The Free

by Lauren McLaughlin

  I take her phone and scroll through the pictures. It’s not what I was hoping for. I was picturing some nice, rich family with a big house, driving Janelle to a fancy private school. Maybe a lawyer and a doctor whose kids have already grown up. I def initely wasn’t thinking of a farm. But after looking at the pictures, I can almost see Janelle there. Milking cows, breathing all that fresh air. Maybe when the trial’s over and Flannery’s in jail, she could even visit me at Haverland once in a while. Maybe get one of those old folks to take her on a f ield trip.

  “I assume your parents are on board with all of this?” Ms. Levy asks as I hand the phone back.

  “What?”

  “How old is Janelle?”

  “Thirteen.”

  “Right. So we’ll need parental consent. Mother? Father? I assume they’re in the picture? One of them?”

  “Um . . . Yeah . . . it’s just that . . . our mother . . . she’s . . . well . . . You don’t know my mother, Ms. Levy. She’s not like a normal mother.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She’s just not, okay?”

  “What about your father?”

  “He’s . . . um . . . I don’t know where he is.”

  “Can you track him down?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t know who he is.”

  “I see.”

  “Can’t we just skip that part?”

  “Which part?”

  “The part where you tell our mother?”

  “Isaac, I can’t just whisk an underage girl off to Vermont without parental consent.”

  “But—”

  “That’s not how it works.”

  “But she’s in danger.”

  “Does your mother agree with this assessment?”

  “My mother doesn’t know anything about this.”

  Ms. Levy arches an eyebrow. “Then maybe it’s time to bring her up to speed.”

  “Are you kidding me? She’ll never agree to this. She’ll never let Janelle go. She’s—”

  “Look, Isaac,” she interrupts gently. “I want to help you. I do. If you tell me the name of the person who’s responsible for the death of Patrick Healy, we’ll arrest him. Your sister won’t be in any danger then.”

  “He’s having her followed!” I grab the printout with Janelle’s photo on it and hold it up to her face. “You see that name? Jas1959? That’s not him. That’s someone else. Someone who works for him. Right now he’s probably reporting back to my boss that Janelle’s missing. She’s in hiding right now, waiting for you to come get her.”

  Ms. Levy shakes her head. “Isaac, why would you do that? Why would you assume I’d ‘come get her’? I never made that kind of promise to you. When we spoke on the phone, I didn’t have any idea you were going to ask me to place a child in protective custody. I told you I would come and listen to your story. That’s it. I am not in the habit of kidnapping thirteen-year-old girls.”

  “You said you’d help me.”

  She stares at me, like I’m the one who screwed up here, like I’m the one who’s not delivering the goods. But that’s bullshit. I’m delivering Tom friggin’ Flannery on a silver platter, and she’s got nothing. I stare right back at her, right through her stupid pretty face and her shiny blond hair, straightened stiff the way Janelle does it sometimes. She’s already white. Why does she need to look even whiter?

  “I’m sorry,” she says f inally. “I’m sorry I can’t be more help.”

  “Can’t? You mean won’t.”

  “My hands are tied, Isaac.”

  This lady is just like everyone else. That social worker from DCF who gave my mother “a second chance,” the principal of Worthrop High with his “zero tolerance” policy on bullying. Judge Hayes with his extra year of “rehabilitation.” Sorry kid, rules are rules. We can’t go bending them for your sake. Or your sister’s.

  I get up and head to the door.

  “Isaac, wait! Tell me his name.”

  I turn around. She’s so hungry for Flannery’s name she’s practically glowing. She smells a story. Maybe she even smells fame, the chance to take down some dirty cops, a dirty lawyer, get her name in all the papers. Janelle’s safety means nothing to her. She’s only thinking about herself. What a surprise.

  “We’ll do everything we can to protect you,” she says.

  I laugh. I laugh in her pretty blond face.

