by Jette Harris
Heather wondered how Monica had gotten here on her own. She couldn’t have walked: rain was falling outside in fat, saturating drops. Heather stood by the sugar station, blowing on her coffee. She took a step toward the table, then hesitated. The door scraped open behind her. When Rhodes walked in, her mouth twitched upward, but she tamed it before it could become a schoolgirl smile.
“Good afternoon.” He gave a smile that made her loins squirm, then shook the rain off his jacket and flicked it from his hair with a swipe of his hand. He donned a sympathetic expression. “You seemed to have an interesting day. Would you like to talk about it?”
She continued to blow on her coffee, considering this, then nodded. “Zachariah and Witt went missing after we left last night,” she said in a low voice, not wanting Monica to hear. Rhodes glanced over at the haggard-looking girl in the corner and nodded. “Well,” she added, “Zachariah was declared missing—he’s still seventeen for another month—but since Witt is legally an adult, his parents have to wait at least 48 hours.”
“Boys will be boys.” Rhodes shrugged as if he did not see the big deal. “I’m sure you’ll see them again soon.” He grinned reassuringly.
She shook her head. “You don’t know Z. This isn’t like him at all,” she told him. “He would never do that to his mother.”
“Really?” He tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. A strange smirk played on his lips. “I was under the impression he used to do it often.”
Heather choked on her coffee to keep from spitting it out.
“Careful, it’s hot,” he warned, turning toward the counter. She glared at his back, wondering what he could have meant. Pushing it from her mind, she wound her way to the table in the corner. Monica did not look up at her; She continued to gaze out the window.
Heather placed a hand on the unclaimed cup. “This is cold. Do you want me to get a fresh one?”
“What’s the point?”
She felt Monica’s cup. It was also cold. She swapped it out with her own piping hot cup, and sipped the cold brew stoically.
“Thanks.” Monica took a sip. “Did they tell you anything?”
Looking out the window, Heather shook her head. “They just asked a bunch of questions.”
“I’m sorry.”
Their eyes met. Heather didn’t have to ask what she was apologizing for. She shrugged. “Maybe they just finally had it out and didn’t want to go home all busted-up.”
“Yeah, maybe…” Monica muttered.
They silently agreed to ignore the implications of the phone call. With nothing more to say, they watched the rain in silence.
10
Heather convinced Monica to let her take her home before the rain became a torrential downpour. A police car was sitting in front of the house Heather lived in with her grandfather. Monica, covering her head with her book bag, jumped the picket fence at a run. Heather, with nothing to cover her head (she certainly was not about to use her book bag) sprinted through the rain and threw the door open.
Walking into the house, she could hear voices drifting from the kitchen. She knew before she walked in whose voices they were. Hesitating at the threshold, she steeled herself before stepping into the kitchen. The officers sitting across from her grandfather made a strange pair: Byron was not much older than Heather, sinewy, and had his mother’s Nigerian features, his skin like black velvet. Kondorf was creeping up on his sixties, lanky, and rather attached to his Tom Selleck moustache. Despite Kondorf’s open, paternal smile, seeing him still made her heart ache.
He reminded her of the night she opened her front door to find Kondorf and Chief Collins standing on her front porch, their hats in their hands.
“I’m afraid I cannot confirm or deny pulling my boom-stick on that boy.” Grandpa Tex had the body of a man who had once been fit, but age and drink had added to it. His ruddy face had never recovered from years of living by the bottle, and his hair and beard still had copper patches among the silver. His bright blue eyes were dancing with humor, despite always looking on the verge of tears. The officers exchanged an amused glance, accustomed to Tex’s tomfoolery.
“Grandpa, you can’t say things like that to police officers!” Heather poured herself a glass of water. “They could arrest you, and you’ll miss my graduation, and I’ll never forgive you.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
“Grandpa doesn’t own a gun.” With her back to them, she missed the glance Kondorf and Tex exchanged. “Would either of you like some water? Coffee?”
“Thank you, sweetie, now they’re going to know which house to rob,” Tex joked out of the side of his mouth.
“Why do you think I offered them your coffee?” She wrinkled her nose. “Who would want to come back after that?”
“We’re good, thank you,” Kondorf replied. Heather glanced at the younger officer, who shook his head.
“You’re not missing anything,” she assured them, sitting down next to Byron.
Jamal Byron had been a senior at Cheatham Hill when Heather was a freshman. As star athletes, they had often been thrust together. When her parents died, he skipped three days of college orientation to run errands for her and Tex. Heather had convinced herself Byron stared at everyone intensely as he spoke to them, but Kondorf and Tex knew it was only Heather he couldn’t tear his eyes away from.
“How are you tonight?” Byron asked.
Heather replied without considering her answer, “I’m good.” She expected him to return his focus to Tex, but he remained facing her. After a moment in awkward silence, she looked at her grandfather.
Clearing his throat to cover a chuckle, Kondorf resumed the interview. “When was the last time you saw the young man?”
“When I saw his backside jumping out her window.” Tex nodded toward Heather. Her face burned. She became very interested in the glass of water in her hand.
“He was naked?” Byron balked. Heather closed her eyes and pursed her lips.
