“Unfinished Business”
By
Charles
C Cole
At the time of these events,
I
lived in the same small Vermont town as the famous author of supernatural
stories, William LeRoy. To the locals, he was a favored son.
So, it shocked me to the
core
when some crazed stalker from out of state bashed his head in, then cut off his
hands and took them like some kind of trophy.
On his way out, the killer
celebrated by indulging in a generous sampling of alcohol from LeRoy’s private
bar. We live in “the sticks,” where even the main routes are narrow and
winding. The fellow went off the road, never making it out of the county, living
just long enough to brag to the EMT.
Only thing was, LeRoy’s
hands
weren’t in the bloody car, nor were they found at the scene of the murder. The
cops brought tracking dogs. A bunch of us volunteered to search the nearby
woods, shoulder to shoulder. Nothing.
To make an extra buck, I
met an
estate lawyer at the home of the deceased. My job: to take pictures and
catalogue anything of value. Oliver Bray, my cousin-in-law, had two cell
phones, one for work and one for home. Oliver was expecting his first baby any
day. There were two incoming text messages per phone before we stepped ten feet
away from his fancy SUV.
After the last message,
Ollie laughed
and said, “Duty calls,” tossing me the keys. “I trust you. Don’t let me down.”
As soon as I opened the front door, I heard typing
coming from the den. My first thought was a fan had made a posthemorrhagic pilgrimage
to our sleepy hollow and had felt compelled to write with the legend’s Smith
Corona. I considered calling the sheriff, but decided LeRoy didn’t need his
name associated with more sensational journalism.
I grabbed a Castleton University
umbrella from a coat tree in the foyer and pretended to be brave. “You had
better leave now,” I said.
As I neared, Jed Perham,
the
manager of Lakefront Pharmacy, stepped into the hall.
“Mr. Perham?”
“That’s right.”
“Hunter Kohl,”
I said. “Ken and
Lena’s boy.”
“How can I help you?”
he asked,
though I could see guilt all over his face.
“I’m here for
Oliver Bray. With
a key. How’d you get inside?”
“Mr. LeRoy had unfinished
business. I’m making sure it gets done.”
“Mr. Perham, you know
you’re trespassing.
I don’t know how you got in, but if you leave now, I promise it’ll stay our
secret.” The typing resumed. Perham sighed. “We’re so close. Maybe you can come
back later.”
“Who’s in there? I’ve seen the picture by your
cash register of you buying Mr. LeRoy’s first book. Don’t disrespect him now.”
I stepped forward, but Perham wasn’t budging.
“Please,” he
asked. “Let me
explain. After the murder and the car accident, I found the hands.”
“And said nothing?”
“When LeRoy had the
scent of a
story, he wouldn’t stop for days. His conscious mind took a back seat to his
muse.”
“Where are they? Please
don’t
tell me you already sold them on the Internet.”
“It’s not like
that!” said
Perham. “They were trying to get back. I brought them here.”
“And did what with
them?”
“They’re in
the den.”
“Are you posing them
for creepy pictures?”
“I replace the blank
paper so
the process can continue.”
The typing was loud and
distracting. I pushed him aside.
The heavy curtains were
closed
and a single candle burned, so most of the illumination came from behind me,
from the hall. I could see enough. There before me: the severed hands of the
late author were furiously typing!
“It’s what he
would have
wanted,” said Perham.
“I’m going,”
I said, suddenly
very tired. “I’ll tell Ollie I was overcome with emotion. When they’re done, we
are not starting a second novel. This is it! Put them back along the highway
somewhere, to be found.”
When I came back, a rough
draft
of the novel was stacked neatly. A dogwalker spotted LeRoy’s lifeless hands,
apparently discarded along the edge of his property.
I
later bumped into Perham. “He couldn’t
leave it unfinished, you understand,” he said. “Now he can rest.”
