Swallowing Stones

by Joyce McDonald

  She was thoroughly disgusted with herself. She wasn’t doing a thing, just standing there, staring, her thick lashes spiked with tears. She thought of her violent outburst at the beach, of Andrea’s shock, of her conviction that she could confront her father’s murderer and then, without remorse, point a gun in his face and fire. That had been a fantasy. This person, this boy across the street from her, was real. She knew now that no matter how much pain he had caused her, no matter how much she hated him, she would never be able to pull that trigger.

  jenna peeled the skin from a chicken leg and picked at the meat. The last thing she felt like doing was eating. Haunted by the images of Joe Sadowski and Michael MacKenzie, all she wanted was to get to the bottom of things. She wondered what Michael MacKenzie had been doing at Joe’s. What, if anything, was his part in all this?

  Her mother sat across the kitchen table from her, grinding coarse pepper onto her salad. She seemed equally preoccupied. She had barely said a word since Jenna had returned. Jenna suspected she had the investigation on her mind, too.

  Jenna thought of calling Andrea to tell her what she’d found out, but realized that linking Michael MacKenzie with her father’s murderer—if that was who Joe Sadowski was—would just upset her friend. There was no point in telling Andrea, not until Jenna had something concrete, anyway.

  “What’s going to happen to the boy who shot Dad?” she said.

  “I don’t know.” Her mother was staring off into space, her eyes focused on some imaginary place over Jenna’s head. “I don’t want to see his life ruined. I mean, I realize what happened was an accident. And there’s been enough pain already, don’t you think? He’s going to have to live with this for the rest of his life. I just want to know what happened. That’s all. For my own peace of mind.”

  “Will he go to prison?”

  “We don’t even know if the boy they took in for questioning is the same person who fired the shot,” her mother reminded her.

  “But if he is?”

  “Then I guess that will depend on whether it ever comes to trial. They’ll probably present it to a grand jury,” her mother said. “When they have enough evidence.”

  “If they ever find any evidence.”

  “Well, if they do, and if he’s found guilty, his sentence will depend on the judge. It could be suspended. Or he might have to do community service.” Her mother paused. “Or he could go to prison.”

  Jenna wiped the barbecue sauce from her sticky fingers onto her napkin. Wasn’t that what she wanted? To have this boy behind bars? She stared down at her half-eaten dinner. No matter what, if he’d killed her father, he was going to have to pay for what he’d done. “I think I’ll go work a few math problems,” Jenna told her mother, getting up from the table.

  “Math problems? In the summer?”

  Jenna shrugged. “School starts in a few days.” It wasn’t much of a reason, but she didn’t feel like explaining that she sometimes used math problems to calm her thoughts.

  A cool September breeze played with the pages of her algebra book as she lay in the hammock by the pool. The days were growing shorter, and already the sun had disappeared behind the treetops. Balancing the book on her raised knees, one arm pressed across the page to keep it from turning, she began to work on the first problem. She was counting on math to distract her from thinking about Joe Sadowski. But that wasn’t happening. In fact, the questions that ran through her mind were more insistent than ever. For whenever she pictured Joe, she also saw Amy. And she found the connection disturbing.

  Jenna stared down at a complex algebra problem without actually seeing it. Then it came to her. There was one common link in all this confusion, one person who just might have some answers for her: Amy Ruggerio.

  michael

  21

  the afternoon the police came for Joe, Michael, as usual, was on duty at the pool. He would be relieved when the Labor Day weekend was over and he no longer had to come here. Because the word was out. The bullet that had killed Charlie Ward had come from the MacKenzies’ backyard on the day of Michael’s party. The police were questioning everyone who had been there.

  For three days now, people had been coming up to Michael while he was supposed to be watching the swimmers, wanting to know if he knew who had fired that fatal shot. But no one dared to come right out and ask him if he had done it. He felt as if everyone were watching him, waiting for him to make a false move. His lifeguard stand was beginning to feel more and more like the witness stand in a courtroom trial.

