The Menace: A Thriller

Chapter 13

Roy and Helen Ryan found their son, very out of breath, covered in sweat, sitting at the mouth of the aisle into the attic storage area. At his feet lay the pile of bones and mummified flesh and decaying fabric that had once been a proud Aztec, including the once-colorful collar signifying some forgotten stature.

Helen hugged her son, gently, but hugged him.

Roy took one of the boy’s hands in both of his. “Are you all right, son?”

“Sure, Dad.” He was working at sounding brave and doing a pretty fair job of it. “I knew my friend wouldn’t let anybody hurt me.”

“What happened here?”

“Dennis... that’s what he said his name was... tried to kill me. My friend stopped him. Threw him right out the window.”

“You saw this, son?”

“I saw it. I guess we won’t need this.” He tugged at the stethoscope still around his neck.

“We won’t?”

“No.” Richie pointed to the sad, shredded remains of his friend. “He really is dead now.”

After hearing about the extent of his son’s struggle with the bizarre assailant, Roy took Richie downstairs and examined him thoroughly. Then he walked the boy into the kitchen where his mother had some hot chocolate ready for him.

Helen slipped an arm around her husband’s waist. Both were still in their nightclothes and robes. “How is he?”

“He seems fine,” Roy said. “Physically, he’s ready for those Olympics. A few bruises and minor contusions and that’s it.”

She frowned curiously, nodded to the ceiling. “What in goddamn hell happened up there?... And don’t say ‘language.’”

He shrugged. “Not really sure. You heard your son. His says his ‘friend’ saved him.”

She shook her head. “That boy and his imagination.”

Roy said, “Yeah,” but didn’t sound quite convinced.

Richie was sitting at the table in the kitchen having the hot chocolate his mother made him. Janet Hodges was sitting beside him, having a cup of coffee. The police were still active outside, but whirling cherry tops had been replaced by work lights on stands. Several ambulances had arrived for conveying the dead.

Cutter and Roy, at one end of the kitchen, spoke quietly.

“Afraid you’re going to have us,” the chief said, “and plenty other law enforcement under foot for a day or so. This is the most extensive crime scene I’ve ever encountered, and that’s after working Manhattan for a lot of years.”

“So how are you going to write this one up?”

“My official opinion,” Cutter said, and he was having coffee too, “is that Dennis Lee died trying to flee the police. He realized he was trapped in that attic and ran, and leapt to his death. Intentionally. Or misjudged that ladder and fell to his death. Accidentally.”

Roy raised a hand. “I have no argument with that.” Then he whispered: “But any thoughts about what really happened up there?”

Cutter sipped coffee. “Two theories. Either your son protected himself, and he’s ‘remembering’ it in a way that he can handle. Or...”

“That mummy did come to life?”

Cutter shrugged. “Any way you look at it, Roy... it never hurts to have friends.”

Later, on the couch in front of the fireplace where the only flames came from the hearth and not from a bottle sailing through the window, Roy said, “Well, I think he’ll sleep till noon. I’ve never seen Richie more exhausted.”

Helen shook her head, the blonde hair a lovely tangle. “What did happen up there, Roy?”

He told her what Cutter was going to say, on the record, and he shared the chief’s two theories as well.

Her forehead frowned and her mouth smiled. She began, “You can’t really think...”

“I think,” Roy said, “a boy’s best friend is his mummy.”

She laughed, shook her head. “You didn’t really just say that.”

“Well, his mummy and his daddy.” He kissed her. It took a while. Then he added, “Welcome home, honey.”