by Mary Feliz
Max rolled over in bed, grunted, then sat bolt upright with questions etched in his sleep-wrinkled skin. “Wha—”
I shifted in bed and mouthed the words, “Hang on” to Max. To Forrest, I said, “Look, David knows more about this than I do. He’s the one who showed it to me. I’ll put him on.”
David looked nervous and hesitant, but took the phone, pausing before he lifted it to his face. “What do I say?”
“Tell him what you told me. And answer his questions the best you can. You know Forrest. You can trust him.”
David swallowed. “Forrest is cool,” he said, mostly to himself.
He walked out into the hall while I woke up my sleeping computer to show Max the website. He grimaced as he scrolled.
“Teddy saw this? Has Tess? Seriously...this is terrible stuff. Poor kid. Can Forrest get rid of it?”
“I don’t know. I’ve heard that Facebook is more responsive to cyberbullying these days, but that’s just a rumor, nothing official. And I don’t know about other platforms, or whether this site is built on one.”
“But this is worse than cyberbullying, isn’t it? Doesn’t it count as libel or something criminal?”
“I’m not sure. That’s why I called Forrest. I didn’t expect him to actually answer. Does the man ever sleep?”
“He’s like an air fern—or at least he was in college. A quick catnap and he’s sharp for hours. He used to take twenty-four credits and have more free time than those of us who struggled with sixteen.”
“I hate people like that. I mean, except for Forrest, of course.”
“Why is David talking to him? Why are our teenagers handling our legal affairs?”
“David’s the one who showed me the site. I figured he could tell Forrest directly how long ago he first saw it, whether it has changed, and if he knows anyone who might have created it. It has to be a kid, right? A kid who has it in for Teddy?”
Max shook his head. “I could probably figure it out, but Paolo needs to know about this.”
Paolo had joined the police department almost two years earlier, hoping to specialize in cyberbullying and other offenses, particularly those in which adults victimized minors. He’d wanted to work locally, giving back to the community that had nurtured him as a kid who was outside the mainstream. In choosing Orchard View, however, he’d selected one of the few local police departments in which specialization was seldom possible. Each officer had areas of preference and expertise, but in Orchard View the law enforcement staff was so small that everyone did everything, from patrol to detective work and public relations. Still, Paolo was typically consulted whenever a suspected crime involved online privacy, bullying, software, hardware, or data storage.
David returned, holding the phone out in front of him and passing it to me. He debriefed Max while I listened to Forrest summarize the legal issues.
“Is there anything you can do?” I plugged one ear with my finger to avoid going insane from listening to two conversations at once.
“Yes and no. We can call the web host’s legal team, explain the problem, and hope they’ll tell us who the page owner is and take the site down. The site violates copyright laws because they don’t have permission to use the likenesses of Tess, Teddy, or Patrick. Probably not for the other shots, either, because some still have the protective watermarks.”
“Watermarks?”
“Stock photo companies do it to protect the copyrights of their artists. You can use images for design purposes at no charge, but to display them without a blurred logo marring the image, you need to pay the artist and the stock house. Check the onscreen picture of the crime-scene guys in bunny suits. No way they paid for that image. I doubt any of the federal agencies will pursue it, but Orchard View and Santa Clara County will be interested. Both have cyber-safety teams that protect kids online.”
“Will that work?”
“Probably. As awful as it is that the web page targets Teddy, it may help us kill it. Web hosting services are responsive to shutting down sites that bully children, but the interpretation of free speech is broad online when it comes to adults. That’s changing, but any shift in the law would be too slow to help your friends.”
“But you’ve got a plan, right?” My voice caught, revealing my desperation. Max and David stopped talking and turned toward me, brows furrowed with concern. I smiled and waved my hand, trying to reassure them. Both seemed skeptical.
“We’ve had success with stern letters on legal letterhead,” Forrest said. “I’ll alert the law enforcement offices too.”
