I couldn’t tell if he was serious or not.
“Congrats on your award,” Gwen said.
“Thanks, but it really should go to all of us, and JP was the one who pushed the issue to get the ball rolling. Frankly, I’m the one who started the whole mess by hiring that serial killer.”
“Don’t you dare blame yourself, Rich—without your courage, that madman would still be on the loose,” Gwen both scolded and comforted at the same time.
“I agree, it was well deserved,” I said. “But if you don’t mind, can we change the subject?”
There wouldn’t be time for that. Rich’s phone rang, and he listened intently with a look of concern. Moments later, Gwen received a call of her own, and her face gave away its serious nature.
I couldn’t help but feel that history was about to repeat itself.
Chapter 11
Rich scrambled to his feet. “I’m sorry, I gotta go. It’s a police matter.”
Gwen stood up, and I watched as she morphed from sweet girlfriend into super-reporter. “My sources tell me that there’s been an accident at Samerauk Bridge.”
“You know I can’t comment,” Rich said back, as he walked away briskly.
Gwen caught up to him. “I didn’t expect you to—I’ll get my own comments at the scene.”
Rich stopped, his face reddening. “You won’t be going anywhere near there.”
“Oh, I’m not? You ever hear of the Fourth Amendment?”
“Listen, Gwen, I’ll promise you an exclusive interview, but right now a girl’s life is at stake, so I don’t give a rat’s behind about some amendment.”
“I’ll respect your boundaries, as I always do, but I’ll be at the scene … see ya there.”
They speed-walked ahead like two race cars jockeying for position on the final lap.
I hung back, frozen. Saturday night at the fair, an accident at the bridge, a life at stake—it was so damn similar. My stomach sank, and irrational thoughts entered my mind. Like Grady Benson having escaped the supermax prison in Colorado, and coming back to exact revenge on my family. A young girl? Has anyone seen Ella since she walked off?
I gathered myself the best I could, and caught up to Rich and Gwen. We soon arrived at the parking lot, across the street from the fairgrounds.
“Son of a …” Rich shouted upon realizing that his police cruiser was blocked in by an illegally parked stretch limo.
“Come with us—we’re your best bet,” Gwen said, running toward the Rockfield Gazette van that was three spaces down. He looked annoyed, but had no better options. Rich had always been a pragmatist.
We piled into the van, and Gwen tore out of the parking lot. She sped down Main Street, and then turned onto Zycko Hill Road. It had been nicknamed Psycho Hill, for the way its treacherous nature had felled drivers over the years, but with Grady Benson last year, and who knows what was going down now, it had truly become a haven for psychos.
I’d taken the approach, that this day—the anniversary—was no different than all the other painful days since Noah was murdered. I used it like a force-field to keep me away from that night. But as we approached the scene, it all came back.
It was as if I was having an out-of-body experience. I could see myself walking to the stretcher, while Rich Tolland tried to hold me back. I pulled back the black tarp to see the restful look of death on my brother’s face. And then all I could see was Grady Benson.
He tried to tell me that Noah had committed suicide, but his eyes gave him away. Gwen stepped between us before I did something I’d regret, she said, but I wouldn’t have regretted it for a second. When she consoled me with a hug, it was the first time we’d touched in years. It was not the embrace from my dreams … it was straight out of a nightmare.
I snapped back to the present, overhearing Rich instruct Officer Lenny Williams to keep Gwen and me away. I viewed the scene from a distance. The paramedics were in action. They were treating five teenagers—three boys and two girls, one of which was Shane Sullivan, who hours earlier had been running our carnival game. They were wrapped in towels, and clearly shaking. The temperatures dropped steadily at night this time of year, and they had been in the water. Nearby, a Toyota Land Cruiser was parked.
Rich began to interview the teenagers. There wasn’t much room on the bridge, so even though we stayed behind the barriers they’d set, I could make out a lot of the conversation.
As best I could piece it together, they were heading to The Natty, a nature reserve that has long been a hangout spot for local teenagers. A kid named Mark DiNardo was the designated driver, and he claimed they were overtaken by a light so bright he thought it was aliens. For the record, he was the sober one of the group.
When the light subsided, the car stopped, despite DiNardo’s best efforts to, quote, “get the hell out of here before we got abducted or some shit like that.” And because that wasn’t crazy enough, waiting for them on the bridge was what appeared to be a man, dressed only in a bathrobe … and he had no face. Rich seemed to be buying it up until the no-face part—they had lost me at aliens.
Then, if possible, the story got weirder. One of the girls, Callie Faust, stepped out of the car and walked “zombie-like” toward the faceless dude in a bathrobe. He, or it, grabbed hold of her and climbed to the top of the bridge railing like King Kong scaling the Empire State Building.
But unlike when Grady Benson tossed my brother’s lifeless body over, Bathrobe leaped with her. According to Shane Sullivan, he tried to get to Callie. He wasn’t able to stop her from going over, but did get a perfect view as they fell toward the dark water. And what he saw was that Bathrobe disappeared on the way down.
“Disappeared?” Rich asked, somehow maintaining a straight face.
Yep, poof, vanished, gone. I wondered when would he begin to administer the field sobriety tests.