“As the day he was born.”
“Big fish, Grandpa,” Heather murmured.
“Well,” Tex recanted, “he may have been wearing skivvies.” Heather hissed through her teeth. The officers exchanged an amused glance. “That’s not true, either.” He came clean with a sigh. “I assume they were”—he gave Heather a pointed glance—“done with their business, and he was dressed in… jeans and a purple school hoodie, which is still in Heather’s closet—Don’t think I didn’t notice. He jumped out the window and off the roof. I assume he survived, because there wasn’t a body in the front yard the next morning. It’s possible his injuries finally caught up with him...” Heather hid her face behind her hand. “This one here was grounded for the rest of the year, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell his poor mother… Is that illegal?”
Kondorf looked over at Byron and they reached a silent agreement. “I don’t see any reason she needs to learn now, if she hasn’t already,” Kondorf replied.
“I’m glad God had the same mercy on this one’s mother and father.”
“Grandpa!” He had said things like this before, but never in front of others.
“What? I tell you what, that pacifist bull-hickey would’ve gone right out the window if Thi or Heath had walked in and seen what I seen. Thi would’ve thrown him out the window!” He turned back to the officers. “I had a very spirited daughter. She would have put this one to shame.” He hooked his thumb toward his granddaughter.
Lowering her head, Heather covered her mouth and pretended she was not having trouble breathing. Her chest was tight. It didn’t hurt as much as it had three years ago, but it still hurt. She loved her grandfather dearly, but he could cut her deeply when he was feeling wronged.
“Do you have any questions for me?” she asked.
Kondorf was not about to ask her anything while she looked so distraught. “No, that should be enough.”
“Thank you.” She left the kitchen as quickly as she could without looking as if she were running from angry
yellow jackets. She had to fight the urge to run up the stairs and slam her bedroom door.
Heather’s bedroom was typical of someone her age, stuck between girl and woman. She had music and movie posters plastering bright purple walls, glittery frames around pictures of family, trophies and ribbons for track and field. Dirty clothes littered the floor, and books cluttered every available surface.
Heather wished for the days not complicated by teenage angst and careless lies. Frustrated, she was planning on throwing herself across her bed. As she crossed her room, she noticed movement outside her window. She jumped when she realized there was a face pressed to the glass.
“Monica!” she hissed, throwing open the window. The rain had let up into a drizzle. The light from inside made it look like there were little diamonds in Monica’s curly black hair.
“Why are the cops questioning your grandpa?” Monica asked, sounding more excited than concerned.
“Because somebody,” Heather replied, “told them that he chased Zachariah off with a shotgun.”
“Oh,” Monica said. “That wasn’t me.”
“Well, it sure started with you!” Heather lashed out, loosening some of her well-lodged pain. “You had to go and tell Witt—”
“Witt sent me a text!”
“What?” It was the last thing Heather expected to hear.
Monica crawled into the bedroom as if she had been invited, tracking water on the floor. “Yeah,” she continued. “He and Z are in some kinda trouble. He couldn’t say what; He had to turn off his phone. But he asked if I could meet them around where we have bonfires.”
“They have bonfires?”
“Yeah, don’t you—” She remembered who she was talking to. “We have bonfires after our big wins. Out by the mountain.” Heather couldn’t help but feel left out: She had never been to a bonfire. “As soon as your grandpa goes to bed, could you give me a ride?”
Heather turned to the door. “We need to—”
“No!” Monica grabbed her and pulled her face-to-face. “They’re already in trouble,” she said through clenched teeth. “You can’t tell the police, especially Jamal! Witt would die of humiliation.”
Heather looked at her for a long time. Usually she would do anything Monica asked, but she wasn’t feeling up to being used tonight. She had her summer of running away and adolescent shenanigans years ago. Cops were down in the kitchen, interrogating her grandfather. Two classmates were missing. It was not a convenient time to sneak out into the dark.
“Please!” Monica took Heather’s hand in both of hers and pressed it to her chest. “I’ll never ask you for anything ever again. I’ll do…” she was about to say I’ll do anything, but stopped herself, dropping Heather’s hand. “I’ll pay for your gas, and I’ll take the blame if we get caught,” she compromised weakly.
Heather’s heart melted. Monica saw it. She gave her an excited smile, making Heather’s chest hurt even worse. “Tell them we’ll be there around ten-thirty,” Heather surrendered. Monica squealed and began hopping up and down, but realized someone might hear them. She hugged Heather, then ran to the window.
“Come back when the porch light goes off,” Heather said as Monica climbed out. She was left standing alone in the middle of her room, feeling whipped.
11
“Do you really have to stop at every stop sign?” Monica demanded. In the short distance from their houses to Kennesaw Mountain Battlefield Park, they had passed not one, but five patrol cars, on high alert for the missing boys. The rain had stopped, and fog rose off the hot asphalt. Monica hadn’t been entirely sure her parents were asleep before she snuck out. If she got caught, she would be grounded until she moved into her dorm at Tulane. Maybe even after.