“Thank you. Teddy and Tess don’t need this right now. Or ever.”
Forrest sighed. “Modern bullying may have moved into the cyber realm, but some things don’t change. The best protection against this kind of stuff is friends. You look after Tess and Teddy, and I’ll do my best to make this problem go away. Tell Teddy to let me know if any other sites crop up. If he’s in charge of calling me, it may give him a greater sense of control.”
“When did you become the teen whisperer?”
Forrest laughed. “And tell Tess to call me when she’s ready. We can help her with all the paperwork that follows any death. It can be almost as big a nightmare as the death itself, and the pain of it drags on for ages.” I started to thank him, but the sounds coming from the phone changed enough to let me know he’d ended the call. Forrest could be abrupt, but he was one of the good guys.
Little did I know how quickly we’d be calling him for more help.
Chapter 8
Your supplies should include a gallon or more of water per person or pet per day. Remember that you’ll need water for drinking, washing, and preparing any dried foods. If your stash includes canned items, don’t forget a can opener.
From the Notebook of Maggie McDonald
Simplicity Itself Organizing Services
Monday, August 7, Morning
Max and I dragged ourselves to the kitchen at the first stirrings of life among our critters, hoping to get the dogs outdoors, fed, and watered before they woke the entire household. Afterward, we set out cold breakfast items and brewed what would likely be the first of many pots of strong fresh coffee.
I made a grocery list and put it on the table for others to add to, then created another to-do list outlining questions I needed to ask Tess and projects my own family needed to tackle if we were ever going to return to our own digs.
Max didn’t need to read the words on the pad to know what I was doing. After nearly two decades of marriage, he knew my morning routine, every morning, involved a list of one kind or another.
“I’m taking personal days for the rest of this week,” Max said, twirling the dial on Tess’s kitchen radio. “I want to get up to the house today if I can. Al Johnson put a note up on Nextdoor offering his Bobcat tiller to anyone who needed it to plow firebreaks on their land.”
“He has a Bobcat? What for?” Few Orchard View properties were large enough or rurally oriented enough to warrant full-time ownership of a Bobcat. Most people, I thought, rented them if and when they were needed.
“He uses it to keep the weeds down, he says, to prep the soil for his vegetable garden, and to maintain that long gravel driveway. I think he transports it up to his Tahoe property in the winter to use as a snowplow.” Max’s eyes twinkled. “We need one, don’t ya think?”
I gave him a little shove, then handed him a fresh cup of coffee and tilted my head up for a kiss. “No, I don’t think we do,” I said. “We paved our driveway, remember? But thank him for loaning it to us.”
Max turned to his phone, scrolling through messages on what must have been the Nextdoor website. “Al started a trend. Local organizations are offering heavy equipment services to anyone who needs them.”
“Like who? I had no idea anyone had equipment like that.”
“PONY baseball, the schools, the city. Ap
parently, those giant ride-on mowers come with other attachments that can be useful. Who knew?”
“Make your calls. Are you taking the kids up with you? The dogs?”
Max bit his lip and pushed his hair back. “Let’s wait and see what we can find out about the state of the fire. If they can be safe up there, I’d be happy to have their company and their help. They could hose down the yard, the roof, and each other. But if conditions are uncertain, or if the air quality is bad, I’d like to leave the dogs and kids down here. Those fires can shift on a dime.”
“If it’s that iffy, I don’t want you up there, either.”
“Let me get the information first, then we’ll compare notes.”
I thought about Max’s plan for a moment. “Won’t plowing the grass and weeds increase the odds of erosion and mudslides once it starts raining?” I asked. “We don’t want to exchange one dire threat for another.”
Max shook his head. “Let’s deal with today’s threat. Once the fire moves on, we can plant something that will keep the soil in place. We’ve got months before we see any significant rainfall.”
I soon realized that rain would be the least of our problems.
Tess and Teddy came to the table and poured juice and cereal they didn’t touch. Both had deep circles under their eyes and downcast expressions.
