by Joy Fielding
He’d been worried about Brian ever since he’d found him clinging to his father’s lifeless body, his skinny arms wrapped around the man’s muscular thighs, trying to hold his legs up, to take some of the weight off his broken neck. “I couldn’t cut him down,” the boy kept repeating, a pair of useless scissors discarded on the white tiles nearby.
Indeed, it had been difficult for even John and his deputy to cut through the twisted sheet the senior Hensen had used as a noose, even more difficult to remove that noose from around the bruised folds of his flesh. His skin had taken on a bluish hue, and purple lined his lips.
And if he could still see Brian Hensen’s body hanging lifeless from his shower rod, he who was used to the sights and smells of death, what must it be like for a sensitive young boy on the verge of manhood, unformed and unsure, still trying to figure out who he was and what he wanted from life? Did he want life at all? Or had he inherited his father’s suicide gene along with all the others? John knew that depression often ran in families, like long legs and brown eyes, and that suicide could be as contagious as chicken pox. He’d worried about Brian taking his own life. He hadn’t even considered the possibility he might take someone else’s.
John turned right, the headlights of his cruiser catching something suspect beneath a large banyan tree off the side of the road. He immediately pulled the car to a stop, grabbed his flashlight from the glove compartment, and jumped out of the vehicle. The night was growing cooler, although the air was still heavy with humidity. Even still, the sweet odor of marijuana took no time reaching his nostrils. He inhaled, experienced a vicarious thrill. It had been twenty years since he’d last enjoyed a toke. The memory warmed and comforted him as he advanced, his hands relaxed at his sides. There’d be no need for guns here, he thought as he approached the young man sitting beneath the tree in the high grass. In his experience, smokers of marijuana were far more mellow and much less likely to resort to violence than their drunken counterparts. “Victor,” he said, staring down at the young man whose ghostly white face required no extra lighting.
“Sheriff,” Victor acknowledged without any effort to disguise what he was doing. He took another drag off his hand-rolled cigarette and stared into the night.
“What are you doing here, Victor? Aside from the obvious.”
Victor’s head shook slowly from side to side. “The obvious is all I’m doing,” he replied after a pause.
“You know it’s against the law,” John said, feeling like a total hypocrite. What he really wanted to do was pull up a patch of earth and join him.
“I’m not hurting anyone.”
“Except yourself.”
Victor laughed. “Come on, Sheriff. You really believe that?”
“It’s against the law.”
“You gonna arrest me?”
John focused his flashlight on the surrounding area before circling it back to the road. “Where’s your car?”
“Didn’t bring it.”
“You walked here from home?”
“It’s not that far.”
“A couple of miles.”
“Cardio,” Victor said with a sly smile. “It’s good for you.”
“Not if you get eaten by an alligator, it’s not.” Again John circled the surrounding area with his flashlight.
“Don’t worry, Sheriff. I’ll protect you.”
“I appreciate that.”
Victor took another drag off his joint. John debated telling him to put it out, but the cigarette had already burned all the way down to Victor’s fingers and all that remained was one last drag, which Victor took, stretching it out as long as he could and holding it in his lungs until he was forced to exhale. “Good stuff,” he croaked.
“What are you doing out here alone?” John asked, expanding his original question.
“Nothing” came the reply, as expected. “Just thinking.”
“About what?”
“Stuff.”
“Your parents know where you are?”
Victor laughed.
John nodded understanding. From what he knew about Victor Drummond’s parents, he doubted they cared much where their son was, only that he was out of their hair.
“You see Brian Hensen tonight?”
Victor shook his head. Jet-black hair fell across his powdery white forehead. “Brian? No. Why?”
“What about Fiona Hamilton?”
“Who?”
John sighed. This was getting him nowhere. “Okay, look. I’m taking you home now.”
“Cool.” Victor wiped the grass from the back of his skinny black jeans as he pushed himself to his feet. He followed John to his car, climbed in the front seat. “I’ve never ridden in a police cruiser before.”
“Not exactly the thrill of a lifetime.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, Sheriff.” Victor leaned back and closed his eyes. “Sell yourself short, Sheriff,” he repeated with a girlish giggle. “Does that qualify as alliteration?”
“Damned if I know.”
“Guess I’ll have to ask Mrs. Crosbie about it tomorrow.”
John pulled away from the side of the road, did a U-turn, and headed toward Victor’s sprawling, split-level home not far from the mall. It was rumored that Wayne Drummond had made a killing in the stock market when everyone else had been losing his shirt. There’d even been some talk of insider trading, but no formal charges had ever been laid. Since such matters were out of his jurisdiction and beyond his understanding, John had never taken much interest in any of it. But he’d never cared for either Wayne or his snooty wife, Wendy. Wayne and Wendy, he repeated silently now. Did that qualify as alliteration?
“I understand you and Liana Martin were pretty close,” John ventured as they neared Victor’s house.
Victor opened his eyes, turned them toward the sheriff, although his head remained steady. “We were friends. I told you that already.”
“You didn’t tell me you were close friends.”
“Because we weren’t.”
