Misdirection, page 26
part #2 of Borealis: Without a Compass Series
It was after nine, dark, and where light pollution reached the low hanging clouds, the sky had the faintly uneven blankness of cleaved slate.
“Shit,” North said, steadying the hand with one wheel as he dug his phone out of his pocket. “I’ve got to call that Griffin woman back.”
“Oh, I talked to her.”
“What?”
“Yeah, when you were getting Danny packed. She called me because she said you weren’t answering.”
“What’d she say? Is she going to pay her bill?”
Shaw shook his head. “I told her not to worry about it.”
The GTO’s stereo was playing the Pussycat Dolls.
North put both hands on the wheel. “You what?”
“I told her not to worry about it.” Shaw must have heard something in the silence because he shifted in his seat. “She was crying, North. You should have heard her. She was so upset because she couldn’t pay, and she knows she owes the money, but things are tight, and she thinks the financial strain will give her a heart attack.”
“And you told her that she didn’t have to pay the bill.” It didn’t sound like a question when it came out of his mouth.
“Well, yeah. I mean, it’s not like we need the money—”
“We do need the money, Shaw. God damn it. We invoiced her for almost five thousand dollars. Zion worked that case; I’ve got to pay him.”
“You said we were way ahead of where we were last year.”
“We were. Now, because you’re a soft touch, who fucking knows?”
“I don’t know why you’re talking to me like this. We’ve got plenty to pay the bills, and—”
“Because we did the work, Shaw. We earned that money. It’s ours; she owes it to us.”
“She’s in a really bad place. And there are more important things than money.”
“Easy for you to say.”
The GTO passed over a patch, bouncing North in his seat.
“What was that?”
“If we talk about this anymore, I’m going to lose my shit.”
“Fine.”
North stifled the urge to have the last word, and they drove the next forty miles in silence. The Pussycat Dolls explained that they didn’t need a man. North was right fucking there with them.
When they hit the city limits, Shaw said, “I didn’t like that video. With Flip.”
“I know.” The brusqueness of the response made North wince internally, and he softened his voice as he added, “I’m sorry you had to see it.”
“No, I mean, something felt off about it. Wrong.”
“Ok.”
“You think I’m making it up.”
“I think,” North said carefully, “that it would be nice to think that Flip didn’t kill himself, but that video was very convincing.”
“He said goodbye to Hiwet.”
“What?”
“He said goodbye to Hiwet, but she’s dead.”
North waited.
“He didn’t know she had died,” Shaw said. “He thought she was still alive. He didn’t have anything to do with her killing.”
“But that doesn’t mean anything in terms of the video itself. He could have killed himself whether or not he knew what had happened to Hiwet.”
“Isn’t it strange, though? I mean, why didn’t he know? I’m telling you, something feels really hinky.”
“Shaw, he said his name, he said today’s date, and he said goodbye. You saw the video, and you saw what it did to his dad. It seems pretty straightforward.”
“But—”
“If he faked it, why? He’d already gotten away. Why would he need to fake his own death?”
“I don’t know, but I’m telling you, I don’t like it.”
They followed I-55 into the city, cut up I-44, and exited on Kingshighway toward North’s Southampton duplex. The streets had the amber glow of late night; the garage door rattled down behind them, and they sat in darkness with the smell of cold metal and motor oil.
“Are you going to call Dr. Farr?”
“It’s late. It’s not an emergency; I don’t want to bother her at home.”
“First thing tomorrow, then.”
“I guess.”
The engine ticked as it cooled. North pulled on the door handle, but not all the way. Then, after another moment, he let out a breath and gave the handle a jerk. The door popped open, and he pushed his way out of the car.
“I’m going to do some laundry so you’ll have something to wear besides those ugly-ass jeans.”
“I like these jeans,” Shaw said, sliding out of the passenger door. “You bought me these jeans.”
“I bought them from the Dollar General because I had literally no other option, and they practically swallow your skinny ass whole—”
“Oh my God.”
“Come on, you know I like your ass. I’m talking about the jeans.”
“Oh my God.”
North threw a look over his shoulder. Shaw was halfway around the GTO, but he had frozen with one hand on the hood. The weak light filtering in through the street painted a mask of shadows across half his face; the other half, though, was rigid with shock. No, North corrected himself. Realization.
“I know why we couldn’t figure out how Flip disappeared,” Shaw said. “He never left the residence. He’s still there.” A grin broke out across his face.
Groaning, North shook “Don’t say it.”
“Flip has been inside me the whole time.”
North raised an eyebrow.
“It sounded better in my head.”
“Please shut up.”
Chapter 27
THEY TOOK THE STEPS down into Washington’s basement slowly, trying to make as little noise as possible. The access card had allowed them into the kitchen, and the house was dark and silent. Or mostly silent. It was an old house, and it creaked as it settled, the occasional pop of a joist as wood shrank and expanded. But there was no sign that anyone else inside the residence was awake, and North wanted to keep things that way. Especially if this batshit idea of Shaw’s was right.
