No Such Person

by Caroline B. Cooney

  “Do you know what your sister did?” screams Stu. “She shrugged! She walked off. She drove away. I asked her out again. I have lots of money. We can do anything. She didn’t even look up.”

  Lander has treated her younger sister like this. Miranda knows how much it hurts. Lander does not even bother to raise or harden her voice when dismissing somebody. Lander really and truly forgets that person immediately.

  “And then,” says Stu, brushing away his tears, “Lander went out with Jason. My runner. He’s nobody. And she fell in love with him.” Stu is weeping for Lander. Not for the body on his kitchen floor. But for the girl who didn’t love him back.

  “Lander wouldn’t even have a second cup of coffee with me!” cries Stu. “But for Jason she turned into a puppy wagging her tail, hoping Jason would pat her little head.”

  Miranda’s hand flashes out to the kitchen doorknob.

  This time when Stu slashes he is not teasing. She is so shocked to see her flesh laid open that she doesn’t cry out. She wraps the bleeding hand in the cloth of her T-shirt. She is afraid to think about the damage. Will her hand still work? It’s her right hand. She’s right-handed. Has he cut through her tendons?

  “Don’t do that!” screams Stu. “Don’t get in my way! You shouldn’t have gotten in my way! Too many people are getting in my way!”

  Is Stu about to finish her off the way he finished Jason? Miranda wants Stu to talk, not slash. “Derry got in the way?”

  Stu’s rage abates. His tears dry. He’s sufficiently aware to wipe his nose on the bottom of his T-shirt.

  They are both panting with exhaustion.

  “Derry was thrilled when I got him out of that hospital,” says Stu. He looks sad and confused. He frowns a little, as if remembering a distant decade. “See, if they identify or fingerprint Derry, it’s not good, because he’s got warrants out under his real name. Prison was going to be his next stop. When I tiptoed in with street clothes, he thought we were buddies.” Stu looks puzzled. Maybe he too thought they were buddies. “Derry thought when I drove down a deserted driveway and we parked the car and I helped him down a footpath into the marsh that I had some great boat for him to escape in.” Stu’s teeth are chattering again. “No, but I had a nice bullet.”

  Stu killed Derry.

  Lander had nothing to do with it.

  This is wonderful to know but useless. The information doesn’t count unless the police have it. Miranda cannot phone or text them. She cannot quickly write a note for them to find.

  Her back is against the last door: the door that opens to the steps, the grass, the cliff and the river. Will he push her over the edge? Drown her? There are two big old wooden chairs on the grass, the painted kind that look like comfy recliners, but without piles of puffy cushions they’re unsittable. She can get a chair between herself and Stu. And then what? Run in little tiny circles around the chair until her parents get here?

  And how will her parents know to be afraid of Stu Crowder?

  What if Stu holds them all hostage?

  “But, Stu, how did you make it look as if Lander did it?”

  “I had to talk Jason into it. But he’s a druggie, you know. It’s easy to corner a druggie. Once Derry was dead, I texted Jason that we were all set and he brought old Lander in on that little skiff they stole. She was all giggly and eager to please. She couldn’t even stay for a whole evening with me, but for Jason she picked up a gun, when she thinks guns are for sickos, and she shot it because Jason told her to, and beamed at him and hoped for her reward. She was a dog wanting a treat.”

  Stu is nodding weirdly. The nod includes his entire upper body. The nod includes the knife hand. He is stuck in bobbing motion. He points the shivering knife toward the last door. She has to turn her back on him and she doesn’t want to turn her back and she’s slow and not thinking, and again he threads the fingers of his free hand through her hair. Her plan to run is ridiculous.

  “So then,” Stu says, “Jason walked away. Old Lander just stood there like a good puppy. I’d already called in a tip to the state police. We dropped our disposable phones in the water and the two of us left in another boat. Easy peasy.”

  The cliff stairs are not visible from a single house on the river. If Stu shoves her off the cliff, she won’t be able to swim out and save herself. There is a rock shelf, which is why the fishing is good. She will go neck-first into the rocks.

