The Guardian's Playlist

by J Powell Ogden

  He grinned and said, “Cate…I was just teasing. I already bought a new phone.” I looked around his room at all the state-of-the-art computer equipment and upscale vintage furniture and felt kind of stupid. Of course his parents would have bought him a phone. They could afford it.

  “What did they get you?” I asked, setting the bag down on the floor, and sitting down on the edge of the bed.

  “They? No. My parents believe in making Evelyn and me work for what we get.” He held up a brand new cell phone and waved it back and forth.

  “Then, how did you—” I started to ask, and he grinned, spreading his hands out and gesturing around his room.

  “You’re looking at a highly successful online entrepreneur.” I looked around and finally noticed all of the little boxes that were stacked up everywhere. I plucked one of the boxes out of its pile and saw that the return address was from Doctor Jackson King, M.D., Jason’s father. I raised my eyebrows, and he just shrugged and said, “People trust a doctor more than a sixteen-year-old kid. My dad knows. He doesn’t care.”

  “So what are you selling?”

  He took the package out of my hands. “I started with old baseball cards and traded my way up to small electronics,” Jason said, placing the box on his bookshelf next to what I knew to be one of his prized possessions, the World War II era knife he’d inherited from his grandfather. Then he came back and sat next to me on the edge of the bed. “So, really Cate, what do you need?”

  Not knowing where to begin, I turned around, pulled my feet up onto the bed and sat with crossed legs looking out at the water. It was getting darker.

  “Damn, Cate,” he said, crawling over behind me. “You’re so tense. What’s the matter?” He sat up on his knees and massaged my neck and shoulders. I closed my eyes and relaxed into it. His hands were strong and his fingers, perceptive. He quickly found the knot that had taken up residence above my right shoulder blade and focused his efforts there. He worked his thumbs over and back rhythmically to loosen it up. I started to feel warm and found myself suddenly wishing for more…but shit, this was awkward.

  I turned halfway toward him, which disengaged his hands, and then pulled my knees up under my chin and wrapped my arms around them protectively.

  “How’s Kara?” I asked pointedly. As in, hey, Jason, remember you have a girlfriend? As in, hey, Cate, remember you dumped him? He sat back with his feet tucked under him, his brows furrowed.

  “Her parents split up, and she moved back to Indianapolis with her mom last week. I thought you knew that.” He looked out the window. The wind was picking up, and the vines hanging off the gazebo were swaying. I should have known. The whole school was probably talking about it—but then I’d pretty much removed myself from the social scene lately.

  “Are you guys going to try to—”

  “We broke up, Cate,” he answered abruptly. “She wanted it that way. A clean break, she said.” Well, that sucked. The last time they broke up, he was a mess. I reached out my hand and touched his knee.

  “I’m sorry, Jason.”

  His contemplative eyes took on a wicked gleam, and a slight smile turned up one corner of his lips. He slid his left hand under my outstretched arm and the other under my knees and pulled me up onto his lap.

  “How sorry?” he whispered into my neck, caressing the hollow with his nose and circling my bare ankle under the damp edge of my jeans with the tips of his thumb and forefinger. The warmth I had felt before sank down deep into my thighs where it began a slow burn.

  “Ummm…” was all I could manage. He worked his lips upward under my chin, kissing me softly as he forced my neck up into full extension.

  “Um…Jason…?”

  He pulled his face back a few inches and appraised me with glittering, ice blue eyes. “I’m free,” he pointed out.

  “Didn’t we already try this once?” I protested without much conviction.

  He lifted his chin thoughtfully and said, “Ever try? Ever fail? No matter. Try Again. Fail again. Fail better.” Then he lifted my calves up with his right arm and tilted me back onto the bed. “I agree with Samuel Becket,” he murmured deep in his throat as he positioned himself over me. His hands sunk into the mattress on either side of my head. Despite his player reputation, he’d always been gentle and patient with me, respecting my limits, and so he paused there, waiting for my signal.

  The storm suddenly broke loose on the thin span of glass separating us from the elements. Slushy ice drops smacked hard against his window, and the view of the lake disappeared. The shingles on the roof rattled as a blast of wind exploded over the top of the house. I thought of Michael trapped out in the storm.

  “I can’t do this,” I said, feeling inexplicably panicked, and pushed myself up off the bed. I walked over to his bookshelves, pulled out Paradise Lost and held it up. On the cover was a picture of the Archangel Michael with a fiery sword poised in mid-air above a chained dark devil.

  “Don’t you remember that we argue about everything?” I reminded him.

  He got up and grabbed the book roughly out of my hands. “Maybe I get a little intense in my opinions sometimes.”

  “A little?”

  “Okay, maybe more than a little. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t like talking to you about this stuff. You’re smart, Cate. You helped me redefine my views.”

  “So I’ve created a convert?”

  “Hardly…” He rolled his eyes and shoved the book back onto the shelf. “Cate, you came over for a reason. What is it?” He was annoyed with me. Again. But I reminded myself that this was for Michael, not me. I took a deep breath and sat back down on the bed.

  “I need you to do something for me, Jason.” I tried to keep my voice even. “I need you to find out what happened to Michael. Why he was put in foster care and what happened to him after that.”

  Jason’s expression didn’t change…much. “Do you mean your friend who fell off the cliff last August?”

