The Secrets on Chicory Lane Read online

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  Copyright © 2017 by Raymond Benson

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Skyhorse Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  Cover design by Erin Seaward-Hiatt

  Cover photo credit: iStockphoto

  Print ISBN: 978-1-5107-2294-1

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-5107-2295-8

  Printed in the United States of America

  For Randi

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The author wishes to thank the following individuals for their help: Laurie Fraser, Mike Graczyk, Herman Graf, Julie Hyzy, Kim Lim, Cynthia Manson, Jim Marks, William Simon, Pam Stack, and my most trusted critic, Randi Frank.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Limite is an invented town in West Texas. It has been used before in some of my other works, such as Evil Hours and Artifact of Evil. Its similarity to a real place is intentional, but this is a work of fiction. All characters and events are the product of a fevered imagination.

  1

  One of the most frightening and challenging things a human being can do the first thing in the morning—and by that, I mean after you get out of bed, pee, put on something warm, and have some breakfast and coffee (that last part is essential)—is to sit down at a computer and begin to write a new novel.

  I hate it. Actually, no, let me rephrase that. I hate starting a new book. I love everything else about the writing process, but I’ve always found it difficult to initially propel myself into that quagmire of caffeine-induced, delirious hair pulling and sleepless torment, because I know this will be my reality for the next couple of months until I get my groove on and become comfortable with the characters and storyline.

  That’s what I’m attempting to do when I hear the doorbell downstairs, followed by the sound of Billy opening the door. Voices—the mailman. I glance at the digital clock on my desk—is it already eleven? It’s nice that my postman delivers the mail early; other people I know in Chicago complain that their carriers don’t come until nearly supper time. I reckon Billy will bring it up—right now the important thing is to stare dutifully at that blank page on my screen and figure out how the hell I am going to start the next Patricia novel without becoming an “imitation of myself.” That was what some genius in one of those book review magazines said about the most recent Patricia. Even after forty-two Patricia Harlow books and a handful of stand-alones, a comment like that can still bug me. I might be successful, but what the hell, I’m also human.

  I’m taking the criticism to heart—I really want to start the next one with something completely different from what I’ve done in the past. There is already a finished book going through the editing stage at my publishing house. The manuscript I’m supposed to start today is the one that will appear after that, and it probably won’t see publication until two years from now. Nevertheless, a deadline is the biggest motivator in this crazy business of mine. I know I’ll get it done. I’ve averaged a book every ten or eleven months since I was in my thirties, and I don’t have any plans to retire yet. Writers never do that. As long as we can still think, dream, and somehow lay it all out on paper, we will continue to work.

  But after age sixty, it does get harder.

  I glance at the now-empty coffee cup and decide to boost the caffeine dose. Procrastination is my friend. Hmm, maybe I should have another cup of joe, shower, do my hair and nails, and exercise early. Shake up the routine.

  “Shelby?”

  It’s Billy, downstairs.

  “I’m up here!” I call.

  “Should I come up?”

  “Is that the mail? Bring it up, will you? But start a fresh pot of coffee first, okay?”

  Billy, my personal assistant, is thirty-eight, gay, single, and an excellent secretary. Once I became an international bestselling author, I found that I couldn’t handle everything alone. Fan mail, social media updating, proofreading, and all the other stuff authors have to do that isn’t actually writing, which can suck up half a day or more. I pay Billy to come in part time and do it for me, especially the social media nonsense, which regrettably is vitally important these days. He often works on updating my website; he is good at stuff like that. He also meticulously makes sure anything about me that appears on other websites is accurate and up to date, and I trust him to take care of my “brand.” Billy has a small workspace on the first floor of my three-level townhouse. My office is one of three bedrooms on the top floor, which sometimes causes a lot of shouting up and down the stairs. When I’m in the zone, I prefer a solitary, lonely cocoon of silence. Sometimes I put on music, which doesn’t bother me.

  After a few minutes, Billy appears in the open door and knocks. “Is this Shelby Truman’s office?” he asks.

  “Unfortunately … yes.”
>
  “Your mail, madam.” He brings it over and places the bundle on my desk. “Mostly bills, junk mail, and this … I signed for a piece of registered overnight mail from, well, look.”

  The return address on the top of the envelope indicates that the sender is Robert Crane Esq. of Limite, Texas. I know the name.

  Eddie’s attorney.