  “We had to get rid of Derry anyway,” says Stu, “so I figured, why not give old Lander something to do with that precious time of hers? She’s so proud of being Little Miss Perfect. I’ll make her Little Miss Killer. And all that precious time? It’ll be hard time now. That’s precious. None of her friends have that.”

  Miranda remembers a sermon. Much sin, said the minister, stems from the love of money and the pain of love.

  I will never know love or the pain of love, thinks Miranda. I will be dead.

  Stu twirls her by the hair until he can look down into her eyes. He is in pain. Not as much pain as Miranda, with him yanking her hair off her scalp. But the terrible things he’s done lie just behind his eyes, and he can’t look away from what he’s done.

  “You’re just like her, Rimmie.” His voice breaks like a little boy’s. “I offered to help you with your online search and you shut the door in my face. Remember that? Remember how you didn’t have time for me either? So I’ll give you even more precious time than I’m giving your sister. I’ll give you eternity.”

  She’ll be fish food, like the casserole. Who really made that casserole? Is Mrs. Crowder actually living in that house with that blood-spattered kitchen? Or are the parents in Australia? Did Stu make the casserole? She imagines him draining noodles while dreaming of Lander in prison.

  “We’re going to use my original plan, Rimmie. We’re going to take your Zodiac. I’ve got your cell phone. Isn’t that handy? In a little while, your parents will get a text from you. It will say I’m feeling so sad, I wish I were dead. And you will be! Fun, huh?”

  Stu is weeping again. Nothing is fun about this, not for him and not for her.

  She actually pities him. He has made bad friends, bad judgments, bad moves, and no matter what he does now, he’s going to get caught. The blood in his kitchen can never be removed. Stu will get no do-over. He’s twenty-three and he’s destroyed himself along with Derry and Jason, and he knows it.

  But he’s going down trying, and that means Miranda too will die.

  What will an autopsy decide about the slash on her hand? The pinpricks in her back? What about Henry and Hayden, who know that Stu is the last person to be seen with Miranda? But Stu is way beyond caring about the holes in his plan.

  He spins her by the hair until she is facing the bluff again, and again the knife is poking a tiny hole in her back.

  Because of the long steep drop, she cannot see the river’s edge or the dock. What she does see is the Zodiac slowly drifting downstream. Whoever tied it up last didn’t do much of a job. She has a burst of hope. She will tear down the stairs, throw herself in the water, swim like a madwoman, catch the Zodiac and get away from Stu.

  But he is bigger and will swim faster. Or he’ll take the kayak Geoffrey so thoughtfully returned to the dock, and then Stu will catch both Miranda and the Zodiac.

  Miranda has raced down these steps thousands of times. They are steep and tricky. But Stu has also used these steps a thousand times. She won’t have much advantage.

  “I can’t balance with you ripping my hair out,” she says irritably.

  His fingers loosen. Not a lot, but enough. Miranda launches so hard she misses the top two steps and slides painfully down two more, the rough wood edges scraping open the backs of her bare legs. She grabs the sagging rope line, catches herself and stumbles down another step, way too slowly for escape.

  Standing on the little dock below is Geoffrey, his fishing gear a mess all around him. He is holding up his arms. “Jump!” he yells. “Jump!”

  She’s too far up to jum
p.

  Stu lets out a roar like a motorcycle. He hits the top step so hard it seems to splinter.

  She hurtles down.

  But Stu is taking the steps two at a time. He will be upon her in another second.

  Miranda jumps.

  It’s a long way.

  Geoffrey can’t quite catch her, but he blocks her fall and manages to hurl both their bodies sideways into the river. They barely clear the dock. By the time they surface and rub the water out of their eyes, Stu has landed on the dock. Miranda and Geoffrey are within knife reach.

  Stu falls to his knees and slashes. But Geoffrey’s big lumpy body is strong. In two great strokes he moves himself and Miranda beyond Stu’s reach.

  “Stu,” says Geoffrey calmly, “you’ve got time to get back to your house and get a car.” Geoffrey takes another stroke back into the river.

  Stu looks up the stairs. He looks over at the Allerdons’ kayak.

  “He’ll put the kayak in the water!” Miranda cries.