Shane dove in after her. The other kids took the safer route, running down the hill, but the end result was all of them in the dark water desperately searching for Callie. One of them said she felt like something was dragging her under, pulling at her legs. She was convinced it was the faceless bathrobe guy.
Rich seemed to be giving the story the benefit of the doubt, and continued his questioning, “Did he say anything? The man in the bathrobe.”
Shane answered, “Yeah—before he jumped, he started asking us where Archie was. He said he looked for him in the gristmill, but he wasn’t there. When we told him we had no idea what he was talking about, he got angry, and shouted if we didn’t tell him where Archie was, he was going to jump with Callie.”
“Do you know anyone named Archie?” Rich asked.
They all shook their heads. But Shane did add, “Right before he jumped, he said to Callie, ‘You should have left it alone, Bette.’ It was as if he thought she was someone else.”
When asked, none of them knew a Bette. I had no idea what any of this meant. I got the feeling that neither did Rich.
But the bottom line was that everyone was safe and accounted for—the vaporization of Bathrobe guy notwithstanding—and Callie’s only injury seemed to be that one of her oversized hoop earrings got ripped out of her earlobe during the melee. There would be no funeral. She would get to go to her prom, visit colleges, stare mindlessly at some trendy phone device, and do whatever else teenagers do these days.
I decompressed, but I could still feel the rising tide of turmoil inside me. The paramedics couldn’t help me—only one person could. And as if she could sense it, she draped her arm around me and asked the same question she asked me at the fair, “Are you okay?”
“I don’t know.”
A loud noise stole our attention, and we watched as a limo screeched to a stop—seems we’d found who was responsible for blocking Rich in.
Lauren Bowden got out, and tried to force her way to the crime scene. Lenny Williams cut off her path, and explained that there was nothing to see here—just some kids who fell in the water, and everyone was okay.
&nbs
p; Lauren grew indignant. “I knew there couldn’t be a big story in this one-horse town. Every time I come here, they tell me there’s a big story, and it turns out to be nothing!”
She got back in her limo, and slammed the door.
At risk of disagreeing with America’s Most Courageous News Anchor, she was wrong about the last story not being big, and I got the feeling she was wrong about this one, too.
Chapter 12
We drove in silence. But instead of continuing toward the police station—to get that promised exclusive with Rich—Gwen turned off Zycko Hill Road onto Blueberry Bush, and drove the van to Lefebvre Park.
Lefebvre is the largest and most popular of Rockfield’s many parks. It hosts everything from Little League games to the annual town picnic. It was named after a French general who assisted General Washington in fighting off the Brits in these parts during the Revolutionary War. Not only does he have this park named after him, but also the middle school in town. That means a guy who never lived here has two things named after him, while I only have one—the high-school football field—so that’s the first thing that will change if I’m elected. That will go in the Pro column.
I wasn’t sure where Gwen was going with this, but I did have fond memories of times we came here to be alone during our teenage years, and I was sort of hoping for history to repeat itself.
It did, but just not the way I’d wished. She led me by the hand to the children’s playground, and we took a seat on the swings. I remembered playing on them as kids, pumping my legs as hard as they would go, competing with Gwen to see who could swing the highest. But now they were too low to swing, or I had grown too big.
The night air had cooled, and Gwen had slipped a jean jacket over her sundress.
“Do you remember when we used to come here our senior year? Saturday nights, just like tonight,” she said.
“I do, but the swings are not the part I remember best,” I replied with a smile.
“We were growing up so fast—things were happening so quickly, like an out-of-control train that couldn’t be stopped. All these new things and feelings.”
“And by new things, I think you’re referring to the really fun kissing and taking off clothing stuff.” Usually in the backseat of Gwen’s Caprice Classic that was the size of a small barge, and held together by duct tape. My Jeep was not equipped for such things back then, no more than it is now.
“Which was great, no doubt, but it was also scary. And I think that’s why we used to always spend time on the swings before we …”
“Lost the keys, and you lost more than that in my backseat, baby,” I quoted our song—Bon Jovi’s “Never Say Goodbye”.
She ignored my theatrics. “I think it reminded us no matter how much things change, we will always have that base of innocence. It’s what made us feel safe to go on.”
“Are you sure you aren’t going back to school to get your psych degree?”
“Things are always going to change, JP. But these swings will always be here, and I’ll be sitting in the one right next to you. And it will be safe to go on.”
During my many daydreams about my triumphant return to Rockfield, nowhere did it include anniversaries of Noah’s death, or my parents moving away, or local kids being tossed over a bridge by a faceless, bathrobe-wearing guy. Despite all that, she was right—just because we paint over the image, doesn’t mean it didn’t still exist underneath. It remained the base of everything we do.
She knew the message I needed to hear this night, and delivered it in just the way it would hit home for me. With point taken, I suggested, “What do you say we head back to the house?”
She shook her head. “I think I’d like to stay here. It’s the only place in town I can get some alone-time with my boyfriend.”
“Now you’re talking,” I said and helped her up from the swing.
We began walking slowly back to the van, and for the first time all day my mind felt clear. It allowed me to focus on the strange event we’d just witnessed.
