The Homecoming

by Alan Russell

“Courtney is definitely Dopey,” said Luke.

  “Who is Tiffany?”

  “She’s not one of the Seven Dwarfs. She’s the Evil Queen.”

  “What about Kimberly?”

  “Grumpy, for sure,” said Luke.

  “Cassidy?” asked Michael, but then answered his question at the same time as Luke: “Sleepy.”

  “And no doubt about Brittany,” said Michael.

  Luke nodded, and they both said, “Happy.”

  “We got to get the word out,” said Michael. “Match the seven Y-Girls with the Seven Dwarfs.”

  “Maybe we can put up a poster of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, and people can fill in names.”

  “That would be classic!” said Michael.

  In fits and starts, the two of them continued to laugh, but Luke wasn’t laughing when he turned to Stella and said, “You’re Snow White.”

  She frowned. “I guess I had better watch out for poisoned apples, then.”

  Eleanor was watching for the return of her son’s car, and was there to greet everyone at the door.

  “Stella is fine, Mom,” said Michael. “You can relax. And your firstborn is okay as well.”

  Eleanor still felt the need to give her daughter a hug. “Tomorrow we’ll go and pick out a cell phone for you,” she said.

  “Another one of your Big Brother phones?” asked Michael.

  “It will have a GPS tracking app,” admitted Eleanor.

  Michael turned to Stella. “I had to wear this horrible-looking GPS watch until I was twelve, and then Mom gave me a cell phone with a GPS tracker. What I didn’t know was that the phone did more than monitor my location. Mom was also able to read all my texts and listen to all my calls. It took me a few years to figure out she wasn’t psychic.”

  “I was just being protective,” said Eleanor.

  “That’s one word for it,” said Michael. “Another might be pathologically paranoid.”

  “Let’s eat our yogurt before it melts,” said Luke.

  “Blessed are the peacemakers,” laughed Duncan.

  Spoons scraped the bottoms of the bowls, searching in vain for one last bite of goodness.

  “Yum,” said Stella. “That really tasted like s’mores, but without Michael’s pyromania. Do you still do that?”

  Her brother nodded. “It’s the only way to roast a marshmallow.”

  Stella rolled her eyes—or tried to. Luke thought her attempt looked funny, although he said nothing.

  “In seven years you haven’t changed at all, have you?” she asked.

  “Why change when you’re already perfect?” said Michael.

  This time Stella’s eye-rolling looked more polished. But she followed up her pretend contempt by hugging her brother.

  “Don’t ever change,” she said.

  “Remember when they used to fight like cats and dogs?” said Eleanor.

  “I should be going,” announced Luke.

  Stella smiled and said, “Have fun with dawn patrol and midtide.”

  “You should go surfing with me sometime. I’ll bet you’d be a natural.”

  “I’d love that,” said Stella.

  “I wouldn’t love it,” said her mother. “When was the last time you went swimming in the ocean?”

  “It’s been a while,” admitted Stella, “but you used to call me a fish.”

  Eleanor shook her head and said, “I’m not sure I like the idea of you surfing.”

  “Maybe you could put some water wings on her, Mom,” said Michael.

  “Do you still want him to never change?” asked Duncan.

  “We could start with a boogie board, Mrs. Pierce,” said Luke, “and go out on a small wave day.”

  “I suppose,” said an unsure Eleanor.

  Luke’s and Stella’s eyes met for a triumphant instant, and then each looked away.

  Michael accompanied Luke outside, ostensibly to get the backpack he’d left in the car, but when they were only a few steps away from the house, his real purpose was revealed.

  “What’s with you and my sister?” he asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, I don’t know which of the two of you was flirting more.”

  Instead of denying it, Luke said, “Remember I used to tell you about my dreams?”

  “You mean you and the mermaid?”

  “She wasn’t a mermaid. She was sort of this vision.”

  Michael nodded. He’d teased his friend about the girl of his dreams for years.

  “There’s something about Stella that’s just like my vision.”