Tess stared at the bottom of her mug. “Coffee?” I asked, holding up the pot.
Tess smiled, briefly. “Thanks. I was having the hardest time figuring out how to make that happen. My brain is on strike.” She rubbed her eyes, tried to continue smiling, and failed. “Thanks for getting the breakfast stuff out. I’m a terrible hostess. Someone did the laundry yesterday too...” She paused, stricken. “What am I going to do with Patrick’s clothes? His sports equipment?” Her rich olive complexion turned gray-green, pale, and lined with pain.
I hurried to her side and hugged her. “There’ll be time enough to figure that out. And people to help, if you want that. Try to think of one thing at a time. Do you and Teddy want to visit the funeral home?”
Tess looked blank, so I prompted. “You talked yesterday about letting Teddy see Patrick. Patrick’s body...” I wanted my language to be clear and precise, because both Tess and Teddy seemed to be having trouble processing anything. I didn’t know how much they remembered about yesterday. I tried to stay alert to their reactions, in case my terms were too clinical or caused discomfort. Adding to their burden was the last thing I wanted to do.
Tess squinted at Teddy, who nodded.
“Do you want to do that first thing?” I asked. “Would you like a chauffeur? I could drop you right at the door so you don’t have to worry about parking.”
“That’d be great, thanks. I don’t think I’m safe to drive.” She startled and half-stood, to gain an angle from which she could peer out the front window. “What’s that?”
I heard it too—loud voices from the front yard accompanied by the sound of enormous trucks with heavy engines. My first thought was that someone was delivering the construction equipment Max had talked about.
Max and David ran to the window over the sink, jostling for position. David turned away immediately. “News trucks,” he called in a voice loud enough to reach down the hall to Teddy’s bedroom. “Teddy. Brian. Help.”
I looked to Max for answers. “Pull down the blinds and close the curtains. No one’s going anywhere,” Max said as he lowered the kitchen mini-blinds with a clatter. Shaking his head, he dashed to the door leading to the garage. In a moment, I heard the motor of the garage door, and then his voice from the front yard.
“This is private property. I have to ask you to leave.”
Unintelligible shouted questions followed, drowning out anything else Max had to say.
Belle and Mozart scratched at the front door. A siren blurted briefly, and I assumed that Jason or Paolo had arrived. After a brief period of additional shouting, we heard the garage-door motor again. Max entered the kitchen, followed by Jason, who let the frantic dogs out into the garage, where their barking added to the din.
“Let them bark,” Jason said. “They’ll make it difficult to record commentary and will keep any particularly earnest reporters out of the backyard. If the journalists dare to spin a story about vicious dogs, I’ll find a station that will do a feel-good follow-up with Belle and a little kid with an ice cream cone.” He reached for a coffee mug, and I filled it. “I moved them off the lawn. With rush hour heating up, they’re going to make enemies if they snarl up traffic in the street.”
Tess lived on a quiet road with a fifteen-mile-an-hour school-speed zone. With the advent of real-time traffic data on cell phones, it had become a congestion-dodging commuter route to the freeways, especially in the summer, when working people didn’t have to compete with school traffic.
Jason parted the slats in the mini-blinds and peered out. “It looks like they’re moving down the street to the school parking lot. I’ll call the district administrators and see if we can’t move them along.”
Peering over his shoulder, I watched him signal to two motorcycle patrol officers, who then followed the news vans to the school down the street.
I stepped back and turned toward the breakfast table, where Tess, Teddy, Brian, and David stared in varied degrees of horror.
“But, Mom, we were headed to the park to play Ultimate Frisbee.” said David.
Brian sighed. “Will we be trapped inside all day?”
Tess scrolled through her phone. “I have to cancel my appointments for the rest of the week.”
And Teddy’s face fell. “Does that mean we can’t get to the funeral home? Will they...keep him? Do we have to call?”
