by Meg Muldoon
“You really think Mr. Clayton is going to lift a finger to help anybody in this town? Let alone a poor family like ours?”
She shook her head.
“If he’d known Philip had given me and Leroy a ride yesterday, he’d probably disown his son over it.”
Warren furrowed his brow.
“But I thought… I thought you and Philip were…”
Mae let out a scoff.
“Even if Mr. Clayton approved of me, I would never approve of Philip. He likes me, and it was plenty nice of him to give us a ride yesterday. But between you and me, Philip Clayton is a regular fat-head.”
Warren’s heart practically soared straight out of his chest.
He drove down Main Street, passing The Pine Needle Tavern, trying to stifle back a smile that would have blinded the entire town.
“Phil’s foolish and arrogant and he gets his kicks killing animals out in the woods by the lakes,” Mae continued.
Warren felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up at that.
“Come again?” he said.
“Like I said. Phil goes out and shoots animals like porcupines and raccoons just for the fun of it. Not because he needs to eat ‘em. Just for the fun of it, he says. He talks to me about it in English class. I try to ignore him, but he won’t quit talking about it.”
Mae shook her head.
“If you ask me, he’s sick.”
Warren headed south through town. Though he had never been to the Reed house, he knew where it was.
“You can just drop me off here,” Mae said when they turned on Redington Road. “I can walk the rest of the way.”
“I don’t mind dropping you off at your house,” he said.
She sucked in a deep breath and suddenly appeared to be nervous, but she didn’t argue.
When the house came into view, Warren realized why she’d wanted to be dropped off at the end of the street.
It was a small ramshackle home that Warren couldn’t imagine fitting a married couple, let alone an entire family. It was situated right by the railroad tracks, and Warren knew that when a train went by, the house must have trembled like a green leaf in an early autumn snowstorm.
He pulled up to the house. Mae looked over at him, studying his face for a long moment.
“How come you’ve never talked to me before?” she asked.
“It just… it just never seemed like the right time, I guess,” he mumbled.
For a moment, Warren became lost in her fierce, beautiful eyes.
Mae gave him a half smile. Then she climbed out of the car.
He watched as she walked up to the house and opened the door. He could hear the sounds of a child wailing coming from inside.
Warren drove away, thinking about that sweet smile of Mae Reed’s.
And thinking that she had it wrong when she said nobody else in town would help Leroy.
Chapter 10
Warren had been dreading dinnertime.
He knew that his mother must have told his father about Warren keeping something from the Sheriff. And he knew that his father would be waiting to grill him all about it through dinner.
But to Warren’s surprise, none of that happened. Dinner came and went without either his father or his mother asking a single question.
The family ate their casserole in silence. When his father retired to the living room to listen to the radio, Warren helped his mother clear the dishes. She washed them in the kitchen, not saying so much as a single word to her son. Then she brought out the silver platter, along with some cleaning solution. She polished it in silence.
By then, Warren caught on that his mother hadn’t told his father about earlier.
He also surmised from her silence that she was still upset at him about it.
“Ma? About earlier when the Sheriff was here? I wanted you to know that—”
“It’s fine, Wren,” she said, not taking her eyes off of the silver platter.
Etta Peters didn’t say anything more after that.
Warren drew in a deep breath.
Then he got up, grabbed his hat, and left the house.
Chapter 11
Warren found himself driving back down that dirt road leading up to the lakes, thinking about Mae Reed and those beautiful sad eyes of hers.
He didn’t know how he was going to help the Reed family. Hell, he couldn’t even get a passing grade in English. How was he going to help prove that Leroy was innocent?
Who did Warren think he was? Humphrey Bogart?
The sun was slouching toward the horizon as Warren pulled up next to the general store. Pete’s car was gone, and the place was closed up and empty.
Warren got out of his car. The wind had kicked up and he could taste frost on the air.
He wondered if it might not snow tonight. Snowstorms weren’t unheard of in May here in Central Oregon. Winter had a tight grip in this part of the country, and most years, she didn’t let go without a fight.
Warren stood in front of the general store, gazing numbly at the blood stains on the dusty ground.
He didn’t know much of such things, but he did know that shooting a man in the back was cowardly business. The man being shot had no chance to respond, no chance to retaliate. Most of the time, he probably had no idea what hit him or who hated him so badly they wanted him dead.
Maybe it also spoke to the perpetrator of the act, too, and what kind of person they were. A cowardly person, too ashamed to even look in the face of—
Just then, Warren thought he heard the sound of branches breaking somewhere in the distance across the lake.
He turned around, his eyes scanning the woods that were growing darker with each passing minute.
Warren could see nothing, but he’d been sure of what he’d heard. He was also sure that it had been something heavy snapping those branches. Warren took pride in his good hearing, and he didn’t ever second guess himself when it came to that – unlike his vision, which wasn’t nearly as good.
Warren headed in the direction of the sound, quietly walking away from the dirt road and into the shadowy woods. The sun was descending quickly now, and above, the tree canopy had caught fire with the dying light.