The perfume of detergent floated up from the laundry room, and North remembered what Shaw had told him the first time they had walked the campus, that kids did their crying in the laundry rooms, where the noise from the machines would cover up other sounds.
Shaw stopped, and North brushed up against his back before catching himself. A fumbling sound came from the right. Then fluorescent panels flicked on overhead, illuminating the length of the hallway. Ballast buzzed and hummed. One of the panels flickered—rapidly at first, and then more slowly, a strobing effect that made North blink. The only open door in the hallway led into the laundry room, where the ghostly white and stainless steel of the appliances glimmered. Shaw reached through the doorway and hit that light switch too. More fluorescent tubes hummed to life.
“I knew the background in that suicide video looked familiar,” Shaw whispered as he pointed to the cement-block walls. “And look.” He pointed to the gap between the machines. “If you plan it right, you can have the camera fall so it looks like you’re hanging, but really, he was just supporting himself with a hand on each machine and kicking his feet.”
“It’s a public room. Why take that kind of risk? Someone could have walked in on him.”
“Well, like I said, lots of kids don’t do their own laundry, so it actually wasn’t that big of a risk, and it’s common courtesy—at least, it was back in my day—not to come inside if the door was closed. In case, you know, you were sobbing your heart out because your parents sat you down for an incredibly passive-aggressive conversation about ‘your potential’ and ‘thinking long-term’ and ‘law school.’” He drew air quotes around each the phrases. “The polite thing was to go back upstairs and give whoever was bawling a chance to finish crying and leave so everybody could pretend nothing had happened.”
“Jesus. And you think I’m bad about not expressing myself? You rich twats have it down to an art.”
“Don’t say twats. And don’t be classist. Anyway, he also could have recorded that video in the middle of the night, and that would have lowered the risk of being caught even more.”
“Especially if he had somebody in this house helping him. Why this room, though? Why not one of the bedrooms that aren’t in use?”
Shaw pointed to the exposed joists. “The ceilings in the other rooms are finished, and he needed somewhere to tie the rope, even if it was just for show.”
They moved back into the hall, and Shaw produced his set of common keys, opening each bedroom door as they went. Again, they were assaulted by the chill, mildewed air of rooms that had been closed up for a long time. They left each door open, the lights burning in each room, as they moved down the hall. A diligent security guard might wonder why the basement lights were on at almost midnight, but this was a fat-cat school in a cushy suburb. The guards had proven their own general lack of prowess up to this point; North guessed that the lights would be attributed, if they were noticed at all, to rich kids doing dumb shit.
And then they came to a room that was different from the ones before it. The air was warm, and it smelled of an unwashed body and greasy take-out—a kind of desperate, holed-up rancidity that North had smelled on previous jobs with hoarders and shut-ins. It was packed with all kinds of junk: metal bed frames on adjustable lifts, stackable plastic chairs, a plaid loveseat standing upright, cardboard boxes marked PTO 1972. Like the other basement rooms, it was clearly doubling as storage space, but the longer North studied it, the easier it was to spot the differences. Several of the metal bed frames had been pushed together, and they were all lofted to create the maximum space underneath; a folding table, legs collapsed, lay on top of the frames; the loveseat’s cushions and the cardboard boxes were stacked to form a wall. Together, the arrangement created a kiddie fort. When North took a step toward the door, Shaw caught him, one hand on North’s chest.
“Flip?” Shaw called into the room. His voice was soft, but it wasn’t quiet, and it held no doubt. “Flip, you can come out now.”
Nothing. After a moment, Shaw pointed down the hall to the door to the next room, and North moved to stand in front of it.
“Flip?” North opened the door and turned on the lights, inspecting another collection of boxes and dusty furniture. “We know about the false panels in the closets. We’re watching both rooms. If you make us, we’ll drag you out. This’ll be easier for everyone if you play along.”
Shaw shot North a hard look and jerked his head. “We got off on the wrong foot. Let’s start over. Hi, Flip. My name is Shaw Aldrich. My friend’s name is North McKinney. Your parents asked us to help them find you because they’re very worried about you. I’m guessing the last few days have been really hard. Really scary. You’ve been down here hiding, hoping things will just get back to normal because you’re ready to move on with your life. I bet you feel like nobody can help you. But we want to help you; we just need you to tell us how.” Shaw waited; when no response came, he added, “Maybe you can start by opening the closet door so we can talk to each other a little more easily.
Another long silence. And then the closet door must have opened because the sound of hinges protesting came from the room that Shaw was watching. North rejoined Shaw.
“Please just go away.” Flip’s voice; North recognized it from the videos. He sounded close to tears. “Please. Everything was going to be ok, and now it’s all ruined. Please go away. Please, please, please go away.”
“We can’t do that,” North said.
Shaw threw another look his direction. “Why don’t we start with just talking? Can you come out of there so we can talk? We’ll stay in the hallway if it makes you feel better, but I’d like to see your face and know that you’re all right.”
