Snowed (The Bloodline of Yule Trilogy Book 1)

by Maria Alexander

  And I’m kind of praying there is. Not a bad one where anyone gets hurt. Just a bit of crunched metal and a couple of blown tires.

  The slow drive gives me time to take in the scenery. Except for the occasional mountain man grocery shack, there isn’t anything along the highway, just the awesomeness of nature rising before us. Snowy pines cover mountains that loom like fairy tale giants beyond the road, ancient and foreboding. I recall the nightmare. Standing before the floating frozen fortress. Shouting in a bizarre language. The rage and desire I felt in the dream briefly well up inside me.

  On my smart phone, I search online for visitation rules. Siblings are not allowed, only parents and guardians. Mom explains that Charles’ probation officer and the director approved the visit.

  They are making an exception for me. I must be special. And for the first time in a couple of weeks, I wish that I weren’t. I also wish I’d worn something “revealing,” because apparently that can get you barred from visitation. Of course, Mom probably knows this and would have killed me if I’d even tried.

  Not that I have anything “revealing” to wear.

  I focus on my phone and pretend to do homework so that Mom doesn’t engage me in conversation. Instead, I reread Aidan’s email from last night. Every time I try to search online for his mother and what happened, I get the same results Aidan did. I wonder if she and the baby were even reported missing. She might’ve been homeless. Krampy would have known where to find her no matter where she was because she’s on The List.

  My ears pop before we hit Echo Summit. A sign announces that we’re over 7,000 feet in elevation. Banks of snow invite dog romps and snowball fights. Aidan would love it. Me, I don’t like how this echoes my nightmare. The car is warm, yet my hands are icy. I slide the hand not holding the phone under my leg for warmth.

  It’s already twilight. Despite the darkness, the roadside reveals a spectacular view of the surrounding mountains. I try not to think about the drop over the edge. The vast emptiness is dizzying. Lake Tahoe sprawls lazily in the distance as we draw closer, but we soon lose the view.

  The elevation drops a little. It’s nighttime. We’re heading into ski resort country. Snow abounds even when the roads turn civilized again.

  The Denny’s sign in South Lake Tahoe reminds me so much of Michael, Leo and Judy that I want to cry. Texting has been spotty due to poor reception. An avid skier, Leo has been to Tahoe more times than anyone. He warns me that I’m going to freeze my butt off when we get out of the car. I tell him about the dream. He responds: Memory transfer? Making out with Aidan might be affecting your brain more than you think. Not joking.

  At last the car turns off the main road into a long, wide driveway flanked by towering pines. We follow the driveway until it winds up to the gates. A chain link fence topped with razor wire surrounds the property. My stomach tightens as the guards check us in and open the gates so that we can head toward the massive redwood facility: A log cabin on steroids surrounded by parking lots strewn with dirty chunks of snow.

  Girls and boys live here who have been incarcerated or who are awaiting disposition of their case. Charles has been here since he was arrested, presumably with his cohorts, although it’s possible they’ve been split up since Charles’ confession to protect Charles. Mom said it was because Placerville Juvenile Hall was too crowded. I wonder what families do who can’t travel this far when they have a child locked up here. They have no say where their child goes. And according to what I’ve read, they have to pay for the lodging regardless.

  Even if Charles had been appointed a public defender, my college money still would have been spent on several years of three hots and a cot.

  “Put your phone in your backpack and leave it in the car. You can’t bring in anything,” Mom says and noisily sets the brake. “Let’s go.”

  I open the car door to the freezing air. My feet crunch in snow. The cold stings my face, slides under my coat and into the soles of my boots. Mom carries only a piece of paper in one hand and keys in the other. We pass through automatic glass doors and then metal detectors with the help of a kindly middle-aged white man and younger black woman in uniform. The bare halls scream: Rules! Regulations! Forever!

  Mom tenses up as we approach the check-in desk, where a heavy-set, older white lady with short graying hair sits at a desk behind a thick plastic pane. The badge pinned above her shirt pocket says “Knox.”

