Burn Scars, Eddie Generous [read full novel txt] 📗

the sixty-plus crowd went in Andover—that way she could be front and center, and he’d be up to his neck in it.

The door opened and a small girl stood on the far side with a Duo-tang folder. “My sister is getting her tonsils out. She told me to bring this here.”

“Your sister?”

“Claire.”

“Claire who?”

“Baxter,” the girl said through a whine, still holding out the Duo-tang.

“Who’re looking for?”

“Mr. Jameson.”

“I’m James. Two doors thataway,” the teacher said and pointed out the door to the left.

“Oh, okay.” The girl left.

“You’re welcome,” the teacher called out behind her, grinning as he closed the door. “Big news, everyone, Claire Baxter is getting her tonsils out and she’s in Mr. Jameson’s eleventh grade calculous class. Yippee.”

—

The lunch bell rang and Mrs. Betts had let him alone for the entire class—a record for her. Rusty was up and charging for the door. Anxiety assaulted him from multiple angles like a planned military exercise. His focusing on the lessons had been impossible, but he was there and that had to be enough. Had to be everything until the heist trouble was over, until Jim’s death had a ruling—or his body rotted beyond pinpointing date, long enough away that the landlady forgot that he’d opened his stupid mouth. One could pray for a rotting co-worker to stay that way with a clear conscience; not as if finding him sooner might bring him back.

Rusty cleared the doorway threshold before anyone else and in the hallway, a hand clamped on his arm, twisting it, forcing cuffs, effectively removing him from the state of freedom he’d known all his…but, no, Mr. Beaman had him walking, not twisting, not handcuffing, not burying him alive behind cold bars.

“Rusty, we need to talk.”

Rusty didn’t argue. This was a new and unexpected distraction, and enough of a relief that he just went along. They reached the back exit where a group of senior grades potheads usually kicked a hacky sack. They hadn’t amalgamated as of yet, so the area was clear. They continued onto a currently vacant path that wound around the side of the school to the student parking lot.

“Are you avoiding me?” Mr. Beaman said.

“What?”

“You listened to the CD, right?”

“What CD?”

Mr. Beaman stopped. “Tell me you got it.”

Rusty blinked and that simple, unimportant thing clicked. “Oh, yeah, no. I got it right here, but I never listened. Sorry.” He patted his bag. “I’ve been super busy to do any extra home—”

“You have to listen right now. Did you drive? You can use my car if you walked.”

“Yes. No. I have my car.”

“Do you need coffee? I’ll get you coffee. I’m going nuts here. You have to listen. Right now. I thought I’d be able to wait, but I need to know what you want me to do. I can’t…your dad, it’s not right what they did to him.”

“What?”

“Just listen to it.” Mr. Beaman looked around the lot until he spotted the gold Tempo. “That’s you, right? Don’t drive anywhere. I’ll get you a coffee and you listen, okay. Put the disc in and listen. By yourself. Do it now.”

Rusty moved in the direction the teacher had pushed him like he didn’t have a choice. “Man,” he whispered as he went. The world was at him, on him. A full diaper, spilling over edges, coming from everywhere, the shit threatened to drown him, but he unlocked his car and slipped in. He sat an extra replaying how frantic and anxious Mr. Beaman had been, and what in the hell was he talking about his dad for? Rusty put the key in the ignition and spun it partway. He fished into his bag and took out the note and the disc. It looked like any other Memorex—the same kind Christine used to mix and mingle her tastes with his—but of course, it was not like any other Memorex. This one held a bombshell.

—

Rusty pressed the volume upward until the hiss was apparent from every speaker. There were clicks and muddled whispers. The first clear voice coming through said, “My name is Todd Richard Beaman, born August first, nineteen-sixty-eight, currently residing in the town of Andover, Ontario, Canada.” And then, away from the microphone, that same voice added, “Now you go.”

The second individual cleared his throat and then said, “My name is Eric William Simons, born January nine, nineteen-sixty-eight, currently residing in Mississauga, Ontario. Uh, Canada. Formally of Andover, Ontario…Canada. And, um, I approve of this message.” There was a pause. “Ugh, ugh. Me and Todd agreed that this is how it happened and Todd’s going to read the statement about the night of August three, nineteen-eighty-one. I have signed the statement, but we’re recording it for…posterity?”

Todd Beaman’s voice began again. “So it’s believable. Eric, another friend—who wishes to go unnamed—and I were at Eric’s house for a sleepover. Eric wanted to show us a pornographic magazine he had—either Cavalier or Gallery, though we cannot remember which it was—which he said featured a horrific fiction story by our English teacher, Mr. Bishop, Steve Bishop. His uncle Ed had given him the magazine because of the story, but Eric couldn’t keep it in the house because his mother would find it and take it away, for obvious reasons.

“So, he kept it in the treehouse, hidden amongst a series of other magazines and comic books. That night between midnight and one AM, we climbed into the treehouse built in a maple tree on the side nearest to the rear of the Simons’ yard, located at twelve-eleven, Timber Street, next-door to the home of the Talbot family: Leroy, Kim, Rebekah, and Rusty.

“Shortly after we settled in to discuss whether or not the story was indeed Mr. Bishop’s—we found out later that it was—I noticed a police car pull up to the property. I had Eric’s binoculars out, which