The Homecoming

by Alan Russell

  Dr. Froke took the call on the cell phone that had been provided for him. He knew who would be on the other end of the line even though the phone’s readout said Unknown Caller.

  “You will soon be getting calls from the media,” said Scarecrow. “They might even camp out at your workplace or on your doorstep. They will want to know if you are treating Stella Pierce. You will neither confirm nor deny this. You will merely cite doctor-patient confidentiality.

  “There will be pictures surfacing that show you going to the Pierce home, as well as Stella being escorted into your practice. When shown these pictures, you are to reply, ‘No comment.’ Is that understood?”

  “Yes,” said Froke.

  “In the coming days you’ll likely hear some inaccurate news reports,” said Scarecrow. “But you will do nothing to disabuse anyone of the notion that Stella is taking antipsychotic drugs or has severe mental health issues. Is that clear?”

  “Yes,” said Froke.

  It was also now clear to Froke why Scarecrow had been pushing him hard to get Stella to take meds. His handler wanted it to look as if she was certifiably crazy.

  “If you perform as I have directed,” said Scarecrow, “you can expect to be rewarded.”

  “Thank you,” said Froke.

  When Scarecrow had first given the psychiatrist the money, he had thought it was manna from heaven. Since that time he’d learned thirty pieces don’t come without a price.

  The dial tone told Froke the conversation was over.

  From inside the vehicle, Scarecrow made a second call. “Status?” he asked.

  On the speakerphone he heard Uncle Henry say, “Shaggy is buying a used electric bike.”

  When Wilkerson had first shown himself, Scarecrow had given him the nickname Shaggy Man, one of L. Frank Baum’s Oz characters. His crew had quickly shortened it to Shaggy.

  Auntie Em added, “Supposedly this bike will be able to go ninety miles on a single charge.”

  “That’s going to make Shaggy a lot more mobile,” said Henry.

  “I guess he’s had enough of jogging,” said Scarecrow.

  “Now he’s going to be able to do a much better job of stalking her,” said Em.

  “Continue to monitor Dorothy. Don’t intervene unless it appears Shaggy is in danger of physically threatening her.”

  “Understood,” the two said.

  It was an afternoon of surreptitious conversations. First it was Michael and their mom talking behind a closed door, after which their mother made two or three private phone calls. When Eleanor finally emerged, Stella was expecting to be asked questions, but those never materialized.

  Normally Eleanor watched the five o’clock local news. When she didn’t turn on the television, Stella said, “Don’t keep the TV off for my sake.”

  “I don’t want anything upsetting you,” she said.

  “I was there, Mom. I know what happened.”

  Despite her mother’s objections, Stella turned on the television. It was ten minutes into the broadcast before the anchor said, “Last week Congressman Duncan Pierce’s fourteen-year-old daughter, Stella, returned to their home after a seven-year absence. Up until now, no one has commented as to where she might have been. We have more from our reporter Delaney Lee.”

  Stella listened to a recap of her disappearance, along with old footage, and then watched the replay of the journalistic ambush at school. At its conclusion she heard Tiffany and the Y-Girls saying, “Bye-bye, Space Girl.” There were also clips of both Detective Cheever and Dr. Froke being asked for their comments: Cheever said he was engaged in an ongoing investigation and had nothing to say; Froke was even more succinct and said, “No comment.”

  Her father, as the vice chair of the Science, Space, and Technology Committee, could not avoid comment.

  “As everyone is aware,” the congressman said, “my daughter disappeared seven years ago. During her time away, it’s clear she experienced some hardships. Since her return she has been under treatment, and we would ask everyone to respect her privacy.”

  Her mother used the remote to turn off the TV. “Your father was put into a position where he had to say something, Stella.”

  “I understand.”

  “He’s a public servant, and a public figure.”

  “I’m okay, Mom. I’ll be upstairs studying.”

  “We love you, Stella.”

  Stella smiled and nodded, but in her head she could still hear the Y-Girls chanting, “Bye-bye, Space Girl.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Just a few minutes after Stella settled into her room, her cell phone rang, and she saw her father was calling.

  “I hope you’re not too mad to talk with your old man,” said Duncan.

  “Of course not, Dad,” said Stella.

  “Your mom says you saw me talking about you on TV.”

  She didn’t answer, but instead let her father keep talking.

  “I’m sure that was upsetting. If your own family doesn’t have your back, who does? But there were reasons I said what I did. I could tell you I have a constituency and I have to be accountable to them, but that’s only part of the answer. What you don’t know is that I also made that statement for your own sake.”

  “You told people I was crazy for my sake?”

  “I know that’s hard to believe, but I said it so that no one will view you as a threat.”

  “Why would anyone think I’m a threat?”

  “I don’t want to go into details, but suffice it to say there is an unacknowledged war that’s currently going on. Information is the world currency. Countries and corporations are seeking any technological advance that might give them an edge. That’s why I don’t want anyone thinking there might be something to your story. It’s better that you stay under the radar.”

  “Has something happened to make you cautious?” she asked.

