The Telling, page 23
I drop my hands. Becca has her nose. She wouldn’t deserve that. I shake my head at myself. She didn’t deserve any of this. It’s as if the villains in our stories strolled out into the sun. As if Ben the vengeful hero did. He killed Maggie, Ford, and Becca’s dogs. Did he come for Becca also? I make a noise, or else Willa does, because an officer kneeling with a camera looks up from his work and shouts out. A wall of police and detectives come at us.
“Don’t look.”
“Get out of here.”
“Close your eyes.”
I try to resist their tide that’s carrying me into the house. “This is . . . mine,” I say, pointing to Becca over their shoulders.
Willa mutters something like, “Be quiet.” She doesn’t recognize the vignette in front of us. She only knows about the villainous monk and his rosary. I couldn’t share all our stories with her if I wanted to; there are too many to remember.
“Take her down,” I say, and then Willa and I are pulled apart. We cross over the threshold as a cop hoists a plastic tarp into the air. It parachutes over Becca and the swing set.
I’m given a glass of water as I’m propped on the couch. It sloshes over the rim, trickling between my fingers. There are water lilies on the upholstery and tears seeping from my eyes, running until they streak down my neck. Sweeny offers a tissue as she crouches at my feet. I ignore it and crane to see the unnaturally blue tarp covering Becca. She can’t even see the sky. Becca was a liar. She was selfish and nasty. But she wasn’t a monster. She didn’t deserve to be treated as one of the mad villains in our stories.
I understand why she tried to impress others with secrets. Being a girl in high school is a lot like being under a microscope, all your imperfections magnified and noted. I get not wanting to be defined by the messiness of your family. It’s easier to point at some other girl and say, Look what a loser she is. Not right, but easy.
Still. Becca didn’t deserve this ending. Not ever, but especially not after this last month. She’d say, I’ve always been so jealous of your natural highlights. Your freckles make me smile. How did I survive without you before this summer? All these little boosts built me up. Becca made me feel worthy in a way that only another girl can. She was all entitlement, peppermint, and no judgment. And sitting on her lumpy couch, watching the suggestion of her body under the tarp, I forgive her. Maybe she would have grown into a better person. Maybe she would have ruined some unsuspecting girl’s college experience. Doesn’t matter; she didn’t deserve to die.
Sweeny’s hand is light on my knee. Willa is flanked by two policemen and slumped in an overstuffed chair.
“Lana, can you hear me?” Sweeny asks, enunciating in an exaggerated way. The pocket of her silk blouse is stretched open by a compact digital camera. She was photographing the crime scene. Becca loved to have her photo taken. A man in a tan suit removes the glass from my hand. Everyone’s staring. “Lana, is there anything you can tell me about what you just saw?”
Panic makes me shudder. My thoughts skip from Becca’s hanged form to the outline of a monk clasping a rosary. They are stories, fiction, morbid fantasy. That’s the problem. They belong inside an imagination and not splashed around Gant by a vengeful hero. I wonder at what point a vengeful hero becomes a villain. Did Ben become the villain long before this and I just didn’t have the heart to admit it?
“You don’t understand,” I mutter. “What’s out there . . . it’s out of my head.” I jab my temple. “It doesn’t exist. It isn’t supposed to be real.”
“Lana, do you have any idea who hurt your friend?” Sweeny squeezes my knees. “Is there anything you can tell me about the person who did this?” I want to push her hands off me. Her eyes are darting, pinched slightly, suspicious. She’s right: I’m hiding something.
“I need to ask you some difficult questions, Lana.” She speaks slowly and loudly. She doesn’t need to. My senses are fine-tuned. I hear the swish of her silk blouse as she shifts her weight. “Your house is three down from here, correct?”
One quick nod from me.
“Did you see anyone out of the ordinary on your street this morning? Think hard. Did you hear anything?”
“No,” I say. “I was in my room. I can’t see Becca’s house from my window. I didn’t hear a thing until the sirens.”
Willa’s eyes are closed, her lips twitch, and her face is blotchy. She’s trying not to cry. It’s hard to stop thinking about Becca as the little girl with her hair in braids, her two front teeth, eyelashes, and eyes overwhelming her other features. Our friendship started with pumping our legs on my swing set, and it ends as she dangles by her neck from hers.
