“Answer it.”
I hear a sliver of impatience in his voice, just a sliver. I pick it up and shoot him a look. “You’ve got to be less bossy already.”
The phone stops ringing.
“See! You took too long.”
I feel a little bad that I took a moment to tell Charlie to back off rather than to answer Gekas’s phone call. I bluff. “Don’t worry. She’ll call back.”
Immediately, the phone rings again and I feel like I’ve won a tiny victory against Charlie. “See,” I say nonchalantly while he gestures frantically at the phone.
I pick it up. “Hello?”
“Anthony?”
Charlie leans in to listen.
“Yes.”
“Is your buddy there?”
Charlie shakes his head, but I ignore him. “Yup.”
He shoots me a look.
“Put me on speaker phone.”
I ignore Charlie’s further protests, push the button, and put it between us.
“Hello, Charles.”
His face scrunches up at the sound of her voice but he follows through, “Hello, Detective.”
“I’m calling to let you two know that we’ve found her. We found the girl.”
A tension that I hadn’t realized had been gripping my heart releases. “You did?”
“Yes, we did.”
Charlie leans back in the chair.
“I wanted to call you both personally and let you know.”
For a split second, I wonder what her motivation is, but I ignore it in favour of gratitude. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
I should be happy that we have protected her, but after everything Charlie and I’ve been talking about, I feel a strong wave of doubt.
“Detective, who is she?”
“I can’t tell you that, Anthony—”
“I know what she looks like and I know she goes to Greenville High. It won’t take much for a couple of resourceful guys like us to find out.”
Charlie shoots me a look, wondering what I’m up to. I don’t like pushing against Gekas like this—in fact, I feel way outside my comfort zone—but I’m as certain about my actions now as I am on the court.
Gekas’s sigh comes through loud and clear over the phone line. “Her name is Tamara Seller. She graduates this year.”
“How did you find her?”
“Contacted people at the school board office, talked to the principal, and tracked her down.”
“Was she at home?”
“Where are you going with this?”
“Was she at home or at work? Does she have a job?”
“What—?”
“Please, Detective.”
“We went to her house. She doesn’t have a job.”
I look at Charlie, expecting him to know what I’m thinking, but for once, he has no clue.
“Is Tamara safe?”
“Yes. She’s at home, with her parents and two officers.”
I’m relieved for her but it’s too easy—everything else has been a struggle. I’m silent for too long.
“Are you okay, Anthony?”
“Yes. Thank you for letting me know.”
“Anthony—?”
“Thank you, Detective Gekas.”
“Don’t you dare hang up on me—!” she yells.
I turn off the phone. “She’s not the one.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s Saturday and she doesn’t have a job.”
“So?”
“Where is he going to get her? He’s never gone to a house.”
Charlie picks up on my line of reasoning. “He needs a public space, especially a bathroom—”
“With a mirror—”
“Because he needs to see himself—”
“Perform.”
He stares at me. “She’s not the one.”
I nod.
“So, what then? Until he makes a move—?”
“I hate to say it, but we have to wait.”
chapter 89
He sits in his car, looking down the street at the police cruiser parked outside the house.
He was proud of how he’d directed the scene, moving the players around his stage, doing what he wanted them to do. Everything had happened so quickly and he’d had to improvise so much, yet he’d been able to make it all work.
When he’d realized the dark-skinned one was the boyfriend of the first girl, it all came together. He’d begun gathering the newspaper clippings and found photos on the internet. As for the other loser, simply breaking into the school yearbook office gave him all he needed. He had kept the dead dog in a heavy-duty garbage bag in the garage, and once he had his car back from the impound, he loaded everything up and headed to the construction site, appreciating the symmetry of his actions.
Yet, until he’d seen them walk across the space between the houses, he’d never realized how tall the boyfriend was or how solid the loser was. He knew he’d have to take them down separately, knock one down the stairs and keep tight and close to the other. He just never expected the loser to survive the fall and come after him again so quickly. He was lucky this time; he would have to make sure not to let it happen again.
The clue that had led both them and the police to this girl’s house had been a series of fortuitous coincidences. Early on, after moving to the new city, he had found the book and picture in an upscale coffeehouse on the east side. He’d held on to them both, unwilling to sever their connection. It had been pure serendipity—he took it as proof that he was following the right path—that the school he’d circled on his map had actually been the girl’s school.
The body in his trunk rattled back and forth and he knew it was time to move on.
Five-minute warning. Flash the house lights, everybody take your seats. The performance is about to begin.
part 4
chapter 90
I wake the next day with a heaviness in my chest. It’s not the same pain as my sore body. That hurts too. It’s a thick and unsettling feeling. Waiting is horrible. I’m afraid that what I’m waiting for is another tragedy. I suppress a shudder as I stand in front of the mirror in my room. My face is kind of a mess. There are deep bruises on my lower abs just above my boxers. A few weeks ago, I was vain about my body and now I have a strange respect for what I know it can take. I turn and look over my shoulder into the mirror at the bruises on my back, but it aches to do this.