  “I’ll need a government-issued photo I.D.” The lady frowns at me. “We don’t allow minors for visits. She’ll have to stay out in the car.”

  Rules! Regulations! Forever!

  “It’s okay. It was approved by Officer Blackmoore and Director Brackman.” My mom stuffs a fax with signatures under the window. The lady takes it, reads. My mom slips her driver’s license and my passport under the window into the tray. I never got to use that passport. We were supposed to go to Mexico for vacation when Charles got the flu.

  The lady grudgingly approves our entry. We sign in on the roster attached to the wall. “Go around the corner. See Officer Parks to turn in your keys and any other personal items you might have. He’ll go over the rules of conduct and you’ll be taken to the visitor’s room.”

  My mom thanks the lady, takes back our I.D.s and makes a restroom detour (thank goodness) before we head around the corner, where a tall, muscle-bound black man guards a door with a big clear window revealing a long hallway beyond. “Good evening, ladies. I’m Officer Parks. Welcome to the detention center. Who are you visiting today?”

  “Charles Montgomery Jones,” my mom says. Aside from our voices, it’s eerily quiet. Not a lot of visitors today, probably, or everyone has already left. Visiting hours are almost over.

  Officer Parks contacts someone with his walkie-talkie. They exchange information about us. He makes Mom check in her car keys, sealing them in an envelope and placing them in a secure locker. He gives her a claims ticket and then lays down the law.

  “Are you the guardian of this child?”

  “I’m her mother,” she says pointedly.

  I would be offended that he doesn’t realize my white mom is my parent, rather than a guardian, but I’m too nervous to think. Anyway, Mom’s used to it.

  He continues. “Ladies, you will be escorted to the visitor’s room. You must stay together.” He directs the next bit at me. “Normally we don’t allow minors to visit, so your parent must accompany you at all times. You cannot pass any items to the detainee. You will be monitored by detention center staff. Your visit may be terminated at any time at the discretion of our staff. Do you understand? Good. Officer Abbott should be here shortly to escort you inside.”

  And he is. The doors buzz and click before they open to reveal a bald white man with arms and chest that bulge with so much muscle that they threaten to tear his uniform. “I’m Officer Abbott. Right this way, ladies.” We are headed into the belly of the beast.

  Maybe there’s a beast. Maybe it’s only us.

  The doors shut ominously behind us. Officer Abbott leads us into a maze of hallways, past staff offices and other facilities. Officers pass with walkie-talkies, wearing utility belts. Everyone has handcuffs and pepper spray.

  We enter a large, drafty room with circular tables and smaller circular seats. It’s like a space age cafeteria with a high ceiling and bright lights but no food. The glossy walls say new building. Or at least new paint job. Officer Abbott leads us to a table with one seat on one side and two on the other. The seats are set back from the table.

  He indicates we should sit. We do.

  Officer Abbott stands by as a door at the opposite end of the room opens.

  Charles emerges in a yellow sweatshirt and blue sweat pants. Hands handcuffed in front of him. Feet manacled.

  If I could bust down those doors and beat it out to the snow, I would.

  Another officer escorts Charles to our table. My brother snarls at me.

  You twice stood up to a monster that tried to kill you. You can take yo
ur brother’s anger.

  “Hey, Mom,” he says, his voice flat. The officer returns to the doors and stands before them, feet spread, at attention. “Sis.”

  I can sense Mom holding back. I know she wants to throw her arms around him, as if she could put him back in the womb. “Hi, honey. How are you?”

  His sarcasm is searing. “I’m great. Things are great here.”

  “Do you want any books? I can bring two. Just say when.”

  “No, as long as I behave, I can watch TV,” he says. “And I like having time to think. Thinking is good. Planning is better. But I do need more stamps.”

  He sounds mechanical, his words cold and rehearsed.

  “You’re writing your friends. That’s great. It’s good to stay in contact.” Mom rests her hands on the table, but she’s not relaxed.