The tan suit slides a chair behind Sweeny. She roosts on the edge. She’s taller than I am on the sunken-in couch, and it makes me feel younger looking up at a roomful of adults. “What did you mean that this is something out of your head?” Sweeny says. I make my face impassive. I hadn’t meant to say that. “And while you were out on the deck, you said, ‘It’s mine.’ ” She glances toward Willa, whose eyes remain closed, and then refocuses her attention on me. “I’m certain that Ms. Owen heard it also.”
The uniforms and suits wait for my answer. They’re a smear of square chins dappled with whiskers and stroked by thumbs, fists on hips, and doughy waistlines that spill over belts with each deep breath. Sweeny is the only woman in the bunch. She has a better poker face. Only the sweat stains bleeding through the fabric of her blouse hint at her anxiety.
I shove my hands under my thighs to hide their shaking. Willa’s eyes open. I read them clearly. Tell them. Willa isn’t the one who needs to find words for the impossible. My dead stepbrother used to tell stories; I might have been addicted to their gore and adventure; I think that Ben found a way to come back; he’s picking off the boys and girls who were cruel to me.
Sweeny would have to consider me a suspect. All signs point to me as a killer, acting out stories only two of us knew. What’s worse is that I have a motive. Maggie killed Ben. I despised Ford. Becca spread lies about me.
“I had a nightmare about blackbirds last night,” I answer at last. “We found the one with the dead dogs yesterday.” I am guilty for lying, but Becca can’t be helped; she’s gone. I wonder how gone, though, if our island is the kind of in-between place where the dead can exist.
Sweeny watches me. “Had anyone ever told you that rosary peas were poisonous before the day Detective Ward and I spoke to you about them?” I let the couch cushions swallow more of me. I fade into their pale, watercolor world. “I’m not asking because anyone suspects you, Lana.” No, not yet. “The coroner determined that Ford Holland, the boy who disappeared several nights ago, was poisoned by them also. These crimes are quite unusual, puzzling with surreal elements.”
“I didn’t know about rosary peas,” I lie softly.
“Humph,” she sighs. Perhaps the note of disbelief isn’t really there. Sweeny leans forward. “I adhere to one principle in solving my cases, Lana. I believe that without exception everything is related and that atypical events and violent crimes should be viewed in relation to one another. Common links need to be identified. Do you understand?”
I shake my head, even though I worry I do. In my peripheral vision, Willa cranes forward; a puzzle’s been presented for her to solve.
“There have been an unprecedented number of violent deaths perpetrated on this island over the last two months. First your stepbrother’s in June, then Ms. Lewis’s, followed by Mr. Holland’s, and now this gruesome hanging. Their proximity in location and time would be enough to link them, at least preliminarily; their uniquely surreal circumstances strengthen this link. As a detective, it’s my job to ask how these victims are connected. Are they the random victims of one killer? Are they connected only by location and season? Or do they have more in common?”
My inhale is harsh in my ears.
“At first glance you are a common link,” she says purposefully. “There has to be a reason for that, correct?” She tilts her head, waiting. I give her nothing. “Why would an ordinary teenager be connected to four separate tragic deaths when most go their entire lives without suffering one? Detective Ward believes that you are not ordinary or innocent. He’s been exploring the possibility that you are either directly involved or that you know the perpetrator and are keeping his or her name from us. We’re still looking for Fitzgerald Moore. We’ve been told by several community members that Ben had a friendship with him and that the Holland boy’s older brother attacked him several years ago.
“We’ve been to his campsite, and it doesn’t appear that he’s slept there for a week or more. The detective here believes that you may be keeping quiet because of a misguided sense of compassion for this sick individual. I may not agree with my colleague, but Mr. Moore’s whereabouts do need to be ascertained.” She raises a nail-bitten finger. “It is my suspicion that our focus should be trained not on you, but rather on your stepbrother.”
