Mason Read online

  “They’re going to need, like, some real wood,” Eric said. He pulled a flat pint bottle of vodka out of his letterman’s jacket and handed it to Cassie. “Why don’t you get comfortable, and I’ll, like, round some up.”

  “I can help,” Cassie said, a little too eagerly.

  “I don’t want you to ruin your outfit, hauling dirty twigs and, like, branches and junk.”

  “I’ll be okay,” Cassie told him.

  So they walked to the edge of the clearing. Cassie found a narrow twig and quickly snatched it from the ground. Then another and another. She followed Eric into the bushes between the thick trunks of two trees, gathering up bits of wood as she went. Behind her, the kids shouted and laughed, already in the party spirit. One of the boys poured a long trail of alcohol onto the dwindling fire and it erupted in a great gout of flame. Another boy tossed an empty beer carton on, bringing a more consistent burn, lighting up the clearing and its edges. Ahead of her, Eric paused. Startled but unable to stop, she walked right into his back.

  “Oh crap,” he muttered. “Oh holy crap.”

  “What?” Cassie asked, stepping around him.

  “Don’t look, Cassie.”

  But it was too late. Even in the gloom she saw what lay in the dirt at Eric’s feet. The body’s arms and legs were twisted and bent, splayed out from the torso in odd directions. She recognized the outfit. The pants, now torn. The blouse, now stained. They were the only things she could recognize. The face was swollen and cut and lay under a mask of blood.

  Cassie screamed. The branches fell from her hands, and she covered her face with her palms. Eric’s arms went around her, and Cassie fell into his chest, shrieking in terror.

  Rene! Oh God, Rene. No.

  PART-TWO

  13

  The Artist’s Medium

  Gene stared at his television. The sound was muted; he’d heard the reports all day and was getting sick of the oh-so-concerned dramatics of the anchormen and -women. So he just watched: saw the wooded area his classmates called the Hollow, saw a blowhard cop talking to reporters, saw a yearbook picture of Rene Denton flash on the screen. His blood simmered with rage.

  She should be dead, he thought. She should be dead.

  Hunter had screwed up. Rene Denton was alive because the tattooed fool couldn’t be trusted with a simple chore. Gene had fumed over the idiot’s incompetence all day, and since a public confrontation with Hunter would be indiscreet considering recent events, someone else had to step up.

  That’s what little brothers were for.

  Gene waited for his aunt to go to bed before he crept downstairs to the kitchen. He pulled two oranges from a tacky plastic fruit bowl and fed them into the neck of a white tube sock. Bouncing the sock lightly, Gene jiggled the oranges down to the toe. He thumped the weighted fabric against his thigh and liked the feel of it.

  He climbed the stairs, still unable to believe the extent of Hunter’s screwup. One bullet, one well-placed knife blade, and all of their troubles would have vanished like breath on glass. But no: Hunter had tried to get creative. And yes, Gene realized that he too had gone the bludgeoning route with Dusty. He’d opted for a baseball bat instead of his gun, but that was a practical decision—the right decision. Hunter’s choice of weapon was ridiculous—a tree branch. Christ, what was he…a caveman? Then the imbecile didn’t even finish the work.

  He’d Instant Messaged Hunter earlier in the evening to find out what the hell had gone wrong. The idiot’s response infuriated him:

  A bunch of lame-ass kids showed up to party. We heard them coming and dragged the bitch into the woods, then got the hell out.

  As if it should have been a surprise that the high-school lemmings would show up at the Hollow on a Saturday night. They were always there Saturday nights. Hunter should have known better. He should have picked a location with real isolation.

  Fool, Gene thought, bouncing the sock against his leg. A dangerous and damned fool.

  Upstairs Gene didn’t pause at Mason’s door. He grabbed the knob, pushed it open and walked right in.

  Then Gene Avrett froze where he stood.

  He’d expected to find Mason in bed, already asleep. Gene liked to wake the “doorknob” for his punishment. Seeing the groggy, good-natured expression on the brat’s face suddenly jarred awake and alive with fright always entertained him. But Mason wasn’t asleep. Gene wasn’t even sure he was standing in Mason’s room.