  Chapter 48

  It was a good plan. It should have worked. Between Barbie and me, we had all the details covered. And there Janelle sits, at Barbie’s tía’s house, waiting for Jill Levy to whisk her off to Vermont.

  Only Jill Levy isn’t coming. Jill Levy is stuck, just like I’m stuck, and the person sticking us both is the same person who’s been sticking me my whole life. Will it ever change?

  Janelle can’t stay with Barbie’s tía forever. Eventually, Mr. Flannery will get suspicious. If he isn’t already. Who’s to say he doesn’t have a snoop in the DA’s off ice? Maybe he already knows I’m trying to sell him out.

  Above me, Cardo whistles in his sleep. He sleeps like a baby now, running himself down with all those push-ups and sit-ups, leaving our cell stinking of sweat. Cardo’s lucky. Things are simple for him. Shitty, but simple. A judge and a jury will decide his fate. Until then, the Disciples are calling the shots. They own him, just like Karen West owns me and Janelle.

  What kind of world puts people like her in charge of people like us? In a sane world, she wouldn’t qualify to raise a goldf ish.

  I know I’m no saint. I’ve done some pretty awful things in my time. But I’m better than my mother. From the minute Janelle came into my life, I’ve loved her more than my mother ever did. I’ve fed her, bought her clothes, stolen her clothes, taken care of her when she was sick. I’ve gotten her into private school, forged signatures, run away with her. Every single thing I’ve done—the smart and the stupid—has been for Janelle. And what has Karen West done? Neglected her. Hit her. Sold her. But because Janelle spent nine months inside of her, Karen West gets to call the shots.

  Cardo’s whistling sings out soft and high. Somewhere on the unit, a guy mutters in his sleep. On the cement f loor, that red light throbs. Then it’s quiet and still, and something comes to me.

  Something perfect and terrible.

  Chapter 49

  She’s sober. Cleaned up. Almost pretty. She’s washed and bleached her hair, put on a bit of makeup. Not too much. If you squint, you could almost see a normal mother there.

  “How you doing, Isaac?” she says.

  It sounds like an apology. For what though? For whatever she can remember?

  She collapses onto the bench. She smells clean, like shampoo, instead of her usual vanilla perfume.

  “What’s going on?” she says. The look of total confusion reminds me how much she doesn’t know. I’m not sure she ever knew when I was supposed to be getting out of juvie. She was so drunk when I was sentenced, it barely registered. According to Janelle, she kept asking where I was that f irst night.

  Sobriety always clears her mind, but it doesn’t f ix her memory. She’s lucky like that. She doesn’t need a box to store bad memories in. The booze washes them all away. Hell, that’s probably what the booze is for.

  “Janelle’s been gone for three days,” she says. “Is she mad at me? We haven’t even been f ighting. I’ve been so nice to her.”

  Of course. She’s not confused about me or my sentence. She’s confused because she’s alone. The one thing she can’t stand.

  “Janelle’s f ine,” I tell her. “She’s safe.”

  “But where is she?”

  “Mom, I need you to sign this.” I slide a piece of paper across the table. She squints as she tries to read it. She needs glasses but she won’t get them.

  “It’s a conse
nt form,” I tell her.

  “What for?”

  “You need to sign it.”

  She holds it at arm’s length and tries reading it sideways. “Vermont?” she says.

  “It’s like a boarding school. It’s for her own protection.”

  “From what?”

  “From a lot of things.”

  She reads some more, then puts the paper down and rubs her forehead. “Is she mad at me?”

  “Mom, I need you to focus. You really have to sign that. It’s important.”

  “I’m not sending Janelle to boarding school. She’s twelve years old. She needs her mother.”

  “She’s thirteen. And what she needs is to go there.”

  Her lips are cracked and dry, her skin pale, even through the makeup. Rehab has cleaned her up but it’s also taken something out of her. She looks raw, vulnerable.

  “I know things have been hard,” she says, “but they’re better now. We all just need to settle down and—hey, when are you coming home? I thought you’d be out by now.”

  “You’re not listening.”