“I heard otherwise.”
“You heard wrong.”
“You didn’t have a crush on her?” John pressed.
“Crushes are for teenyboppers.”
“Really? I heard she had one on you.”
Victor straightened up, looked directly at John. “She did?”
“Her mother seemed to think so.”
The flicker of a smile quickly passed across Victor’s lips, then just as quickly disappeared. “Her mother’s wrong. Liana had a boyfriend.”
“What do you think of him?”
“Peter? Not much. Is he a suspect?”
“Everybody’s a suspect.”
“Really? I heard he has an airtight alibi.”
“What about Brian Hensen?” John asked, seeking to regain control of the conversation.
“He’s okay. Why do you keep asking about Brian?”
They passed the mall. It was then that John thought he spotted a black Honda Civic off by itself at the back of the large parking lot. He brought the cruiser to a sudden stop. Victor’s house was just down the next street. “Think you can manage alone from here?” he asked the boy.
“Sure thing, Sheriff.” Victor hopped out of the car, then leaned back inside, his white face highlighted by the darkness, like a full moon. “Thanks for the ride.”
“Go to bed,” John said, watching Victor turn down the street before he made another U-turn and headed back to the mall’s entrance.
The area was illuminated by a series of tall, bright lights that stood at regular intervals throughout the parking lot. Normally the lot was filled to capacity, the mall being pretty much the main gathering spot in town. But it had closed an hour ago, and the only cars remaining were those parked on the other side next to the movie theater. Except for the one car John had spotted off by itself, just out of the glare of a tall lamppost. He’d almost missed it, caught just a glimpse of it as he was driving past. And now he couldn’t see it at all. Had he imagined i
t? He advanced slowly, about to give up when he saw the car again. It appeared to be empty, so he parked a suitable distance away, then climbed out of his car and approached cautiously, keeping his hand close to his holster. This time there was no mellowing smell of marijuana to greet him.
As he got closer, he saw nobody behind the wheel, nor were any amorous bodies bopping around in the backseat. Even a casual glance inside the car revealed no one. Not until his face was right up against the car’s tinted side window did John see the boy’s body sprawled across the front seat. “Sweet Jesus,” he muttered, grabbing the door handle and trying to yank it open.
The body inside sat up and shrieked.
John screamed as well, his hand extricating his gun from his holster and aiming it at the window.
“No!” the boy shouted. “Stop! Don’t shoot!”
It took John several seconds to calm down and gain control of his breathing. “Open the fucking door,” he ordered when he could find his voice.
“Don’t shoot,” the boy said again, inching forward on the seat and releasing the lock.
Immediately John pulled the door open, dragged the boy from the car, and spun him around. “What the hell were you doing?” John demanded angrily, returning the gun to his holster.
“Sleeping?” the boy asked, as if he were no longer sure, as if he couldn’t be sure of anything. Tears dropped the length of his cheek and dripped from his chin. The sharp smell of urine indicated he’d wet his pants.
“Something wrong with your bed at home?”
Brian Hensen wiped the tears from his face, smoothed back his fine, dishwater blond hair. “Did my mother send you?” he asked meekly.
“She’s worried about you,” John said, evading the question.
“I’m fine.” He glanced at the front of his pants. “I was fine,” he corrected, “before you scared me half to death.”
“You scared me too. I thought you were dead.”
As Brian turned toward the light, John saw the cut on his forehead and the bruise at the side of his mouth that Sandy Crosbie had mentioned.
“What happened to you?”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t tell me ‘nothing.’ You’ve obviously been in a fight.”
“It was nothing.”
“Who was it with?”
“No one.”
“Come on, Brian, don’t give me that crap. I’m not your mother. I’m the damn sheriff. And trust me, it’s not a good idea to lie to the sheriff. Now tell me what happened to you or I’m gonna have to haul your skinny butt off to jail.”
“On what grounds?”
“On the grounds that I can.” John smiled.
“Why are you smiling?”
“Because I’m thinking about what I’m going to do to you if you don’t start talking.” He paused to allow his words time to sink in. “Your mother said she caught you washing out a bloody shirt.”
“My mother should mind her own business.”
“You are her business.”
“I’m not a child.”
“Then stop acting like one.”
“I cut myself. I was bleeding. My mother once told me that if you don’t get the blood out of something quickly, it stains.”
“Whose blood was it, Brian?”
“What?” He seemed genuinely startled. “What are you talking about? It was mine.”
“How’d you cut yourself?”
“Walked into the branch of a tree.”
“Yeah, and Joey Balfour walked into a wall,” John said, suddenly putting it all together. “You and Joey got into it tonight, didn’t you?”
Brian said nothing. Another tear slid down his cheek and he rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. John saw that the backs of his knuckles were swollen and bruised.
“What were you and Joey fighting about?”
“He’s an asshole.”
“That he is. Set the scene for me,” John directed.
“What do you mean?”
“Where did the fight take place?”
“Near Pearson Park.”
“What were you doing there?”
“Hanging out.”
“Alone?”
“I was talking to a couple of kids.”