“If you get in the habit of running stop signs, you’ll run them at times you shouldn’t,” Heather quoted her father. Her parents had just started to teach her how to drive before they died. They had given her their old Accord sedan to learn in, and bought the car that would soon after kill them. Monica, not wanting to contradict a dead man, crossed her arms and slumped in the passenger seat. Every ten seconds, she checked her phone for new messages, but she hadn’t heard anything beyond Witt’s original texts.
“You need to be able to tell me where to turn.” Heather knew every road and path around the mountain, but had no idea where Monica was leading her. Every time a car passed, she gnawed her lip, afraid it might be Kondorf and Byron.
“Umm…” Monica sat up, looking around. “I’m sure I’ll recognize it when I see it.”
Heather stopped the car. “You mean you don’t know the way?”
Monica rolled her eyes. “Well, we weren’t exactly sober at these things!” She flicked her wrist forward. “Keep going! We’re gonna be late. It’s almost ten-thirty.”
“I said ‘around ten-thirty,’ not ‘at ten-thirty’,” Heather snapped. “And if we get lost, we’re not going to make it at all.”
“We have to make it. They’re in trouble!” Monica’s voice cracked, which silenced any retort Heather may have had. “They need us!”
They came to a four-way stop. Monica looked to the left, then right. “I think…” she began, pointing to the right. Before she could continue, the car pitched forward with a crunch.
The exploding airbag slammed Heather back into her seat. Pain radiated across her face as the force crushed her nose, and blood began to seep down the back of her throat, choking her. Monica shrieked beside her. Heather beat at the airbag with raw, burning arms. Freeing herself from her seatbelt, she pushed open the door and staggered onto the road. She had to flail to relocate the car; Her vision was blurry and obscured by stars.
“Mon—!”
“Just Heather!” The voice was familiar, but she had to stare for a moment before her eyes came back into focus. The tall, dark figure of Avery Rhodes was standing beside the open door of a red Jeep Cherokee.
“Mr. Rhodes?” She couldn’t speak very well with her hand holding her bleeding nose. Turning away, she sneezed. Blood splattered over her t-shirt, but it dislodged enough for her to speak. “I’m so sorry,” she said, flicking the blood from her hands and covering her face again.
“Don’t apologize. I hit you.” He came around to the front of the Jeep and checked the damage. “Not very hard, either.”
“Hard enough.” She gestured toward the deployed airbags.
The passenger door of Heather’s car was kicked open. Monica jumped out, slamming it behind her. She glared at Rhodes with a look that would have melted mere mortals.
“Moné-sha!”
“You did that on purpose!”
“What?” His tone was taken-aback, but his scoff sounded more like a chuckle.
“Monica, calm down,” Heather said. “No one would do that on purpose.”
“No!” Monica pointed. “Lookit! He’s smiling!” There wasn’t enough room to walk between the vehicles, so she climbed onto the bumper.
Rhodes did appear oddly amused by the situation. He pulled a slim black box out of his pocket. Byron had showed Heather his Taser before, but this one was painted black, and the stock had been removed. She didn’t realize what was happening when he hit the trigger and Monica’s eyes bulged. Convulsing, she fell backward off the bumper. Heather could hear her shuddering and twitching on the ground.
“Monica!” She ran and slid across the trunk, landing by Monica’s side. She was no longer seizing, but coughing and gasping for air. Her small body curled into a ball.
“Wha—What did you do?” She spun around. Rhodes was gone. She found him rounding the back of the Jeep. He made a quickstep toward her, swinging a black baton. It caught her on the side of the skull, knocking her into the car door. She fell senseless to the ground and made no protest as Rhodes hoisted her onto his shoulder and threw her into the back seat of the Jeep.
12
July, 2003
The funeral had been painful. It would not have been so bad if Heather had had something to do other than wear blac
k and stand next to her grandfather in front of two holes in the ground. She felt awkward, then she felt guilty for feeling awkward. Over the past week, people had passed in and out of her grandfather’s house, stopped her on the sidewalk, and pulled her aside at the drugstore, all wearing the same expression. Some of them even had tears in their eyes. Heather became too exhausted to cry anymore; She hoarded her grief until she was alone. Eventually she stopped crying altogether.
Grandpa, whom Heath Stokes had referred to as “the functioning alcoholic,” was not holding things together as well as Heather was. His new-found sobriety was not treating him well; He had been sick often over the past few days. He had not touched a bottle since she had moved in. He reckoned that was quite a feat for someone who hasn’t been sober a day since April 1975. Whenever he was in doubt as to what to do, he looked to his granddaughter. Her straight back and bowed head made him stand up straighter.
“How you doing, kid?” Grandpa asked when they were back in the car. She had barely spoken with him all week. They had always been so close. This distance added to the pain of losing his daughter; He didn’t want to lose his grand-daughter as well.
Heather sighed. “Do I really have to do this?” They were on their way to the reception. It was the last place on Earth she wanted to be. She just wanted to curl up in her old bed, in her parents’ house, with her heavy blanket pulled over her head.
Grandpa didn’t answer. Instead, he pursed his lips and clapped his hand over hers. “It’s not for you or me,” he reminded her. “Sometimes in life, you just have to… step away from yourself. Sometimes, you need to do things for others, even if it hurts.”