  Even worse, he found he could no longer sit on his stand, watching those in his charge, without his eyes coming to rest on the people whose lives he had in some way managed to screw up. Darcy came to the pool sometimes but usually stayed huddled in the middle of her group, refusing to look at him.

  Amy showed up once in a while, on unbearably hot days when the air was so heavy that it was difficult to breathe. But she hadn’t been there since the car accident two days earlier.

  If he closed his eyes, he could still see the police shoving Joe into the back of their cruiser. The scene was as vivid as if it were happening all over again that very minute. The emergency squad had arrived right after that, and the medics had ushered Amy, who kept insisting she was fine, into the back of the ambulance.

  Michael had waited, giving the police all the information they required, accepting the ticket for careless driving as his due. Then he took Joe’s car and followed Amy to the emergency room. But since no one would allow him in to see her, there was nothing to do but sit in the waiting room until she was discharged.

  After what had seemed like the longest hour of his life, Michael saw Pappy coming toward him. He had managed to get a ride with a neighbor and had just come from seeing Amy.

  “She’s fine,” he announced when he saw Michael. “A few minor cuts is all. I’m going to take her home.”

  Michael was relieved to hear that she was okay. “Can I see her?”

  Pappy scratched at his goatee. “Probably not a good idea right now.”

  He had tried to call later that night, but Pappy had answered the phone. He explained that Amy had gone to bed early and he didn’t want to wake her.

  Michael scanned the pool without really seeing anyone. He couldn’t concentrate. What if this latest fiasco had dealt the final blow to his relationship with Amy? Just when he’d thought she might give him another chance.

  He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, then reached for the sunblock to put on his nose. When he glanced up again, he spotted Jenna Ward sitting on the edge of the pool, talking with her dark-haired friend, the one she had wanted to introduce him to on the night of Judd Passarello’s party. Michael still dreaded starting the new school year, still wondered how he was ever going to face Jenna in the halls. But he had grown accustomed to seeing her during the summer and had convinced himself that he could do it. He would do whatever it took just to keep going, because he didn’t have a choice.

  So when he came home that evening and Josh practically knocked him over at the back door with the news about Joe, Michael just stared him right in the eye and asked him if dinner was ready.

  Josh took a step back, his mouth open. “Did you hear me? Joe’s in jail,” he repeated. “See, I was right! He’s the killer.”

  Michael held his fist only a few inches from Josh’s nose. “He’s no killer, you little dork. So shut your stupid face.” He unclenched his hand and let it drop to his side. “Got it?”

  “Got it,” Josh said, blinking wildly, just as Karen MacKenzie came through the back door with an armload of groceries.

  She looked from Michael to Josh, then frowned. “Is something wrong?”

  “They caught the killer,” Josh said, not daring to look at his brother.

  Karen MacKenzie sighed and brushed her damp hair away from her forehead. “They only took Joe in for questioning,” she told him. “He wasn’t arrested.”

  “But everybody’s pretty sure he did it,” Josh said, growi
ng excited again.

  His mother set the bag of groceries on the kitchen counter and began to empty it. “It’s wrong to just assume someone’s guilty,” she told Josh. “The police are only trying to get to the bottom of this. They’re questioning a lot of people.” She shifted her glance to Michael.

  He noticed how drawn and tired her face looked. There were dark smudges beneath her eyes. It occurred to him that maybe she hadn’t been getting much sleep since Healey and Boyle had found that casing in the backyard. And why should she? No matter how any of this turned out, his mother knew the rifle had been fired from her backyard while she had been overseeing the party. For the first time Michael realized that his parents probably held themselves responsible for Charlie Ward’s death.

  His mother was watching him. Michael felt a tingling in the tips of his fingers. He wondered if she suspected something. But she only said, “Joe’s going to be fine. I called his mother from work as soon as I heard. He should be home by now. Why don’t you give him a call?”

