by Brenda Novak
“What’s wrong?” she asked. “What are you doing out so late and so far from home?”
He ignored Isaac just like he had at Hank’s. “Something’s happened. Something terrible. I have to leave Pine view. It’s not safe there. You can’t go back, either.”
“What are you talking about?”
“My father’s missing. Just like your mother.”
She wasn’t sure whether or not to take him seriously. “What do you mean…missing?”
He scratched his big head, seemed to struggle with the answer. “He’s gone.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know. I’ve been waiting for him, but he doesn’t come home. I haven’t talked to him in days.”
“Where were you earlier?”
“At home. Waiting for him,” he repeated.
“But we stopped by. Why didn’t you answer the door?”
“I didn’t dare. I thought maybe…maybe it was a trick. The person who killed your mother. Or the person who set the fire. You never come over.” For the first time, his eyes darted toward Isaac, giving Claire the impression that it might’ve been Isaac’s presence at his door that had made Jeremy shy away. Jeremy didn’t trust him.
“Your father’s probably over at the Kicking Horse,” she said. “He spends a lot of time there.”
“He’s not at the Kicking Horse.” He screwed up his face as if he was about to cry. “The police are looking for him and everything.”
The police were looking for him so they could ask why he’d been seen burning her mother’s files. But if word of Myles’s interest in Don had gotten out, maybe Les Weaver had killed him to make sure he couldn’t talk. Or maybe someone else had a vested interest in keeping him silent.
She turned to Isaac. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Unfortunately, I believe I am.” Isaac leaned toward the steering wheel so he could see around her. “Has anything else happened that makes you feel your father might’ve been hurt?” he asked Jeremy. A V formed in Jeremy’s forehead. “You mean besides the bullet hole?”
Claire gripped the window ledge. “What bullet hole?”
“The one in the living room. It wasn’t there before. It was only there the day my father went missing.”
“And when was that?” Isaac pressed.
“The night the fire started. I saw blood that night, too. S-some speckles on the wall.” He hugged himself, no doubt to control the shaking that had set in. “I think someone t-tried to clean it up. The—the cleaning smell makes me sick. I don’t like it.”
“Holy shit,” Isaac mumbled.
Claire was horrified. Poor Jeremy. He’d had so many things go wrong in his life. “Do you know of anyone who might want to hurt your father?” she asked.
“Has anyone been calling him lately? Anyone you don’t normally hear from?” Isaac chimed in.
“Just Tug,” he said.
Claire’s blood ran cold. “My stepfather’s been calling?”
Jeremy nodded.
She swallowed hard. “Does he usually call?”
“Not usually. He said it’s important. But I don’t think my dad will be calling him back.”
Isaac hated to leave Claire, but he was convinced something was going on—something involving Don Salter and possibly Tug. Someone needed to go back and take a look at the bullet hole and the blood Jeremy had mentioned, before the police figured out that Don was missing. If it was a crime scene, the Salter residence would be taped off, and he and Claire would be denied access. As civilians, they’d be excluded from most of the information gathered by the police, too. Just like before, when Alana disappeared.
Isaac wasn’t comfortable allowing that to happen. He respected Myles, and he understood the police worked that way for a reason, but he felt responsible for protecting Claire, and he wasn’t about to let information slip past them that might answer her questions about Alana or help eradicate the danger.
On top of his concern for her, he felt he owed it to Jeremy to help right his world, if possible, simply because Jeremy was incapable of coping with such unusual events on his own. Isaac had once been that vulnerable. He’d been five at the time, but what would he have done without Tippy? Where would he be today?
“Are you okay with staying behind?” he asked Claire before he left.
He could tell she wasn’t happy about it, but she nodded. “I guess.”
“We can’t leave Jeremy alone. He’s too agitated.”
“I know. It’s just that…I want to ask my father why he’s been calling Don. And I want to see his face when he answers.”
Isaac wanted the same thing, too. But why drag Tug from his bed? “He’s not going anywhere. It can wait until tomorrow.” Right now, Isaac needed to take a look at the Salter home, and he preferred to do it at night, when he had a better chance of going unobserved.