  “Is that lawyer helping you? Because I have never liked him. He’s a snoot. Taking our money, then . . .” She leaves it at that.

  Mr. Slater never took any money from us. He was assigned by the state or the county or whoever assigns these things.

  I push the paper back to her and put my felt-tip pen on top of it. “Just sign it.”

  She pushes it back. “I am not sending my daughter to boarding school. Jesus, Isaac, why are you giving me such a hard time? If you knew what I’ve been through. I’ve got that social worker hassling me, the landlord. I’ve got two people from Janelle’s school bothering me. And some priest keeps coming around asking about you and Janelle getting baptized. What the hell is that about? We’re not Catholic. Janelle’s been out of school for three days. And the principal’s blaming me.”

  “Sign that piece of paper and it’s all taken care of. They’ll talk to the principal and DCF. You won’t have to worry about anything.”

  “I am not sending Janelle to boarding school. Are you crazy or something? What makes you think I’d do something like that?”

  It came to me in a f lash last night: probably the best plan I ever came up with. Now I have to f ight just to keep it alive. My throat dries up. All my instincts tell me to run, to bury it, to stuff it back down in that box where it belongs. But this is my last chance, my f inal card. If I don’t play it, it’s game over.

  “Because if you don’t sign that consent form, I’ll tell DCF what happened in Ashland.”

  My mother looks confused. She shakes her head like she’s clearing out space to make room for what I just said. Then something f lickers across her face. A memory. The memory. The booze hasn’t erased everything, after all. It’s been there all along, and now it’s out in the open. It won’t go back in the box. It’s too big. It’s bigger than the room, bigger than all rooms. How did it ever f it in that box? How did we ever do anything but tremble in its shadow?

  I push the paper and pen back to her. “Sign it, or I’ll tell them what you did to her. And how I let you.” I take a deep breath, then bring my eyes up to hers. I know I have to look at her. She has to know I’m serious, that I’m not afraid to tell them everything. “It’s you they’ll punish. They’ll take us away from you for good. You’ll never see either one of us again.”

  “I can’t be alone,” she whispers.

  “You won’t be,” I tell her. “Not if you sign that. I get out of here in one year.”

  “A year ?”

  I pick up the pen and hold it up for her. “If you don’t sign, you lose both of us forever. If you do sign, you only lose Janelle.”

  I can see her working through it. Underneath the hurt and the demented belief that she’s the victim here, she’s sizing up the situation, looking for the best possible outcome. For her. She hates being played like this. She’ll spend weeks, months, years stewing about the wrong I’m doing her. She’ll haul it out for the rest of my life.

  “You don’t know what it’s like, Isaac. You don’t have any idea how hard it is. Raising two kids on your own. No help from anyone. Not even my own mother. You know she disowned me soon as she met your father. You think it’s easy when your whole family thinks you’re trash?”

  “Sign it.”

  She tries to wait me out, stare me down. She even digs out that cold stare that pinned me to the couch in Ashland. But I don’t f linch. I’m beyond that now. The part of me that was capable of being scared like that is dead. She can look at me however she wants. The only thing that matters is Janelle.

  “You don’t have any idea the sacrif ices I’ve made for you,” she says.

  She rips the pen out of my hand, f inds the X on the page, and stabs out her signature.

  I turn the paper over. “You need to sign there too.”

  “You think you’re so smart,” she says. “You’re just a kid. Just a dumb kid. You don’t know what it’s like out there. What people can be. What they’re capable of.”

  When I don’t answer her, she f inds the X and signs a second time.

  I take the paper and stand up.

  “So stop judging me, Isaac! You wait! You wait till you have two kids counting on you. No money coming in, no man around. No family. Neighbors think you’re trash. Your friends turn their backs. You think I’ve had it easy? You think I haven’t made sacrif ices for you?”

  I put my back to her and walk away.

  I can hear her getting to her feet.

  “You come back here, you little shit!” she shouts.

  “Ma’am, that’s enough,” a guard warns.

