by Jeff Altabef
“Your grandmother’s a hundred years old,” Troy jokes, which is more like his usual self.
Marlon shrugs one of his beefy shoulders. “You know what they say. One hundred is really the new seventy-five.” Marlon leads us to the car.
Troy lingers a step behind so I playfully shove him. “Come on. Maybe we’ll interrupt Marlon’s grandmother and Hunter on a hot date.”
Troy moans as we file into Ella’s car. “Great. That’s a picture I don’t want to see.”
Ella floors it and swerves the car onto Route 100, barely sneaking in front of a blue BMW. Red Rock Commons is a senior community made up of townhouses not far from the cemetery. It takes less than ten minutes for us to enter the complex.
“Hunter’s unit is number 127,” Marlon says.
I point out the sign for Unit 125, which means we’re close, so Ella swings the Ford into a parking space on the right side of the street next to a plain white van. After we pile out of the car, we plod our way to 127.
“What are you going to say to Hunter?” Troy says.
“Beats me. I guess I’ll have to wing it.” When we turn a corner, we see Unit 127 and a gray sedan in the driveway. As we reach the curb, the front door to the townhouse opens. Joe Hunter steps through and slams it shut. He’s wearing khakis, a blue cotton shirt, and clutches a green and red-checked Samsonite in his right hand.
He sees us and speeds his pace toward the car, limping noticeably. I move to intercept him, and we reach his car at the same time. Hunter’s eyes touch on us, but mostly they dance down both sides of the street.
“I’m in a rush, kids,” he says as he presses a button on his key, and the trunk pops open. Sweat runs down both sides of his face, and his shirt sticks to his body. The day is still hot, but not that hot.
I jump right in. “Does your trip have anything to do with Roundtree and Brook’s murders?”
Hunter hoists his bag with a grunt. His arms shake against the weight as he drops the Samsonite in the trunk. He doesn’t look at me as he talks. “I knew them both. They were good men.” He leans his hands on the trunk lid and slams it down hard with a thud.
I step between him and the driver’s-side door. Marlon and Ella flank me and we create a sort of human wall between him and the car. “Tell us about this secret society you’re all part of.”
He frowns when we block his path, but his attention is still elsewhere. His head swivels from side to side. Fear drips off him as if he’s just taken a dip in a pool.
He speaks fast, too fast. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I need to go.”
When he moves toward us, I stand my ground. “Do these murders have anything to do with the two twisted arrows in a circle?”
Hunter freezes, his hand darts to the collar of his shirt, and he stares at me wide-eyed. “Juliet Stone, you of all people should not be asking these questions. These are dangerous times.”
“I don’t understand what’s happening. Is my grandfather mixed up in all this?” My heart is thumping.
He smiles at me with moist eyes, grabs my hand, and kisses the back of it. “You are a remarkable young woman. For the answers you seek, you’ll need to ask Jake. I wish I could be there when he tells you what you need to know, but I must go. It’s for everyone’s protection.” He sweeps his eyes across all of us, but they linger on Troy. “You shouldn’t be here. You need to be careful.”
“Careful about what?” Ella asks. Her hands are on her hips again.
He pulls me close to him and whispers in my ear. “You’re special, Juliet. You’ve been chosen.”
“Holy cow! That was creepy,” Ella says as she turns to watch Hunter drive away. “He sure seemed scared.”
I can still feel his lips pressed against my skin as his car zips out of sight, so I wipe the back of my hand on my jeans. “Let’s go.” I start walking toward Ella’s car.
“What did he tell you? Why did he whisper something in your ear? Was it some type of secret? Why couldn’t he tell all of us? Did it have anything to do with your grandfather?” Ella asks all five questions in one quick burst as if they’re all just one question.
“He said I was special.” I shrug one shoulder.
“We already know you’re special,” chuckles Troy, which causes both Marlon and Ella to laugh. I glare at him. He’s smiling, but his eyes look nervous.
When we cram in the Ford, Ella says, “Things are getting weird super fast. There must be some connection between Dent’s article, the twisted arrows, and these murders.”