  “Dude,” said Michael, “my sister’s not right for you.” In a voice not much more than a whisper, he added, “The truth is that she’s kind of messed up right now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Michael sighed. “You got to keep this between us, bro.”

  “You know I will.”

  “You can’t tell your parents or anyone.”

  “I promise I won’t tell anyone.”

  Michael scraped the sidewalk with his shoe, almost like he was trying to rid himself of some sticky gum. “Stella’s explanation for being gone these last seven years is that she was off with aliens, and I’m not talking the illegal kind. I’m talking E.T.”

  It took Luke a moment to absorb what his friend was saying. “She said she was with extraterrestrials?”

  Michael nodded. “She’s seeing a shrink. He thinks she’s got this thing called Stockholm syndrome, and because of that, she’s protecting whoever abducted her.”

  “Wow,” said Luke, not knowing quite what to say.

  “My parents are making me talk to the shrink, too,” said Michael. “It’s the pits, let me tell you. The shrink says Stella’s story about aliens is a defense mechanism. He also says Stella is probably clinging to it because it allows her to avoid thinking about what really happened to her. What it boils down to, he’s pretty sure, is that Stella is repressing a lot of bad crap.”

  “That sucks,” said Luke.

  “Yeah,” Michael agreed, and scraped his shoe some more. “But I thought you better know, especially with the way you guys were eyeing each other. So what I’m trying to say is . . .”

  He searched for the words, but Luke found them first: “Stella is vulnerable, and she’s already been through a lot, and she doesn’t need some guy making her more messed up than she already is.”

  “That about covers it,” said Michael.

  “Okay,” said Luke.

  They took their usual leave of each other, pretending all was normal.

  “See you later, masturbator,” said Michael.

  “In a while, pedophile,” said Luke.

  Luke went through the security gate and trudged down the street to his house, taking no notice of the two sedans parked on the street.

  “Play it back,” said Scarecrow. “And allow Henry and Em to hear it as well.”

  Henry and Em were in the other sedan. Those weren’t their real names, but were in keeping with their assignment of monitoring Dorothy.

  Tin Man did as told, allowing the others to listen in on a private channel. Scarecrow hadn’t assigned the names haphazardly. In The Wizard of Oz, the Tin Man had no heart; neither did this Tin Man. The difference between them was that this Tin Man enjoyed being heartless.

  It was the Guardian of the Gates who had assigned Scarecrow and his subordinates to monitor Dorothy. Like Dorothy, Stella had gone away. And there were those who were interested in hearing about Stella’s Oz. Still, the primary job of Scarecrow and his crew was to control Stella. They needed to rein her in and play on her doubts.

  Scarecrow didn’t know the full story. He wasn’t sure if he even wanted to know the full story. But he had been waiting for someone like Stella to come along. He had been preparing. That’s how he and his crew had been able to act right away. They’d had a shrink picked out and a backstory in place. Around the world other potential targets had been identified, with other go teams at the ready.r />
  The other members of Scarecrow’s team listened to the conversation between Michael and Luke. At its conclusion, Scarecrow said, “The toothpaste is working its way out of the tube. We knew that would happen over time, and we knew it would be fruitless to try to get it back in. The Guardian of the Gates believes by exposing Dorothy now, she will be easier to control. He suggests we let Dorothy’s peers circulate her narrative, allowing us to stay in the deep background. That way we can hope for a more malleable Dorothy.”

  The Tin Man stuck his head out the window and looked around.

  “What are you doing?” asked Scarecrow.

  “I’m looking for falling houses,” he said.

  Tiffany glanced at the display on her cell phone. She hadn’t heard it ring, but could see someone had left her a message. The caller, she was pleased to see, was Luke Hart. Maybe he had come to the correct conclusion that surfing shouldn’t be his first priority.

  She listened to the message, and at first didn’t follow what she was hearing. Michael Pierce was saying, “Dude, my sister’s not right for you. The truth is that she’s kind of messed up right now.”