Tap. Tap. “Tony.”
It’s Dad.
I snatch up my shirt and pull it on as fast as possible, not wanting him to see me like this because he’ll tell Mom. She’s a doctor and a mom and is going to freak out way, way more than Dad.
“Yeah?” I say as casually as I can even though my heart is pounding.
The door opens. The blinds are down. My room is dark.
“Are you okay?” Dad asks, taking a look around my room. I can see he’s assessing everything. Nothing is out of order so I don’t worry about his curiosity. I do, however, turn my back to him, averting my face, pointlessly moving a stack of schoolbooks from one pile to another.
“Are you on your way down?”
“I was going to do a little homework first. I’m almost caught up.”
“Good. I mean, I’m glad. It just makes things easier on you later if you take care of business now.” He smiles and nods. “Come down.”
He’s gentle but firm. I can’t say no. I shouldn’t say no. Things are slowly sliding toward being better. He looks at my face but says nothing. Can he see the bruises? Did he notice?
“I’ll be right down.”
“Your mother made some seriously unhealthy but delicious buttermilk pancakes.” Dad walks away, leaving my door open.
The fragrance of pancakes,
coffee, and bacon waft up into my room.
I need a lie. I can’t avoid them until my bruises are gone. I’m going to have to come up with something.
I head down the stairs with more noise than I normally would to make my entrance a little jollier sounding. It’s just the three of us. Heather is out with friends. The table has a great spread of a Sunday brunch on it. I wonder what Charlie’s Sunday morning meals look like. I sit down at the table and pour a glass of orange juice.
“Good morning, sunshine.” Mom says as she walks by me and sits down with a stack of pancakes.
We settle in.
I fill my plate with pancakes, fruit, whip, and bacon, and just as I am about to start eating, Mom says, “Detective Gekas called this morning.”
I pour syrup on my food.
“She said you went to see her.”
I nod.
“About?”
“Just checking in.” I highly doubt she’d give my parents information about an ongoing case, so I risk the lie.
“She’s concerned.”
“Oh?”
Then she sees it. Her fork clinks as it drops to her plate.
“Anthony. What happened to your face?”
I have a mouthful of breakfast and although it should be delicious, I don’t taste one morsel. It’s all just mush and I chew it slowly as I plan my piece of fiction before swallowing.
“I don’t want to sound like a jerk but you may have noticed that my life has recently fallen apart?” It comes out harsher than I expect. “And I decided that after all this garbage I needed to cut loose a little, so I went to a farm party with Mike on Friday.”
“That doesn’t explain the bruises on your face.”
She moves to get a closer look at me and I pull back instinctively.
I wonder how they’d respond if I said, Well, Mom and Dad, I was wandering around with a guy from the wrong side of the tracks and we found a death shrine to us and a dead dog and a photo of a potential victim. Oh, and we were both completely beat up by the masked killer. Thank you. Have a nice day.
“I drank too much.” This is not going to go well. I have made it to Grade 11 without any incidents. My parents stare at me from the other side of the table. “And I think I fell off the porch there. I’m not sure. I can ask Mike.”
I stuff a large amount of pancake in my mouth and wish Heather were here. Even for a little back up.
They wait. Dead air hangs between us.
I swallow. “It’s not as bad as it looks.” And I take another drink of juice. I wish it had whiskey in it. There’s irony for ya.
“And drinking is a good idea?” Dad steps up when I really thought Mom would take this one.
I shrug.
“The answer is no. Drinking is not a good idea. Drinking in excess is never a good idea. Drinking to the point you don’t even know how you hurt yourself is the worst of ideas.”
My heart starts beating a little faster.
“How did you get home?” Dad continues the questioning.
“Mike… I think.”
“You think?” Dad’s on me and I really don’t want to cross him.
Mom sits there, arms folded. I’ve disappointed them badly.
I try a dose of humour. “I guess if you didn’t hear me stumble up the stairs, it couldn’t have been that bad, right?”
Mom’s face twists in a disparaging smile—her perfect son has taken a turn and is heading for a smack in the head.
I try to fix it. “Look, I know it’s a bad idea. All of it. I do it so little that it was completely unintentional.”
Now I feign defensiveness. “I really just need you to back off for a while and trust me, okay?”
They grill me with their silence. Oh, man.
“I won’t do it again. There. Happy?” I’ve never fought so hard over something that never even happened. “Are you going to ground me?”
Mom finally speaks. “We love you. We’re all trying to get through this. You understand that?”
I nod.
“Grounding you won’t solve anything, but can you promise to be more responsible and take care of yourself?”
“I’m sorry. I mean it. I’m really sorry.” And I do mean it.