  Her father sighed. “What I know is sketchy, and came to me through roundabout channels, but I’m still proceeding under the assumption that where there is smoke there is fire. That’s why I’m being protective of you. And more than anything, I want you to know I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  “I wish I was there in person,” he said. “I wish I could tuck you into bed like I used to, and tell you a silly rhyme.”

  “I’m not too old to hear silly rhymes,” said Stella.

  “And I’ll never be too old to tell you a silly rhyme.” He thought for a moment and remembered one of the old rhymes he used to tell her:

  “Good night, sleep tight,

  Don’t let the bedbugs bite.

  But if they do, take your shoe,

  And squash them until they’re goo.”

  It was almost an hour after her father’s call when Stella heard the sound of a chime. She reached for her phone and saw that Luke had texted her.

  Hey?

  Hi, typed Stella.

  U studying?

  I was.

  For a minute Luke didn’t respond, but finally his words came up on the display: R u ok?

  My dad called and made me feel better. Right now I think Michael’s more upset than I am. He wants to protect me, but doesn’t know how.

  He still thinks you’re seven.

  Do you?

  NO WAY!

  Good.

  But if you need a bodyguard at school tomorrow, just tell me.

  I’ll be okay. Mom called the school to complain about the reporters bothering me, and they told her the media wasn’t supposed to be on school grounds without their permission. The principal said she would make sure it didn’t happen again.

  You’re a celebrity, he wrote.

  Yeah, sure, she wrote back, and then added: Would you mind if we talked on the phone?

  I’ll call you right now.

  Stella’s phone rang a few moments later. “This is better,” she said.

  “I agree. It’s girls who usually love to text.”

  “It’s cumbersome. And it’s so e
asy to misinterpret what’s being written.”

  “You won’t get an argument from me.”

  “Then again,” said Stella, “I’m not a big fan of talking either.”

  “That doesn’t leave too many communicating options.”

  “That’s what I’m finding out. And that’s probably why I’m frustrated. When those reporters were asking me questions, I wanted to show them, instead of tell them.”

  With an innocent voice, Stella asked: “Do you think I satisfied their curiosity?”

  Luke struggled to find the right answer, but in the midst of his dilemma, he heard Stella laughing.

  “Did you just pull one on me?” Luke asked.

  “I’m still getting the hang of humor. Did it work?”

  “It worked. I was trying to figure out how to gently say that what you said to the reporters was kind of like throwing fuel on the fire.”

  “I set myself up to be Joan of Arc?”

  “Let’s hope not. Besides, you’re not a saint, are you?”

  “Mortal eyes cannot distinguish the saint from the heretic.”

  “Wasn’t that one of the actor’s lines we heard?”

  “It was.”

  “How could you possibly remember that?”

  “Space girls are good at things like that.”

  This time it was Luke who found himself laughing. “You’re getting pretty good at this humor thing,” he said. “As for what the Y-Girls called you, they’re just jealous. Tiffany contacted the media to try and make you look bad.”

  “Maybe Tiffany did me a favor.”

  “How so?”

  “It felt wrong not being able to talk about my life. It was like I had some awful secret that I was embarrassed by. Tiffany freed me.”

  “She would hate thinking she did that. Tiff’s not exactly an altruistic sort.”

  “Why does she want to show me up?”

  “She thinks you’re a threat to her. In Tiffany’s world she’s the queen. She holds court with the Y-Girls and the wannabe Y-Girls. And she doesn’t like anyone challenging that order.”

  “But I have no interest in Tiffany and her court.”

  “And I’m sure that bothers her as much as anything. You won’t play her game. And there’s also me.”

  “What about you?”

  “The two of us have a little bit of a past, and Tiffany acts the same way my dog, Andre, does when it comes to his toys. Just as soon as the novelty of a new toy wears off, Andre loses all interest in it. The only thing that rekindles his interest is when anyone pretends to be interested in one of his discarded toys. As soon as that happens, that’s the toy Andre wants to play with.”

  “So you’re the discarded toy she’s suddenly rediscovered?”

  “That’s my take on it.”

  “Was Tiffany your girlfriend?”

  “We went out a few times, but we were always with a group. She didn’t like it that I surfed and that I made it a priority in my life. Tiffany needs to be priority number one. So when I continued to surf, that was the end of our story.”

  “When are you going to give me my surf lesson?”

  “What are you doing tomorrow morning?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  In the darkness that just preceded dawn, Luke and Stella stood on the beach looking at the ocean.

  “I like to study the water and the waves before I go out,” said Luke. “You see lots of surfers doing that. There’s a rule of thumb that the bigger the waves are, the more time you should spend watching them. You want to take a reading of the waves and gauge how they’re rolling in. You also need to be aware of the wind and swell. Beginners especially need to know about rip currents. Do you know what those are?”

  “My mother used to warn me about them,” said Stella. “It’s a current that can carry you away from the shore.”

  Luke nodded. “You don’t have to worry about rip currents as long as you remember they’re confined to a narrow channel. If you find yourself being dragged out to the ocean, just swim parallel to the current.”

  “Got it,” said Stella.

