1980
The Next Morning

Elsie must have been more exhausted than she'd thought. When she awoke, the shadows thrown by the sunlight streaming through the bedroom window indicated that the morning was far advanced. She was alone, and the rumpled sheets beside her were cold, holding no lingering body heat. She got up, wincing at the dull, burning ache in her back and shoulders. Elsie Breman had never been physically active, and last night... The clots of earth she had spaded up had been heavy, soggy with rain, and the car had at first been reluctant to move down the incline into the lake. She'd had to push, straining against the back grill till it gathered enough momentum to keep it rolling into the deep water.

*A hot bath--that's what I need,* she thought as she shuffled from the bedroom. *A good, long soak with Epsom salts.* The house had two bathrooms, the master one having a deep, comfortable tub, and the smaller having a shower. Simpson had always resented any time she spent in the large bathroom, beyond the bare minimum needed to tend to the elimination of waste. Even if he didn't need the facilities himself, he'd griped if she spent a few moments fixing her hair or makeup, and any bath over ten minutes was cause for a bitch session. Elsie smiled. That wouldn't be an issue now.

She was pretty sure where she'd find Daphne--the television was droning quietly in the living room. Still, she checked. Daphne was dressed, sitting in her usual place on the floor. An open box of Cap'n Crunch was cradled in the space between her crossed legs, and her hand moved, slowly but steadily, ferrying tiny golden squares to her mouth. Elsie frowned, ready to scold her gently, ready to tell her that pre-sweetened cereal, straight out of the box, was a snack, and not breakfast. Then she noticed the nearly empty glass of milk sitting beside the girl's knee, and she smiled. *Milk and cereal--breakfast. Huh, my baby isn't stupid.*

Satisfied that Daphne was fed, and would be safely occupied for a while longer, she went for her bath. She soaked for almost an hour, letting the steamy, medicated water slowly soothe her aches. At last, freshly dressed and feeling much more human, she got her own breakfast and joined her daughter in the living room. Elsie took her usual position on the couch behind Daphne, sipping a cup of coffee. After a moment, she leaned forward and affectionately ruffled her daughter's hair. "Good morning, dear. Are you watching your cartoons?" Most teenagers Daphne's age had given up watching Saturday morning cartoons, preferring to spend the time congregating with their friends at malls or fast food hangouts, generally being a nuisance, or getting into trouble. Not her Daphne.

There was no response, but that didn't trouble Elsie. She continued to drink her coffee and nibble toast while she watched Scooby Do and his group of mystery solvers racing about, trying to debunk the ghoul of the weekend. She shook her head, glancing at Daphne. Simpson liked to claim that Daphne was oblivious to everything, but Elsie knew that her daughter had as many likes and dislikes as any other teenager--she just didn't express them as vehemently--Daphne liked anything scary or horrific. As a goopy, green sort of thing lumbered after a scrambling Shaggy, Mrs. Breman said, "Daphne? Honey, you know that's all nonsense. There aren't any such thing as monsters." Daphne's only response was a slight tilt of her head, her sheaf of indeterminately blonde hair lengthening on one side. Satisfied that she had been heard, Elsie returned to watching the program.

The bright animation disappeared, showing a simple printed message that said LOCAL NEWS BULLETIN. Suddenly the screen was filled by a close-up of a woman who would have been recognizable as a newscaster, even without the microphone--it was something about the carefully moussed hair and the Serious-with-a-capital-S expression. "This is Candace Thomerson, reporting live from Crystal Lake, here in New Jersey. I'm standing just outside the police barricades that have been erected around the central area of Camp Crystal Lake. Behind me," she gestured, as the camera's focus pulled back to show the background, "you can see the hubbub of activity that has swarmed over this once peaceful little resort since early this morning. Details are still sketchy, but from what we've been able to gather, there has been some sort of..." she paused dramatically, "well, I guess the only word for it is 'massacre'."

The wedge of toast, butter soaking in, making it soggy, dangled forgotten in Elsie's hand as she stared at the screen, letting the words and images wash over her. "...owner's abandoned jeep first alerted police that something... sole survivor, found floating in a boat... hysterical young councilor told a jumbled tale of horror and death... private sources say that the killer was a woman, and herself met her death at the hands of... no identification yet, as the body was decapitated..."

There were grainy video clips, all shot from a distance--a smashed window, the remaining shards of glass smeared with what could have been blood, a queasy looking officer coming out of a washhouse carrying what looked like a plastic swathed axe, various black plastic body bags being carried, or laid out on grass that was bright and wet, last night's rains still not burned away by the sun. And then... An ambulance crew on the shore of the lake was loading a sheet draped body into another body bag. There should have been a lump at one end--the head--but past the spread of the shoulders the sheet draped smooth. As they lifted the body, an arm dropped, dangling loosely. As the attendants quickly tucked it back out of sight, Elsie saw that it was clad in white wool knit.

