MISSING: DANIEL J. LAVOND

LAST SEEN: MAY 24TH, 1953

D.O.B.: MARCH 14TH, 1936 - HEIGHT: 5'8"- EYES: HAZEL - HAIR: BROWN

PLEASE CONTACT THE HOCKOMOCK POLICE DEPARTMENT

WITH ANY INFORMATION

(207)-222-7777

June 22nd, 1953

Dan's face, faded in black and white, was plastered on every street corner. Four weeks have passed since I last saw him in class. Three weeks have passed since he was declared missing. Two days have passed since the police announced that they're suspending the search, for the time being. The police commissioner said there wasn't enough evidence to continue. But everyone knows that that means the worst is assumed. Daniel Lavond was most definitely dead.

            Looking at the poster, I scratched my head. We sat next to each other in Geometry last year and he basically saved my grade, and therefore my ass, from Jimmy. And now he's gone, back into thin air. The stapled poster on the telephone pole was ripped and stained from the weather. Soon it'll blow away and be forgotten, taking Daniel with it.

            "Well, are you guys gonna kiss or what?" A cloud of smoke hit me in the face, Peter smoking behind it. A cigarette dangled from his smirking lips. "Frankie, you've been staring at that sign longer than the centerfold under your bed. Longer than I've stared at the centerfold under your bed. That's saying something, man."

            "Jesus, Pete. I literally was in the same class as this guy. You'd know him too, if you ever bothered to show up. Show some respect at least." I snapped, still looking at the poster, barely clinging to the pole. That could've been me missing. Or Pete. Or Jimmy. "And stop going through my things."

            Peter rolled his eyes. My brother hated it when he didn't get the reaction he wanted.

            "Fine, whatever. Can we just head home now? Savannah and Ronnie are gonna leave without us if you don't stop gazing into each other's eyes."

            "I think it's you, Pete, who wants to gaze into a fella's eyes." I nudged him and laughed, taking a cigarette from his pocket. "Can I have a light?"

---

            "If you took another minute longer I would have had the police on the line, I swear to God." Savannah looked up at us, polishing her roller-skates. "After poor Daniel...you can never be too cautious."

            "You're right. I'll be more careful next time. I'm sorry." Savannah was the last person I'd want to disappoint. I had a lot of respect for her.

            Savannah stood up, her roller-skates slung over her shoulder.

            "Ronnie, will Jimmy be meeting us there?" she called, her singsong voice wafting across the room.

            "Nah. He called earlier. Working late again." Ronnie ran his hand through his hair and grabbed his keys from the kitchen counter. He looked Savannah up and down, smiling softly. "Are you ready?"

            Savannah grabbed his hand and mine, rushing to the door.

            "Let's go!"

---

Neon greens and pinks wafted through Savannah's hair as she glided around the rink. With one toss of her head, she glanced back at me and smiled through her roll-on glitter lipstick. That one look gave me enough reassurance to step out and follow her. She was like a magnet, and I was being drawn in any which way she chose. Behind Savannah lingered Ronnie, teetering from side to side on his skates, just out of her view. He awkwardly turned to me, still some feet away, a plea for help spread across his face. This was his first time at the rink, and the combination of lack of experience and the need to maintain his "Roughhouse Ronnie" reputation was not pulling him any favors. This was noticed quickly as a sneer sliced through the music.

            "This is, by far, the greatest day of my life."

My stomach lurched and remained in my throat as a dirty-fingernailed hand grabbed my shoulder and launched me backwards. I slammed into the wall and fell flat on my ass.

"Get out of my way, reject." A hint of alcohol tainted his breath.

Savannah attempted to go after me; Ronnie stood in her way. Crossing paths with the incoming Gregor DuPont was a danger to anyone.

"What the hell is this? Is Ronnie Arrington a roller skater now? Where the hell is your boyfriend?" Gregor strode closer to Ronnie with each interrogation, until the two were eye to eye.

"Well, you're here too, aren't cha?" Ronnie quizzed back, without skipping a beat. "I should be asking you the same thing."