  A twinge of anxiety starts deep in my chest. I’d been trying not to think about Eddie, but that’s impossible this week.

  The thing is, I’ve always thought about Eddie. We go way, way back, to when we were children living in Limite.

  Billy stands there, waiting for me to open the letter. I look at him, and he shuffles his feet. “Oh, sorry, I guess you want to be alone. I’ll go get the coffee. Should be ready in a minute.”

  “No, stay. Open it and let me see what Mr. Crane has to say.”

  He carefully uses a fingernail to open the envelope and hands me the contents—a message printed on the law firm’s letterhead, official and neat. My hand trembles as I read.

  “Well, hell,” I mutter, sighing heavily.

  “What?” Billy asks.

  “All of the appeals have been denied.”

  “He’s going to be executed?”

  I nod. “Barring some kind of miracle stay from the Board of Pardons and Paroles or the governor of Texas, yeah.” I look at the calendar on the desk. “In four days.”

  “Jesus, you’ll be in Texas then.”

  “That’s not all.” I hand Billy the letter and he reads it, wide-eyed.

  He looks up. “You gonna go?”

  “I don’t know.” I take the letter back and reread what Mr. Crane has written.

  Eddie requests that you visit him this week. He says he has something important to tell you. I have placed your name on the visitation list and the warden has already approved it. Note that this is highly irregular, but an exception has been made. Please let me know as soon as possible if you can make it. I know Eddie will be pleased to see you. Please call my office. In the meantime, I will phone you.

  “Crane says he’ll phone you.”

  “He hasn’t yet.”

  Billy nods at the answering machine that sits on a little table near the printer, which is normally out of my sight line unless I actually look at it. Of course, the number “2” blinks on the LED. I roll my chair to the table and punch the Play button. Mr. Crane relates the same message that is in the letter, and leaves his phone number. Twice.

  “I guess I missed those.” As I roll back to my position at the desk, I sigh again. Lately I’ve been doing a lot of sighing. “I’m supposed to be in Limite for the park dedication ceremony on the day of his execution.”

  “I know.”

  “I suppose I could swing by Huntsville on the way.”

  “Do you want to?”

  “I don’t know, Billy. Why don’t you get the coffee and let me think about this.”

  He nods at the blank Word document on the computer monitor. “I see you’ve got Patricia in a fine mess this time.”

  “Don’t rub it in. I’m a little too preoccupied to think about who Patricia is going to sleep with next.” As I say it, I realize it’s the truth. Perhaps that’s why I can’t seem to get started this morning. My mind is already on Eddie. It has been for quite some time.

  “I’ll just get that coffee …” Billy steps out of the room and leaves me alone with my apprehension.

  Why the hell does Eddie want to talk to me? We haven’t spoken in twenty years, long before his crime. When he received the death penalty, he wouldn’t let me visit and we never communicated. I resigned myself that I’d never see him again. The advocacy group tried to get me to attend the execution and protest outside the prison, me being a celebrity and all. I had decided long ago that I wouldn’t attend, even if I were invited to be a witness to the execution. Giving them money and allowing them to use my name and a quotation is one thing, but I prefer not to show my face for the cameras down in Texas. My plan is to be nowhere near the southeast part of the state; however, I will soon be traveling instead to the western portion near that right angle at the bottom of the Panhandle.

  I check the paper calendar again. Today is Monday. The park dedication in Limite is scheduled for Friday, as is Eddie’s execution. I’d committed to a speaking engagement at a library in Schaumburg on Wednesday evening, so my original plan was to fly to Texas on Thursday. There is no direct flight to the Limite airport from Chicago O’Hare; I have to fly to Dallas and change planes. I could cancel the library event, although I don’t like doing that.

  You see, they are naming a park after me in my old hometown: the Shelby Truman Community Park. It was where we used to play as children—all of the kids on our block—since it was just another street over. If the place had a name then, I don’t remember it. It was unique because along with standard swing sets, slides, climbing structures, and a merry-go-round, there sat, incongruously, a World War II–era airplane and a yacht. Each hulk was propped up with supports and had ladders and slides attached so kids could actually climb inside and play. The passenger section was empty of seats, but you could look out the windows. I remember sitting in the plane’s cockpit and pretending I was flying. The cabin of the boat was more intimate, and the older teenagers used it as a place to make out. Again, there was no furniture or machinery. I doubt running around in those derelict ships was very safe, but that was back in the sixties. I recall more than one cut or scrape from some sneaky sharp edge.