Marlon adds his opinion from the front seat. “I’m sorry Jules, but it seems as if Jake is in the middle of this. I mean, Hunter said to ask him about it. He wouldn’t mention Jake if he wasn’t connected.”
Everyone stares at me. I sense their thoughts and don’t like it. “If Sicheii’s involved in these murders, then why would Hunter tell me to talk to him? He should have warned me to stay away or go to the police.”
“And he said he wished he could be there when you speak to Jake, which is odd, too. He wouldn’t say that if he suspected him of murder,” Ella adds as she starts the car.
“Maybe we should just ask Jake what’s going on,” Troy suggests for the millionth time. “He could be in danger and we can help.”
“Not yet. I need more to wrestle a straight answer out of him.” If my grandfather is in trouble or mixed up in these murders, then I need to help him. The only way I can do that is to force real answers from him. Stories about spirits or rocks and rivers won’t do me any good, and that’s what he’ll tell me if I haven’t put the puzzle together before confronting him.
The air conditioning kicks in and the overworked blowers rattle in protest. The car is oven-hot even though the sun melts into the horizon.
“We need to find out what Dent wrote,” Ella says. “We need to read that article.”
An idea buzzes into my mind like a bee on a flower. “I’ll call Katie. She’s a first-class hacker. If there’s something on the web, she’ll find it.” Hacking is Katie’s release from her strict rule-following world. Masked by an alias, the computer gives her freedom, freedom she uses to uncover other people’s secrets.
“Can we trust her? I mean, if Jake is somehow involved, we need to be careful who knows what. At least until we know what’s going on and what we should do about it.” Troy fires me a look, his eyes cutting.
“She is part of that Bartens crowd,” Ella adds. “Her dad used to be one of the biggest fish until he got caught stealing from everyone.”
I feel the Bartens wedge between us. “I trust Katie as much as anyone else, even you guys.” My voice is abrupt and defensive. As far as I’m concerned, the matter is settled, so I hit Katie’s speed dial number. She answers on the first ring.
Katie sputters words in one long, breathless burst. “Are you okay? Why haven’t you returned any of my messages? Are you mad at me?”
Heat flashes across my face. I had almost forgotten my fight with Tiffany, but now that I am talking to Katie, the whole incident comes rushing back to me—the anger and Katie’s betrayal. “Why didn’t you tell them what Tiffany called me?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about! Tiffany didn’t say anything. You ripped down something from your locker and raced at her. It all happened so fast. I didn’t hear anything.”
Her answer comes in a speedy whoosh. I take a deep breath. She sounds truthful; her voice cracks at the end, close to tears. At least she didn’t realize Tiffany had hung the cartoon on her locker or that the cartoon was really of her dad. Sicheii is right about that—I should tell her the truth, but I’m not ready to deal with that now and definitely not over the phone. I’ll need to be face to face with her for that conversation, or I’ll mess it up and only hurt her.
“I’m sorry, Katie. Tiffany called me Indian trash. I thought she shouted it, but you were farther away. I guess you didn’t hear her.” My anger deflates like air leaking from a balloon. I feel bad accusing Katie. Besides, two people are dea
d, my grandfather could be next, and this strange symbol keeps popping up everywhere. A little name calling from Tiffany can’t compare to all that.
“Did you get suspended? What did she put on your locker? Did—”
I feel like a prisoner facing a firing squad, so I interrupt her before she fires more questions at me. “Katie, can you do me a favor?”
“Sure.... “
“Don’t worry. The favor has nothing to do with school or Tiffany. I found an old photograph online from The Sentinel. It’s part of an article written by John Dent on July 25, 1986. Can you retrieve it?”
I hear Katie typing on her laptop as her fingers fly over her keyboard. In less than a minute, she has the photo on her screen. “I’ve got the photograph up. It’s not much of a picture.”
“I can’t find the article connected to the photograph. Do you think you can find the piece?”
“All The Sentinel’s old issues are online in an archives section on their website.”
I guess everyone else knows that but me. She types in staccato fashion.