  “Looking out at the ocean right now, I can see a rip current.” Luke pointed, and Stella’s eyes followed the direction of his finger. “See the break in the incoming waves? That chop is a giveaway. You can also see the water color is different from what’s around it. And see how that foam is going out to sea? The rip current is taking it away.”

  “I see,” said Stella, and she did.

  “It’s something to be aware of,” said Luke, “but today you don’t have to worry because we’re going to be spending our time in the white water, where the waves have pretty much already broken.”

  Stella looked at the white, frothy water near to the shore. She was warm, despite the sea breeze. Luke had found an old wet suit that fit her perfectly.

  “Everyone thinks of surfing as catching a wave,” said Luke. “But the reality is that you spend a lot more time paddling than you do riding waves.”

  He put a toe on the foam board he’d brought for Stella. “This beginner board is really buoyant, as you’ll see. It’s also real forgiving when it comes to balancing.

  “Now before we start working on your pop-up technique,” said Luke, “let’s find out if you’re natural or goofy.”

  “We’re going to find out what?” said Stella.

  “Imagine that there’s a patch of ice in front of you,” said Luke, “and you want to step on that ice and slide on it. Which foot would you put forward first to do that?”

  Without thinking about it, Stella extended her right foot.

  “Really?” asked Luke.

  “Is that wrong?”

  “It’s goofy,” he said, “but not wrong. The vast majority of surfers are what’s called natural surfers. You’re that rarity who’s a goofy.”

  “I’m not sure about that name, but my feet do feel right this way.”

  “That’s all that matters. Now before we start working on your pop-up, let’s do some stretches.”

  Stella followed Luke’s lead, doing the stretches as he directed.

  “You’re a lot more limber than I am,” he said. “Do you do yoga?”

  “Not yoga exactly,” she said, “but something that’s not too dissimilar.”

  “That should help you with your pop-ups,” he said. “It’s important to be able to pop up from your board quickly in order to catch the wave you want.”

  Luke directed Stella to lie down on the surfboard. At his command of “Go,” she popped up on the board, positioning her feet and body as if she were catching a wave.

  “You don’t want to look like a kook,” said Luke.

  Perplexed, she said, “I don’t want to look crazy?”

  “You don’t want to look or act like a wannabe surfer. So I’m going to make you feel as if you know what you’re doing out there.”

  Stella followed his instructions. She bent her knees (so she didn’t look like a kook), positioned her legs to parallel her shoulders, and balanced her arms.

  She didn’t only do the pop-ups on land. Luke had her sit atop her board. “Visualize being out in the ocean,” he said, “with a wave coming your way.”

  Stella closed her eyes. It was almost as if she could feel the motion of the ocean.

  “Go,” said Luke, and she popped up on her board. In her mind she was dancing with the ocean and gliding atop the water.

  Luke must have liked what he was seeing. “Let’s go get wet,” he said.

  The reality exceeded her imagination. Stella laughed at the joy of being carried along by the water. When her ride came to an end, she turned her board around and began paddling back to where Luke was waiting.

  She’s glowing, thought Luke. Her wide smile told him how much she was enjoying herself. She was even better in the water than she’d been on land.

  “We have to think about leaving,” said Luke. “I promised your mother we wouldn’t be late for school.”

  “Just a few more,” said Stel
la. “I haven’t felt this good since returning home.”

  “Tell you what,” he said. “Let’s paddle out to the break, such as it is. The good news is that only a few surfers are out there so they won’t be all territorial about the waves. The bad news is that the waves are almost nonexistent. But you might get lucky and find something to ride.”

  “What are we waiting for?” she asked.

  Where the hell was she?

  Guy Wilkerson had positioned himself to watch the comings and goings at the Pierce house. Not content to only watch from the street, he had spent part of the morning finding a vantage point from which he could see into the back of their house. He knew which room was Stella’s. Even though her curtains were usually shut, he could sometimes make out the moving silhouette of her young body. But today the room had remained dark.

  During his surveillance Wilkerson had caught a few glimpses of the mother and the brother, but not Stella. That meant she was either still sleeping, or she’d left the house prior to his arrival at dawn.

  She’s not home, he thought. He could feel her absence. It left him with a hollowness inside, almost as if he was hungry.

  That other boy must have picked her up, that surfer kid with his sun-bleached locks. Wilkerson knew Luke’s routine. He’d tried to find out whatever he could about everyone in Stella’s life using the computers at the library. Through social media he’d been able to track down Surfer Boy. The stupid kid liked to advertise his favorite haunts. Wilkerson knew where he ate, where he hung out, and where he surfed . . .

  That was it. The kid had picked up Stella early and taken her to one of his surfing spots. At that very moment, he was showing off for her. Shredding. That’s what surfers called it when they took waves aggressively, cutting in and out of them.

  Surfer Boy wasn’t the only one who could show Stella shredding.

  Wilkerson took off at a run. He had stowed his electric bike in the bushes. The vehicle didn’t look like much, but it had been modified to go almost thirty-five miles per hour, far faster than was street legal. And right now he was ready to push the bike to its limits. He had to get to the beach. There was shredding to do.