Chalk Man Page 4

  Klink scratched his upper lip and spat it out. “We’re here because we’re looking for a young boy named Charlie Henson. He goes to school with Joey.”

  Ms. Herrera looked genuinely stunned. Maybe she was expecting a weed bust or vandalism. But evidently not this. “Looking? What does that mean?”

  Parker cleared his throat. “He’s missing, Ms. Herrera.”

  Joey bounced his gaze from Klink to Parker then back to his mother.

  “Oh, God. Joey,” Ms. Herrera said in a voice of utter defeat. “What did you do?”

  The room grew quiet.

  Because that, of course, was what they had come to find out.

  Chapter 6

  Parker had no patience for bullies, and he was momentarily reminded that Napoleon’s nephew, Efren, whom Parker had promised to watch over after Napoleon had died, had been dealing with one of his own at school recently.

  He had given Efren the same advice his father had given, and his father before that: stick up for yourself, as bullies tend to pick on the weak ones. Then? Stick up for the weak ones, too.

  But that only worked when you were big enough to do that. If you were not? If you were like little Charlie Henson, with his shock of blond hair and small frame? What then? You had to band together with others who were also at the mercy of the bully, and like some modern-day version of The Lord of the Flies, take the bully down with force of numbers. Whichever path you took, you learned a life lesson: how to be assertive, how to endure or how to team build.

  Most of the time though, you just learned how to feel shitty about yourself.

  As for the bullies themselves? There was no excuse for the pain they caused, but that meant little until they realized—hopefully—someday that what they were doing was wrong. Until then, they were children dealing with some sort of . . . lack.

  And it was obvious that Joey De La Cruz was lacking a lot.

  After his mother’s question, he seemed to go through a series of metamorphoses, his face twisting and contorting along the way, from confusion to hurt to scared. His lips were pinched tight with speechlessness.

  Mothers were everything. But fathers taught you how to speak up for yourself.

  Joey’s father was in jail and was there most likely because he was a bully, too.

  Finally, Joey found the words. “I didn’t do nothin’ to that little twerp!”

  Interviewing children was a different game altogether. Klink had six more years on the job than Parker, and they’d already decided before they’d gotten here that Klink would take the lead with Joey. Leaning over with his elbows on his knees, Klink said softly but firmly, “We’re not saying that you did, Joey.”

  “But that’s not what she’s saying!” Joey shouted, pointing at his mom like a kid arguing a called strike at the plate.

  It was an astute point. Parker looked at Ms. Herrera. “Ma’am. Would you mind having a seat so we can just calm things down a bit and have a little chat?”

  Looking like a woman becoming quickly overwhelmed by the situation, Ms. Herrera nodded slowly and then complied. Still, she took a seat on the opposite end of the couch from her son.

  Damn, Parker thought. Cold.

  He immediately heard Napoleon’s voice in his head. She’s scared, Parker. In more ways than you know . . . yet.

  Parker was about to ask his dead partner, whom he saw was now leaning against the fireplace mantle nearby, what he meant by that when Joey suddenly spoke up again.

  “He’s a nobody. Would play his games online. Never joined our parties. At recess? He just sat next to the handball courts and read his stupid books. Nerd.”

  “Okay,” Klink said, “but we’re trying to find out where he went. Did he ever talk to you or anyone else about running away?”

  Joey shook his head. “No. He barely talked to anyone at all, man.”

  “You had class with him, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you ever walk to school with him?”

  “Hell, naw.”

  Klink cleared his throat and pushed on. “Okay. How about after school? Did he maybe have a friend that you saw meet him after school sometimes? Or an adult besides his mom pick him up?”

  Again, Joey shook his head. Light from a small lamp on a nearby table cast a shadow across his face. “He walked home alone, I think.”

  “Do you get picked up?”

  Ms. Herrera cut in. “No. I don’t get off work until 5:00 p.m., usually. They all have to walk home.”

  Klink nodded and returned his attention to Joey. “Did you ever walk home with Charlie?”