  “Doesn’t matter. After I untied the Zodiac, I threw the kayak paddle away. See it floating downstream? But does Stu have a gun, Rimmie? Because that would be lousy.” Geoffrey is doing a one-armed backstroke, his other arm keeping Miranda afloat. They are quite a few yards away from the dock now.

  “No. Just the knife. Geoffrey, Stu killed people!”

  “I heard it all. He forgot the porch is open. Just let your legs hang there, Rimmie,” says Geoffrey. “I’ll do the swimming.”

  She’s bleeding from the cut on her hand, but she isn’t bleeding much and there are no sharks in the Connecticut River to smell the blood. Unless she counts Stu.

  The air is so hot. The shock of the cool water gives her the shakes. She can’t splint her cut hand and still hold on to Geoffrey. “I’ve got you,” he says. “Just hang there.”

  Stu kicks off his shoes. He’s going to swim after them. Or after the Zodiac.

  Even bleeding from the wounds Stu gave her, Miranda cannot believe that there is a drug dealer on her sweet street. Her beloved river is a conduit for drugs. There is an industry in which people kill each other over powdered stuff.

  “Geoffrey, Stu killed Jason. Jason was sort of all over the kitchen floor, all blood and smear, and I was just returning the casserole and I thought Mrs. Crowder was home because all three cars were there, but—”

  Mrs. Warren appears at the top of the bluff.

  Henry and Hayden will be at her side! Stu will have someone to hurt after all. He’ll run back and attack them! “No!” screams Miranda. “Go home! He’s a murderer! He’s got a knife!”

  But it is not Henry or Hayden who appears next to Mrs. Warren. It’s Mr. Warren and he has a rifle.

  Stu looks up at the rifle and downriver at the drifting Zodiac. He is trapped. But he may not care about the rifle. He may race back up the steps, assuming Mr. Warren will not have the guts to shoot him; that he can still get away.

  Miranda whispers in Geoffrey’s ear, “It’s Henry’s toy rifle.”

  “Gotta love this neighborhood,” says Geoffrey. She’s shivering so hard that he needs both arms to keep her afloat, so he stops swimming and just treads water.

  The river carries them down in front of the Neville property, whose rocky bluff does not allow river access. It will be half a mile downstream before there’s another dock.

  Stu is swearing, each word broken by a gurgling sob. He climbs back up the steps. He grips his knife. Mrs. Warren is angling a wooden lawn chair to the top of the stairs, clearly planning to topple it down on Stu.

  Miranda closes her eyes. She has enough terrible images in her brain.

  “She missed him,” says Geoffrey regretfully.

  Stu knows now that Mr. and Mrs. Warren are not going to shoot him, or they’d have done it. Will this encourage him?  Will he now use the knife on them?

  The big old trees and the thick pricker bushes that grow out of the Nevilles’ cliff block Miranda’s view.

  The sun vanishes. The golden shimmer on the river is gone. The cold water is awful. She cannot see the remaining houses in the neighborhood, because of the bluff, but now they are passing Geoffrey’s, and soon will pass Jack’s. Then comes a freshwater tidal marsh owned by the Nature Society. Finally they will reach a house that’s not part of their neighborhood; in fact, not on their road.

  Geoffrey says, “Could you relax already? I swim this distance all the time.”

  She has just escaped a murderer, the murderer is advancing on Mr. and Mrs. Warren and Geoffrey wants her to relax?

  In the distance, she hears a siren.

  Sound carries on the water. The siren could be anywhere, on either side of the river. It could be a traffic stop. It could be rescue.

  On a Sunday night, there is not a lot of boat traffic. People are exhausted from a day in the sun. They have gone home, thinking of dinner and a good movie. But Jet Skiers never tire.

  In the awful split of hot air and cold water, of warm Geoffrey and evil Stu, a pair of Jet Skis appear. They zoom over. Is it the same set that rescued Derry? She doesn’t know.

  “You guys okay?” they ask. Because it is possible that a young couple would want to swim a few miles in each other’s arms.

  “No,” says Geoffrey. “We aren’t. Take her first. She’s hurt.”

  “Do you have your cell phones?” Miranda begs the men. “Call nine-one-one.”