“Names?”
“What difference does it make? Just kids from school.”
“Indulge me,” John said.
Brian hesitated. “Perry Falco. We’re in most of the same classes together.”
“And?”
“And?” Brian repeated.
“You said you were talking to a couple of kids.”
“I don’t know their names.”
“You said they were kids from school.”
“It’s a big place. I don’t know everybody.”
John knew Brian was lying, although he didn’t know why. He decided to try another approach and circle back later. “So, okay. You’re hanging out with Perry Falco and a couple other kids when Joey walks by.”
Brian nodded.
“Was he alone?”
“Yeah.”
“Greg Watt wasn’t with him?”
“No.”
“What direction was he coming from?”
Brian shrugged. “What difference does it make?”
“Okay. So what happened then?”
“He started in on me.”
“What do you mean? He hit you?”
“He called me a name.”
“What name?” John already had a pretty good idea. He’d seen the messages on his daughter’s computer. He’d heard the whispers.
“He called me a faggot,” Brian confirmed.
John doubted that was all there was to it. “What else?”
“Nothing. He called me a faggot, so I hit him. Then he jumped me, beat the crap out of me. No surprises there.”
“And what did Perry Falco and the others do while this was going on?”
“Nothing.”
“They just stood around and watched you get the shit kicked out of you?”
“They took off. It was my fault,” Brian added quickly. “I started it. There was no reason for anyone else to get involved.”
“Four against one. Seems to me the only one who would have gotten hurt was Joey Balfour.”
“Can I go home now?”
“Why are you lying to me, Brian?”
“I’m not lying.”
“It was just you and Perry, wasn’t it?” John asked softly. “The two of you were in the park when Joey surprised you.”
Brian took a deep breath, looked toward the concrete. “We were just talking,” he said quietly. “But Joey kept saying he saw us kissing. I tried reasoning with him, but that was a total waste of time. Then he said it was no wonder my dad killed himself, that he’d rather be dead than have a faggot for a son.” Brian took another deep breath, sucking in the night air, like water from a straw. And then another, as if he couldn’t get enough. “That’s when I hit him.”
“And that’s when Perry took off?”
“I don’t blame him for running away. Joey would have started in on him next.”
John released a deep breath of air. “You see anyone else tonight?”
“Like who?”
“Fiona Hamilton.”
“Who?”
“Never mind.”
“Can I go now?”
“If you promise to go straight home.”
“I promise.”
“And stay there.”
Brian nodded, although he didn’t move. “You won’t tell anyone, will you? About me and Perry in the park? I mean, we were just talking, but …”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“I mean, it’s one thing if it comes from Joey,” Brian continued. “Nobody really believes anything he says anyway.”
“I won’t say anything,” John assured him. “Now go home. Get some sleep. And stay out of the park.”
John watched Brian get back in his car and drive off. Then he climbed back into his cruiser a
nd headed for home.
TWENTY-FOUR
All right. Quiet, people,” Gordon Lipsman was saying to the assembled cast of Kiss Me, Kate as he lifted fluttering hands into the air and pointed his index fingers toward the ceiling.
Megan wondered if he was pointing at anything in particular, although she wasn’t interested enough to look. Probably it was just another of Mr. Lipsman’s arsenal of meaningless tics and affectations. He preened, he pouted, he pointed to the ceiling. Sometimes he twirled around in a series of ever-shrinking circles; sometimes he swooped back and forth in front of the stage like a giant, white bat, before sinking into one of the auditorium seats, and sighing deeply. Yesterday Megan had wondered what all the circling and sighing was about. Today she no longer cared. She just wanted to get the rehearsal over with so she could go home.
“Has anybody seen Greg?” Mr. Lipsman asked, spinning around on his heels, as if Greg had just entered the room and was even now creeping up behind him.
“He’s not here,” Delilah said, stating the obvious from her seat in the far corner of the front row.
“What do you mean, he’s not here?” Gordon Lipsman checked his watch. It was almost four o’clock. “Wasn’t he in school today?”
“I don’t think so,” someone said.
“I didn’t see him,” said someone else.
“He called me this morning,” Tanya McGovern volunteered. “Said his father needed him at home today.” She smiled in Megan’s direction. The smile was smug and self-satisfied. It said, I know something you don’t.
Megan yawned noticeably, as if to say, I couldn’t care less where he is or why. But the truth was, she did care, and she suspected everybody knew it. Monday had been bad enough. Her first day back in class after Liana’s vigil. Everybody was talking about her. She’d heard the whispers in the corridors, seen the eyes that trailed her down the hall, the not-so-subtle shakes of disapproving heads. She knew they were reading from Tanya McGovern’s script, that they were saying she’d made a fool of herself, that she’d betrayed her friend’s memory by making out with another friend’s boyfriend, even though Tanya had never said a word to her before about being interested in Greg, and Greg himself had dismissed Tanya as being way too easy. So, in one night she’d lost everything: a potential boyfriend, her so-called girlfriends, her reputation, and her self-respect. And she still didn’t understand why. She didn’t understand what had happened.
