RULE #4
BE PREPARED FOR THE UNEXPECTED REMOVAL.
The shouts coming from the other room sounded as if they were sifting through sand.
“Where’s Lily?”
“She was right behind me.”
“I’m here . . . over here,” I stammered. “B-b-by the barrels.”
Evan trudged toward me. “Quit screwing around. We’ve got— Holy Mother of—!” He twisted the swinging light fixture overhead to illuminate the space where I crouched between four barrels. The dull arc of light exposed a figure sprawled in front of me, facedown in the debris.
Mallory appeared a second later at Evan’s shoulder and shrieked. “Is it . . . he . . . alive?”
“Don’t know,” I said.
“How can you not know?” said Mal. “It’s what you do.”
Evan nudged me in the back with his knee. “Check his pulse.”
I glared up at him. “Why me?” Seriously, why me? This was all his idea. But someone had to check. My trembling hand reached toward the limp wrist. I was used to touching dead people, right? No big deal. But it couldn’t have been a bigger deal. I told myself not to jump to conclusions. The dead guy could be anybody. I mean, the maybe-not-so-dead guy. My fingertips pressed into the stone-cold flesh. No pulse. Oh god oh god oh god . . . I pressed more firmly.
A deep, throaty moan erupted.
I flung myself backward, crashing into a tray of instruments and sending everything clattering to the ground. He was alive.
“Good one,” said Evan. He stepped over me and rolled the man with the heel of his foot. “Looks like one of those dumpster divers you see behind the Speedy Mart. Smells like it, too.”
Mallory inched away. “If you say so.”
Whoever he was, he was in a pitiful state: cracked and swollen lips, matted hair, ribs that jutted out from beneath ragged clothes like those of a stray dog. It was no one I’d seen around this part of town lately. No one from school, that’s for sure. So then who? It couldn’t be Adam Lassiter. I would have run into him, wouldn’t I?
The ugly truth was no. I made a point not to.
I looked as closely as I dared. He was about the right age—one or two years older than me—but his hair was darker brown than I remembered, as was his complexion (what I could make of it through the grunge and grime). No. Not him. Not my Adam.
“How long do you s’pose he’s been trapped down here?” asked Mallory.
“From those empty tin cans and the looks of things, I’d guess a couple weeks,” said Evan. “Now let’s go. We’ll call the police from up top.”
Evan tried to pull me away, but I wrenched my arm free. “Stop! We can’t leave him. What if the roof caves in?”
“More reason to get out of here, and now,” he said.
I came here for answers. If this not-so-dead guy was the kid who saved me when I lay shattered in the dirt all those years ago, I’d be an even bigger sack of crap for leaving him behind. For leaving anyone behind. And even if it wasn’t him, this guy might still hold the answers I was seeking. “You go. I’m not leaving without him.”
“Sometimes you can be a real pain in the ass, you know that?” said Evan. But to my surprise, my stepbrother with the heart of lead lifted one of the guy’s rag doll arms. “Well, come on, you two. Help me.”
Mallory backed off, so I took up the other arm. Together Evan and I muscled the guy out into the corridor and toward the stairs. From there it was too narrow for the three of us to pass all at once, so while cussing and muttering that I was going to owe him big time, Evan grudgingly shifted the full weight of the still-unconscious guy onto his back. “Why do I always have to carry the stiffs?” he grumbled.
“Because dragging them is not an option,” I snapped. “Now get going.”
Mal and I hurried ahead to clear a space up top so Evan could lay him out.
“Evan, stop shaking him like that,” I scolded. “He’s coming to.”
Like Lazarus rising from the dead, the mystery guy sat up and opened his eyes, shielding them against the sun with a hand. I waited to see if he recognized me. Nothing. I dug out a water bottle from my pack, unscrewed the cap, and tipped it to his mouth. He gulped greedily. “Slow down,” I told him. “You’ll make yourself sick.”
He squinted up at me against the sun’s glare through shaded irises the color of dull molasses. Not the color I’d hoped for.