He walked silently, avoiding branches and debris that would make noise.
He heard another crackling sound in the distance.
Just then, Warren noticed something flash in the thick forest up ahead.
It was a long beam of light that cut through the shadows.
A flashlight, he realized.
The light hit his face suddenly, and he instinctively jumped behind a large tree trunk. He knelt down, his fingers sinking into the damp soil.
Warren’s heart hammered hard in his ribcage.
“Who’s there!?” a voice cried out from somewhere beyond the tree trunk.
Warren thought for a moment about yelling back and showing his face. But something in his bones told him not to. Like one of those superstitious feelings that Pete was always talking about.
Warren held his tongue and listened some more.
After a few moments of silence, he could hear the breaking of twigs again. When he thought enough time had passed, Warren drew in a deep breath, gathered up his courage, and stuck his head out from behind the tree trunk.
At first, he could only make out the shadowy figure of a man in the woods. Warren watched the figure for a long time, and he realized that it looked familiar to him.
It was the same one he’d seen when he came to the lake on Sunday night. The one carrying a rifle. The one he thought was Leroy.
Of course now, it couldn’t be Leroy.
The figure wasn’t making much progress, ambling slowly along. Warren noticed that the flashlight wasn’t so much lighting the way for the figure as it was scouring the forest floor. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and—
The man knelt down suddenly, reaching for something on the ground. Warren saw the glint of something metallic as the man dropped the thing he had pic
ked up into the jacket of his pocket.
Warren’s eyes widened.
Then he felt something else.
A tickling of the hairs of his nose.
At first, it was subtle.
But before Warren knew it, the sensation became unbearable. It was spring pollen that was the cause, and though Warren tried to fight it, he knew there wasn’t much he could do.
He muffled it as best he could.
“Achoooo!”
Just as he sneezed, the gnarly twig he’d been leaning against snapped. The sound echoed loudly through the forest.
“Who is that!” the man’s voice rang out as the light swung in Warren’s direction.
Warren held in his breath and quietly cursed his weakness for spring pollen.
He heard the sound of heavy footsteps on the forest floor. They were coming in his direction.
“Chicken! Show yourself!”
Warren felt his insides tremble like Marionberry jam.
He was caught. And there was nothing he could do.
He prepared for the worst.
But to his surprise, the sound of the footsteps stopped just short of his hiding place.
There was a moment of silence. The man was so close, Warren could hear him breathing. Ragged, uneven breaths.
Scared breaths, Warren realized.
He closed his eyes and waited.
A moment later, the sound of those heavy footsteps went in the opposite direction and became faint.
Warren steeled himself.
Then he peeked around the tree trunk again.
It was a flash. A moment right before the man disappeared into the dark shadows.
But in that flash, Warren saw everything he needed to know.
Warren hid again, pressing his back to the tree, his heart racing inside his chest.
He gazed out through the trees as the last light of the day hit the front porch of the general store in the distance, listening to those footsteps until the sound of them disappeared.
Chapter 12
Warren had been up most of the night, going over it in his head.
And now, he was nearly certain that Leroy Reed had nothing to do with Clyde Driggs being shot.
Only Warren couldn’t go to the Sheriff just yet. It wouldn’t be right. Because being nearly certain wasn’t the same as being certain.
So after school that day, Warren waited in the parking lot of Christmas River High by the red hard-top convertible.
The dusting of snow that had fallen overnight was long gone by now, and the sun was shining strong in a pale blue spring sky.
After about ten minutes, Warren spotted him coming across the lot.
Philip Clayton was wearing the same letterman jacket that he’d been wearing the night before in the woods. He was surrounded by a pack of jock friends and was laughing like a fool. He looked cheerful, like he didn’t have a care in the world.
Only Warren had seen him in the woods the night before and knew otherwise.
One by one, the jocks peeled off to their own cars. Philip was alone by the time he got to the convertible.
“You got a moment to talk, Phil?”
Philip opened the side door and tossed his text books in.
“If this is about that Reed girl and her brother, I told you – you got me confused with somebody else. I wasn’t anywhere near the general store the other day.”
Warren could detect fear in Philip’s voice as he spoke – and Warren suddenly felt very certain that he was right.
Right that it was Philip – not Leroy – who he’d seen Sunday night out in the woods around Sparks Lake. That Philip was out killing animals with his rifle, the way he bragged to Mae about. That on the morning Mr. Driggs was shot in the back, Philip was out there again.
And that Philip had been the one to shoot Mr. Driggs that morning.
Because Warren had seen Philip out there the night before, looking for shell casings and any other evidence he might have left behind in the woods. Trying to cover his tracks.
“I know that you’re lying, Philip,” Warren said, feeling emboldened by the fear in the jock’s voice. “You know how I know? Because I saw you last night.”
Something angry passed across Philip’s eyes, then.