  Michael said he’d do that—although he had absolutely no intention of calling Joe—and then headed straight for his room. He needed someplace to think. He couldn’t believe Healey and Boyle had talked to all forty of his friends already. He had thought it would take weeks. Or were they just questioning Joe the way they were everyone else? Maybe this was simply part of the investigation. But he knew better. Friends of his at the pool, who had been at his party, had told him the police had come to their homes, asked a few questions, and that was it. This was different. The police had taken Joe down to the station. He was definitely a major suspect.

  Michael couldn’t stop thinking about him. He wondered how Joe had handled things, or if he had told the cops anything. Maybe they had broken him down, gotten a confession out of him. For all he knew, they might come knocking on Michael’s own door any minute with a warrant for his arrest. He finally decided that he couldn’t just sit there hiding in his room. He had to know what had happened.

  He headed back downstairs. “I’m going over to Joe’s,” he called into the kitchen as he pushed open the front screen door. “I’ll be back in time for dinner.”

  He knew he could have called Joe, but he was afraid the police might have tapped his phone. He was probably being paranoid, but he didn’t want to take any chances.

  A few minutes later, as he hurried across Joe’s front lawn, something caught Michael’s attention. He barely glanced across the street, preoccupied with what he was going to say to Joe. But in that single moment he thought he saw Jenna Ward standing by a tree. Badly shaken, he climbed the front steps of Joe’s house and rang the bell. Then he sneaked a furtive look over his shoulder. No one was across the street. Man, you really are paranoid, he thought.

  His mother had been right; Joe was home. When he came to the front door, he just stood there, staring at Michael. Finally he said, “You sure you want to be seen with a hardened criminal?”

  Michael winced. “I thought they just took you in for questioning. They didn’t actually arrest you, did they?”

  “You’re right. They didn’t.” Joe sneered. “Does that make you feel better?”

  Michael peered around Joe, squinting into the dark foyer to see if anyone was listening. “Maybe we shouldn’t talk here,” he said.

  “Do we have something to talk about?” Joe’s face was absolutely expressionless.

  Michael felt the weight of his friend’s words on Michael’s chest. He would have turned away, gone home right then, but his need to know what had happened at the police station was stronger than his sense of loss and humiliation. “I think we do,” he said, trying to sound in control.

  Joe banged open the screen door with his fist and headed around to the backyard. Michael was right on his heels. He suspected Joe was going to the tree house. These days the old tree house was really no more than a wood platform with two walls and half a roof. The ladder that led to it was missing several rungs. Michael wondered why the Sadowskis had never torn it down. All their kids were grown up and had left home, except for Joe, who was the youngest. And besides, the tree house was a real eyesore. Still, it was a place where he and Joe could go to talk, just as they had when they were small boys, and no one would overhear their conversation.

  Joe climbed the ladder, sat down cross-legged, and lit a cigarette.

  Michael sat across from him. “I thought you gave those things up.”

  “What’s it to you?” Joe said, exhaling a stream of smoke in Michael’s direction.

  This was not going to be a long conversation. Michael knew he had to ask what he had come for and then leave. He could tell that Joe was barely able to stand the sight of him. “So what happened down there? They didn’t try to pin anything on you, did they?”

  Joe pulled his knees up close to his chest and took another drag from his cigarette, squinting to keep the smoke from burning his eyes. “I stuck to our original story, if that’s what you’re worried about.” He shook his head. “Man, how many times do I have to tell you? Without the gun, they ain’t got a case. They couldn’t arrest me because they don’t even have circumstantial evidence. Just a stupid hunch.” Joe flicked his ashes over the edge.

  “So why did they bring you in for questioning?” Michael still couldn’t understand it. Especially if the cops really didn’t have anything to go on. “Why didn’t they just talk to you here, like last time?”