“Strange, this issue is missing. The issues before and after are online.”
“Exactly. Can you find it?”
Katie pauses for a second. “Why do you want it?”
I’m not ready to explain everything to her. She’s trustworthy, but I don’t want to spook her, and I’m not sure what we’re looking for anyway. “I’ll tell you everything later,” which is probably true. “You’ll just have to trust me for now.”
She sighs. “I can try to access The Sentinel’s server. If the newspaper was originally put on the system and then deleted, the old paper should leave a shadow. If I find the shadow, I can download the article. It might take a while.”
“Thanks, Katie. Just do your best. I’ll talk to you later.”
“I’m not sure what we do next,” Ella says as she swerves around a bus. “We could go back and talk to Jane Dent. Maybe we can find out why she lied to us.”
“Maybe we should wait and see if Katie can find the article,” Troy says. “It might prove to be nothing.”
“I think Troy’s right,” I say. “I’d like to question Jane Dent after we read what her son wrote. Something tells me she won’t be happy to see us again. We’ll be lucky to have one more crack at her.”
“I wonder why Hunter kissed your hand and whispered to you,” Ella says as she drives back toward my house.
I’m thinking the same thing. I know Hunter like all the other kids in the area, but we’ve never been close. I doubt I’ve had more than a two-minute conversation with him, and every one of those conversations ended with me paying for a flavored ice.
As we pass the Diary Freeze, fear pricks the back of my neck, so I glance out the back window. A plain white van drives a few car lengths behind us. It looks like the same van we parked next to by Hunter’s townhouse. The driver has black, slicked backed hair and broad shoulders. I don’t like the look of him—something in his eyes seems dangerous.
Ella slows, turns right, and stops at the security gate. The white van speeds past while the driver focuses solely on the road ahead.
I’m being silly, seeing bogeymen who aren’t there.
My mind spins when Troy and I step out of Ella’s Ford. Is Sicheii’s life in danger, or is he involved in these murders in a more sinister way?
He’s closer to me than the average grandfather. He’s played a big role in raising me, almost like a father. Even though I didn’t want him to stay over, that was more about me than him. He’s always been the same, always been a rock for Mom and me—a weird rock with lots of dents and cracks, but still a rock. I can’t believe he’d kill anyone, but a whisper of doubt tickles my mind and that makes me feel like a traitor. He did lie to the Sheriff yesterday about where he spent the day. He went fishing. He didn’t spend the day at the gallery, and he had two antique hatchets at his store.
I hesitate as we reach the garage, nervous Sicheii might be home. I glimpse through the window before starting for the door—the Porsche is gone. I take a deep breath and some anxiety drains from me. I still need more puzzle pieces before confronting him. I only have edge pieces that form the beginning of the picture. Like any puzzle, the most challenging parts are yet to come.
I turn the key, the lock clicks, and the front door opens. My head throbs as I make my way to the kitchen and drop down in a chair next to the table. Troy’s face is lined with concern—his eyebrows pressed together, his deep brown eyes wide and sparkling. The expression changes his handsome face into something more, something better, but I would never tell him that. That would open up too many doors I don’t want open right now. Besides, he’s all too aware of his good looks.
“Are you okay?” His voice is soft like velvet. “Your face looks flushed like you have a fever.” He touches me on my shoulder, and I sense his warmth through the fabric.
“It’s just hot. Why is everyone always asking how I’m feeling? Ask me again, and I’ll knock your block off!” I even shift in my seat to lunge at him if need be.
He removes his hand from my shoulder and frowns. He knows me well enough to realize I’m serious. He shrugs and swings open the refrigerator door, finds a pitcher of lemonade and grabs two glasses. A moment later, he sits across from me and we both gulp down full glasses and feel better as our bodies absorb the cold liquid. The air conditioning in Ella’s Ford was almost useless.
My mind sticks on the twisted arrows symbol and grinds like gears in need of oil. What do the twisted arrows mean, and why is the symbol popping up everywhere? How come I never noticed it before?