“What do you make of tonight?” I asked.
“As in, do I believe that Headless Horseman meets David Blaine ghost story I just heard? I’m gonna go with no on that one.”
“Then what’s really going on?”
“They were probably engaging in one of the favorite teenage pastimes around here—bridge diving.”
“Carter was right—this town needs a strip club. It would save lives.”
“Diving is pretty dangerous under normal conditions, but at night, with the water levels so low due to the drought, and add in alcohol, it’s downright crazy! I think the girl, Callie, had a scare. They panicked, and one of them called 911. But when it turned out she was alright, they had to come up with a story—getting charged with underage drinking could affect their college applications, plus they would be dealing with some angry parents. Their story could have used a little more polish and believability, but I understand why they went that route. We were all dumb kids at one time.”
The “kids” mention sparked a thought. “Did you notice something wrong with Ella today? She barely said hello to me, and she had this scowl on her face. That’s not like her.”
“And whose fault is that?”
The answer to that question was usually that it’s mine, but I wasn’t sure how it could be in this case. “Will there be multiple choice?”
“You changed her best friend into some Armani-wearing, cologne-overdosing Mr. Confidence who is winning stuffed animals for the hip city girl who just moved to town.”
“They’re eleven—isn’t it a little too early for that sort of stuff?”
“The feelings are always there—they just don’t know what they mean at that age. It’s the same reason you pulled my pigtails when we were seven.”
We reached the van, and it was time to stop discussing kids, and move on to some adult time. We pushed up against the van and began kissing, then struggled to slide open the side door. Once inside, Gwen removed her jean jacket, and laid out a blanket on the floor. We kissed some more, and moved on top of the blanket.
I then did what I’d wanted to do since I saw her put it on this morning. I reached behind her neck and untied the strap that was holding up her sundress. The top half fell off her, bunching at the waist.
Gwen pulled my shirt over my head, and kissed me from my neck all the way down to my abs. She then reached for my belt buckle. As the bumper sticker says: If this van’s a rockin’ don’t come a knockin’!
But before the rocking could begin, the knocking started. I thought my mind was playing tricks on me. Gwen scrambled to reattach her dress, as I pulled my shirt back on. I moved to the window, and wiped away the steam.
Looking back at me was a guy, maybe nineteen or twenty, with unruly red hair. He looked harmless, but after hearing about faceless men in bathrobes, my bar had been set pretty low. I slid the door open. “Can I help you?”
“Sorry, dude, I saw your windows all fogged up, and figured you were smoking. I was looking for a light.” He pointed to the joint hanging out of his mouth.
His eyes focused just long enough to notice Gwen, and he actually appeared a little frightened by her presence. He should see her when she gets mad, that would really scare him.
I glanced back at Gwen, who seemed to have a similar reaction.
The kid broke into nervous laughter. “Whoa … Miss Delaney.”
“Levi … hello … I was just …”
His laughter turned into a giggle. “Getting your backseat boogie on?”
But the smile quickly fell off his face. “You’re not going to tell your dad about this, are you?” He looked at his joint as he said it.
“Trust me, Levi—this will be 100% between you and me. Got it?”
“Don’t worry, Miss Delaney—it’s gonna stay right in here,” he said and pointed at his temple. But I got the feeling that his mind would act more like a shredder than a vault.
He remained standing there, lost in a stoned gaze. �
��Are we done here, Levi?” Gwen asked anxiously.
“Oh, I was just waiting for the lighter.”
I moved to the dashboard and pulled the lighter out of the socket. I tossed it to him. “Just keep it … enjoy your night … looks that you have been,” I said and slung the door closed.
After Gwen explained that Levi works for her father, we attempted to restart the fire, but the mood had gone up in smoke, literally. So we decided to take things back to my place. It wasn’t ideal—Gwen always says that she expects my mom to burst in at any moment with a batch of cookies. But it was still a better option than her household, which could second as a convention center these days.
We arrived at what soon would be “our place.” I thought the sale would be a seamless process once Gwen and I had agreed to purchase it from my parents, but then my father tried to highball us—at least that’s my version of events—and the deal almost fell apart. But now that Gwen and my mother had taken over the negotiations, it looks like a deal could be struck very soon.
We tiptoed past the A-frame that housed my parents—it was my childhood home, until my brother Noah came along and we outgrew it. But instead of moving, my parents built a larger colonial directly behind it. Then when the kids left the nest, they returned to the much cozier, one-story A-frame.
The lights were still on, and I assumed they were up watching a movie, as they often did on Saturday night. But we had other things on our mind, so we followed a slate path to the larger colonial.
As we approached the door, the kissing resumed. I located my keys, twisted open the lock, and we stumbled in—alone at last! We kissed our way through the hallway and into the dark living room. And then I crashed to the floor. Gwen began to scream, but her voice was muffled to silence. The lights came on.
My eyes adjusted to see a giant of a man behind Gwen, his hand over her mouth. His partner was parked in front of me. Neither wore a bathrobe, and both had faces. And when I identified who those faces belonged to, my alarm turned to anger.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
Psycho Hill (JP Warner Book 3) Page 5