  Joey shrugged nonchalantly. “Sometimes, maybe.” And the way he said it, you knew . . . you just knew . . . that Joey had most assuredly accompanied Charlie at least part of the way on those walks home. Most likely to torment him.

  “Did anyone ever follow you guys?”

  Another metamorphosis came over the boy. This time to the little gangster he was aspiring to be. He bobbed his shoulders unevenly. “Nah. I got homies around here. They’d protect us even if someone did.” Even the language changed, and the inflection of his little-boy voice. Parker fought off the urge to shake his head. The kid’s balls hadn’t even dropped yet and he was trying to talk tough to the law.

  “Besides,” Joey continued, “he lived in the other direction from school. So we didn’t walk together long, when we did, which was hardly ever.”

  “Okay,” Klink said, “what about the Xbox parties you mentioned?”

  Parker watched Joey’s face go blank. Then he was a kid again. “We all play different games. But you can chat and stuff on the headset with everyone while you do.”

  “Did you ever invite Charlie?”

  “Couple times. He never accepted. Thought he was too good for us, I guess.”

  “Too good? How?”

  “Little white boy—like you two fools—”

  “Joey!” Ms. Herrera said in a tight voice.

  Parker wanted to clip the kid one, right upside the head. But. Police brutality. Or not. Part of him was willing to bet that Ms. Herrera would have hugged him, not reported him.

  Instead, he couldn’t help himself. Parker had to cut in. “Did Charlie ever say that?”

  “Say what?” the now-defiant Joey said with a cocky sneer.

  “That he was too good for you? Because he was white . . . or for any other reason?”

  Joey was silent. Instead he just looked at Parker and there was something in the little boy’s eyes that was mostly dead. Not entirely, but mostly.

  “Did you ever send Charlie any messages on his Xbox?”

  It was a setup, but Parker had put the question out there, like a coiled snake.

  Another metamorphosis, this one to a very worried Joey. He swallowed a few times and looked at the floor. “Nah. Not that I recall.”

  Not that I recall? Parker thought. Eleven years old and he’s already talking in legalese?

  He obviously doesn’t entirely comprehend what he’s saying, Parker. He’s parroting what he’s been told to say by the gang members he’s hanging around with. Part of his training for what to say if he ever gets caught stealing or dealing.

  “Joey,” Klink said, his voice going from patient pal to irritated uncle. “That’s not entirely true, now, is it?”

  “What you sayin’?” Joey replied.

  “We have Charlie’s Xbox. We saw the messages you sent him.”

  A hammer of silence fell on the room. Now, Ms. Herrera looked very worried. Her face went soft and her voice was weak when she spoke next. “What did they say?”

  “You wanna tell her, Joey?” Parker said.

  It was now obvious that Joey liked Parker about as much as Parker liked Joey. He chuckled at the question, again pretending to be older than his years, and looking Parker dead in the eye, he answered, “I don’t remember. Mostly that he was a little pussy, I think.”

  “Joey!” Ms. Herrera hissed as she sprang from the couch.

  Parker immediately motio
ned for her to sit back down and she complied. “That’s all, Joey?” Parker pressed.

  “Maybe.”

  “So, you don’t remember telling Charlie that he should just kill himself?” Klink said, bringing down another hammer blow of silence on the room.

  Ms. Herrera put her head in her hands and shook it back and forth. “Oh, God. Joey. Why? Why would you ever say such a thing to someone?”

  Joey looked at his mom. “Whatever.” But the tough guy veneer was sliding right off a cliff. “It was just a joke, Mom. I’m telling ya . . . I didn’t touch him.”

  Parker was filled with a sudden sadness. “No. Maybe not physically. But let me tell you something, Joey. You touched him, alright. You hurt him.”

  When Ms. Herrera looked up her cheeks were flush, and she wiped new tears from her eyes. “Do we need a lawyer?”

  “Ms. Herrera, I don’t—”

  “Because honest to God, Detectives . . . I can’t take one more bill. I can’t . . .” And as she began to cry full-on now, a different Joey appeared. He looked shocked, sad and . . .