I wait; so does Sweeny. Ward’s glare pins me to the couch. They couldn’t possibly suspect what I believe. I’m bewildered, and it must show, because Sweeny gives Ward a meaningful glance before she continues. “I’m operating under the assumption that Ben’s death was the inciting incident to all this. It led to Maggie, to Ford, and now here, to your friend.” Her eyes flick toward the terrace, where the breeze rustles the tarp. “I believe that finding your stepbrother’s killer means finding the perpetrator of these related crimes. Scorned girlfriends don’t usually plot carjackings. I knew Maggie was withholding information from us, and I suspected that she conspired with the unidentified man on the highway. Was the murder premeditated? Was it a carjacking gone terribly wrong? What if Maggie wasn’t more than an unwitting accomplice?
“This is a theory that I’ve spent the last two months searching for proof of. Ms. Lewis’s body being found suggests that she was under duress, perhaps to keep quiet about the identity of Ben’s murderer. What if under coercion, Maggie was prompted to show up at your home as she did? Perhaps she was not the mastermind of the attack and instead was tasked with drawing Ben from home that night. If this is the case, it isn’t Maggie’s anger with Ben over the end of a relationship but this unknown man’s motive in question. Few teenage boys have deadly acquaintances. At first I looked at possible enemies of your father and stepmother.” My eyebrows pinch. I’ve been thinking of Ben’s killer as Maggie’s accomplice, her friend even. What if this isn’t the case? What if she couldn’t describe the shadow man’s face because she was afraid to?
Sweeny’s theory means that Ben shares a killer with the others, with Becca, and if that’s the case, then there are no traces of Ben left over. Ben isn’t a vengeful hero or villain. “Your father is well liked in the community; we didn’t find any grudges against him. But Diane was more difficult to investigate,” Sweeny continues, “both because there’s little information available and because she wasn’t forthcoming when I interviewed her in person at Calm Coast. We can’t compel her without evidence that she’s willfully withholding. And her doctors are adamant that she may not have the mental faculties to remember.”
“She’s sad,” I whisper.
Sweeny frowns. “True as that may be, it’s unusual when the mother of a dead child doesn’t cooperate fully.” An awkward moment passes. “I believe that if I find your stepbrother’s killer, I will have found the person guilty of all this.”
An abrupt ache is opening up in my chest and I want to touch my knees to it, curl into a ball, and go invisible. “Are you aware that Ben went to eight different schools in eight states during the six years before Diane married your father, Lana?”
My fingernails dig into the fleshy stuffing of the couch. When we were little, I knew that magical things appear out of nowhere. To me, Ben was the most magical. I wanted Ben to be past-less. It meant that there was nothing else to know about him. “No,” I say.
“I obtained Ben’s school records, which included the transcript from his middle school before he moved to Gant. Then I called that school and requested those records and so on. This is how I plotted Diane and Ben’s progress across the country. They lived for no longer than ten months in each town. Short durations like that are unusual unless a parent has a job that relocates him or her often. I can’t find any record of Diane working. None of the schools had emergency contact info for family other than Diane. The last school I located, an elementary in Atlanta where he was in the second grade, had no previous records. It’s where their trail ends.” She watches my reaction. “Do you know where Ben was born, Lana?”
I’m nauseated answering. “The south.”
“The south where?”
“South of the country.” I am lost and embarrassed at how little I know. “Don’t police have access to past addresses? Can’t you type in Diane and Ben Wright and let your database spit out the answers?”
“Not always. Not under certain circumstances,” Ward says, stepping out from behind Sweeny and adding, “Did Ben ever share memories with you of his early childhood?” before I can get What circumstances? out. “A city or state or landmark he remembered? An amusement park or zoo they spent a day at? Someone’s—anyone’s—name?”
“I don’t think so.” Ben rarely shared memories. If he did, they were disjointed and brightly painted snapshots of a bizarre nomadic life. I knew they moved around; I didn’t know how often or why.
“And you know none of the places Ben lived before the second grade,” Sweeny says.
I squint, trying to picture what Ben might have looked like so young. Although our walls are covered with framed pictures of our family of four, there are no photos of Ben before Gant. “Ben lived with his mom,” I say, and then, “I’m going to be sick. I need to go home, please.”