  His little brother’s bed was there, and Mason was sitting on it, but the bed and boy were situated in the middle of a green lawn, in a bath of buttery sunlight. A dog—Lightning?—bounded in circles around the bed with a yellow tennis ball firmly grasped in his drooling jaws. At the foot of the bed sat Rene Denton, wearing a white dress she should have outgrown ten years ago. On the bed between Mason and Rene was a checked tablecloth with a picnic lunch laid out on it.

  Gene backed up a step. He convinced himself that he was dreaming. At some point, he must have fallen asleep in his room. Going down to the kitchen for oranges, his angry walk through the house, Mason’s room—all a dream.

  Gene took another look at his brother. Mason sat on the bed with his eyes closed. A deep frown began to pull down the edges of the doorknob’s mouth.

  Suddenly Gene was less comfortable with the fantastical surroundings.

  Mason’s head dipped lower.

  The golden retriever appeared in front of the bed. Its lips pulled back into a ferocious growl, though Gene heard no sound emerge. The dog—Could it really be Mason’s boyhood mutt?—crouched, readying its body to spring.

  Gene released a tiny groan from his throat before turning and hurrying down the hall. He reached his bedroom door and turned back to see if the dog was attacking. But it was nowhere to be seen.

  At the end of the hall, Mason stood framed in his doorway. He glared down the corridor at Gene.

  Is the doorknob actually angry?

  Did he find out that Denton’s in the hospital?

  No. Molly’s been shielding Mason from the news. He couldn’t know.

  But something’s buzzing in that soft head of his.

  It doesn’t matter. This is just a dream.

  Mason slammed the door, and Gene entered his room, wondering when he would wake up.

  14

  Pastels

  Aunt Molly woke Mason on Monday morning the way she always did, quietly calling his name from the door of his bedroom. Mason yawned and stretched. Aunt Molly told him his breakfast was ready and Mason said, “’Kay.” He was climbing out of bed when he remembered the mind picture of the park he’d drawn last night and the way Lightning had scared Gene.

  He saw the mind picture, Mason thought. I wonder what else I can make him see.

  Suddenly, he was terribly excited, like it was Christmas morning. He pulled on his jeans and a T-shirt and hurried toward the hall. Gene was there, standing in the doorway of his own bedroom, glaring silently. Mason paused. He wanted to show Gene a scary mind picture, but right now he was too excited to concentrate. He’d do it later if Gene did something mean to him. Besides, Mason was really hungry, so he just kept stomping along the corridor to the stairs, and when he reached them, he ran down.

  After wolfing down his breakfast and saying good-bye to Aunt Molly, who had to “dash to work,” Mason returned to his room. Instead of getting ready for school, he recalled the mind picture of the park. Sitting on his bed, he drew the soft, green grass and the blue sky with lots of sunlight. They appeared in the air around him. He imagined the picnic dishes and Rene and Lightning, and Mason settled into the picture, enjoying its warmth and security. For fun Mason thought of a butterfly, and moments later, one flitted through his room, its yellow-and-orange wings slapping at the sunny afternoon air. He laughed and swatted lazily at the bug he’d drawn with his mind.

  It was like television, only it was all around him, and Mason could play any picture he wanted. Only hours later, when he suddenly found himself hungry again, did Mason stop his
game. He also realized that he’d missed half a day of school, and fingers of fear tickled his belly.

  You weren’t supposed to miss school. That was bad. Aunt Molly told him so.

  Worried about getting in trouble, Mason wasn’t quite so hungry, but he fixed himself a sandwich anyway. He ate the meal without tasting it, and the bread and bologna sat in his stomach like a rock. He’d missed school before. He couldn’t remember exactly when, but it was the day after Gene punished him that last time. His back had hurt really bad, and he felt sick from it, so he’d asked Aunt Molly if he could stay home, and she said yes. But he hadn’t asked Aunt Molly this time, and he wasn’t sick at all. Mason put his plate in the sink, convinced that he was in big trouble.

