“Right,” Michael said, his mind working furiously to come up with a way to get around Norwood—and at the truth. “I understand, and I’m sorry, too, but I’m sure you must realize how frantic we are. My wife is beside herself. She asked me to check Liam’s dorm room to see if he might have left a note or any sort of clue about his state of mind. That’s allowed, I assume?”
“Yes, of course,” Norwood said, though Michael sensed the headmaster’s ambivalence. On the one hand, Michael’s mention of Brook hopefully reminded Norwood that he was dealing with the Pendleton family. On the other, his dinner was getting cold. “Though I’ll have to escort you. Wait in the hall a minute while I talk to my wife—and grab a coat.”
Liam’s room was in the new dormitory complex, completed a few years earlier, that was composed of a dozen or so large clapboard cape-style houses linked together by brick paths and covered walkways. The buildings, nestled among plantings of hemlocks and white pines, their many-paned windows aglow, looked like a small, carefully maintained New England town. The quaint effect was offset somewhat by the tall wrought-iron fence that enclosed the area and the guard who sat sentry by the gate.
Norwood and Michael entered through the main building, which housed the dorm master and boasted a spacious common room with beamed ceilings, several bookcases, and a fireplace.
“Wait here, please,” Norwood said, showing Michael over to a chair by the fire. A half dozen boys were sprawled on couches and chairs around the room, bent over books and laptops. In a low voice, Norwood added, “I trust you not to talk to anyone.”
“Of course,” Michael said, but as soon as Norwood left the room, Michael glanced surreptitiously around the room. Only one boy looked up, but it was no one Michael recognized and he looked down again just as quickly.
Ten minutes later Norwood returned and led Michael down a corridor, up a flight of stairs, and down another long hall to Liam’s room. Michael remembered the hallway with its tasteful prints of rural New England scenes from when they’d dropped Liam off at Moorehouse in September. Norwood opened the door and stepped aside so that Michael could enter the dorm room before him.
“I asked Carey to step out for a minute,” Norwood told him. “I’m sure you’d prefer to have some privacy.”
“Great,” Michael said, though he felt just the opposite. It was Carey whom Michael had been hoping to find there—and talk to—a possibility that Norwood had obviously anticipated. The room was small, but well planned, with two raised bunk beds and built-in desks. With the headmaster standing in the middle of the room—seemingly protecting Carey’s side—Michael silently sorted through Liam’s books and papers. He disconnected his son’s laptop from the wall, and tucked it under his arm.
“I’m taking this with me,” he said, turning to face Norwood again. “And the notebooks.”
“Fine,” the headmaster said, opening the door for Michael to leave. They didn’t say anything further until they were outside again, retracing their steps through the snow.
“I’ll let you know immediately if I hear anything that might help,” Norwood said as they reached the drive that would take Michael back up to the parking lot. Michael knew that his anger toward the headmaster was conflated with his own regrets and growing despair, but he still couldn’t bring himself to say “thanks.”
“Right,” he said instead, as the two men parted ways.
As Michael walked back up the hill, he was concentrating so hard on what might have happened to Liam Saturday night that he didn’t register at first the fact that he was being followed. Though he had a vague sense that he wasn’t alone in the hushed darkness that had descended as the snow slackened off, he attributed it to the intensity of his feelings—a longing to find his son that was so powerful it seemed to have taken on its own shadowy reality. It wasn’t until he started to cross the parking lot and heard the ice crunching behind him that he realized he wasn’t alone. He turned around warily.
“Hey,” the tall boy said, raising an arm in salute. “It’s me.”
“Carey?” Michael said, taking a step toward him.
“Yeah—would it be okay if we talked?”
• • •
“I’m sorry,” Carey told him after they had climbed into the cab of the pickup. Michael turned on the ignition and cranked up the heat, but the teenager remained hunched over in the passenger seat shivering. “I don’t have any idea where Liam might be. We haven’t been talking much since Christmas. No, scratch that—we haven’t been talking at all.”
