Not Around Here

Nobody even asked what happened to Tommy. The official story was that he had gone to military school, but nobody saw him, even during the holidays, when surely he would have a break? But none of them, even the local sheriff, would dare ask James Montgomery Wainwright III what the real story of his unseen son might be. Part of it was that they sincerely did not want to know, but mostly it was because he was the landlord for half the residents in Williamsburg and terrified the other half.

Then Bobbie Wilson came to town. She was the new journalist at the local paper, since the last one retired. She was 26, and easily the nosiest person alive. This had served her well after her last assignment, as a reporter for a larger newspaper. She came to Williamsburg, Oregon from New York City because she wanted a taste of small-town life. She had been told by friends and colleagues that smaller towns were more peaceful and friendly than big cities, and she could use a little peace for a while. Of course, they also told her that everyone minds everyone’s business whether they like it or not, but she could handle that.

When Bobbie stepped off the bus at the depot, the first thing she noticed was how it smelled: fresher and cleaner than anywhere she had ever lived. She looked around, taking note of the small building where the restrooms were and the no-frills depot itself. The place seemed deserted at the moment, but it was pretty late. She checked her phone: quarter past eleven. No wonder it was so quiet.

She had rented a little bungalow behind an old man’s house. It wasn’t far from the station, so she started walking. It was eerie how empty everything was. Back home, there were dozens of establishments that stayed open until after the bars closed. You could get a coffee, a drink, or a full meal just about whenever. Around here, she thought, everything probably shuts down at sunset.

She reached her destination, and used the key she got in the mail for the first time. The door creaked a little, but when she turned on the light, the place was immaculate. After looking around, she knew she would be comfortable there.

She had to report to the newspaper office at nine in the morning, so she left unpacking for tomorrow and just went to bed. The mattress was firm, with a four-inch-thick memory foam topper. She fell asleep within minutes. Her dreams were of walking through New York in the middle of the day and seeing no-one about. Just empty buildings and deserted streets. She was standing alone in Times Square weeping at the emptiness when the chiming of her phone told her it was time to get up.

Coffee. Toast. Out on the front porch, blearily watching the world wake up. She was gratified to hear the sound of traffic not far away; it helped wash away the remnants of her somehow terrifying dream.

Feeling more alert, Bobbie dressed for the day. Between taxicabs and public transportation in New York, she had not owned a car in years. It was on the list now, though. No buses or cabs here. Better get used to hoofing it for now, and getting some good walking shoes, she thought to herself. She picked out a pair of loafers. Good enough for now.

The walk to the newspaper office was not as long as she thought, and realized that was another thing to get used to in a small town: Everything is near everything else. You could get supplies, groceries, hardware, coffee, and a bite to eat all in the same strip mall. Which really made almost anything within walking distance.

The newspaper office was an old, ornate building in the closest thing to a downtown Williamsburg had. The receptionist welcomed her to the team and had her take a seat and she would call the editor-in-chief to let her know Bobbie had arrived.

“You must be Bobbie,” Her new boss was short and slender, with red hair in a pixie cut and steel-rimmed spectacles over bright green eyes. She looked about thirty. She held out her hand, and Bobbie shook it.

“I’m Liz St. Clair, editor in chief here at Daily News. I know you specialize in crime reporting, but you won’t find much of that around here. For right now, you’ll work in whatever department needs you. Your resume assures me you can do this.” She said all this in a friendly, chirpy voice that sounded like a cartoon princess.  

“I can. What kind of stories do you publish in your paper?  Bobbie asked.

“Well, there’s the local news, and we get some stories from AP, national stuff. Obituaries, of course, mostly people dying of old age. To start out with, I want you helping in Local Color while Monique is out. She left about two weeks ago and it’s supposed to be a daily column, so it is kind of behind. Jorge is doing his best, but he’s writing twice as much in the same amount of time.”

She showed Bobbie through the building, past offices and doors marked “Employees Only.” They finally stopped, and Liz spoke through the office door to somebody out of sight.

“I’ve brought you our new girl. She’s filling in for Monique. Put her to good use, will you?”

The man in the small room was dark-eyed and dark-haired, with olive skin and a friendly smile.

“I’m Jorge. Welcome to the team! You can sit at Monique’s desk for now. How much time do you need to get settled?”

“Call me Bobbie. I just need to see what kind of software you use, and I can jump right in.”

“Nothing fancy around here, I’m afraid. Just a plain old word processing program. But you should be pretty comfortable with what we have after playing around with it for a few minutes.”