“So that was you,” Philip said, poking a sharp finger into Warren’s shoulder. “Where do you get off spying on people? You cruisin’ for a bruisin?’”
Philip started stepping toward Warren, readying for a fight.
Warren didn’t back down.
“You shot him, didn’t you? You shot Mr. Driggs,” Warren said in a strong voice.
Philip stopped in his tracks. His eyes grew wide. His mouth dropped a little.
He stayed like that for a long, long minute.
“This is about that Reed girl, isn’t it?” Philip said, rage flashing across his eyes. “You’ve got a crush on her, and you think we’re together so you’re making all this up.”
Philip’s face scrunched up with disgust.
“Listen – you can have her. Broad’s no good, anyway. Comes from a family of bottom feeders and she’ll always be one—”
What happened next wasn’t one of Warren’s prouder moments.
But when Philip started talking about Mae in that tone, something inside of him snapped.
Fire erupted in Warren’s knuckles as he landed a hard punch smack dab in the middle of Philip Clayton’s stupid square jaw. The big jock reeled backwards at the hit, almost as surprised as Warren was.
It was then that Warren realized he’d just committed an act that could affect the rest of his life.
He’d just punched Philip Clayton in the face. Not just the most popular guy in school. Not just the quarterback of the football team. But the son of Basil Clayton – the richest and most influential man in Christmas River.
Not to mention the man who employed Warren’s father.
Warren backed away in the parking lot, watching as Philip staggered to his feet. The jock was holding his jaw like it might come unhinged if he let go. Warren waited for Philip to come at him. To retaliate.
But the moment never came.
Philip just stood there, hunched over, holding his jaw.
Then, Warren heard the sob.
Philip’s entire body began convulsing.
Big fat tears hit the concrete.
“You’re right,” he wailed. “It’s my fault! I shot Mr. Driggs!”
Chapter 13
Later that afternoon, the two boys sat at The Marionberry Diner downtown. Philip had ordered a strawberry ice cream shake and was slurping it down nervously.
“You don’t know what it’s like,” Philip said in a low voice between slurps. “You don’t know what it’s like to be Basil Clayton’s son in this town.”
It had taken nearly half an hour before Philip Clayton had stopped sobbing like a little boy. And in that time, Warren saw the jock for what he was.
A frightened kid who had done something stupid, and was now lily white scared of the consequences.
Warren thought if he bought him a shake, it might calm him down. And so far, it seemed to be working. Philip was finally talking in coherent sentences. And although his jaw was swelling up from where Warren had punched him, at least he’d stopped crying.
“My dad doesn’t like me going out in the woods and hunting,” Philip said. “He says it’s not fitting behavior for the future Governor of Oregon. That’s what he says I’m going to be. But I don’t want to be governor. Hell, I don’t even want to run that stupid old mill one day like him. All I want to do is get the hell out of this nowheresville town and have some adventure.”
Philip sucked down his shake in big, beefy gulps.
“The only thing I like doing is being out in the woods – away from him. That’s why I spend so much time out there. I can’t stand being at home. I was out there all night and into the morning – the morning that Mr. Driggs was…”
Philip trailed off, looking out the window that faced Main S
treet.
Warren noticed that Sandra, the diner waitress, was stealing glances in their direction every once in a while. She’d noticed Philip’s swollen jaw, as well as Warren’s bloodied hand.
“I was doing some target practice that morning,” Philip continued in a voice that was barely above a whisper. “Nobody’s ever out that early at Sparks Lake. I was having a good time. But a little later, I heard some commotion down near the general store. When I got back into town, I heard about Mr. Driggs getting shot in the back. And I… it was an accident. An accident. I never meant to shoot him. I swear.”
Philip finished off the rest of his shake. He ran a hand through his muddy-brown hair.
“My father’s going to kill me. I’ll never become governor after they find out about this. Murderers don’t become governors. They don’t…”
A couple of big, fat tears spilled over Philip’s cheeks. He turned his face toward the window so nobody would see.
“Philip – we have to go to the Sheriff’s office. Don’t you see? They got Leroy sitting in jail for the crime. If Mr. Driggs dies, then they’ll charge him with murder. Do you know what that means?”
Philip tugged at the collar of his jacket.
“Yeah, I know what it means,” he said nervously. “It means that if I tell them the truth, then I’m the one going away for murder instead.”
“It was an accident,” Warren said. “An accident. People will understand.”
“No, they won’t,” he said in a high, screechy tone.
Warren could see how scared he was. And he could see that his words about justice weren’t getting through to Philip.
“My father most of all. He’s going to take me out of his will after this. And I’ll have nothing then.”
“You have to tell Sheriff Coe about what really happened,” Warren said again. “You just have to.”
Philip stood up suddenly, nearly knocking over the strawberry-rimmed glass on the table.
That volatile look was back in his eyes again.
“You don’t tell anybody about this, you hear?” he rasped. “No one will believe you anyway. You’re nothing, Warren. A nobody. Who’s going to take your word over mine?”