“What happened?” Michael asked gently. Carey’s tension and misery were palpable.
“The truth is? I got jealous. And he didn’t like it when I accused him of sucking up to my brother.”
“What made you think he was he doing that?”
“Why else was he protecting him? What else did he think he was going to gain by taking the heat for what happened?”
“You’re saying Brandon assaulted Phoebe?”
“Yeah.”
“You saw him? You were there?”
“I went to bed before it happened, but I saw enough to be sure. Brandon was all over her—I even warned him to leave her alone.”
“Where was Liam?”
“Pretty out of it. He and Brandon had been drinking Johnnie Walker and snorting OxyContin on the drive up.”
“Jesus,” Michael said under his breath.
“Yeah, I know. But if it helps any, it was mostly Brandon’s doing. His idea. I’m not trying to get Liam off the hook for doing what he did, but my brother can be pretty damned persuasive. He sweet-talked Liam into it. Just the way he talked Phoebe into drinking and letting him put the moves on her.”
“And you? Where were you in all this?”
“Me? I don’t do that kind of stuff. I told Brandon to leave Phoebe alone. But I should have done more. I just threw up my hands and went to bed. Even though I pretty much knew what was going to happen. It’s happened before.”
“You know that for sure?”
“It’s one of the reasons my folks sent him to Moorehouse. An all-boys school sounded like the perfect solution to them. Anything but dealing with the problem. They think they’re being loving and supportive—but they’re not. They’re only encouraging him. They’re cowards just like me. Because Brandon knows how to get his way. He knows how to manipulate people like nobody I’ve ever seen. And it’s too bad. Because, in the long run, I know it’s going to catch up with him.”
“This must be hard on you, too,” Michael said.
“I worry what’s going to happen to him. He’s been getting his way for so long now, I think he’s come to believe he’s infallible. He doesn’t understand about limits and rules—except how to bend them to what he wants. And he’s always been that way, even when we were really little. But is it his fault nobody’s ever tried to stop him? People have just given him a free pass to do whatever he wants.”
“You’re a good brother,” Michael asked.
“No, not really. If I was, I’d have tried to stop him myself. Like Liam did the other night.”
“What do you mean?”
“I guess Norwood told you what happened in town, right?” Carey said, glancing over at Michael, who nodded. “Well, that’s just Brandon’s bullshit version. Brandon and Liam did get into a fight, but it wasn’t because Liam was drinking and Brandon tried to get him to leave. Who but Norwood would believe that kind of crap? I overheard some of the guys who were there talking about it. Brandon got blasted and was doing his usual number on a girl at the party when Liam tried to pull him off. He was really laying into him, too. I think Liam had just finally had enough.”
“I see,” Michael said.
“And apparently Brandon got really pissed off. He pinned Liam to the floor and told him he was going to get him kicked off the Warriors. I think Liam must have felt like he’d burnt all his bridges. I mean, he really did look up to my brother for a while there. It’s not that hard to do if you haven’t lived with him all y
our life. And I know that the Warriors meant everything to Liam.”
“I think you’re right. Liam must have finally had enough. But you really don’t have any idea where he might have gone? Does he have any other friends here who might be willing to talk to me?”
“They’re all Brandon’s crowd,” Carey said, shaking his head. “It wouldn’t do you any good. But I do know he’s been texting Phoebe. We have the same kind of iPhone and I picked his up by mistake about a week ago. It was open to his messages—and they were all pretty much to and from her.”
“Thanks, Carey,” Michael said. “I can’t tell you how—”
“I feel like I let him down, you know?” Carey said. “I should have tried to warn him about Brandon. I should have been a better friend.”
“You could be now. You can tell the truth in court. I know it’s a lot to ask—Brandon is your brother.”
“I should have called him on his bullshit a long time ago. But, yeah, I’m willing to do it. If you need me to.”