  It’s a butt-dial, she realized. Tiffany listened closely and heard Michael say: “You got to keep this between us, bro.”

  “You know I will.”

  “You can’t tell your parents or anyone.”

  “I promise I won’t tell anyone.”

  “Stella’s explanation for being gone these last seven years is that she was off with aliens, and I’m not talking the illegal kind. I’m talking E.T.”

  Oh my God, thought Tiffany. This was better than she could have imagined. For a few seconds she couldn’t hear what Michael and Luke were saying, but then the sound improved.

  “The shrink says Stella’s story about aliens is a defense mechanism,” said Michael. “He also says Stella is probably clinging to it because it allows her to avoid thinking about what really happened to her. What it boils down to, he’s pretty sure, is that Stella is repressing a lot of bad crap.”

  “That sucks,” said Luke.

  Then the message was over. Tiffany played back the recording.

  Wait until the Y-Girls hear this, she thought.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Two days after his last visit to the Pierces’ home, Eleanor opened the front door for Detective Cheever and said, “Good or bad?”

  “Good or bad what?” he asked.

  “You said you were coming over to deliver some news,” she said, “but you didn’t specify whether the news was good or bad.”

  “What if it’s neither?”

  Eleanor shook her head. “News is either good or bad, even though you might not know which it is when you first hear it.”

  “My wife is becoming a philosopher,” said Duncan, who came over and shook Cheever’s hand.

  “I wouldn’t want to take your job,” she said.

  “I’m a member of Congress. That makes me the opposite of a philosopher.”

  “Are you headed back to DC?” asked Cheever, taking note of the luggage in the living room.

  Duncan nodded. “I’ll be flying out this afternoon. There are some important votes I really can’t miss.”

  “I told him I’d write the Speaker a note excusing his absence,” said Eleanor, “but he declined my offer.”

  “I’ll be back in four days,” said Duncan, “and I’ll be open to all offers at that time.”

  Husband and wife looked at Cheever expectantly.

  “Guy Wilkerson was released from prison this morning,” he said.

  “Shit,” said Duncan.

  Eleanor’s face turned white. After visiting Wilkerson in prison, Eleanor had come back changed. Whatever he had said or done to her had cut deep.

  “I think Stella needs to hear the news,” said Cheever.

  “She’s only a child,” said Eleanor. “I wish she didn’t have to hear such filth.”

  “Stella!” yelled Duncan. “Please come downstairs.”

  From upstairs they heard a “Coming!” Moments later Stella appeared. Her head was slightly bobbing, and the strains of rock music could be heard. Duncan motioned for her to lose the earbuds, and she stopped playing the song.

  “When you went missing, Stella,” said Cheever, “we ended up arresting a man named Guy Wilkerson. My investigation proved that Wilkerson had been stalking you for weeks, if not longer.”

  “Bastard,” hissed Eleanor.

  Cheever knew she wasn’t given to such outbursts; just the thought of Wilkerson could still push her buttons.

  “I’m surprised he was able to get released so soon,” said Duncan.

  “The State was afraid to keep him any longer,” said Cheever, “especially knowing his lawyer is in the process of preparing a multimillion-dollar suit alleging false arrest and a host of other charges. I’m sure we’ll both be deposed in the near future on those matters, Congressman.”

  Duncan shook his head. “Wilkerson was in possession of stolen property in the form of Mr. Sparkles, was found with child pornography, groped two of the children he was supposed to be tutoring, and clearly violated terms of his parole by being within a hundred feet of Stella’s elementary school when he took pictures of her.”

  “His lawyers will still try and make it look like we had a vendetta against him,” said Cheever.

  “If they want to start throwing mud, they’re going to quickly find that a lot more of it is going to stick to their client than to his accusers,” said Duncan. “Everyone is going to see that Wilkerson is a pervert with a capital P, and while he might not have abducted Stella, he’s guilty of plenty else.”

  “So this man was imprisoned because people thought he kidnapped me?” asked Stella.