  Napoleon sighed. He’s repentant, Parker. Even a child—actually, most often a child—knows true guilt and remorse, Parker.

  Parker answered in his mind. “How’s that even possible, Nap?”

  Because they haven’t yet had years of experience learning how to justify their guilt or deny that remorse.

  “Mom?” Joey said, just before he began to cry himself. He’d tried to front. Tried to be the man of the house, even if he was the one who’d brought the trouble there in the first place. But, really, what eleven-year-old can handle two police detectives in his face?

  He scooted across the couch suddenly like the child he was, hugged his Mom and looked back pleadingly at Parker and Klink. “I swear! I swear I didn’t touch him, and I don’t know nothing about anyone who might’ve. I didn’t say nothing to him today—” His sobs became jagged and deep. “I didn’t! I swear it! I promise! Please!”

  Klink looked at Parker. Parker looked at Klink.

  “You saw him today, Joey?” Klink said in a cool, even voice.

  “Yeah. This morning. He was down the street, not watching where he was going, walking my way. Da fool almost trip over his own two feet.”

  “And?”

  “And? I dunno. He heard me laugh when he almost face-planted and went the other way.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “By what?”

  Parker was losing patience. Unlike Ava earlier that night, he was dealing with an actual child here, but both had the same bad attitude. And there was something about this case that was bugging him already. So much so that he barely recognized the edge to his own voice when he replied. “Joey. Just tell us what happened.”

  Joey separated from his mother in a near panic. “Look. I was walking to the corner. He was walking my way from his house to the corner. The little shit tripped and when I laughed at him, he ducked me and went down the alley by his house.”

  Parker nodded and held his anger down in his belly. Joey had just betrayed himself with two words. “Ducked you?”

  Joey shrugged but he looked worried. “Maaan. I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “Did you follow him down the alley?” Klink asked.

  “Nah. I waited for Armando to show up. Armando Vicente. He lives one block over. He and Benito showed up right after and the three of us walked to school together.”

  Parker looked at Klink and then back at Joey, who was already waiting with his follow up, his eyes full of surprise and hope that he had an alibi. “You call ’em both up. They’ll say the same thing. You want their numbers?” Joey said, pulling a cellphone out of his pocket. “I got ’em right here.”

  Klink took the numbers down. They were done here. Well, almost.

  Looking at Ms. Herrera, Parker said, “I don’t think you need an attorney, Ms. Herrera. And even if you did, Joey could get a public defender for free.”

  “Yeah. And anyway, we came here for your help tonight, Joey,” Klink added in a somber voice. “His mother is torn to pieces over this.”

  Ms. Herrera nodded. “That poor woman. I can’t even imagine.”

  Parker looked hard at Joey. “Young man?”

  Joey’s head snapped up to look at him.

  “Anything you can think of after we leave . . . you tell your mom, okay? We need your help, Joey. Understand?”

  His face in his mother’s chest, Joey nodded. His siblings came in from the dining room. They hugged Ms. Herrera tight as Parker handed her his card. He and Klink saw themselves out.

  While making their way back to the car, Parker heard a sudden rush of wicked little whispers spill down the street, over the chain link fence and across the front yard. An avalanche of chills ran down his back. He was just questioning if it was real or his imagination when he looked down at the sidewalk chalk.

  It had changed.

  Parker couldn’t believe his eyes.

  On the way in, it had been stick figures holding different colored balloons, each with smiley faces and a message about flying up and away, spelled out in choppy child-like letters.

  He was sure of it.

  Now, the smiles on the stick figures had turned into gaping mouths with jagged teeth and the balloons were smudges across the cement. But that wasn’t the worst of it.

  “What the hell?” Parker said, freezing in his tracks.

  “What?” Klink asked, stopping a few feet ahead of him and turning around.

  “This is all changed,” Parker said, motioning at the sidewalk drawings.

  Klink looked genuinely perplexed. “Yeah?”