A fine-boned hand emerged first, nudging the door open further, and then Flip stepped into view. It was the same kid from the photographs at the Chittenden house, the same kid from the MyFans videos: a boy growing into manhood, his brown hair oily and lank from days without washing, his eyes hollowed with shadows. He wore a sweatshirt and joggers and sneakers. He hugged himself and looked away.
“Hi. I’m Shaw.”
“Please don’t make me go back. Please. You’re ruining everything.”
“Look, kid,” North said, “whatever you think you’re fixing, running away isn’t the answer. Your parents are going crazy worrying about you.”
“They’re not worried about me.”
“Maybe. I don’t know. They sure seem like they are. Either way, though, you’ve got to go back. That’s the law. And, in case it makes you feel any better, it’s what’s best for you. Right now, as far as most of the world is concerned, you’re dead. You can’t have a life if you’re dead. You can’t go to college. You can’t get a job.”
“I don’t care.” The words burst out with a teenage petulance so classic that it almost sounded rehearsed, but the look on Flip’s face, the look he flashed at North before turning away again, was genuine. “I just want it all to be over.”
“It doesn’t matter—”
“North,” Shaw whispered. “Back off.”
North raised his eyebrows, but he whispered back, “He’s going home. He shouldn’t get any false impressions about that.”
“Ok, but he’s also a kid and he’s freaking out. Can we just talk to him for a few minutes?”
North made a be-my-guest gesture.
“I bet these last few days have been awful,” Shaw said.
After a moment, Flip gave a sullen shrug. “It’s not too bad. I’ve got one of the school tablets and a space heater, and I could get food delivered sometimes.”
“But no bathroom? No shower?”
“There’s a bathroom down the hall. I bought one of those chemical toilets just in case. I put it down here with a lot of water. And some of those protein bars.”
“That’s really impressive. It sounds like you thought things through.”
He let out a short, unhappy laugh. “Yeah, I did great, didn’t I?”
“Do you want to tell me about it?”
“What do you care? You’re, like, a hundred years old and you wouldn’t understand.”
North couldn’t help it: the look of outrage on Shaw’s face was so strong that he smiled. Then he grunted when Shaw elbowed him without looking over.
“Sometimes it helps to talk about things. I tell North everything. Well, pretty much everything.”
“He tells me too much,” North said. “He told me about a dream he had where he was playing parcheesi with Rasputin, and then they both had to go vote in the municipal election, and there was something about Dracula eating cereal.”
“Count Chocula,” Shaw said. “And that part was a sex dream.”
A wet laugh burbled up from Flip; this one sounded much closer to genuine amusement. He wiped his eyes and cast a long look at them before his gaze cut away again. “You guys are, like, boyfriends?”
“Yes,” North said. “Unfortunately.”
“No,” Shaw said at the same time.
“Excuse me?”
“Well, you never asked me. You just showed up with the champagne and fucked me one day. Actually, first you shot a load all over my floor. And I had to clean it up, North.”
Face hot, North said, “What the actual fuck, Shaw? We’d known each other for eight years. I didn’t just show up on a stranger’s door, buttfuck him, and then start pretending he was my boyfriend.”
“No,” Shaw said patiently, “you shot a load on my floor first. And you didn’t wipe it up. That’s really bad manners. Especially without asking.”
Flip giggled and wiped his face. He looked feverish, with his cheeks flushed and his eyes dilated. “You can just go away, right? You didn’t tell anyone, so you can just leave and pretend you never found me, and in a couple of days I’ll be gone. As soon as people stopped looking, I was going to leave. And I’ll never bother anyone again. I can take care of myself, I promise.”
“What’s going on?” Shaw said. “We can’t help you if you don’t tell us what’s going on.”
“Nothing!” With what looked like a great deal of effort, Flip brought his volume down again. “Nothing. I just—I just want to be done with all of this. I hate them, and I hate who I am, and I want to be done and be someone else.”
“You’re almost legally an adult,” North said. “It’s going to be over soon enough, and you won’t have to destroy your life to get away from it.”
“You don’t understand,” Flip moaned, near tears again. “It’ll never be over. If I stay now, I’ll never get away.”
“Flip, please.” Shaw took a step inside the room. Flip flinched, and Shaw held up his hands and made a coaxing noise. When he took the next step, Flip didn’t move, so he kept advancing. “Is someone hurting you? Whoever they are, if they’re hurting you, we can make it stop. We can help you.”
“No,” Flip said, shaking his head as he began to cry.
Shaw reached him then, wrapping Flip in a hug, and Flip dissolved into wracking sobs. It went on and on, and all North could do was watch, his heart breaking as Shaw rocked the boy and stroked his hair and whispered to him.
Finally Flip calmed down enough to sit on the floor; Shaw kept an arm around him, and Flip rested his head on Shaw’s shoulder. For the first time that night, North could see how thin the boy had been stretched, the layers of comfort and security and shelter stripped back, and all that remained was an exhausted, terrified man-child who had been pushed to his limits.
