Chapter Six

Feeling drained and heartsick about Kylie Ann Patterson, Lucy took Saturday off from all sources of news; there was no web surfing, no newspaper, no radio, no television.

It wasn’t until she sat down with the Sunday paper that she read the full account of what had happened at the Patterson house the previous Friday night.

The family had been grilling out in their backyard, a Hallowe’en tradition in their household regardless of how chilly it was. Randy had been trying to help his father get the fire started while Kylie and her mother were readying themselves to go trick-or-treating. They’d come out back to tell Randy and his father they were leaving. Mr. Patterson asked his wife to help him get some lawn chairs from the garage and the two of them left the grill unattended. Wanting only to help, Randy picked up the can of charcoal lighter fluid and was squeezing more onto the smoldering coals when the fire unexpectedly roared to life. The force of the fire startled him and he dropped the can of lighter fluid onto the grill and fell to the ground. The can exploded before Kylie could move from harm’s way, and the little girl was immediately covered in flaming fluid. She screamed and ran and Randy went after her. She collapsed a minute later, her body and highly flammable costume engulfed in flames. Randy, screaming and crying, tried to save her, to drag her down to the creek and throw her in the water, but a neighbor stopped him from getting too near the conflagration.

There was nothing anyone could do to save her.

Later, Randy, still hysterical, was heard by other witnesses screaming, “I did it! I did it! It’s all my fault!”

No criminal charges were being filed against any member of the Patterson family.

Stunned, Lucy slumped back in her chair and pressed her hand against her mouth.

Six years old. The same age Sarah would be now if...

If.

Six years old.

Dear God, Dear SHIT, what am I going to do now?

Thirty minutes later she stood before the sculpture in Moundbuilders Park, pressing her face against one of the openings between those faces chiseled into the rounded stones, whispering, “I was wrong, Mr. H. Do you hear? I was wrong about Randy Patterson. We’re not to punish him, understand?”

There was only silence for a response.

“Say something!” she hissed into the opening.

No mercy.

“But this is different, Mr. H. I was wrong and it was an accident and—”

No mercy. Under no circumstances.

“Goddammit, no!” she shouted, beating a fist against the stone. “No, we—you can’t—”

But his reply remained unchanged.

Under. No. Circumstances.

Lucy could only stand there, bloodied fist held against her chest, and stare at the ground.

Sometime later, she stumbled back to her car and drove home, where she cleaned and bandaged her wounded hand, poured herself a generous drink, then stood before the Walls of Madness. The faces and words of the articles seemed to shift the longer she stared at them, become liquid and flowing, reshaping themselves into a small newspaper figure, and that figure shimmered in kairos until it was paper-flesh, and that flesh seemed so alive, so close, so near.