I glanced from Max’s distraught face to Jason’s stern one. Were they going to address Teddy’s question, or was I? What were the answers? If Patrick had truly been murdered, was someone out to get him or the entire family? Either way, killing Patrick was an evil, unforgivable act that had devastated his wife and teenaged boy. They might never recover any semblance of what they previously called their “normal” life.
“Look, all of you,” I said, making direct eye contact with each boy in turn. “We’ll figure this out. We’ll not be cowed by an Internet bully, vicious rumors, or gossip mongering talking heads from the television news. We’re tougher than that. We’re better than that.” I stood as straight as I could and squared my shoulders, trying to exude the confidence of a superhero. “Roll up your sleeping bags, take turns with the shower, and get dressed. By the time you’re finished, and you’ve cleaned up the bathroom”—the boys moaned, which told me at least one thing had returned to normal—“we’ll have a better sense of how, exactly, we’ll beat this thing.”
Brian and David took off for the back of the house, with the dogs following. Teddy stayed behind. He gripped my arm and tugged at it, like a small child aching for a grown-up’s attention. “Mrs. M., you’ll help us find the truth, right? And make that web page stop telling lies about my mom and dad?”
I silently consulted Max. I seemed to have become embroiled in a number of dramatic legal cases recently, and I’d promised Max that I would stay far away from law enforcement, detective work, and especially murder. But this was Tess and Teddy we were talking about. Surely we couldn’t leave them in the lurch. With all they had on their plates, and the suffering they had in store as they grieved and tried to define their new normal, there was no way they had time to ferret out the truth. Would those investigating the case see through the nonsense on the web page and identify it as what it was: childish muckraking worthy of the worst of the supermarket tabloids?
Max nodded in answer to my unspoken questions. Before I could reassure Teddy that I’d do what I could to track down the facts, the doorbell rang, startling us as though a firecracker had gone off. Between shock, frazzled nerves, and little sleep, none of us had a firm grip on our emotions.
Max sighed, put down his coffee mug, and walked toward the door, muttering about annoying newspeople who wouldn’t allow Tess a moment’s peace. I expected him to speak sternly but politely to whoever was ringing the bell. But he said nothing. Nor did whoever was responsible for interrupting our breakfast. I leaned forward to peer around the kitchen counter, but I couldn’t see anything. I scooted my chair back and prepared to stand and join Max at the door. But before I could do that, he came through the archway that separated the hallway from the kitchen. A Santa Clara County sheriff, hat in hand, followed closely on his heels.
“Please, sit down,” he said. When my husband had taken his seat and grasped my hand under the table, the sheriff spoke. “I’m Sergeant Thanh Nguyen, from the investigative division of the Santa Clara County Sheriff’s Office.” He stood formally, with his feet shoulder width apart, his back straight. One hand was poised ominously close to his firearm, while the other gripped his olive-green Smokey Bear–style hat. Khaki stripes down the sides of his uniform trousers made Sergeant Nguyen look taller than he probably was.
His voice was soft, but firm, and commanded attention. Rationally, I assumed he was here to update us with news of the investigation into Patrick’s death, and possibly to report on firefighting efforts. But my lizard brain was trying desperately to convince me to flee from a danger and tension in the air that I could feel but couldn’t see. And I wasn’t the only one who felt threatened by Sergeant Nguyen’s arrival. Teddy was biting his lip and staring at his mom in panic. Tess’s hands clasped each other with white knuckles. Max might have appeared calm to a stranger, but he had a death grip on my hand that was more frightening than it was reassuring.
Jason stepped forward to shake the sheriff’s hand. “I’m Jason Mueller, chief of police here in Orchard View. What can you tell us?”
Jason’s presence and warm greeting seemed to have set Sergeant Nguyen slightly off balance. A bead of sweat appeared on his forehead. What on earth could be making him so nervous? This family and our community had already received the worst possible news. Surely anything he had to say would pale in comparison.