  “That’s his claim,” said Cheever, “but that’s not why he was sentenced. Years before you went missing, Wilkerson had already been arrested and convicted as a sexual predator. And although he was a person of interest in your disappearance, he was convicted on several counts unrelated to that.”

  Stella still didn’t look convinced. “But if I hadn’t gone away, would he have been arrested?”

  Cheever shrugged. “We’ll never know. But what can’t be disputed is his guilt. He went back to prison because he broke multiple laws.”

  “Getting Wilkerson off the streets was our gift to the community,” Duncan told his daughter. “I don’t want you feeling guilty because this creep spent time in jail. He got what he deserved.”

  Cheever began passing around pictures. “These are some recent photos of Guy Wilkerson,” he said.

  “He’s aged,” said Eleanor.

  “It’s been seven years since you saw him,” said Duncan.

  “Take a good look at those pictures, Stella,” said Cheever. “If you ever think you see this man, I want you to call me on my cell phone right away.”

  “Maybe we should get a restraining order,” said Eleanor.

  “Maybe we should stock up on ammunition,” said Duncan.

  “Has he directed any threats toward our family?” Eleanor asked.

  “Wilkerson is too smart to make overt threats,” Cheever said, “even though he’s on record as saying Duncan railroaded him into prison and used the power of his office to keep him there.”

  Duncan put a hand on Eleanor’s shoulder. “He’s not a threat. He’s just a sick little man who’s trying to extort some money out of us.”

  “That’s my take on it as well,” said Cheever, “but I still want everyone to be on the lookout for him.”

  The detective turned toward Stella. He thought it important for her to understand what kind of a person Wilkerson was.

  “There is no sugarcoating this,” he said. “Guy Wilkerson was fixated on you. He knew where you lived, and where you went to school. Wilkerson took hundreds of pictures of you, but you were a girl then, and now you’re a young woman. It’s likely with the passage of time he’s no longer as interested in you, but I still want you to be on the lookout for him.”


  Stella nodded to show she understood.

  “Can’t we petition the court to keep Wilkerson out of San Diego County?” asked Eleanor.

  Cheever shook his head and said, “I don’t think any judge would grant that request, especially in light of what some might view as Wilkerson’s having gotten a raw deal.”

  Eleanor sighed, then turned to her husband. “Are you sure you have to fly out today?”

  “I promised the leadership that I would,” said Duncan.

  “Then before you leave, I want you to take the handgun out of the gun locker so that I can carry it in my purse.”

  Guy Wilkerson had a seat to himself on the Greyhound bus going to Oceanside, courtesy of the California taxpayers. He’d also gotten $200 in gate money. His attorney had advanced him another $800. The lawyer was confident that the two of them would be receiving a nice payday in the near future.

  Wilkerson looked out the window, soaking in the sights. For seven years he’d been living in protective custody, afraid to venture outside his cell. The much-publicized disappearance of Stella Pierce had convinced him to stay clear of the general prison population. That had made doing time all the harder.

  His complexion reflected prison pallor. Soon he’d be soaking in the rays. And just the thought of a carne asada burrito was making him salivate. In less than an hour he’d be biting into one.

  That was one itch he needed to scratch. But there were plenty of others he’d be scratching as well. As a free man, Wilkerson wanted to walk under the light of the moon. And he couldn’t wait to lie down on some park grass and look up at the sky. He’d watch the clouds, and imagine what forms they took. And when he’d had his fill of lolling about, he’d take a little walk. There were streets in Oceanside full of citrus trees. He’d get his fill of oranges and tangerines, and spit out the seeds as he walked.

  Tonight, Wilkerson decided, he’d splurge. He’d find lodging that offered a thick, plush mattress. For too many years he’d been sleeping on a thin, hard bed that felt like the rack. He couldn’t wait to spend a night on a comfortable mattress. How could he not have sweet dreams?

  Those were his minor itches. They would be easily tended to. After that he’d begin thinking on how to best relieve some of his major itches.