  He returned to his room slowly with none of the excitement he’d felt that morning. He shouldn’t have missed school. That was wrong, and it made him miserable. He sat on his bed and crossed his legs and gazed at the wall, thinking a mind picture of the park would make him feel better.

  But as he conjured the lawn and the checkered picnic cloth, the room remained dark. He was so afraid of getting in trouble for missing school he couldn’t bring sunshine to the scene. He placed Lightning on the grass next to his bed, but the dog immediately disintegrated into that other dog—the dark and sick one he’d shown to the ticket taker at the carnival. Mason attempted to bring a butterfly to the scene, but its wings were black and long, and its body grew fat and torn. Instead of a beautiful bug, an ugly crow circled the room, its eyes as orange as flames.

  The bird scared Mason, so he stopped drawing the mind picture and fell back on his bed.

  When he was a boy—before his mama and daddy went away—Mason had seen the scary birds. His daddy had let Gene use the old toolshed in the backyard as a fort. Gene bought a lock and kept the door fastened all the time, but one afternoon Gene told Mason he wanted to show him something. He’d been excited that Gene would let him into the fort, and Mason imagined they would play cowboys and Indians or some equally fun game. His heart had beat so fast, watching Gene slide a key into the padlock that held the door of the fort closed. His head had been so full of games—and joy that Gene was sharing this private place—Mason was all the more terrified when he finally saw what lay within.

  Gene opened the door and pushed Mason into the gloomy shack. The smell was awful. Mason had gotten whiffs of this stink when he played in the backyard, but he didn’t think much about it. Now it was everywhere, thick and clinging like syrup—foul, rotten syrup.

  Birds and squirrels hung from the walls. The crows had nails driven through their wings so that they looked like they were frozen in the act of flying. Deep cuts in their bellies revealed terrible things. Their beaks drooped to their chests, and black eyes like tiny marbles stared at Mason. The eyes of the squirrels were the same, but their furry little bodies hung above the old workbench, held to the wall with single nails driven through their necks.

  Behind him, Gene slammed the door and locked it.

  Mason began to cry.

  He couldn’t remember how long he was trapped in that dim shack with its awful smell and Gene’s dead pets, but he remembered beating frantically on the door, begging his brother to let him out. Then he heard the sweet, soft voice of Mama.

  “It’s my place,” Gene protested. “You can’t go in there. Daddy promised.”

  But the door opened and bright sunlight flooded over Mason. Tears had made his sight blurry, but he knew the dark shape standing in the door was Mama, and he rushed to her. She held him tightly and stroked his hair. Mama led him into the kitchen. She used a cool rag to wipe his cheeks and neck and forehead.

  Leaving the memory behind, Mason rolled over on his bed and held his pillow. His stomach felt all knotted up and pained from sadness.

  That night—the night after he saw Gene’s fort—Mason’s mama went to the hospital and never came back.

  15

  Muse

  Mason heard about Rene over dinner. He’d seen her picture on TV but didn’t really understand what the lady with the pretty blond hair was saying about her. He thought it was kind of neat to see a picture of someone he knew on the television, and he told his aunt Molly all about it over dinner.

  “But why is she on TV?” Mason asked.

  Aunt Molly looked up from her plate of casserole and shrugged. “Maybe she won a prize,” she said. Please don’t let him find out. It’ll just crush him.

  Mason took a big gulp of cola and shook his head. “I don’t think so. I’d think if she won a prize, everyone would be smiling, but the news lady didn’t smile at all. They showed pictures of the woods over to the other side of town and another place I don’t know. I wasn’t even really paying attention until they showed a picture of Rene, and it was really pretty, but by then the news lady was talking about something else.”

  “So he knows?” Gene asked as he came into the kitchen, looking like he’d just heard a funny joke. “Good. We really shouldn’t try and keep things like this from him. It’s counterproductive to his development.”

  “Gene,” Aunt Molly said, startled. “We were just…”

  “Sad. Sad business.” Gene walked around the small table and leaned down, putting his arm around Mason’s shoulders. It felt like a crawling snake. “I’m sure Rene will go to heaven, Mason,” Gene said.

