Read Online Instruments of Night by Thomas H. Cook - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Thomas H. Cook
Ads: Link
Mr. Flexner. At least enough to enjoy fishing with him in the creek or walking the broad fields together as night fell, the two of them silently watching as vast numbers of starlings made their homeward way across the evening sky. There was a solitary quality about Clifford Flexner, a sense of something sad and never spoken, and even as a young boy Graves had been able to detect a silence at his core, like the closed room of an ancient tragedy.
It was Mrs. Flexner who’d actually told him what that tragedy was, relating the story idly as she hung clothes on the line. Clifford was a twin, she said, his brother Milford “a spitting image.” They’d been very close, the way twins often were, and one August afternoon, when they were only four, the two boys had gone out into a field to play. Clifford had snatched a box of matches from a drawer in the kitchen, and as he was showing his brother how to strike them, he dropped a lighted flame into the parched grass. The flames shot up instantly, and Clifford began to run away, back toward the house. He was halfway there when he stopped and saw Milford still standing in place, either confused or mesmerized by the swelling tongues of flame. At that moment a gust of wind swept over the field, spreading the fire across Milford’s bare feet, Clifford watching helplessly some twenty yards away. “It started with the cuffs of his britches,” Mrs. Flexner said. “Then the fire just shot up his pants and leaped onto his shirttail and then flew up to his hair.” By that time Milford had begun to flail about, spinning wildly, as she described it, “like one of them little dust devils you see in the fields during summer, only it was a boy on fire.” She’d pinned the last of the clothes to the line by the time she uttered her last line: “That’s what Clifford thinks about when you see him mooning around. That little brother of his that burned up way back then.”
Later that same night, as he’d lain in his bed in the room he’d been given in Mrs. Flexner’s house, Graves had seen it all like a movie in his head: a small blond boy standing in a pale yellow field, the line of fire slithering toward him, twisting as it came, like a flaming snake. “Milford,” he’d whispered. It was the first word he’d uttered in a year.
Still, for all the horror of the story she’d told him, it was also Mrs. Flexner who’d undoubtedly done the mostto help Graves get back to normal after his sister’s murder. She’d never insisted that he turn off the light in his bedroom, and she’d been willing to sit up with him during the long black nights when he could not sleep, playing Parcheesi with him at the kitchen table. She’d taken him to the local swimming hole, and said nothing when he’d refused to go into the water. She’d taken him to the county fair as well, and watched with him as other kids trustfully clambered into metal rocket ships or lined up for the Haunted House, taking risks Graves would not take, seemingly eager to know fear because they’d never known terror.
But more than anything, Mrs. Flexner had never once during his long year of silence pressured Graves to speak. She’d always seemed quite confident that one day he’d talk again, that given time and patience, his shattered heart would mend.
It was this simple faith in his ultimate recovery, Graves supposed, that had made Mrs. Flexner finally insist that Sheriff Sloane stop making periodic visits to question him.
Graves had been sitting in the old wooden swing when the sheriff came that last time, close enough to hear what he said to Mrs. Flexner as the two of them stood together in the front yard:
Martha, the fact is, what was done to Gwen Graves was the most terrible thing I’ve ever seen.
I don’t doubt that, Sheriff.
She was hung, ma’am. Hung from a beam and cut open. Like an animal. Yes, I know.
And it’s been almost a year, and right now I don’t know one bit more than I did when I started.
It was Mrs. Flexner who’d actually told him what that tragedy was, relating the story idly as she hung clothes on the line. Clifford was a twin, she said, his brother Milford “a spitting image.” They’d been very close, the way twins often were, and one August afternoon, when they were only four, the two boys had gone out into a field to play. Clifford had snatched a box of matches from a drawer in the kitchen, and as he was showing his brother how to strike them, he dropped a lighted flame into the parched grass. The flames shot up instantly, and Clifford began to run away, back toward the house. He was halfway there when he stopped and saw Milford still standing in place, either confused or mesmerized by the swelling tongues of flame. At that moment a gust of wind swept over the field, spreading the fire across Milford’s bare feet, Clifford watching helplessly some twenty yards away. “It started with the cuffs of his britches,” Mrs. Flexner said. “Then the fire just shot up his pants and leaped onto his shirttail and then flew up to his hair.” By that time Milford had begun to flail about, spinning wildly, as she described it, “like one of them little dust devils you see in the fields during summer, only it was a boy on fire.” She’d pinned the last of the clothes to the line by the time she uttered her last line: “That’s what Clifford thinks about when you see him mooning around. That little brother of his that burned up way back then.”
Later that same night, as he’d lain in his bed in the room he’d been given in Mrs. Flexner’s house, Graves had seen it all like a movie in his head: a small blond boy standing in a pale yellow field, the line of fire slithering toward him, twisting as it came, like a flaming snake. “Milford,” he’d whispered. It was the first word he’d uttered in a year.
Still, for all the horror of the story she’d told him, it was also Mrs. Flexner who’d undoubtedly done the mostto help Graves get back to normal after his sister’s murder. She’d never insisted that he turn off the light in his bedroom, and she’d been willing to sit up with him during the long black nights when he could not sleep, playing Parcheesi with him at the kitchen table. She’d taken him to the local swimming hole, and said nothing when he’d refused to go into the water. She’d taken him to the county fair as well, and watched with him as other kids trustfully clambered into metal rocket ships or lined up for the Haunted House, taking risks Graves would not take, seemingly eager to know fear because they’d never known terror.
But more than anything, Mrs. Flexner had never once during his long year of silence pressured Graves to speak. She’d always seemed quite confident that one day he’d talk again, that given time and patience, his shattered heart would mend.
It was this simple faith in his ultimate recovery, Graves supposed, that had made Mrs. Flexner finally insist that Sheriff Sloane stop making periodic visits to question him.
Graves had been sitting in the old wooden swing when the sheriff came that last time, close enough to hear what he said to Mrs. Flexner as the two of them stood together in the front yard:
Martha, the fact is, what was done to Gwen Graves was the most terrible thing I’ve ever seen.
I don’t doubt that, Sheriff.
She was hung, ma’am. Hung from a beam and cut open. Like an animal. Yes, I know.
And it’s been almost a year, and right now I don’t know one bit more than I did when I started.
Similar Books