“Okay,” she agreed. So he left her and Jeremy in separate rooms at the Cabinet Mountains Motel and headed back to Pineview.
Jeremy paced the motel room Isaac had rented for him. The lights were off, but he hadn’t removed his clothes because he didn’t plan on going to sleep. He couldn’t stay the whole night. He had to leave, go as far into the wilderness as possible—someplace no one would find him.
But he couldn’t go alone. That would be too frightening. He’d heard about Isaac’s bear story, seen the scars on his arm. Everyone asked to see those scars whenever Isaac came into the Kicking Horse. His father had told him that.
Jeremy imagined himself trying to fight off a wild animal, but he didn’t think he’d be able to. He wasn’t good at fighting, not like Isaac was. That meant someone had to go with him, and he didn’t want anyone except Claire. She’d shoot anything that tried to hurt him, and he’d do the same for her. He’d brought his father’s gun from above the fridge and everything.
Pivoting at the foot of the bed, he went back toward the closet. How was he going to convince her? She wouldn’t leave Isaac behind, not willingly. He’d seen the way the two of them kissed when Isaac left the motel, heard the way she’d asked him to be careful.
She was in love.
But she couldn’t be all that much in love. She’d forgotten him once before, when she got back together with David. Isaac was just a stand-in for her husband. And why should he get David’s spot? Jeremy had loved Claire longer than anyone. He’d only been in second grade when some other boy pushed him off the swings and she came over to help him to the nurse’s office. Ever since then, he’d lived for her smile, her touch, even the sound of her voice.
If she went back to Pineview, she’d be killed, anyway. It wasn’t safe for her there. Look what had almost happened in the fire.
Jeremy couldn’t let her get hurt. He’d promised her mother he wouldn’t. He couldn’t stand the thought of it himself.
But if he took her with him, Isaac would come after them. Isaac wouldn’t let her go. And Jeremy would never be able to fight someone like Isaac. He’d seen what Isaac had done to anyone who bothered him, especially when they were in high school.
So—Jeremy returned to the window—what if Isaac couldn’t come after them? What if Les Weaver got rid of Isaac like he got rid of David?
Jeremy had heard his father on the phone, pleading with Les for it all to be over. He’d said he didn’t want anyone else hurt. But it didn’t matter what his father said because Les started the fire, anyway. He didn’t want to go to prison. He didn’t want to have his block knocked off, either. So he’d do anything. Even kill Isaac.
Jeremy understood. Because he’d do anything before he’d be raped in the butt—or dragged off to the cuckoo hospital. His father had told him too much about both places.
He’d do anything before he’d lose Claire, too.
He needed to call Les and tell him where Isaac was. That was what his father would do, wasn’t it? Yes. He’d done it before. Jeremy wasn’t sure Les would be close enough to fix anything. He lived far away. But if he set the fire, maybe he wasn’t so far away right
now. Maybe he could get to Pineview in time.
Taking a deep breath, Jeremy crossed over to the phone. He had a lot of numbers in his head from all the messages he’d taken in the past week. But he knew one of them belonged to Les. And he knew which one. It started with three extra numbers.
A man picked up almost immediately.
“Is this Mr. Weaver?” Jeremy asked. He figured that was more polite than calling him Les.
“Who is this?”
He hadn’t spoken very clearly. He had his fingers in his mouth, chewing on his nails. He forced himself to stop. “Jeremy. Don Salter’s son.”
“What do you want? Where’s Don? I’ve been trying to reach him.”
Jeremy wondered if he had the right Mr. Weaver. “Are you Les?”
“Yes.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes! Where’s Don?” he asked again.
His impatience reminded Jeremy of his father. “He’s dead.”
“What? How?”
“He killed himself. With a gun. But I have a message for you.”
“What kind of message?” He didn’t seem to care that Don was dead. He didn’t act all that surprised or ask any more about it. That didn’t make him a very nice friend.