“Who are you?” Evan asked.
The answer we got was more like the harsh cackle of a crow than a name. He guzzled down another mouthful of water and tried again. “A-a-dam.”
He wiped the grime from his forehead and exposed a patch of light brown skin. Still unconvinced, I stepped aside to let the sun bathe his face, and gold glints like flakes of mica danced in his umber eyes. My every nerve tingled. Square jar, long limbs, tussled dark brown hair. It had to be him, and it was both everything I’d hoped for and everything I’d feared.
RULE #5
BEFORE PROCEEDING, EXAMINE THE CONDITION OF THE BODY.
Adam Lassiter and I never should have met. He was a homeschooled wild child forbidden from leaving the family property. His only escape from his parents’ watchful eyes was among the trees. I was a gangly kid already more comfortable with the dead than the living who had been warned never to go anywhere near the Lassiter place. If not for the relentless pursuit of bullies after school, I never would’ve cut through the orchard that first afternoon. After that I couldn’t keep away.
My last day with Adam started not so different from the first: I came zigzagging through the orchard chased by three boys with better aim than sense. Sticks, rocks, walnuts, and cutting words pelted me as I ran.
Adam called to me, “Lily, up here.” I leaped for his extended hand, and he pulled me into the canopy of the largest tree in the grove—our tree. “Climb to the top. You’ll be safe there.”
He never lied to me, but we’d never climbed so high before. Mystified by how I’d escaped them yet again, the pack moved on, careful to avoid the house. It had a reputation even bullies respected.
“Were you waiting for me?” I asked.
“Of course not.” That’s what he always said. “My mom sent me to pick walnuts. She’s making banana bread. My dad hates the stuff, though.”
We remained high in the old walnut tree for a good hour, talking. (Guess his mother wasn’t in a big rush for those walnuts.) I knew from past conversations that his mother was well educated, did light bookkeeping for a few local businesses, and liked her wine early in the day. His father was a scientist with a fondness for black licorice, rare books, and cheap watches. He was also a very private person who trusted no one when it came to his son’s welfare—especially not doctors. Lately he’d been acting strange—well, stranger—pacing the halls at night, losing his temper over the littlest things, disappearing for hours at a time. His parents had been arguing a lot as well. Adam couldn’t wait until the day he could leave it all behind.
“To do what?” I asked.
“I want to have an orchard of my own someday,” he replied.
I told him it didn’t matter what I wanted to do when I got older. My father had decided for me the day I was born. He had it all planned out. I would intern under his watchful eye, study mortuary science at our local college to become a licensed funeral director, and take over the business when he retired.
The sun had started to dip below the distant hills, flattening the light. “I should be getting home. Do you think it’s safe?”
“I’ll go down first to make sure.” Adam swung down to the next branch, and the next. “All clear,” he called when his feet hit the ground.
I shifted my weight and let myself down to the closest limb but couldn’t see where to go from there. “Adam, I’m stuck!”
“You’re going to have to jump and catch that branch with the knothole, but no worries. I’ve got you.”
“Promise?”
“Always.”
I leaped and lost my footing, cr
ashing head over heels through the tree. The next thing I remembered was looking up into Adam’s deep brown, gold-flecked eyes and hearing, “Breathe, dammit, breathe.” He inhaled and then pressed his lips to mine.
So yeah, I owed him my life, but months passed before I was well enough to leave the house on my own. By then going to see him was about more than gratitude; I needed to know he was okay.
My timing was all wrong. Sand dollar in hand, I wrestled my way over the wall—no easy feat when your legs don’t want to bend. I’d only crossed a few rows of trees when I spied Adam’s father lugging a large bundle on a hand truck through the grove, toward the shelling shed. The size and shape of the load looked exactly like a full body bag. Had Adam’s father murdered someone? Or had I simply seen one too many body bags pass through our home?
