The Hollows(11)

I was beginning to see why her podcast was so popular. She had a way with the ghoulish details.

‘It must have really messed him up,’ said David.

‘You’re not kidding.’ I paused. Despite my insistence that I wasn’t interested in true crime, I could feel myself being drawn in. The picture the Butlers had painted, last night and now. I was starting to see it. ‘What do you know about Everett Miller? What was he like, apart from being a death-metal fan?’

Connie answered. ‘Everyone said he was a pussycat. A pacifist. He had no record of violence. Kids he went to school with said how shocked they were, because Everett had always been bullied but never fought back.’

‘Exactly the kind of person who’s most likely to snap,’ said David.

I could see that, even if it seemed like pop psychology. I wondered how many murderers had no record of violence in their past, though. I could understand it of domestic abuse victims who killed to escape. Or someone who committed a so-called crime of passion. But a murder like this? Surely there would have to have been some propensity towards violence. Wouldn’t they need to build up to it? Could he really have been influenced by the music he listened to and videos he watched?

Maybe, as David suggested, he’d got sick of being ostracised and bullied and had snapped.

‘Did he have a history of being into the occult?’ I asked.

‘Kinda,’ said David. ‘There was the music he was into, of course. They found tarot cards and a Ouija board in his room too. A big collection of horror videos.’

‘That doesn’t mean he believed in pagan gods, though, does it?’

Connie was looking around her. ‘I don’t know. These small towns, on the edge of the wilderness. People believe in all sorts of weird shit. And if he was being influenced by the music he listened to and the movies he watched . . .’

‘Or maybe he just stumbled across this real-life porn show in the woods, wanted to join in and things got messy.’ David shrugged. ‘I guess we’ll never know.’

‘Unless he really is out here still,’ I said, not believing it for a second. ‘And someone catches him.’

‘Huh. Yeah. Wouldn’t that be something? I bet you’d love the chance to sit down with him for ten minutes, huh, Connie? Interview him for the podcast?’

‘Imagine the ratings,’ she replied.

David took a few photographs and was about to say something when we heard voices. A man and a woman, chatting and laughing.

David gestured for us to follow him into the trees. We crouched in the shadows behind a fallen log.

‘What are we doing?’ I asked.

He held up a finger. ‘Wait.’

A man stepped into the clearing on the far side, almost at the same spot where we had entered it a few minutes before, followed by a woman. The man was balding and bearded, wearing knee-length shorts and a T-shirt bearing Charles Manson’s face, and the woman was tall and broad, dressed all in black with purple streaks in her bleached hair.

‘Oh my God, this is it, this is the place,’ I heard him say, and the woman let out an excited squeal. They stood before the flat rock.

‘Do you know them?’ I hissed.

David shook his head. ‘Oh, sweet Jesus,’ he said. ‘They’re not going to . . .’

But they were. The two of them stepped into an embrace, their lips mashing together, and then they were lying on the rock and she was tugging at his shorts.

We three looked at each other, eyes wide. I didn’t know whether to laugh or throw up. Connie, who had her hand over her mouth, was clearly going through the same struggle.

‘We need to get out of here,’ I whispered.

A high-pitched giggle rang out. The woman had hitched up her skirt and the man was unbuttoning his shorts. I tore my eyes away.

We crept further into the trees, trying to be quiet. We looped our way back to the main path until we were out of earshot of the sick pair.

‘I hope you don’t think we’re like that,’ David said. ‘Turned on by death and murder.’

‘It hadn’t occurred to me.’

‘Good. Fucking ghouls. They disgust me.’ He was quiet for a moment. ‘People often accuse us of, what’s the word?’

‘Prurience,’ said Connie.

‘That’s it. Well, we’re not prurient. We care about the victims. We’re interested in justice. That’s our motivation.’

He looked so pissed off, like I’d accused him of being a pervert, that I had no choice but to say, ‘Okay, I believe you.’ And I did, to an extent, though I was sure it wasn’t only about justice. It was an interest in the dark side of human nature, mixed up with the thrill of trying to solve puzzles. I understood it, and recognised it in myself too. And, inside my head, an idea was beginning to take shape.

But my train of thought was interrupted. There was someone coming along the path, young voices ringing out through the trees, and I recognised one of the voices before their owners came into view.

It was Frankie and Ryan.

They both looked shocked to see us.

‘Dad?’ said Frankie.

David smiled. ‘Hey, guys. Where have you been?’

‘We went into Penance,’ Frankie said. She seemed flustered.

‘Are you all right?’ I asked.