  “Hey,” says Geoffrey. “You think I’m some kind of slouch? I called when I heard the very first word out of crazy Stu.”

  “Where’s your phone, then?”

  “Safe and dry in the Zodiac. You really do think I’m a slouch.”

  She is mounted on a Jet Ski now, holding the waist of a stranger.

  The sirens are louder.

  She folds like an old towel against the Jet Skier’s back, and weeps.

  Please let them get here in time to save Mr. and Mrs. Warren. Please don’t let my parents drive in just as Stu needs a vehicle.

  Instead of heading downstream for the dock, their rescuers move out into the middle of the river to see what’s going on. “I can see lights whirling on police cars,” says Miranda’s savior. “The cops are driving right down to the river. I guess they’re in somebody’s yard.”

  Mine, thinks Miranda. They’re here. They’ll save the Warrens. They’ll keep my parents safe.

  Whatever Stu may claim later, he has confessed what really took place on Friday; who really committed the two murders. Geoffrey heard every word. Geoffrey will testify. Lander will go free.

  Miranda knows the pain Stu’s parents will face: the agony of a child gone bad.

  Deep in her heart, Miranda did fear that Lander might have gone bad. She erases that thought from the screen of her mind. No one will ever know that she was not sure of her sister’s innocence.

  They accelerate downstream, arriving at the big beautiful dock whose owner does not have or even want a boat. It is a dock for sitting on. And there is the neighbor, sitting.

  In a moment Miranda is wrapped in a cotton blanket. The neighbor whips out a first aid kit and bandages Miranda’s hand. The Jet Skiers rescue the kayak paddle. Towing the Zodiac, they head back to Miranda’s to watch the action.

  The tight bandage eases the hurt in her hand.

  Geoffrey helps Miranda into the front seat of the neighbor’s car before he gets in back. It’s a two-mile drive to connect with the lane on which Geoffrey and Miranda live, and when they finally arrive, the place is solid with police cars and whirling lights.

  My neighborhood, she thinks, unable to take it in. A murderer lives across the street from me.

  Geoffrey and the neighbor won’t let Miranda get out of the car until they’re sure Stu has been caught. “He got up the cliff steps okay,” says a constable. “He just ran past Mr. and Mrs. Warren. Maybe he was scared of them or just didn’t care about them. Anyway, he ran straight for the road. But he didn’t cross the road. He didn’t even try. When we got here, he was just standing on the side of
the road crying.”

  Because he knew he would be caught anyway? Miranda wonders. Because he didn’t want to look into his own kitchen or his own heart? Because he wishes Derry and Jason could still be alive and his life could still be a video game? Or did the high run out? And he was just a loser on the edge of nothing?

  “He didn’t put up a fight. He’s cuffed and locked in a police car.”

  “What time is it?” Miranda whispers.

  “Nine p.m.,” says the constable.

  It is exactly forty-eight hours since police arrived at the cottage to say that Lander was in jail. All this happened in one weekend.

  The constables call an ambulance for Miranda.

  “I don’t want one! I want to stay here!”

  Mrs. Warren appears. She and the helpful neighbor peel off Miranda’s T-shirt to examine the punctures. “The punctures aren’t deep,” says Geoffrey. “I’m not sure you even need stitches. Well, maybe a few. And your hand—that needs stitches. And shots and stuff. No telling where that knife has been used before.”

  Miranda knows where it has been used before.

  “How did you know to come over, let alone with a toy gun?” Miranda asks Mrs. Warren.

  “Henry said Stu had a knife. He couldn’t figure out what kind of game used a great big bloody knife. We couldn’t think of one either, so we called the police. We couldn’t wait for the police to get here, of course. We’re so far out in the country. It could take ages. So we locked the boys in the house, grabbed the only gun we have, which is plastic and doesn’t shoot, and came running. The officer told us that you found the body of Jason Firenza in Stu’s kitchen. My poor girl. I’m so sorry you had to see that.”

  Clueless Mrs. Warren knows about Jason Firenza?

  “Of course we knew,” says Mrs. Warren impatiently.

  “And you let the boys come over to my house anyway?”

  “Miranda! We love you. The boys love you. Of course we let them. Any time we can take advantage of you, we do. You know that.”