He unloaded the bundle into the shed, pulled out a hefty ring of keys, and locked the doors. By time I turned to run, it was already too late. Adam’s father caught me by my shirt collar as I was leaping for the wall. “What are you doing here?”
With a shaky hand, I held up the crumpled brown paper bag containing my gift. “I brought this for Adam. As a thank-you.”
Adam’s father snatched the paper bag from my hand. Thrusting it toward my face, he tightened his hands around it until his knuckles turned bone white. Then, tipping the sack, he let the fragments sift through his fingers and to the ground. “You think I didn’t see you lurking behind that tree? I don’t know what you think you saw, but you say anything to anyone or come back here again,” he hissed, “and it will be Adam who pays. Now get off my property!”
Terrified, I hobbled away as fast as my pinned hips and legs would allow. Secretly I hoped Adam would sneak away and come find me. When he didn’t, I did everything I could to avoid that horrid man, that place, and Adam.
Adam saved my life, and I’d just saved his. I’d pulled him up out of a hole in the earth.
“So I’m Evan, that’s Mallory, and . . .”
But Adam wasn’t listening. All his attention was directed at me. “And you?”
I was too rattled to answer.
“Her name is Lily,” blurted Evan.
“Li-ly,” Adam repeated, pronouncing each syllable so mechanically that I hardly recognized my own name. No one had ever said it like that—like it held meaning.
Again I looked for any sign that he remembered me.
“Hmm.” He grunted and looked away.
Guess not. I was both hurt and relieved. It was a lifetime ago. We were just dumb kids, after all, right? Why would he remember?
How could he forget?
He took in the total devastation that surrounded us. “The . . . orchard. The house.” Panic rose in his voice. “Neil! Where’s Neil?”
“Who’s Neil?” demanded Evan.
“My . . .” He didn’t seem to know how to finish the sentence.
“Brother, father, stepfather?” Mallory volunteered.
“Father,” he confirmed.
I scrabbled to my feet. “Don’t tell me he’s still down there!”
Adam glared at the hole. “No, there was only me.”
The body found in the rubble. It must have been his father, but I said nothing.
Adam pulled himself slowly to his feet. He was a good head taller than Evan and scalpel-thin. He turned a full circle unsteadily, surveying the lot and muttering gibberish.
Mallory corkscrewed her index finger beside her temple. “There’s a nut loose in that one. What language is that, anyway?”
“Pretty sure it’s Latin,” said Evan.
“Latin?” she repeated. “S’pose he’s a priest?”
Evan and I ignored that one.
Before we could stop him, Adam lurched and pitched his way back toward the ruins of his home, to an area that might have been a library. He began tossing armloads of torched books aside as if searching for something.
“Hold on! You’re in no shape to—”
It was no use. He lifted a twisted metal picture frame from the rubble, its contents turned to ash. “How?”
“There was an accident,” explained Evan. “An explosion.”
“Not an accident!”
Of that he seemed certain. He tugged at a fallen water heater, but it refused to budge, leaving him defeated and breathless.
“Looking for something?” asked Mal.
“A box, like . . .” He pointed to a galvanized pipe.
“Even if it’s here,” said Evan, “you’ll never find it.”
“Must”—he weaved and rubbed the side of his head—“have it.”
I knew that look. I’d seen it at viewings, especially on blisteringly hot days. He was about to keel over. Small wonder. He probably hadn’t eaten in days. “We can deal with that later. Right now, we need to get you to a hospital.”
“No! No hospital! All I need is food.” He retreated to the far side of a still-standing stone fireplace.
“Okay, okay,” I said in my most soothing voice. “No hospital.”
He seemed unsure whether to trust me. Then again, why would he trust anyone after what he’d been through? I pictured the shackles bolted to the walls. Was it possible he’d been chained down there all these years? Someone must have known he was there. I should have known.
“There’s always animal control,” Evan mumbled to Mal from behind a hand.
“You’re the dog,” she said, and gave him a playful swat.
“Guys, seriously?” I scolded. “How can you be so insensitive? Adam, where’s your mom?”