  “What? You don’t see how it’s different than it was on the way in?”

  “To be honest,” Klink said, shaking his head, “it looks the same to me. Stick figures and balloons, right? Up and away!”

  A cold chill ran down Parker’s back. Shit. He can’t see it.

  “Why, Parker?” Klink said, a perplexed look now on his face. “What’s different?”

  Parker was barely able to save himself, but he found the words. “Ah. Okay. Nothing. I guess I just didn’t notice the balloons before.”

  Klink nodded and then turned around to head to their car.

  But Parker was slow to follow. Taking a few extra seconds, he stared at the new letters staring back up at him.

  Gone was “Up and away!” in a child’s hand.

  They had been replaced, printed neatly in an eerily adult-like fashion, with:

  PEEK-A-BOO. I SEE YOU.

  Chapter 7

  On the way back to the station, Klink had pulled into a Mobil station to gas up and grab them both a cup of coffee. Parker didn’t mind. With Klink in the mini-mart, he and Napoleon had a few minutes to chat. Tilting the rearview mirror so he could see his old partner in the back seat, Parker got right to it. “So? Let’s cut to the chase: what are we up against?”

  Lesser demon. But close to promotion, Napoleon answered, his face alight in the blues and reds being cast by the gas station price sign next to the car.

  “Promotion?”

  Yeah. Ya know . . . I was watching over a kid on the metro the other day.

  “You were what?”

  Yeah. Believe it or not, I have more on my duty roster than just keeping your ass out of trouble.

  A girl eating out of an open bag of Doritos rolled by on her skateboard as Parker chuckled. “Lucky you.”

  Yeah. Lucky me. Anyway. He was reading a book by some guy named C. S. Lewis—The Screwtape Letters.

  Parker shook his head. “Never heard of it.”

  Of course you haven’t. Your idea of reading is the memes on Tweeter each day.

  “It’s Twitter,” Parker replied with a roll of his eyes.

  Regardless. The book is astonishingly accurate about the process of things.

  “So, this . . . creature. He does enough bad stuff and he . . . levels up or some shit?”

  Yes. Hell has rank. The lower you are? The more
you suffer. And the only way to climb that rank, and suffer less, is by getting good at making humans suffer here, in this reality.

  The night sky overhead was clear beneath a strong high-pressure system that had nighttime temperatures in the eighties, which was rare for this time of year even by LA standards.

  Around them, the gas station was abuzz with activity. People gassing up, cleaning their windows or going in and out of the mini-mart. Almost everyone was in shorts due to the heat and had foreheads brushed with sweat. Nearby, a red Toyota RAV4 and a late model Chrysler LeBaron were pulling out as a brown Ford Explorer was pulling in. Parker couldn’t help himself. He was always aware, even on a subconscious level, of the makes, models and even sometimes the license plates of the cars around him. Force of habit. Force of training. “I dunno, Nap. The more you tell me, the more you scare me.”

  You should be scared. But you should also be relieved, I think. At least a bit.

  “How’s that?”

  Because you know it’s all real, Nap said. Then, sounding a little sad, he motioned his hand across the gas station parking lot at the people going about their business. They . . . don’t.

  “So?”

  So, they do what they do . . . vacillate wildly between sin and repentance . . . like tops spinning on a table. Sometimes in perfect balance, but mostly wobbling like crazy, one edge-touch away from complete chaos.

  Parker looked into the mini-mart; Klink was at the end of a long line.

  For instance? See there? The girl in the green sweater?

  Parker nodded. “Yeah?”

  Obsessed with getting out of this neighborhood, she’s turning to cheating on her college exam tomorrow. It’s just a test, but she’s already sensing that it’s a test in more than one sense. And the stress of doing it has cost her sleep all week. And how about the old guy over there with the bent back, in the blue sweats? Divorced. No kids. In the brown bag? He’s got a forty-ounce can of Old English. He’s gonna go home and watch porn for two hours before he passes out, more depressed than ever, because not even the porn makes him feel anything anymore.