  I don’t turn around to watch the guard manhandling her to the door, but I can hear it just f ine.

  “Don’t you put your back to me! I’m your mother, goddamn it. Look at me!”

  She’s my mother all right, but she’s not my problem anymore. She’s that guard’s problem now, and I’m conf ident the guard can handle her. I’m done handling her.

  When it comes to Karen West, Isaac West is done.

  Chapter 50

  I think it truly surprises Jill Levy when I deliver the signed consent form to her in that conference room the next day. She takes her time examining my mother’s signature.

  “It’s legit,” I tell her. “Go ahead and call her if you want. She signed it right in front of me.”

  “The location in Vermont is secret,” she tells me. “Your mother won’t be able to visit.”

  “That’s not a problem.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yeah,” I tell her. “I’m sure.”

  I hand her a piece of paper with the address of Barbie’s tía written on it. “That’s where Janelle’s staying. She’s ready to go now.”

  Ms. Levy bites her lip but nods. “My assistant will pick her up tomorrow.”

  “Can’t it be today?”

  “I need some time to arrange things. She’ll come by tomorrow morning. If you want to write to each other, you can use my address. My assistant will forward your letters.” She hands me her card, then puts the consent form and Janelle’s address into her briefcase and shuts it with a sharp snap. “Now, the name of the person who killed Patrick Healy.”

  “You can’t move on that until Janelle’s safe.”

  She brushes a strand of that pretty blond hair behind one ear and stares me dead in the eye. “You have my word that she’ll be safe.”

  “Actually, I want a picture of Janelle once she’s there on the farm. But don’t email it. Bring it to me in person. Then I’ll give you the name.”

  She sighs in frustration. “You’re really getting on my nerves, Isaac.”

  “I know,” I tell her. “But trust me, you’re gonna love this name.”

  “I better.”

 
The next day Jill Levy shows up with a photograph of Janelle in a kitchen somewhere in Vermont, presumably, with two old white people standing on either side of her. She looks nervous, out of place. The kitchen is big, with a gigantic old-fashioned stove and a big red kettle on it. I wish I could speak to the old couple, get to know them, make sure they’re the kind of people who can take care of Janelle the way she deserves. They look nice, for whatever that’s worth. Rugged. Like farmers, I guess.

  “They’re good people,” Ms. Levy says. She can see how nervous I am. I’m actually trembling. “Your sister will be f ine.”

  “Can I keep this?”

  She nods. “The name, Isaac?”

  “Tom Flannery,” I tell her. “He’s the head of the auto department at Donverse Vocational.”

  “Donverse? Isn’t that where you were enrolled? Were you a student of his?”

  “We all are.”

  Her eyes widen. “What do you mean?”

  “His whole crew,” I tell her. “We’re all his students.”

  Her face lights up like she just won the lottery.

  I never get to see Tom Flannery’s face when he gets the bad news. He sings like a bird, though, when they take him in. I like to think of him as one of those dirty seagulls down Revere Beach way, the ones that f lock around the garbage cans and hassle you for your hot dog. I’m pretty sure Mr. Flannery sees himself a different way. He takes down a dozen cops with him, plus my stupid lawyer, which must make Jill Levy’s day. Apparently keeping your “mouth shut” does not apply to Tom Flannery.

  He’ll have an interesting time at Walpers, rubbing elbows with the guys he took down. Then again, dirty cops aren’t going to do so well at Walpers either.

  The story gets front-page treatment in all the local papers and on wickednews.com, which I read in the computer room. The comments are wild. People are actually shocked that a criminal enterprise of this scope was operating right under their noses—in a suburban high school, no less. I f ind this hilarious. Who did they think was stealing all those cars? Joy riders? Homeless people? Out-of-staters? Auto theft is an art, as Mr. Flannery once said. What better place to practice it than a vocational school with an auto program run by an ex-con. Maybe next time do a better job hiring teachers. Maybe do a criminal background check, for example.