"Ronald!" Savannah whispered through grit teeth. "Let's. Go."

The excitement in her voice from when she first uttered those words was gone. Once again, another good thing was ruined.

"Yeah, Ronald, listen to your girl if you know what's best for you." Gregor laughed, entirely ignoring Ronnie's rebuttal. "Or else I'd have to take her and show her what a real man is like." Gregor side-eyed Savannah and lifted an outstretched hand.

He was on the floor before he could touch her.

Ronnie's knuckles were covered in blood. He kneeled down next to Gregor and grabbed his starched collar.

"Don't ever disrespect me again, if you know what's best for you."

We haven't been back to the rink since.

June 27th, 1953

            To put it lightly, Ronnie opened the gates of Hell. It was nearly impossible to be downtown, nevermind walk down my street, without facing the wrath of Gregor and his goons, frothing at the mouths, aching for revenge. We already all had targets over our heads, but now they had permission to fire. And shoot to kill. The only people safe from the reign of terror were Savannah, on account of being a girl, and Pete, on account of being fourteen. Yesterday even Pete found himself cornered, but Jimmy was there, at the defense. We McDowell's stick together.

            Nicotine withdrawal and the smell of Ronnie's cologne drove me out of my five-day respite. Frankie McDowell needed a cigarette, and was willing to get his ass beat at Hockomock plaza for a pack of Luckies. Opening the screen door, briefly basking in the hot New England sun, I made my way to the center. Hey, on a spectacular day like today, what can go wrong?

            I've never been more happy to see a dumpster before in my life. Even further, I've never been more happy to dive into a dumpster.

            The squealing of tires and breaking of beer bottles clattered in the background, the soundtrack to my expedition into the huge metal void. A pile of rusted nails dug into my palms as I crashed landed. Tetanus was worth it if I could avoid a black eye from Gregor. Again.

            "Hey, Frankie!" a hoarse voice called from the entrance of the alley. "I-I don't know where y-you are, but I'm gonna find you and kill you one day." Another beer bottle crashed, this time against the side of the brick wall I was hiding against. 

            Hearing the voice, I squinted my eyes and cocked my head. Something was off. No, not the whole me-hiding-in-a-dumpster. That was normal. But, this voice. It wasn't Gregor's. I remained in place, silent. The car engine roared as it pulled to a halt by the alley.

            "Hey, M-mister! Frankie. I'm waiting for you. Whenever you w-want to come out and play, I'll be here." The sound of a car door slamming shut and uncoordinated footsteps echoed down the alley. The voice's threats continued, laced with burps and profanities. I realized it was Paul, one of Gregor's right hand men. What, is he sicking his friends after us now?

            "Gregor ain't here, nobody heard from him in a day or two, so it's just you and me, man. What will it be then, eh? Can you come out so I can do my job and go home?"

            His voice crept closer to the dumpster. A searing pain rippled through my body as I tried to lean back. A broken windowpane was the culprit, shredding through my shirt and cutting up my entire back. A resounding "SHIT!" tore through the alleyway as I tried to mop up the blood from the prone position I was in. I can't believe I'm going to get tetanus and a black eye. All for some damn smokes.

            "That's what I wanted to hear..." Paul was on to me like a watchdog. So long, cruel and crappy world.

I was in the middle of repenting and saying my goodbyes to Pete, Jimmy, and the rest of the family when Paul lurched backwards, a harrowing, guttural sound ripping from his throat. It sounded like someone drove a knife through his stomach. Immediately, I lifted myself over the side of my traitorous hiding place, wincing.

Paul, collapsed into a pile of cardboard boxes, had one hand covering his mouth and the other attached to a holster on his hip. We made eye contact. Not taking his eyes off of me, he pointed to something to the right of the dumpster.

"What did you do?" He demanded, voice quivering.

I pulled myself out of the dumpster and turned my back to him, looking in the direction he was pointing.

Gregor DuPont was slouched against the dumpster, jaw slung open, a pool of dried blood around him. Dead.

I heard a metallic click and a cold, hard cylinder was pressed behind my neck.

"What did you do?"