They both sit back a bit and the tension between us vaporizes.
Dad takes a sip of his coffee. “Detective Gekas asked us to keep you close. She cares.”
I want to laugh but I hold it inside. I nod solemnly.
“Do you want me to look at your bruise?”
She’s being more mom than doctor right now—I think she can tell that my face is just the tip of the iceberg.
“I’m fine. For real.”
“If it doesn’t start improving in the next day or two, I’m looking at it whether you want me to or not.”
I roll my eyes and sigh. “Fine.”
I hope this is the end of the discussion. I just want to go back up to my room, but I need to stick around and make it look like I am trying.
“No turkey bacon, Dad?”
He shakes his head and grins as he gets my loving dig at his healthy ways.
chapter 91
The rest of Sunday passes peacefully. I stick close to home and tend to my broken self to keep my parents happy. I send Charlie a text message to check in.
You alive?
His reply is delayed and brief:
Yup.
I imagine his Sunday is quiet too, perhaps a different kind of quiet than mine. I do some homework and watch an old movie with my parents about a guy stuck on an island with a volleyball.
Monday morning I drive to school early to see Coach Davies. I’m in no condition to train. My back is stiff and sore. My right hip is black and blue. My face is a wreck. I stand in the door of his office for a while, waiting for him to finish what he’s doing.
I clear my throat. “Hi, Coach.”
He looks up. “Shepherd.”
Then I see him focus on my face.
It feels better but looks worse today. Mom told me that’s how bruises heal, making their way to the surface. Charlie said it would make me look a little more badass.
“Your face?”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I was doing some work with my dad in the garage. We were building a shelf and it fell.” The more I open my mouth, the more I twist my own lies.
“Anyway, I’m pretty sore and think I need a day or two to rest up. I can get my parents to write a note if you need—”
Shut up, Tony! They’ll never write you a note.
“That’s fine, Anthony.” Coach trusts me—we have a long enough history so the bluff works.
“If you’ve got plays or something you want me to look over, I can do that.”
He nods his approval and hands me the playbook. “You’ll know what to do with this.”
“Thank you. I think I’ll be good to go by Wednesday.”
I force myself to walk away stoically from Coach Davies’ office, pretending my body doesn’t hurt as much as it does. Books in hand, I head to first period, knowing all too well that whatever my idea of normal was, it is now forever changed. It feels like something is always lurking in the periphery of my sight. Corners hold menace. Every blind turn might mean seeing the killer again, coming to finish the job.
Slap! Somebody strikes me hard on the back and it takes everything I have to not crumble. I turn, ready to fight back, but it’s just Mike.
“Hey, man! Good party Friday night!” He has a huge, innocent smile on his face. “Whoa! Whose fist did you run into?”
“Long story—”
He waves it off. “That’s cool. I got Chrissy’s number.”
I fake interest. “Great. Who’s Chrissy?” I don’t really care but figure I should try.
“Remember the super c
ute brunette from the movie theatre? She’s also a cheerleader!” He elbows me in a naughty Dad-joke kind of way. He opens his phone and proudly shows me a selfie of him with yet another girl. She’s cute—a long, dark pony-tail and a big smile.
“Good for you.”
“You got a little tanked, huh?” He takes another friendly swing with the palm of his hand to tap my shoulder. I step out of the way.
“That I did. How did I get home?”
Mike pauses and shrugs. “Dunno. I was busy wheeling Chrissy.”
“What about—?”
Mike ignores me. “Yeah, yeah! It seems there’s enough Mike around here for all the ladies.” He shifts gears. “Where were you Saturday? I sent you a couple of texts. Figured you were nursing a hangover.”
Scenes flash like fireworks in my head: the strangled girl, the buzzing flies, the beatdown in the basement, and my third heart-to-heart with Gekas.
“I took it easy.”
“Panty,” Mike teases.
The bell for class rings.
“Catch you later!” Mike yells with infectious enthusiasm from halfway down the hall. How different he is from Charlie.
Second period history class comes and goes, and I go through the motions. My phone remains relatively silent. I’m waiting for Charlie, but I can’t help thinking of when it used to be Sheri.
I miss her.
English is third and I settle in. The teacher starts by handing back our assignments for Animal Farm and I get mine. A low d. I’m not surprised. I’m going to have to negotiate a rewrite at some point. The notes come up next. We all start writing from the PowerPoint on the projector screen.
Bzzz.
My phone startles me. I discreetly pull it out of my pocket and look. It’s a Snapchat message from—shit—comedymuse.
I raise my hand and cut the teacher off mid-sentence, “May I go to the washroom?”
He nods his permission and I hurry from the class, leaving my books behind. In the stairwell, I take a big breath and swipe open the app.
It’s a girl—bound and gagged in the trunk of a car. The photo is carefully cropped above the licence plate.
I feel sick to my stomach.
Along Comes a Wolfe Page 20