She remembered. Last night in the streaming darkness... The desperation, the strain as she tried to chop a hole in the earth deep enough to put Simpson beyond the discovery of animal or man, Daphne sitting against a nearby tree, rocking, rocking... And the white blur moving out of the shadows, and a soft, almost wondering voice saying, "What have you done?"

The reporter was droning on about speculation, suspected motives, and the tragedy of so many young lives cut short. "No," Elsie whispered. "No, she... she was good. She was a mother." There was no one there to see her expression harden, any tiny spark of sympathy dieing. "She must have had a good reason."

The knock on the door startled her so badly that she brushed against her cup, cool coffee spilling out to flow across the waxed surface of the side table. For a moment she stared toward the front door. No one ever came here. She glanced quickly at Daphne, but the girl remained as always, attention fixed on the television. The reporter was trying to talk to deputy, and having little success. Elsie got up and went to the front door. She checked to see that the chain was secured, then peeked through the spy hole. The view was distorted, but the dark brown uniform and tan Stetson hat were easy to recognize--they matched the outfit of the man currently telling the reporter, more or less, to fuck off till an official statement was released.

Deputy Robert Sherwood ("Don't you fucking dare call me Robin!") was about to lean on the bell again when he heard the sound of a lock disengaging. The door opened a slit, and a woman peered at him through the crack. She gave him a gimlet examination, and he didn't blame her. A person had to be careful, living out here, and with what had just happened across the lake. "Good mornin', ma'am."

"Can I help you, officer?"

"Deputy Sherwood, ma'am." He cocked his head, hearing the distant mumble of a television. "Ma'am, have you been watching the local stations?"

"I just got up." She turned her head a fraction, as if looking back at the television, then looked at him again. "Are you here about what happened over at the camp?"

"Yes, ma'am, that's it exactly. We're making the rounds of the few houses that are out here at the lake, trying to see if anyone saw or heard anything last night." He shrugged. "We're not having much luck."

"I wouldn't think so. Not many people live out here year round, and the vacation season won't start for another couple of weeks."

"Ma'am... uh, Miz...?"

"Breman, Elsie Breman." She hesitated. "Would you like to come in and have a cup of coffee, Deputy?"

Sherwood almost wilted with relief. He'd seen something of the carnage over at Camp Crystal Lake, and he really felt like he needed a good, stiff belt--but coffee would help. "That would be most welcome."

She opened the door. "The kitchen is back here."

As they walked back, Robert glanced into the living room, and noticed the teenage girl sitting cross-legged on the floor. He was a little surprised that she never took her eyes off the screen. In his experience, most teenagers were very aware of any officer of the law. He paused in the kitchen door as Mrs. Breman took a mug from a row of hooks and began to pour coffee. "Is that your daughter?"

"Daphne, yes."

"Why don't we have her come on in, so I can talk to both of you at once?"

Elsie set the mug down on the table. "No, I don't think so."

Robert fought down the urge to sigh. Not another protective parent. "Ma'am, it's vital that we get all the information we can."

"Daphne can't help you, Deputy. I doubt I can, either, but I'm willing to try."

"Look," Robert tried to keep his voice reasonable, "if she was a tiny child it would be different--I wouldn't bother her unless it was essential--if there was no other recourse. But she's a teenager, ma'am. She could see or hear things, and understand what they might mean. She could be a witness, and..."

"No," said Elsie firmly. "It isn't that I don't want to co-operate, but I promise you, Daphne would be of no help. Yes, she's a teenager, but..." she hesitated, biting her lip, then said softly, "Deputy, she's... 'special'. Do you understand?" He gave her a blank look, and she sighed. "Have a seat."

He did, and she left the room. A moment later she returned, leading the girl by the hand. The girl *A young woman, really. She must be at least fifteen or sixteen.* shuffled slowly at her mother's side, eyes fixed on the floor, head tipped down so that her long, pale brown hair fell forward, half obscuring her face. Mrs. Breman said quietly, "Daphne? Daphne, baby, this man is a police officer. His name is Deputy Sherwood. Say hello." There was a moment of silence. "Daphne."

"Hello, hello, hello." The voice was a monotone. "Hell, hell, bell, swell, tell. Tell a secret, never, ever, sever. Hello, jello, mellow, bellow. Yell, yell, yellow. Hello."

Elsie put her fingers under the girl's chin, tipping it up gently, and Robert got his first clear look at her. He winced. She wasn't ugly. In fact, she might have been pretty--if there had been even a spark of expression on her face. The blue eyes were directed toward him, but they seemed to be looking through him. It wasn't really as if she was seeing something else--it was more like he had disappeared, and there was nothing there for her to see. He felt the fine hairs on the back of his neck prickle. Elsie said, "Now do you understand?"

