Radcliffe couldn’t contain herself. She kept dabbing at the corners of her eyes all the way through Holy Communion. How many times had she and Mr. Radcliffe prayed for a child of their own? How many times did she miscarry? And how many times did Mr. Radcliffe hold her and say that her body was not broken? It was beautiful.
Mary Katherine prayed for the child and within minutes, her seventeen-year-old brain played hopscotch. That poor child. It should have had a chance to grow up like her and go to college. Like Notre Dame. She chastised herself for thinking of her own life at all. But she was afraid she wouldn’t get into Notre Dame. And her father would be so disappointed in her. She promised God to pray for the child and focus on service at the old folks home. But Mrs. Collins was so mean, and her mother was so crazy. The old woman screamed at her all weekend about how “they” were watching. How was she going to listen to that for a month? Especially after Doug quit, saying that nothing was worth this torment. Not even Cornell. Mary Katherine quickly reprimanded herself to stop being so narcissistic and think about the child.
You don’t want to hit a deer with your car, do you?
When mass let out, people called relatives and checked on their kids away at college. Moms held their children a little tighter and made mental notes to include extra-special treats on Thanksgiving. Dads decided to limit their football games to one (instead of three) to spend more time with their families instead of their fantasy football leagues. And kids found themselves getting whatever candy they wanted all day. Some felt guilty that it was for all the wrong reasons, but hey…candy was candy.
The only person who didn’t seem rattled was Mrs. Collins.
Kathleen Collins had been sitting in the front pew with her son Brady during mass. Of course, she’d already heard the news. As landowner, her husband was the first person notified after the sheriff. He immediately left the house and went to the scene. He had too much money tied up in the Mission Street Woods project to leave its future in the hands of bureaucrats. Mrs. Collins found herself a lot more concerned about her family’s potential bankruptcy than she was about the family of the child in the woods. After all, these things happen for one reason.
Bad parenting.
Simple. If you are a good parent, you watch your children. You make sure they are safe. If you fail at your job, you do not blame some outside force. You look right in the mirror and take responsibility. That was the problem with the world. No one took responsibility. Someday, the police would catch the psychopath who committed this horrible crime. And when they did, she knew that the monster would cry his crocodile tears and say he was abused by his parents. Well, that is—excuse her French—bullshit. There is such a thing as insane. There is such a thing as evil.
Not one for chicken-and-egg arguments, Mrs. Collins wondered if somewhere in the world, there was a parent who abused his children who was not abused himself. She would bet a million dollars that there was. And if someone could find just one of these mothers or fathers to prove it once and for all, she would die a happy woman.
As for her husband, Mr. Collins spent Sunday arguing with the sheriff. The Mission Street Woods project was turning from his greatest dream into his worst nightmare. First that little Christopher Reese kid went missing in them. And now a skeleton? Fuck. Everywhere he put his foot in the Mission Street Woods, he either stepped in dog shit or a bear trap. Environmental groups bitched about the deer losing their natural habitat. Historical societies bitched about the town losing its “centerpiece.” Even preservation societies bitched to have him turn that shitty old tunnel into a coal mine museum. Yeah, that made sense. Everyone loves those. Fuck them all. He knew he had to start building by Christmas because the loans would come due. But did the sheriff (aka “government employee”) understand anything about that? Hell no. The sheriff was telling him that he had to close the woods down because it was a crime scene.
“When are you going to let me dig? When I’m buried under two feet of snow?! Well, fuck you very much, Sheriff. It’s like you and the rest of