He was right. The program was one Bobbie had used as an independent journalist. She looked around at the features and typed up a quick paragraph to loosen up. Then she looked back at Jorge and announced: “I can start working on something. What would you like me to do?”

He thought for a moment. “Head down to the library and talk to Gladys. They’re having some kind of book sale this weekend. Get the details and write something up, and I’ll see how you do.”

The library was bigger than Bobbie expected. Inside it smelled like book paper. She spent a moment looking around, noting the high ceiling and the subtle sound of pages being turned. The information desk held a leptop on one side and a vase of fresh tulips on the other. The woman behind the desk was easily sixty years old. Her gray hair was tied up into a bun. She was watching the younger woman with eyes the color of ice, but her whole face warmed up when Bobbie explained what she was doing there.

“Yes, the book sale will happen on Saturday and Sunday, starting at nine. Mostly what we are selling are the older books that we’ve held onto for a while. But oldies are goodies, right?”

Bobbie made some notes. Then, purely out of curiosity, she asked: “Why is the library so big? It’s such a small town.”

Gladys laughed. “It’s because we also hold the newspaper archives. There isn’t enough room in that building for all the old papers, so we are collecting them and scanning them into a searchable database. Of course, we are years behind on them. What kind of reporting did you used to do?”

This question kind of came out of left field, and it took Bobbie a moment to realize what she had said.

“I was a crime reporter in New York. Why do you ask?”

The librarian cocked her head. “Well, it’s obvious from your accent that you come from the east coast. You won’t find much crime in Williamsburg, though. We sure never have any murders or kidnappings.”

“Murder and kidnapping happen all the time.” Bobbie insisted.

“Not around here, they don’t,” the librarian replied. “We haven’t had a murder for years. The last time somebody even kind of went missing is when Tommy…went to military school”

That pause told the journalist a lot. For one thing, there was doubt in the older woman’s voice. She also acted like she should not have said what she said. It had just come out, like a hiccup. Her cheeks had gone red, as though she had inadvertently uttered some really nasty curse word. Then she turned quickly and strode away, back still straight and stride still confident even at her age.

After leaving the library, Bobbie decided to pop into the sheriff’s office and ask a few questions.

It was located on the other side of Main Street, past the newspaper office. It was a smaller building, with a larger courthouse next to it. Bobbie wondered if they had an underground tunnel linking the two, like some places did.

There was a portly, middle-aged man acting as dispatch. When she asked to speak to the sheriff and explained why, he chuckled a bit and then hit the button on the intercom on his desk. The voice responded: “Send her on back.”

She followed the dispatcher’s instructions, down a hallway and then the last door on the left. It was open, but she knocked on it anyway, and then peeked around the doorjamb.

The sheriff, whose name turned out to be Jim, was practically a caricature of what a small-town sheriff should look like: a big man, dressed in a khaki and brown, topped with a broad-brimmed brown hat. When he came around the desk to shake her hand, Bobbie saw that he was also wearing cowboy boots. He settled into his chair, which wheezed resignedly under his weight.

“Would you care for some coffee? Maybe just a water?” The sheriff clearly wanted to be friendly, just like everyone else so far.

“No, thanks. I just started with the newspaper. I used to be a crime reporter. What can you tell me about the crime rate in Williamsburg?”

“Not much to tell, not around here. Mostly bar fights and drunk drivers. The last time someone was murdered here is when old Martin Vernelly shot his wife and her boyfriend, and that was before my time, about thirty years ago. I don’t have a lot to do. That’s why there’s only the three of us.”

“What about Tommy? What happened to him?” If anyone knew, the sheriff would. Whether or not they would tell her, on the other hand…

Jim’s face had gone cold. He no longer looked friendly. “Tommy went to military school. They’re pretty strict. He isn’t even allowed to visit his parents on holidays. But they say he sends them a letter every week.”

It sounded scripted, like somebody told him what to say a long time ago, and he had been repeating that story ever since. There was definitely a story here. Nobody seemed to want to talk about it. Maybe she could check out those old newspapers, see if Tommy was mentioned anywhere.

She returned to Jorge with notes about the upcoming book sale, and he told her to go ahead and write up an article. She sat and typed until she was happy with it. She emailed it to Jorge.

“Looks great. I have a few notes from some other things happening around town. Think you could go over them and turn them into more articles? We’re still trying to catch up.”

