the same way he cut the ropes off her wrists and ankles. As soon as the ropes were gone she came after him. He retreated out the door, grabbing his toolbox as he ran. She came screaming, but the length of chain pulled her up short at the door. She stood there pulling on the chains, bloodying her wrists again and screaming at him with foul language. There was none of his little girl left in her now.

  He closed the door, shutting out her epithets, and the sight of what she had become. He didn’t want to see her this way ever again. He chose to remember her as his little girl, even though somewhere just past childhood that little girl had died, leaving the monster now kicking at the door.

  He brought her food but she kicked the tray out of his hands as soon as the door opened. Later he brought her another blanket. She was still only wearing her bra but there was no way to dress her without removing the chains.

  The next day he rented a truck and bought a supply of bricks and mortar. Then he went to work in the backyard building a barbecue. When he had a good start he began surreptitiously moving bricks into his basement. He started along the wall of the shop, bricking it from floor to ceiling. It took him three days to do the walls, leaving only the door. She began eating on the third day, accepting the food tray from him. Her attitude had changed, too—she was contrite and apologetic, begging him to forgive her and understand. He couldn’t do either.

  When he was ready, he entered her room holding the golf club as a weapon and shortened her chain so that she was held back from the door. Then he carried furniture into the room: a bed frame and box springs, a table, and a chest of drawers. Then, as she watched with mounting horror, he took the door from its hinges, busted out the frame, slappe
d down mortar, and fit the first brick into the opening. Screaming, she lunged at him, but was pulled up short by the chain. Quickly the screaming became soft pleading.

  “Please, Daddy. Please don’t.”

  His heart softened but didn’t melt and he kept spreading mortar and slapping bricks into place. He paused in his work to build a small wooden frame, which he set in the center of the doorway, and then he bricked up and over the frame. Then he worked nonstop from a stockpile of bricks, quickly filling in the doorway until only the small opening at the bottom remained. When he finished, he heard her voice from the opening at the bottom of the door. Her voice echoed as if from a tomb.

  “Why didn’t you just kill me quick?”

  “Because I love you.”

  He never spoke to her again.

  He waited three days before he slid the keys to the lock through the opening, making sure the mortar was well set. She immediately began pounding on the wall with the chains. He kept her food for two days until she slid the chains and locks out to him. He brought her food three times a day, after that, coming home at lunch to make sure her needs were taken care of. There was waste to be dealt with, too, and he kept her supplied with toiletries. He pushed clothes through the opening regularly and she would push out her dirty clothes. He kept her supplied with books, and when she asked for pencils and a sketch pad he slid those underneath, although no pictures ever came back through the opening.

  Her friends called at first, but she had only a few. Most had been driven away after it happened. He told them she had run away to Seattle and they believed him. It helped that she had been morose for some time, and distant. Running away was something unhappy teenagers did. Besides, she was old enough to be on her own anyway. Her friends married and were soon immersed in their own lives and eventually even persistent best friend Jean stopped calling.