still cared. Maybe it was the season. Next October would be the twenty-year anniversary, and he'd heard that a documentary for some Halloween special on the History Channel was in the works.
He'd been eight years old when his sister had been raped and beaten to death, dragged through the house and left in the yard while his parents attended his second grade chorus recital. Her boyfriend, a grease monkey small-time coke dealer named Sonny Meeker, had been hounded by the cops for months, but they'd never been able to make anything stick. Even as a boy Jenks believed Meeker had killed his sister, and he'd sat in the darkness of his bedroom planning to someday prove it. But a few years later Meeker had turned up floating in Lake Ronkonkoma with four .22 bullets in his eyes. It was gratifying but not quite enough.
Mrs. Mallory figured the recorder out, rewound it to the beginning and played what he'd heard so many times before.
VOICE A: "The kid's over there."
VOICE B: "What?"
VOICE C: "Give it back. It's mine!"
VOICE B: "Hello? Hello?"
VOICE A: "The girl's dead. Don't."
VOICE C: "Give it to me!"
VOICE A: "Who is that?"
VOICE B: "What?"
VOICE A: "Hello?"
VOICE C: " Shh …he'll hear you."
VOICE A: "What?"
VOICE B: "Tell me your name."
VOICE C: "That's my brother. I need him. Get him."
Jenks' chin snapped up. Christ. His back muscles tightened and a film of sweat broke on his forehead. He sucked air through his teeth and said, "Play it once more, please."
Everybody turned, including the cameraman, swinging his lights over onto Jenks. They all recognized him-even Tracy-and were instantly bored with him. Still, they'd be inclined to ask a few questions, the same ones they always hit him with.
Mrs. Mallory drew some of the looping hair from in front of her eyes and punched rewind again. Pressed play. She leered at nothing while she listened, neck crooked to balance her do. One of the reporters stretched in his seat and did a poor job of covering a yawn.
They hadn't done their homework. They didn't realize the voices weren't exactly the same this time around.
"Thank you," Jenks said.
The cable channel correspondent came over doing her best to feign interest, ashen eyes threaded with red, edges of her nostrils a little too pink. She'd probably asked to use the bathroom at least twice in the past hour to sniff a couple pinches. As she got closer he realized she was pretty and pixie- ish but most of the cutie-pie looks were drawn on with heavily applied make-up. He figured she had about another six months on TV before they gave her the hook.
She didn't bother to introduce herself, just said, "Channel Twelve News" and launched into the inquisition. Good, get it over with. She continued buffeting him with the lusterless questions they'd been asking for years, and though he gave carefully prepared replies there simply weren't any answers to go around. The amiable grin went dry and caked on Jenks' face, and his irritation continued growing minute by minute. He kept a polite front until the cable chick, with enough wax on her lips to fill a candelabra, asked him, "Do you still miss your sister?"
Sometimes they wanted too much and the fist closed tightly on his heart. Jenks let his own hollow smile drop as he leaned toward her until they were nearly nose to nose. She backed up a few feet and moved directly into the cold spot. There were three of them throughout the house that he knew about. The color drained from her face and she shuddered so violently that her back teeth snapped together and her elbows popped. The cameraman and sound guy, afraid of what might happen next, both slung the equipment off their shoulders and braced themselves.
Jenks said, "On occasion."
Easy enough. He turned and walked into the living room, where the girl was finishing up a piece of pizza. Her eyes were on him, and she was waiting.
T he reporters left without a word to him, and the cable crew slid out the front door en masse,
He'd been eight years old when his sister had been raped and beaten to death, dragged through the house and left in the yard while his parents attended his second grade chorus recital. Her boyfriend, a grease monkey small-time coke dealer named Sonny Meeker, had been hounded by the cops for months, but they'd never been able to make anything stick. Even as a boy Jenks believed Meeker had killed his sister, and he'd sat in the darkness of his bedroom planning to someday prove it. But a few years later Meeker had turned up floating in Lake Ronkonkoma with four .22 bullets in his eyes. It was gratifying but not quite enough.
Mrs. Mallory figured the recorder out, rewound it to the beginning and played what he'd heard so many times before.
VOICE A: "The kid's over there."
VOICE B: "What?"
VOICE C: "Give it back. It's mine!"
VOICE B: "Hello? Hello?"
VOICE A: "The girl's dead. Don't."
VOICE C: "Give it to me!"
VOICE A: "Who is that?"
VOICE B: "What?"
VOICE A: "Hello?"
VOICE C: " Shh …he'll hear you."
VOICE A: "What?"
VOICE B: "Tell me your name."
VOICE C: "That's my brother. I need him. Get him."
Jenks' chin snapped up. Christ. His back muscles tightened and a film of sweat broke on his forehead. He sucked air through his teeth and said, "Play it once more, please."
Everybody turned, including the cameraman, swinging his lights over onto Jenks. They all recognized him-even Tracy-and were instantly bored with him. Still, they'd be inclined to ask a few questions, the same ones they always hit him with.
Mrs. Mallory drew some of the looping hair from in front of her eyes and punched rewind again. Pressed play. She leered at nothing while she listened, neck crooked to balance her do. One of the reporters stretched in his seat and did a poor job of covering a yawn.
They hadn't done their homework. They didn't realize the voices weren't exactly the same this time around.
"Thank you," Jenks said.
The cable channel correspondent came over doing her best to feign interest, ashen eyes threaded with red, edges of her nostrils a little too pink. She'd probably asked to use the bathroom at least twice in the past hour to sniff a couple pinches. As she got closer he realized she was pretty and pixie- ish but most of the cutie-pie looks were drawn on with heavily applied make-up. He figured she had about another six months on TV before they gave her the hook.
She didn't bother to introduce herself, just said, "Channel Twelve News" and launched into the inquisition. Good, get it over with. She continued buffeting him with the lusterless questions they'd been asking for years, and though he gave carefully prepared replies there simply weren't any answers to go around. The amiable grin went dry and caked on Jenks' face, and his irritation continued growing minute by minute. He kept a polite front until the cable chick, with enough wax on her lips to fill a candelabra, asked him, "Do you still miss your sister?"
Sometimes they wanted too much and the fist closed tightly on his heart. Jenks let his own hollow smile drop as he leaned toward her until they were nearly nose to nose. She backed up a few feet and moved directly into the cold spot. There were three of them throughout the house that he knew about. The color drained from her face and she shuddered so violently that her back teeth snapped together and her elbows popped. The cameraman and sound guy, afraid of what might happen next, both slung the equipment off their shoulders and braced themselves.
Jenks said, "On occasion."
Easy enough. He turned and walked into the living room, where the girl was finishing up a piece of pizza. Her eyes were on him, and she was waiting.
T he reporters left without a word to him, and the cable crew slid out the front door en masse,
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Analog SFF, June 2011
Dell Magazine Authors