“Isaac Morgan will be at our house soon. And he’ll be alone.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“He owned the cabin you burned down.”
“I didn’t burn anything down!”
Maybe he didn’t. Maybe he only shot David. Jeremy didn’t argue. He was getting too nervous. “Okay, well, anyway, no one else will be home.”
There was a long silence. “Are you kidding? This is like taking instructions from a ten-year-old! How can I trust you?”
“I’m just trying to help,” Jeremy said.
“Fuck!” he screamed, and hung up.
“That’s a bad word,” Jeremy said, but there was no one to hear him.
By the time he put the receiver down, he was breathing hard. He didn’t want Isaac to be shot, to have his brains all over the wall Jeremy had just cleaned, but…he wouldn’t think of that. It would all be over soon. Then Isaac would be buried and he wouldn’t have to worry about anything anymore. Jeremy had no choice. He had to leave now. Claire would get over Isaac. Once she understood that Isaac was dead, she’d have to get over him just like she’d gotten over David.
“Don’t worry. I’ll be your sweetheart,” he whispered.
The thought of finally touching her, of kissing her with his mouth open like Isaac, made Jeremy’s whole body tingle.
He’d only been able to dream about kissing her in the past. Now it would be real. And they’d be together forever.
He wouldn’t let her leave him like his parents had.
Claire sat up straight, feeling as if she’d been wide-awake all along. She heard a noise at the door, thought maybe it was Isaac. Even while she slept she’d worried about him, kept dreaming that he was in a car chase or a gunfight or lay bleeding somewhere and she couldn’t get to him.
“Isaac?” She was so eager to have him back with her, she got up and went to the door, although she knew he’d taken a key card.
“It’s me.” Jeremy. She frowned as she recognized his voice and peeked through the peephole to see a somewhat distorted view of his head.
What did he need now? He’d had such a hard time going to his own room when Isaac left. He hadn’t wanted to be alone, but Isaac wouldn’t let him stay in their room, and she was glad. He was acting so strange; it was starting to creep her out. The way he stared at her, how quickly he agreed with anything she said, how loudly he laughed at any joke, no matter how lame, she could usually tolerate. But something had changed…?. Still, Alana and Roni, as well as her father, had warned her not to mistreat him, even when she didn’t want him following her around, and she heard their voices in her head now. His life was hard enough, especially with some of the other kids’ cruelty. She didn’t want to be unkind.
“What is it you need?” she called back.
“Can I come in? I—I can’t sleep. My father’s dead. I know it. He’s buried under the house. There was blood. Everywhere.”
“He’s buried where?” That part sounded a little too definite for comfort. What would make Jeremy say something like that?
“Right next to your mother. I’ll tell you where she is if you’ll let me in.”
No way could Jeremy know what he was talking about. It was pathetic how far he’d go to avoid being alone.
Claire rubbed her face while trying to decide what to do. She didn’t want him to disturb any of their neighbors by continuing to knock on her door. She was afraid the manager would come down to shoo him away. Then what would she do? She’d have to take him in because she was pretty sure Jeremy wouldn’t be able to handle that, and she felt responsible for him.
“Look, Jeremy, I’m tired. I understand you want to help me, and I want to help you, too. We’re friends. But you can’t tell me where my mother is because you don’t know.”
“Yes, I do. I swear. She’s in a suitcase under the house. My father killed her.”
If not for the mention of the suitcase, Claire might’ve passed this off as a fanciful invention. That a piece of luggage had gone missing from the house the same day as her mother wasn’t one of those details the police had kept under tight wraps, but Jeremy was talking about an incident that’d happened fifteen years ago. How come he remembered the suitcase?
A chill went through her as she envisioned what he’d told her. She didn’t like what he was doing to get her to open the door, but she couldn’t hold it against him, either. He was frightened and desperate and probably had no clue how hard it was for her to hear things like this, how gruesome imagining her mother’s body in a suitcase would be.