28
Phoebe had spent the afternoon of the snow day at the Barnsbury town library, supposedly working on a history paper. She’d occupied most of her time, though, on the public computer terminal, checking to see whether Liam had e-mailed her. But there was still nothing from him at five o’clock, when the library closed for the day. She hadn’t been able to talk to him since early Sunday morning, when her dad had caught her sneaking in from the playground and had confiscated her cell phone. She walked home, hoping maybe her mom wouldn’t be around and that she could use the Lansings’ landline to reach Liam, but she heard Wanda’s voice in the kitchen as she came through the front door.
“. . . I wouldn’t wish that on anyone, not even the Bostocks,” her mom was saying as Phoebe walked into the room. Wanda was on the phone. When she saw her daughter in the doorway, she quickly added, “Listen, Phoebe just got in. Okay. Right. Thanks for calling. Of course, I’ll let you know.”
“What about the Bostocks?” Phoebe asked, alarmed. She hadn’t stopped worrying about Liam for a single minute. She couldn’t manage to shake the feeling that something was wrong. Something had happened and—at the worst possible moment—Liam hadn’t been able to reach her.
“That was Aunt Vera,” Wanda told her. “Liam’s missing. Uncle Fred got a 911 from Liam’s dad this morning. They think he ran away from school.”
“Ran away?” Phoebe said, dropping her backpack on the floor. She stared at her mom, though she was thinking about Liam—and the despair in his voice on Saturday night. “When? Where did he go?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think anybody does at this point. What’s the matter, sweetie?”
“Oh, Mommy,” Phoebe said, covering her mouth with her hands. She didn’t want to face what this might mean. She didn’t want to say what she was thinking. But she knew she couldn’t keep it bottled up inside any longer—and the last remnants of trust and faith she’d felt for her dad had disintegrated after he took her phone away. It was his fault that Liam hadn’t been able to reach her.
“What’s going on?” Wanda said, crossing the room to her daughter. As she put her arms around her, she could feel Phoebe’s shoulders begin to shake. She let her cry for a moment; then she led her to the kitchen table and made her sit down.
“Talk to me,” Wanda said, sitting in the chair beside her. She tucked a loose spiral of hair behind Phoebe’s left ear before taking both her daughter’s hands in her own. “You know you can tell me anything, right?”
“I’ve been lying,” Phoebe said, looking down. “I lied about Liam hurting me. It wasn’t him—it was his friend Brandon—but I was so mad at Liam, and then Daddy just assumed, and I said yeah, it was him, but it really wasn’t! And then I felt bad, but Daddy said it was all right and not to say anything.”
“Daddy said what?”
“When I told Daddy what really happened? He said I should stick to my original story. He said no one would believe me if I changed what I said. He said that people in this town would—”
“He knew all this when he made you go see the lawyers in Boston?”
“Yeah,” Phoebe said, bowing her head.
“It’s okay, honey,” Wanda told her, smoothing down her daughter’s hair. “I understand.” Phoebe continued to pour out her story. That she and Liam had become close last summer after he first got into trouble. That she loved him and wanted to help him, but that she’d ended up making everything a hundred times worse.
“We’ve been texting for the past couple of weeks. I snuck out of the house to talk to him Saturday night because he sounded so sad. So down on himself. It really scared me. Daddy was staying here, remember? He was waiting for me downstairs when I got in—and he took my cell away. He said my talking to Liam could screw up the lawsuit. But I bet Liam’s been trying to call! I know he wouldn’t have left that school without telling me! What are we going to do?”
Wanda just sat there, staring out across the room. Then, she turned back to her daughter, squeezed her hand, and said:
“We’re going to do what we can to make this right.”
• • •
Wanda told Phoebe to wait upstairs while she called Troy, but Phoebe was still able to hear snatches of the conversation, because her mom’s voice was so loud and shrill:
“How dare you manipulate her like that? . . . Knew perfectly well what you were doing . . . Don’t even begin to try to justify any of this. . . . Yes, I’m going to tell them. . . . That boy’s life could be at stake, here. . . . All you can think about is yourself. . . . Willing to sacrifice everything that matters . . . Want that cell phone in my hands in ten minutes or I’m calling Fred . . .”