He had to clear his voice before he could speak. "Yes, ma'am. There's no need to bother her."

Elsie smoothed the girl's hair, tucking a strand back behind her ear. "Go watch TV, honey. It sounds like that bulletin is over, and I think Fat Albert will be on soon." She turned the girl around, and Daphne shuffled off toward the living room. A moment later the noise from the television shifted to bright music, accompanied by a cheerful, booming, "Hey, hey, hey! It's Faaaaaat Albert! And I'm gonna sing a song for yooou..."

Elsie got a cup of coffee for herself and joined him at the table. "She's not stupid, Deputy, but... but the world doesn't impact on her much."

"You don't need to explain to me, ma'am. You were home all night?"

"Yes. I picked Daphne up from school, and we came right home, and didn't step foot out of the house from then till now. I have to tell you, I can't recall seeing or hearing anything that might relate to that horrible business across the lake."

"Are you sure, ma'am? Sometimes sound travels over water."

"Deputy, there was a storm last night. I didn't hear anything that sounded any different from the usual sounds of bad weather--rain, wind, and thunder... And we were watching police shows last night. Lots of shooting."

"We don't believe any shots were fired. There was a target rifle near one of the bodies, but it doesn't appear to have been used."

Elsie shrugged. "There was screaming, and car chases, too. Lots of screeching tires and crashes. No, I didn't hear anything unusual. And I keep my shades drawn at night. We're rather isolated out here, and I have a teenage daughter. I don't want to risk any hooligan creeping around, peeping in windows."

"Well, if you didn't, you didn't. What about your husband?"

Elsie paused, mug halfway to her lips. "My husband?"

"You are married?" He looked contrite. "I assumed, with your daughter... I hope I haven't put my foot in it. You aren't, um, widowed?"

She smiled. "No. I may be divorced soon, though. I think my husband left me last night."

"You think?"

"Well, when I came back with Daphne he wasn't here. His car, and most of his clothes are gone. I suppose he might just be off on a binge somewhere." She made a disgusted noise. "God knows he's done it before--shacked up with some tart. But he always comes back. I suppose there's no reason to doubt that he won't this time." Her eyes suddenly went wide. "Unless..." She looked at Sherwood anxiously. "I was listening to that broadcast. Did they say that they think the murders might have begun as early as yesterday afternoon?"

"We think so. We located the body of a young woman who was hired as a camp cook, a couple of miles from the camp turn-off, and she appears to have died a number of hours before the others."

Her expression was puckering. Elsie Breman was giving one of the finest performances of her life. "That would have been right about the time that he was alone here, and the murders happened so close, so many of them. You don't suppose..."

The deputy saw where she was going, and said quickly, "Now, Mrs. Breman, don't start worrying before you have to. There's very little chance that his being gone is connected to what happened at the camp. After all, you said that his clothes and car are gone." She nodded. "And he's done this sort of thing before?"

"Well, yes... But the coincidence..."

"That's probably just what it is--a coincidence," soothed the deputy, thinking, *Lord, that would be all we'd need--a hysterical woman convinced that a philandering husband has been killed, while we're up to our eyeballs in real murders.*

"You haven't... haven't found his body, and are just trying to break it to me gently?"

He stared at her, wondering what sort of opinion she had of local law enforcement. "There's only one un-identified body, and that's a female. Stop fretting, Mrs. Breman. Just wait a little while. He's likely to come wandering in sometime later today." He smiled hopefully. "I'll bet he brings flowers in apology." Elsie gave him a cynical stare that made him blush. He stood up, taking his hat in his hand. "There's no need for me to bother you any longer. If you remember anything else, get in contact with the sheriff's department."

She was following him to the front door. "What about my husband?"

It took an effort to keep from rolling his eyes. "They don't even file missing person reports on adults unless the individual has been unaccounted for at least twenty-four hours. If he still hasn't crawled home in a day or two, go ahead and make a statement to the local PD, and they'll put out a bulletin on him."

"It doesn't sound like you expect much to happen."

Robert hesitated on the front step. He thought of the woman's silent, staring daughter in the front room, and saw the tension in the mother's eyes. He said, "Honestly, ma'am? From what I've heard this sounds like a simple case of a man running out on his responsibilities. It's sad, but it's common, and the police tend to reserve most of their time for working on criminal cases." He remembered what he thought had been pain in her voice as she spoke of her husband's previous short desertions. "They very well may not put forth too much effort on what's probably nothing more than some irresponsible asshole taking a vacation without giving any thought to how he'll worry his family." He tipped his hat respectfully as he started toward his waiting car. "I'm sorry."

Elsie closed the door, carefully resetting the locks, then leaned back against it, closing her eyes as a sense of relief washed over her. *I'm not.*