“I do not know. She left five years ago.”
I could relate. “Is there someone else we can call?”
“I think we should call the police,” said Evan.
“No. Call Neil,” said Adam.
“They found a body, Adam,” blurted Evan with all the sensitivity of a wooden mallet.
At first nothing registered, but then Adam began to slowly melt before our eyes. His shoulders drooped. His arms fell limply to his sides. His legs accordioned toward the earth.
I rushed to catch him, but he swatted me away. “Discede.” When I didn’t let go, he snapped, “I said leave me!”
“I’m not going to leave you,” I said. “We’re going to take you home. Give you something to eat. Then we’ll figure out what comes next—”
“Uh, Lily,” interrupted Evan. “Is that such a—”
“We’ll call the police from there, all right?” I glared at Evan, daring him to argue with me. For the moment it did the trick.
Adam looked back toward where the shed had stood as if still tethered to it in some way.
I knelt beside him. “Come with us. It’ll be all right, I promise.” Quite a bold promise, I realized, when I already knew from experience that it would never be all right again. Different, maybe, but not all right. “Let us help you.”
He didn’t say no.
At Adam’s insistence, we closed the hatch and disguised it with bricks, debris, and dirt. We didn’t need someone else getting trapped down there. He continued to insist he was fine, that all he needed was a meal or two. But when he stood, it was clear he’d never make it the five blocks to our house. I convinced Evan to run and fetch the hearse. With Mal on one side and me on the other, we helped Adam down the drive to wait in the weedy shade of an overgrown juniper.
Mallory lit a cigarette and rolled it nervously between her fingers. She’d been flirting with smoking since school let out—part of her plan to reinvent herself into one of the more popular girls. “You know those can kill you, right?” I said.
“Who made you surgeon general? Besides, my father’s been smoking his whole life and he’s fine.”
“So you’re going to gamble on genetics. Good luck with that.” What was with her, anyway, and this whole reinvention kick? Did it have something to do with my dropping out last year to get my GED and that I wouldn’t be there to hold her back her senior year? The only reason we were in the same class at all was that I had to make up a year of scho
ol after my accident.
Time clicked by to the incessant chirring of cicadas. “What’s taking so long?” I grumbled. “Any minute, someone’s going to catch us loitering and tell us to beat it.”
“He’ll be here,” Mal assured me.
I paced up and down the sidewalk as she kept a faithful watch for Evan from the curb. A few feet away Adam stared at the ground, using his hands as blinders and muttering Neil’s name over and over.
Out of the corner of my eye I caught movement through the tinted windshield of an SUV parked across the street and a few houses down. Who would sit in a car in this heat? Had they been watching us this whole time? My skin prickled. Hurry up, Evan. Hurry up.
Finally the hearse swung into view. “Come on, Adam. Let’s get you outta here.”
“Where are you taking me?”
“To our house,” I answered. I left out the part about it being a mortuary. In his state, I was hoping he wouldn’t notice.
Mal and I convinced him to climb into the hearse. As soon as the back doors shut, he curled into the far corner of the casket tray like some feral animal, his sooty face and palms pressed to the window for a last glimpse at what was once the sum total of his world.
RULE #6
A BLUSH SHOULD BE SUBTLE.
Adam tugged at his shirt neckline as if it were a noose about his neck. The investigating officers had been peppering him with questions for the last hour and a half. They told him it would be best if he simply accepted that his father was dead, but whatever he was feeling looked nothing like acceptance.
Everyone in the room was staring at him—the officers, Evan, Nana Jo, Dad, and Rachel. The dozen or so grim photos of my ancestors hanging above the sofa formed a more silent jury, but they seemed to judge all the same. I couldn’t look at him. Instead I stood back from the others, propped up by an armature of guilt beside the brass umbrella stand. My fingers rolled the hem of my shirt up, then down, then up again, over and over, until my annoyed father sent me to the kitchen to fetch coffee. I left the door ajar so I could listen in.
Mortal Remains Page 3
