were something that actually breaks the rules of nature and nurture. Exceptions to the rules.” He looked as if he might squeal before his next comment. “And there are two of us! Not one exception, but two! What are the odds? I mean really, what are the fucking odds? We had perfect parents and a perfect environment. Mom and Dad never beat us, or raped us, or neglected us. Hell, we were never even grounded. If anything, they were too nice.”
Arty walked back to the wall he had leapt from and leaned against it. He scratched his head and cleared his throat before continuing.
“So we weren’t born to bad people and we weren’t raised by bad people. But it was there. It was always there. It was…” He stopped for a moment, took a sharp intake of breath, seemingly overwhelmed by his own admiration. He shook his head quickly. Regrouped.
“After Dad died our school shrink tried to analyze us. Find out why Jim and I were in denial about the whole thing. Why we refused to show emotion and mourn and weep and sniffle and sulk and blah-fucking-blah-blah.
“But I guess it was safe to say that it was after Dad’s passing that we knew there was something different about us. We couldn’t quite put our finger on it, but we sensed it. Sensed something remarkable. Exceptions to the rules.” He whispered the phrase now, as if it appreciated in value whenever spoken.
His posture then changed. He straightened up. “And Mom? Mom’s our anchor. Our blessed anchor that keeps us from drifting into a place we could probably never come back from. Without her innocence and love to keep us grounded I couldn’t even begin to imagine how far my brother and I could drift.” He then frowned and instantly added, “Don’t get me wrong; we have the discipline; we have the control. We’ve proved that countless times. But Mom…she just sews it up tight; makes it perfect…”
Arty trailed off again with that last word. There was a moment of silence where subtle sounds were loud. Sniffles from Amy’s nose. Heavy, labored breathing from Patrick. The muffled, unmistakable voices from the children below.
Arty eventually blinked and came back. “We get no pleasure out of just killing. Hell, we didn’t even want to kill that old couple you were hanging out with back at the lake. We just kind of… had to.” He walked over to Amy. “You see this…” He wiped her tears with two fingers and gazed at the wet pads of his fingertips. “This is what we truly love.” Arty stuck both fingers in his mouth and sucked gently. When he pulled them out he licked his lips and said, “And we’ve never regretted a single day in our lives.”
45
July 1986
Marsh Creek State Park
Downingtown, PA
Sam Fannelli cut the engine on the small fishing boat and used the oars to guide him and his two sons into the spot he was aiming for.
“What do you think, boys? This good?” Sam’s thinning brow was already beaded with sweat as he put a hand up to shield the sun.
Arty and Jim looked out across the giant body of water that was Marsh Creek— smooth green water held together by a strong perimeter of trees and more trees.
“Will we be able to catch fish here?” Jim asked.
“I hope so,” Sam replied. He stood, causing the boat to sway and both boys to grip the sides of the boat. “Should have brought a baseball cap,” he said, bringing his hand over his eyes again before looking off in all directions. “Still, it looks like we’ve got a nice stretch to ourselves. I had a feeling it would be more peaceful on a weekday. You boys are lucky you’ve got such an awesome dad who takes a day off work to go fishing with his boys.”
Arty rolled his eyes. Sam caught it and laughed at his son. “Oh, I see—fifth-graders are too cool to hang out with their old man? How ’bout you Jimmy? Are third-graders too cool to go fishing with their dad?”
Jim shook his head no.
“Well one out of two ain’t bad,” Sam said. “Trust me, Arty. You’re gonna enjoy this more than you do blowing things up on that Nintendo of yours.”
“I’m having fun, Dad,” Arty said without a smile.
“Good,” Sam said. He was smiling enough for both of them. “I’ll tell you what, why don’t you boys crack yourselves a soda from the cooler, and I’ll bait our hooks for us.”
*