Phoebe remained in her room when her father came to the house. She couldn’t make out what her parents were saying, but she did hear the door slam behind Troy as he left. From her bedroom window, Phoebe watched her dad march back to his idling pickup. He opened the car door, but turned around before he got in, his face flushed an angry red. He stood there, scanning the house, his gaze resting on Phoebe’s window for a moment before she stepped back into the room and out of his sight.
• • •
It seemed to Phoebe like years had gone by since she’d last seen the Bostocks’ house. It rose into view as she and Wanda came up the drive, its many windows aglow against the snowy night. But as they pulled into the turnaround where two patrol cars and three state cruisers were already parked, it became clear to Phoebe that a crisis of her own making was waiting for her behind the lovely facade. She hesitated after her mom parked and opened the door to get out.
“I don’t think I can do this,” Phoebe said. “Would it be okay if you just went in and explained—”
“No,” Wanda said. “It wouldn’t. You say you really care about Liam? Well, this is how you prove it.”
Phoebe had so been dreading seeing Mrs. Bostock again that sometimes her fear and guilt would emerge in dreams where Phoebe’s former employer would berate her for what she’d done, publicly accusing her of being a liar. She was afraid of seeing Tilly again, too. She knew how much the younger girl had looked up to her, and Phoebe had let her down so terribly that she couldn’t imagine how she was ever going to redeem herself. She followed her mother down the flagstone path to the Bostocks’ front portico, longing to run the other direction. After ringing the bell, they waited for what seemed to Phoebe an eternity. It was Tilly who finally came to the door, peeking out timidly at first, but then, after seeing who was standing there, pulling the door wide.
“It’s you!” Tilly cried, hugging Phoebe to her.
“Hi,” Phoebe said, her eyes filling with tears as Mrs. Bostock came toward them down the hall. Liam’s mom looked pale and exhausted, but her expression brightened when she saw Phoebe and Wanda.
“You’ve heard something?” she asked Phoebe eagerly. “Liam’s called you?”
“No,” Phoebe told her. “I’m sorry, but—”
“We have a lot to tell you,” Wanda said, propelling
her daughter in front of her through the door. “I take it that Fred’s here, too? I think he needs to hear what Phoebe has to say.”
• • •
It wasn’t as bad as Phoebe feared, once she started talking. It was a relief, actually, after all these weeks, to tell her side of the story. The truth, finally. Phoebe’s uncle Fred made her stop several times to repeat herself. He sat beside her on the couch in the great room, while his deputy took notes. Mrs. Bostock and Phoebe’s mom pulled up chairs. Liam’s aunt Lynn herded Tilly off to the kitchen for supper. Police officers kept coming and going from the room, walkie-talkies crackling. When Michael had called Fred from Moorehouse to fill him in on what Carey had revealed, they’d both agreed that they thought Liam could be heading back to Barnsbury. And, at Michael’s suggestion, the local and state police forces decided to make the Bostocks’ home their base of operations.
“And he didn’t say anything more than that? Just that he was feeling bad about letting everybody down?” Fred asked when they finally reached the part about Liam’s call to her that past weekend.
“No, but he was crying. He said that he felt like he was at the bottom of this big hole and didn’t think he’d ever be able to climb out.”
“Did he say anything to you about wanting to leave school?”
“No.”
“Anything else that stands out in your mind?”
Phoebe hesitated, thinking about Liam’s final words to her.
“Last summer? When we’d meet in the park?” Phoebe said as her uncle nodded in encouragement. “He’d talk about how down on himself he could get. Kind of the way he was talking last weekend. He said once that he sometimes thought about—”
Phoebe glanced over at Mrs. Bostock, who was sitting upright in her chair, arms crossed tightly on her chest. Phoebe had managed to suppress just how kind Liam’s mother could actually be, how she had a way of always making Phoebe feel special and appreciated. Phoebe hated adding to the pain she’d already caused her.
A Place For Us Page 24