My phone rings. Mom is calling. I stuff the phone in my pocket and glance at Troy sheepishly.
“Aren’t you going to answer your phone?”
“No way!” I drain the last of the lemonade from my glass. “Mom is the last person I want to talk to now. She’ll suspect something is wrong just by the sound of my voice and catch the next flight back. I’ll never figure out what’s going on with her watching me.”
“Maybe she can remember something about John Dent.” He refills my glass. “She might recall his article. She would’ve been a teenager back in 1986.”
Troy is right, but I have a difficult time imagining Mom as a teenager. The Mom I know has always been a responsible lawyer and mother. It’s hard to think of her as anything else. The only blemish on her perfect record is her brief relationship with my father, and that topic is off limits. I doubt she had even met my father by 1986.
My father.
Once my mind turns to him, it tumbles down a waterfall. I’ve fallen down this slide so many times before. Questions, anger, and guilt churn in the water after the free fall. Still....
“What’s going on, Jules? You look like you’re a million miles away.”
I grip my glass harder. “I was thinking about my father. He was released from prison four months ago.” He was convicted of manslaughter not long after I was born. I search his name on the first day of each month since I got my own computer. It’s my ritual. I’m not sure why. Maybe a part of me wonders what he’s up to, whether there’s any news to report about him.
“Did he call?”
I shake my head. “Nothing. He’s never called or written or sent me an email or text.” I’ve never met him and have only seen his face once, in an old photograph with Mom at Slippery River that was hidden in her room. I needed to borrow some socks and found it stuffed under a dozen pairs in her dresser drawer. I never asked her about it. What would be the point? He obviously wants nothing to do with me or us. Why she’s kept that picture this entire time totally confuses me. I would have ripped it up long ago.
Troy narrows his eyes. We’ve talked about my biological father more than a few times and he’s made his feeling clear. “You understand it isn’t personal, right? The jerk has never even met you?”
“It sure feels personal.” I chug the rest of the lemonade. Could I be so bad, such a disappointment, he doesn’t even want to meet me?
I glance at Troy. He so wants to make this better for me. I see it in his eyes and the lines that drip from both ends of his lips. When he got his license, he offered to take me to see my father in prison, so I could meet him, tell him what an ass he is in person. When I said no, he suggested he go alone, but I forbid it. He’d find him for me if I asked him. He would do anything for me.
Heat flushes my face, my throat burns, and tears well in my eyes. I glance away so he won’t notice.
I look at the clock on the wall and change the subject before the specter of my absentee father swallows us whole. “Do you really think my mom could help us?”
Troy swirls the lemonade in his glass. “Anything is possible.”
The doorbell rings. I jump and knock my glass over on the table. Luckily, it doesn’t break, but a new thin line spreads around its base as if it is about to shatter at any moment.
Troy chuckles, so I manufacture a fierce scowl, but I’m not really angry with him. I’m more interested in who rang the bell.
He strolls cautiously toward the door, and I follow in his wake, feeling better and safer that he is here. Dusk has already settled in as the sun drifts below the horizon.
Sheriff Daniel presses his face against the glass. He isn’t alone. Deputies Johnson and Jackson are with him. I swerve around Troy and open the door.
Daniels seems edgy. His eyes shift beyond me toward the rest of the house. “Good evening, Juliet,” he says as he tips his cowboy hat. “Is your grandpa home? We’re looking for Jake.”
I glance at Troy, whose expression is stoic. Returning to face Daniels, I say, “No, Sheriff, he’s out. Is something wrong?”
Daniels steps inside the doorway. “You don’t mind if we come in and check, do you?” His voice is tight. He doesn’t give me a chance to object. He and the two deputies are already inside the house before I can say anything.
“It will only take a second, Juliet. We just want to ask him some questions.” As if he gave a silent command, the two deputies leave the foyer and start to search the house, calling out “Jake” as they go. Deputy Jackson brushes his hand against his revolver, and my legs go weak. I remembered the words from the newspaper article—Sheriff Daniels expects an arrest to be made imminently.