Sweeny’s expression falls, and her lips flatten into a straight line. “I understand. Maybe tomorrow I can come by. Once we’ve processed evidence here, I’m sure we’ll have additional questions. My condolences regarding your friend. The officer”—she waves to a policeman crossing from the kitchen—“will walk you out.”
As I’m led away, I watch the shrinking double doors over my shoulder and another officer dragging the blue tarp to the ground. The swing set groans as a strong gust of wind sets Becca’s boneless, rag-doll body swinging.
We were so stupid last night with our prank, bonfire, traded kisses, and peppermint schnapps. I’ve been so stupid to believe—to hope—that Ben could be here. It’s sick that I was happy and grateful when I believed Ben hurt Maggie and Ford for me. I’ve been pathetic imagining that I can sense Ben near. Anywhere. Gant isn’t an in-between place. And dead is dead.
– 25 –
Josh and the others are heaps on the grass, their parents scattered around, all attempting to draw their kids in the directions of waiting cars. Carolynn and Duncan stand connected by her head resting on his shoulder. Josh is doubled over. Rusty is crouched on the grass, a clumpy mess of vomit between his sneakers.
“We need to get out of here,” Willa says, eyeing a Channel 6 news truck closing in on Becca’s driveway.
Josh glances up; his face is red and misshapen from crying. All the pluck has been stomped out of him. I want to have the strength to kneel at his side, hold him up, comfort him. I’ve lost more people, although apparently, in this, practice does not make perfect. The others don’t notice us, their eyes fixed on Becca’s house, ghosts playing on their features as they try to will Becca into springing alive.
Uniformed officers with dogs on leashes crawl up the terraced hill across the street. A helicopter flies low over the thick brush; its propellers have the effect of a hair dryer, parting the boughs, exposing them to their roots.
The last fifteen minutes compress into fifteen seconds and play on a loop in my head. Sweeny’s and Ward’s suspicions tangle, converge, and fork. A string of murders are threaded together like the peas on my rosary.
Willa drags me in the direction of my house and doesn’t stop until we’re inside, the alarm set, and the doors and windows bolted. Basel is collapsed in the middle of the living room rug. He’s a purring pile of rust-colored fur, tail swatting obliviously.
Willa speaks quietly on her cell. “Call us back, Mr. McBrook.” She wanders into the kitchen and argues in hushed tones during her next call. Principal Owen’s likely on the other line.
After she finishes, she sits cross-legged beside the coffee table. “I left a message for your dad.” She hugs herself. “Out of sensitivity to your obviously overloaded emotions and rapidly firing synapses, I should give you time,” Willa says. She dabs a finger at the gathering wetness in the corner of her eye. “But this whole situation is too unimaginable. Becca is dead. Murdered. Gruesomely. What did we just see, and why did you say it was yours?”
Unimaginable is the word Willa throws out. It buzzes around my head. I’m angry, sad for Becca, though what happened to her isn’t unimaginable for me. For an awful split second I even let myself think it was what Becca deserved. Staring at my palms, I tell Willa the story of “The Lovely Scarecrow.” It’s difficult to look into her face and see the judgment there. Willa’s always known who she is. I think that’s rare, even for adults. Ben and I were two kids grappling with right and wrong; with who we wanted to grow into; with love and hate; with how to be brave in the face of our problems. We didn’t watch the news back then, where coverage shows villages bombed, girls kidnapped, and people killed for what they say or for the color of their skin or for their beliefs. But we might have sensed that the world was as scary as all that. Our island was far away from the violent world, and yet there existed shades of violence around us. Perhaps we were using our stories to prepare ourselves for dealing with it?
After a long silence, Willa says, “Ben’s stories were really gruesome. That didn’t disturb you?” There’s reproach in her tone.
My arms shield my chest. “Video games and HBO are way worse,” I say defensively. “They were make-believe like that. They weren’t real. We weren’t being hateful. They made me feel braver than what I was: a little girl her dad called Bumblebee, who needed her unicorn night-light, who got bossed around by Mariella or the nanny of the week, and who missed her dead mom.” Willa’s lines go runny as I near tears. “And I’m not stupid. I know there must have been scary stuff when Ben was a kid and that he was trying to feel braver than all of it too.”