  “Oh now, don’t,” Aunt Molly protested. “Gene, please.”

  “She’ll be with all the other angels. It’s really the most we can hope for.”

  “Gene! That’s enough. You’re scaring your brother.”

  “Rene’s not with angels. You only get to be with angels when you die,” Mason said.

  “Exactly,” Gene replied, patting Mason’s shoulder and pulling away. He crossed to the refrigerator and retrieved a can of soda, leaving Mason to simmer in fear.

  Something bad happened, Mason thought. Something awful. That’s why Rene was on the television.

  Mason shook all over. Aunt Molly reached across the table and patted his hand. She tried to smile, but it looked more like she’d banged her shin on the coffee table.

  “Rene was hurt, Mason,” Molly said. “That’s all. She just got hurt. She’s in the hospital, but she’s going to be fine.”

  “The hospital?” Mason said. People went to the hospital and didn’t come back. Mama. Daddy.

  “She just needs to rest a little. They’re taking care of her.”

  “I want to go,” Mason said. “I want to see Rene.”

  “You can’t, honey. Not just now.”

  “Well, if he wants to see her alive, he’d better get over there quick.”

  “Gene, I don’t want to have to tell you again.”

  “Otherwise, she’s just another angel.”

  Mason trembled and felt the sting of tears in his eyes. Rene was his best and only friend. Something bad happened. She went to the hospital. People never came back from the hospital.

  After dinner Mason paced his room frantically, going back and forth, trying to burn away his concern. The exercise didn’t work, though. He still felt frantic. So he sat down at his desk and began to draw, but the pictures all came out dark and terrible. Mason’s nerves were so tense, he accidentally snapped his pencil. He opened the drawer of the desk to search for another and came across a set of colored pencils. Aunt Molly had given them to him as a Christmas present. He’d forgotten all about them because he got the gift after Gene told him to stop drawing.

  Using the colored pencils, Mason began drawing the park. He lost himself in the bright hues of green and gold and blue. Whenever something dark and nasty came to his mind, Mason fought it really hard, because the picture had to be nice if it was going to make Rene feel better. The grass spread out on the page with hints of sunlight and shadow on every blade. The river ran in the back, rippling and churning against the far bank. Lightning leaped in the air to catch his tennis ball. People walked or spoke to one another, and everyone was smiling. Mason sat with Rene on a checkered tablecloth, having a picni
c. She looked really pretty, just like she did at Frank’s, only she wore a white dress, the kind she always used to wear when they were children. In the picture, she laughed and held a big glass of lemonade.

  It was a good picture, and Mason would take it to the hospital tomorrow and give it to Rene. She’d like it. It would help her get better.

  It had to.

  It just had to.

  16

  Grisaille

  Mason walked along the outskirts of Marchand, his tennie-runners kicking up bits of dirt and rocks. He’d never gone to a hospital before. He’d seen them on television, on programs where pretty people in white coats talked and joked, but mostly yelled and cried. He knew his mama got hurt when he was a boy. She went to the hospital and never came home. When his daddy got sick, he went to another hospital, and he never came home either.

  Mason hoped Rene would come home. He wanted to see her and know she was okay, and he would do it, no matter how scared the hospital made him feel.

  Just another angel.

  Mason kicked the dirt and stomped forward. Rene said Gene talked like that to be mean because he liked being mean, and Mason thought she was right.

  Though it was wrong, and he knew it was wrong, he didn’t think he’d mind very much if Gene went to a hospital.

  Warm air greeted him when he stepped into the lobby. It didn’t look like the hospitals he saw on television. Instead of little rooms with lots of machines shoved in them and people scrunching by one another rushing from one place to the next, the lobby was quiet, with blue sofas and tall, leafy-green plants. It smelled a little like the bathroom at home right after Aunt Molly cleaned it, but there was a sweet smell over that bathroom smell, kind of like bubble gum. The people wore all kinds of clothes, but Mason didn’t see a single white coat.