  Eventually the plane and yacht were taken out of the park, sometime when I was a young adult. It was then known as East Limite Family Park. Now the powers-that-be want to honor a hometown-kid-that-made-good and rename the grounds. Sure, I’m flattered, but I don’t relish returning to Limite. Too many unpleasant memories. After all, the death of a family member—a sibling in this case—changes the dynamics of a household.

  After the summer of 1966, things were never the same in my family. Mother certainly wasn’t. My parents stayed in Limite when I left for college in ’72, and I went back to visit as often as I could stand it. After their deaths, I figured I’d never have to see those flat desert plains and pumpjack oil wells again. High school reunions never interested me. No other relatives live there. There simply never was a good reason to return to West Texas, but now I have an obligation to go. The price of fame and fortune.

  Perhaps the real truth of why I don’t like going home is the feeling of melancholy—and fear—that hovers over me whenever I am back. Dark clouds of pain and sorrow. They continue to haunt me even now. Bad things happened on Chicory Lane, the street where I grew up. I truly believe that Evil—with a capital “E”—visited my neighborhood that summer of 1966. It slithered inside at least three houses that I know of, and set about destroying lives and delivering misery. In the end, it affected so many of us. Sadly, I think it did the most damage to Eddie Newcott, the boy who lived across the street.

  2

  There is much to consider. Do I really want to see Eddie again? Why does he want to talk to me? What will he have to say? Does he think I owe it to him? There is no question that there exists a unique bond between Eddie and me. A lifelong connection. At one time, we were closer than salt and pepper shakers—and that’s a pretty apt metaphor for what Eddie and I were, especially when we were kids on Chicory Lane. In the later years when he and I became … well, I’m not sure what to call it … it was something else. A madness, perhaps.

  After our last encounter in the mid-nineties, we mutually parted ways and never spoke again. This was about a decade before he committed the crime. I would have responded to Eddie had he reached out during his legal ordeal, and in fact I contacted his lawyer—the same Robert Crane—myself to see if Eddie might want to talk to me. My inquiry was politely declined. Later, during the penalty phase of the trial, I once again offered to provide a character witness in the hopes that he wouldn’t get death. And again, my willingness to help was dismissed, Crane told me, expressly by Eddie himself.


  Eddie received the death penalty for capital murder. It was the charge the DA went for and got, because that’s the only classification in Texas for which one can receive the death penalty. The defense raised some legal brouhaha, saying the crime wasn’t really capital murder because it was a domestic situation, but the prosecutor and judge didn’t buy it. Eddie still had a shot at an insanity appeal, but he gave up and refused to pursue one. His lawyer did it for him as a matter of course. Still, it was as if Eddie wanted to die.

  We all knew that Eddie was guilty of murdering the woman he was living with at the time, along with their unborn child. Unfortunately, the original jury didn’t believe the defense’s contention that he’d done it because he was off his meds, so the verdict didn’t swing in Eddie’s favor. The shocking revelations about his childhood made good live television, but the twelve jurors held them against the accused. Eddie apparently resigned himself to his fate, and he deliberately provoked the jury when the verdict was announced. He actually stood, pointed at the twelve men and women, and, as the media put it, “cursed them with a Satanic spell.”

  That was the real reason Eddie had received the death penalty. He was an outspoken atheist. The woman he killed, Dora Walton, was a fellow atheist who lived with Eddie in his childhood home, where for years they produced and distributed a newsletter about Satanism. Naturally, his neighbors didn’t like it. Even in the eighties, Eddie had already received national notoriety amid pressure against him to leave his old neighborhood, which he vehemently fought, claiming his and his mother’s rights to stay in their house. Dora Walton’s murder was described by the media as a Satanic ritual.

  The truth is that Eddie went off his meds.

  When he was arrested, the press elevated the story to international status and even gave him a nickname that caught on—“EVIL EDDIE.” “SATANIST IN GRUESOME RITUAL.” “SUSPECT CLAIMS TO BE THE DEVIL.” “EVIL EDDIE GOES TO TRIAL TODAY.” “EVIL EDDIE FOUND GUILTY!” The more salacious tabloids spelled it out with repugnance—“WOMAN SLAIN IN DEATH ORGY.” “RITUAL MURDER!” “DEATH IN BLACK MASS.” “WITCHCRAFT!—LIMITE’S SHOCKING SATANIC SEX CULT.”