  His gaze scalds me. “Well, you know, my friends send me letters. They keep me up to date on stuff going on. I can receive one ten-minute phone call a day, too. With supervision.”

  “That’s right. I forgot.” Mom looks wistful. She seems to notice him staring at me. “You wanted to talk to your sister.”

  “I did,” he replies with a smirk. “Yesterday I sent a special letter. A letter to Santa.”

  “Aren’t you a little big to write to Santa?” Mom asks.

  “Nope. I needed to send the big guy a letter. Especially after what I learned about Charity’s new boyfriend.”

  The world falls out from under me.

  “Honey, I don’t know what you’re hearing, but Charity and Michael aren’t dating.”

  “Of course they’re not. Michael’s a fag.”

  “Knock it off! I didn’t raise you to be a bigot,” Mom barks.

  I stay silent.

  Charles is still smirking. “You know how I know? Because Charity was right. Voices echo around the gym.”

  My heart races.

  “I know because, like Santa, I have friends everywhere. But you know, I’ve never believed in that fat bastard. Not since I was a little shit. But based on what I’ve seen, heard and read in email—” he levels a dark look at me, “other people’s email, that is—I might have changed my mind. So I’m really excited about Christmas this year. I can’t wait for Santa to visit. In the letter I sent to him today, I made a special request.”

  Oh. God.

  That maniacal grin tears up one side of his face, his voice pregnant with triumph. “I asked for Aidan’s dad to take him home on Christmas.” He chuckles.

  Oh. God.

  Mom is agitated. “Charles, it’s the last time you’ll see your sister for years—”

  “What’s the matter, Charity? Worried everyone’s going to find out you believe in Santa? Or are you worried Santa might not be a nice guy. That he might hurt you and Mom if Aidan’s not there?”

  “Charles!” The Voice.

  He ignores her, hissing. “Santa’s coming. And if Aidan runs, your life is over. In more ways than one.”

  Officer Abbott approaches the table. “Visit is over, Mr. Jones.” The other officer is already on top of Charles, dragging him away.

  “Merry Christmas, Charity!” Charles calls out and laughs, “Ho ho ho.” The officer threatens him with “segregation” as they disappear through the doors.

  Charles laughs again. That terrible laugh.

  Chapter 36

  Nausea overpowers me as I stumble past the sliding glass doors. Vomit scalds my throat and mouth. I double over, retching onto the pavement.

  No ambition. Bad friends. Even worse grades. I’ve always assumed Charles was a loser because he wouldn’t go along with society’s plan. Madness may have ultimately gotten the best of my brother, but everyone has seriously underestimated him.

  Especially me.

  He might not really believe Aidan’s story, but he knows that I do. He knows how to hurt me the deepest. I think he does believe it, though. After what happened, it would be hard not to.

  As I try to recover, taking deep breaths and willing my body to relax, Mom scoops up a little snow from the perimeter of the building to clean out my mouth. I refuse to go back inside the building. In the car, she finds a half-finished bottle of water. I splash water on my face and clutch the bottle for when my stomach finally calms down.

  She doesn’t say much until we’re on the road. “I’m so sorry, honey.”

  My seat inclined back as far as it will go, I reply faintly, “It’s okay.” My mind is in overdrive. My teeth chatter violently. Thank goodness I can’t see out the windows. I’d probably get carsick.

  She drives in silence for a bit. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

  “He was just being mean about Michael,” I lie. “You knew that Michael was gay, didn’t you?”

  “I did. I didn’t want to out him to you. I figured he would tell you in his own time. And who knows? Maybe he’s bi? He’s still growing.” More silence. “I’m sorry I made you come. I should have known it would be upsetting to see your brother like this. I should have known he’d be angry and take it out on you.” She falls quiet again and sniffles.

  I don’t lose it until the “text not sent” message appears when I try to text Michael. It’s an emergency! Why can’t satellites tell when it’s an emergency?

  I was afraid people could hear the conversation between Michael and I that night. And if we were being followed, it’s certainly possible a couple of people working together could’ve managed to eavesdrop.