On second thought, it wasn’t all that surprising he’d remember the suitcase. He had an incredible memory for odd facts, unusual details, numbers. He never had to write down a phone number. He could rattle off any one he’d ever called, even if he’d only dialed it once. The kids at school used to jabber off a bunch of numbers just to see if they could stump him.
“Claire?” He knocked again. “Did you hear me?”
“I heard you.” She just didn’t know how to respond.
“Do you believe in zombies?” he asked.
“No, Jeremy. I don’t. There’s no such thing.” This confirmed it. He was completely out of touch with reality.
“I’m afraid my mom and your dad are going to come alive and—and hurt me if I don’t take care of you. I promised your mother I’d keep you safe. Did you know that?”
“No, but it’s…sweet.” In a revolting sort of way…
“So will you let me in?”
She rested her head against the door. “Jeremy, I was asleep…?.”
“Please? I don’t like it out here.”
“Can’t you just go back to your room?”
“No, there are zombies in my room!”
“Oh, God,” she muttered to herself, but she pulled on her jeans under the T-shirt she’d worn to bed and opened the door.
Jeremy stood in the puddle of blue light shed by the energy-conservation bulb in the fixture closest to her door, looking even more distraught than when he’d gone into his room fifteen or twenty minutes earlier. He’d really worked himself up.
Claire felt sorry for him, but with Isaac gone she might still have insisted he go back to bed. His babbling unnerved her, even if he didn’t know what he was saying. He unnerved her. But there were tears running down his cheeks, and the memory of how she’d felt in the days following her mother’s disappearance wouldn’t allow her to be that hard-hearted. At least she’d had her stepfather to rely on. If Jeremy’s dad was really gone, and he wasn’t coming back, Jeremy would have no one.
“Don’t cry,” she said. “Come on. You can sleep in the other bed while we wait for Isaac.”
He stepped forward as if he’d brush past her but grabbed hold of her instea
d. “Jeremy, don’t—”
Clamping a hand over her mouth, he pushed her to the ground.
Claire struggled, but he was freakishly strong. She’d just begun to realize he wasn’t joking, that he wouldn’t stop this unless she made him understand he had to let her go, when he leaned in close.
“Don’t scream,” he whispered in her ear. “Please, don’t scream. I don’t want to have to shoot you. I love you, Claire. I’ve always loved you.”
That was when she felt the hard muzzle of a gun between her shoulder blades.
29
The drive went by fast, probably because Isaac was no longer tired. He was too busy considering what might’ve happened to Don. Even though he was already expecting the worst, what he found when he arrived still surprised him.
The door was unlocked, and he didn’t have to step all the way across the threshold to smell the bleach. Jeremy had been right. A “cleaning smell” pervaded the whole house. And the couch and a big section of carpet were damp—again, just like Jeremy had said.
The odd thing was the bullet hole. It wasn’t anywhere near the place where the violence seemed to have occurred; it was on the opposite wall.
“What the hell happened here?” Isaac muttered.
Maybe Don had some dangerous company and attempted to defend himself. If so, he was either a terrible shot or he was drunk.
More likely he was drunk…?.
“Poor bastard.” Isaac felt as sorry for him as he did Jeremy. Don hadn’t had an easy life, either.
Myles checked the garage. Don’s Jeep was parked inside it. So where was he?
The evidence suggested he might be dead. Or hurt. It didn’t look good. Isaac needed to get out as soon as possible and call 9-1-1. But first he wanted to go through Don’s phone records to see who he’d been calling and if any of those calls corresponded to a number associated with Les Weaver. He also wanted to find Don’s bank statements. If Don had been hired to trash Claire’s place, maybe there’d be a corresponding deposit Isaac’s P.I. could trace back to the source.
It took nearly an hour for Isaac to come to terms with what he’d begun to suspect shortly after he started searching—he wasn’t going to find much in the way of documentation in Don Salter’s house, certainly not paid bills. The man didn’t have a filing cabinet, didn’t seem to keep any records at all. Isaac couldn’t find a single bank statement.