They worked quietly, each of them absorbed in their own tasks. Finally he straightened up, stretching his arms over his head. “I’m about ready to call it a day. Let’s pick it back up and nine tomorrow, okay?”

Like she was going to object. “Sounds good to me.”

She had some daylight left, so Bobbie went back to the library. She asked Gladys if she could go through the old stacks of newspapers, acting as if she just wanted to get to know the town. Gladys didn’t buy it.

“Feel free to dig through old newspapers. I promise you won’t find anything, but we close at six.”

After about an hour, Bobbie feared she was right. Not much happened here, apparently. Then she got to some of the more recent news, and noticed that there seemed to be more reports of fires than one would expect to see. Nobody used the word “arson” but it was clear there was some doubt about the official stories behind the burned buildings. One was a church, another was a condemned house just outside of town. Then there were occupied homes and even the courthouse. Then suddenly, about five years ago, the fires just stopped.

The name “Tommy,” with a last name of Wainwright, only appeared twice, once as a witness to one of the fires. He claimed that he was just walking past the house when he smelled smoke. He didn’t realize where it was coming from until the house’s windows blew out and he saw the flames. The article said he was eight years old. The paper was dated nine years ago. Tommy would be seventeen now. Bobbie wondered if he was still alive. But something about the stories she got from Gladys and Jim just did not make sense.

The other mention of Tommy Wainwright was in the social pages. It said he had been accepted into military school, and while he will miss his family, he looks forward to the opportunity. This was about five years ago, around the time the fires stopped. It was looking more and more like this town was hiding a dark secret. She resolved to look up the Wainwright residence and see if she could talk to his father, one James Wainwright, and find out more about what might have happened.

The house was the biggest on the block. She strode up to the double doors and knocked politely. A tall woman with perfectly coiffed hair answered.

“Mrs. Wainwright, I assume?”

“Indeed. And you are…?”

“Bobbie Wilson. I work for the local paper, on human-interest stories, and I’d love to write about your family, as the pillars of the community.”

Just then, there was a muffled moan coming from deep within the house. Mrs. Wainwright pretended not to hear it. She just said crisply, “I’m sorry, but we never talk to the press. We value our privacy.” As she was speaking, there was another moan, still barely audible.

“Thank you for your time,” Bobbie said, and turned away. She was thinking, trying to figure out how she would get in that house and find out what was really happening in there. She had her suspicions, which basically made the Wainwrights look like monsters. No wonder they didn’t talk to the press.

Around one in the morning, Bobbie quietly left the house. The Wainwright house was mostly dark. She snuck around back and found a window that was. The screen popped off when she jimmied it, and she climbed inside. She could hear the tick of a clock, but otherwise the house was just as silent as the street. Except…

Another moan, a little louder because she was closer. She left the room she was in and into a hallway. She turned right, and found herself in the kitchen. There was another door, one which surely led to the cellar. Hoping the hinges didn’t creak, she carefully opened it. The next moan was louder, and there was no question it had come from below.

She was afraid to turn on a light until she had closed the door behind her.

There was a cage in one corner of the huge basement, and in it was Tommy Wainwright. Despite the bars, he was also tethered to the wall by a thick chain that led to a collar around his neck. They did not want to even risk him getting out. He had a cot to sleep on, a toilet right out in the open, and nothing else. There was a slot at the bottom of the cage that was probably how they fed him. The door to the cage was padlocked shut.

He moaned again, looking at Bobbie with pleading eyes. Behind that, though, was some kind of malignant intelligence, a scheming look that she did not trust. And behind him, on the wall, was a vivid mural of a beheading. The head had rolled down some steps and was staring out of the painting with an accusing look on its face. There was blood spattered all over. Between his eyes and his artwork, Bobbie decided she wanted nothing to do with this. She went to leave, but a man who had to be Tommy’s father was standing at the top of the stairs. She froze, not knowing what to say.

“Well, now you know the truth. Tommy liked to light fires and torture small animals. Yeah, that never made it into the paper. What do you want to do about it?”

“To be honest, sir, not a damn thing. If it was my kid, I might even do the same.”

“You could print it in the paper, if Liz would let you, but nobody would believe you, even the ones that say they do. Jim is in my pocket, along with just about everyone else here. They don’t know what happened to Tommy, and they don’t want to know. So there’s nothing you could do even if you wanted to.”

“Are you going to lock me up, too?”

“I would rather not. You’re free to go. Just remember, even the sheriff believes the military school story. Or at least he acts like he believes it. Because stuff like that doesn’t happen around here.”