  “Who knows?” There was a definite edge to Joe’s voice. “They wanted to know why I took so long filing that report for the stolen gun. Then they started harping on how there wasn’t any damage to my car. They said it was a pretty clean robbery. No signs of a break-in.”

  Michael noticed the thin mustache of sweat on Joe’s upper lip. When he lifted the cigarette to his lips, his hand trembled. Whatever had gone on down at the police station had really shaken him up. “So what did you tell them?” Michael asked.

  Joe ran his thumbnail along his upper lip. “I said for all I knew, I’d left the damn car unlocked. I said I couldn’t remember that far back.”

  “That’s still not enough reason to take you down to the station,” Michael said.

  Joe was squinting through the smoke. “Seems I got quite a reputation with the local powers that be. First they pick me up from the scene of a car accident, drunk. Then they charge me with being drunk and disorderly and with assault for stomping in that stupid bitch’s windshield.” He flicked more ashes over the side. “Let’s face it, man, I ain’t exactly their candidate for mayor.”

  At the mention of Amy, Michael felt a rush of anger. But then Joe started talking again, and Michael backed off.

  “Besides, a couple of kids from the party told them I was messing around with your rifle that day.” Joe stared Michael right in the eye.

  “Why would anyone say that?” Michael was certain the only time Joe had even held the gun was when they were in the woods.

  “Because it’s true, man.” He rubbed one eye with his palm. “You were off making it with that pig. Jeez, I just wanted to look at it.”

  This time when Joe brought up Amy, Michael grabbed him by the front of his T-shirt. He almost threw him over the side. “Lay off Amy,” he warned.

  Joe gave him an ugly sneer. “I think lay is the operative word here.”

  Michael would have slammed his fist right into Joe’s face if it hadn’t suddenly sunk in that Joe had just confessed to being seen at the party with the rifle. Now a muddle of questions flooded his mind. Had Joe fired the gun that day without Michael’s knowledge? If he had, then maybe he, Michael, wasn’t the one who had killed Charlie Ward. He let go of Joe’s shirt.

  “You said you had my Winchester that day?” he asked, trying not to sound as if he was accusing Joe of anything.

  “I was looking at it,” Joe said. “I picked it up, that’s all. I didn’t do anything with it.” He squashed the cigarette on the weathered boards.

  Michael was still staring down at the smoking butt when he heard Mr. Sadowski’
s voice below telling Joe that the police were there with a search warrant and that he’d better get himself inside. Fast. Suddenly Michael was eleven years old again and Mrs. Sadowski was peering over the top of the tree house ladder, her face contorted in fury, screaming at him and Joe for sneaking a can of beer from the refrigerator. They had been sitting there, the half-empty can between them like a warm campfire, until they’d been caught.

  “They think you’ve got the gun hidden here,” Michael said when he could collect his thoughts.

  “No kidding, Sherlock.” Joe stood up and stared down at him with disgust. “They think I’m their man,” he said. “But they ain’t going to find a thing. My dad’s attorney was at the station with me this afternoon. He says they need hard evidence. And as far as I’m concerned, they ain’t got diddly-squat.”

  It had gone this far. Mr. Sadowski’s attorney had been there. Michael realized he would probably be needing an attorney himself soon. “What did you tell him? Your attorney, I mean.”

  Joe snorted, then shook his head. “I told him I didn’t fire the gun at the party. I said I didn’t even have the stupid gun. I told him the truth, man.” Joe stared up at the sky through the missing section of roof. He seemed to be thinking about something. “I asked him, though, just for jollies, what would happen to the person who did it.”

  Michael did not want to hear what was coming next. It was all he could do to keep from leaping over the side of the tree house and taking off at a run. But Joe was staring him down again, and he didn’t dare move a muscle.

  “He said he’d probably be charged with involuntary manslaughter, which is pretty much what we figured in the first place—unless, of course, he was stupid enough to try to conceal the evidence, which, it seems, would be an obstruction of justice. The judge might not be so understanding in that case.”