  My email is another story. I’ve had no brain since Aidan arrived. I should have taken extra precautions. But how could Charles have known what was in the emails? He must have friends who did the hacking and they relayed the information to him.

  We were incredibly stupid. And now we’re paying the price.

  My immediate concern is for Michael. I don’t know when Charles got his last phone call, but the news must be out there. And there are kids who will tear Michael apart. At my old junior high school in Simi Valley, the boys ganged up on a skinny, short guy they had decided was gay. Not someone who was out in any way. Just a guy they thought was gay. At first, they just tore his backpack. Bruised an elbow. Or his ego. But eventually they put him in the hospital.

  My texts get through to Leo and Judy. Hopefully they’ll reach Michael and Aidan.

  By the time we get home, it’s almost 9:30 p.m. We get out of the car and Mom hugs me hard. Once inside, she opens a bottle of wine and takes it to bed. I worry this is becoming routine. As she heads up the stairs, Aidan emerges from his bedroom.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Jones. I pray the visit went well.”

  “As well as could be expected. You okay? You eat?”

  “Yes. I’m fine.” He doesn’t sound fine. I’ve never heard him sound this bad. Leo or Judy must have reached him. I wish Mom and Dad had gotten him a phone.

  “Good. Good night, Aidan.” She hugs him, holding him close for a moment, and kisses him on top of his head. Like a real son. Her door shuts a moment later.

  As Aidan descends, we exchange dire looks. We hold each other tightly in the living room, mourning in the midst of the Christmas cheer. After a bit, he whispers with tears choking his voice.

  “I should have known my freedom would have a price. A gruesome price that would be exacted on those I love most.”

  “Stop blaming yourself.” I wipe my own tears soaking his dark blue t-shirt. “Charles was headed down a bad road. He would have gotten there sooner or later. I just can’t believe how much I underestimated his ability to track his prey.”

  “I’m also worried for Michael,” Aidan says.

  “Have you heard from him?”

  “No. Just Leo and Judy.”

  For the first time, I consider my brother’s reach. If he and his friends were selling drugs, he might be more popular than I ever imagined. With his crew locked up, a segment of the school might be not only desperate but enraged to have their supply of molly, hash, tweak, or whatever else cut off. A whole school jonesing as winter exams draw near. He could turn some
dangerous people against us.

  Who am I kidding? They are already against us.

  Aidan considers the situation.

  “But you just captured the…the thing that was terrorizing them. Wouldn’t they still be grateful? They have short memories.”

  “Welcome to the human race.”

  My phone buzzes. It’s Michael.

  You there?

  WORRIED

  No kidding

  ABOUT YOU

  Had to give my folks and Ricardo the low down on the Nazi zombies. Circling the wagons at Denny’s. Pick you up in a few.

  Michael’s face is red and puffy when he shows up. He doesn’t say much as we drive. Aidan sits shotgun, sliding a hand back to me.

  At Denny’s, Michael sits like the Commander-in-Chief at the end of the table with each couple in a booth. Judy is on the verge of tears. Leo wraps his arm around her. Everyone slouches over something sweet (Aidan insists on treating) as I recount what happened. I leave out the barfing.

  “So, you’re sure he’s outing me?” Michael asks.

  “He looked like The Joker when he said you were the f-word. The only thing missing was the white grease paint.”

  “He is like The Joker,” Leo says, gaze grinding into the table. “He’s totally insane.”

  “The difference between him and The Joker is that he’s not operating on chaos. He wants revenge,” I reply.

  “So, what’s going to happen?” Judy asks. “Michael, are you going to be okay at school?”

  “Dunno,” Michael says. “Based on the latest horrors in the news, I predict verbal humiliation, physical assaults and vandalism of my locker, car, and other personal effects. And, of course, let us not forget online harassment, including text bombing and social media campaigns encouraging me to kill myself.”

  “Familiar with those,” I mutter. Aidan squeezes my hand and kisses my cheek. “So, basically, you have nothing to worry about,” I say with sarcasm.