  His name is…was Michael Casey. Father, Aidan. Mother, Janine. I need you to…um…hack or whatever it is you do into wherever you need to hack, to find out.”

  “Why?”

  “Jason…he was a really good friend of mine, and I’ve heard rumors…”

  “What kind of rumors?”

  “Rumors that he was abused,” I said. “I just need to know the truth.”

  “Is that what’s been bothering you since we broke up? Michael’s death? I thought maybe it had something to do with you and me.”

  I looked away and nodded. My throat felt tight. My face felt hot. My eyes filled. Shit, this was supposed to be a fact-finding mission, not a freaking therapy session.

  “He was my friend, Jason,” I squeezed out. “I can’t sleep…I can’t…”

  He sat back down on the bed, wrapped his longs arms around me and rested his chin on top of my head, all trace of his earlier irritation gone. “Sh…Cate, you’re a wreck. Do you want something to calm you down? Help you sleep? My mother has some valium…”

  I pulled away and looked up into his face. He was serious and that startled me.

  “Just hold on.” He got up and disappeared down the hall. I was worried he would come back with a bottle of pills. Instead, to my relief, he came back with a whole roll of toilet paper.

  “Sorry, I never have tissues in here.” I took the roll gratefully, and he pulled his leather desk chair over so he could sit facing me. He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and waited for me to clear out my nose.

  “Look, Cate, if I do this for you, you have to promise me you’ll let it go after that. This is the stuff that can really screw with your head, all the ‘what ifs’ and ‘if only’s.’ Michael’s dead. Nothing you do now is going to bring him back.” He brushed my chin with his fingers and then pushed my long, wavy hair back over my shoulders. “Okay?”

  “So you’ll do it?” I asked, suddenly hopeful.

  He gave me a wry smile and then grabbed a yellow legal pad off his desk. “Tell me everyt
hing you know about him.”

  During the weeks I waited to hear from Jason, Michael retreated farther and farther emotionally from me. It was almost like he knew I was getting closer to whatever memories were haunting him. We spent less time talking and more time sitting quietly together on the edge of the cliff. The leaves fell away and the snow began to fly. The bare-naked sycamores along the riverbank spread their white, rippled claws upward and outward from the base of the cliff, and ice formed on the water, thin skins that formed and disintegrated over and over.

  It was during Thanksgiving break that Jason finally called and asked me to meet him at Jai Ho. He had some information for me. When I pulled up in the Demon, he was already there waiting for me in his Audi. The sky was spitting snow crystals at us, but nothing was sticking to the ground yet. He gave my parka a strange look.

  Since my mom quit her job, I hadn’t been able to bring myself to tell her my winter jacket was too small. I knew they were expensive, so I’d poked around in the basement and resurrected one of my dad’s old coats. It was ridiculously huge on me, but with a few sweaters underneath it was toasty warm. It was perfect for long walks in the snowy woods with Michael. I raised my eyebrows at Jason and pointedly fluffed up the fur around my hood. We couldn’t all be the lord of an online fiefdom.

  I slammed the Demon’s heavy door just as he came up behind me.

  “Aren’t you going to lock it?” he asked, seeing the lock button still popped up.

  I shook my head. “If I lock it, I’ll never get back in,” I shrugged and then turned and headed into the coffee shop.

  Jai Ho was a little hole in the wall in the same small shopping strip as the 7-Eleven on my bus route. In contrast to the national chains’ upscale, warm and cheerful feel, Jai Ho’s décor was cluttered and utilitarian. There were no plushy booths, only tables and chairs with stainless steel legs spread out between the smudged white walls. The serving counter was piled high with coffee, tea and Indian food staples.

  Jason unzipped his quilted, dark leather jacket as he stepped up to the counter. “Hey, Ravi. Namaste. Double espresso, please.” Then he looked down at me. “What would you like, Cate?”

  “I don’t need you to pay for me,” I grumbled. He rolled his eyes, I rolled mine back, and Ravi smiled. I let him buy me a vanilla chai. What I needed was a job, but right now I didn’t have time for one.

  We sat down at a table in the corner. Jason shrugged off his jacket and tugged the sleeves of his gray Saint Joan hoodie down to his wrists. He pulled a manila folder out of his backpack and laid it on the table in front of me.

  “I’ve been busy with basketball, so I haven’t been able to crack his entire file yet, but I found this information on a criminal case against his first foster parents, Tilda and Bryce Johnson.”

  I reached across the sticky table for the folder, but he placed his hand down flat on top of it.

  “Cate…there are some graphic photos in here. I want you to know that they’re not of Michael before you open it.”

  Not of Michael? He searched my eyes to make sure I understood. I nodded, then he flipped open the folder.

  The first photo was of a young child, maybe five of six, laid out on a steel table. Steel table? I leaned forward to examine it. My eyes zeroed in on the cigarette burns, only these hadn’t healed yet. There were three on his chest, dark red and crusty. The child had bruises too, on his face and on his upper arms where it looked like someone had squeezed him too hard. His skin was doughy white, except for his lips and fingertips, which were bluish.

  I sat abruptly back in my chair, feeling sick, and stared at Jason.

  “The kid was murdered, Cate. By the Johnsons.”

  “What was his name?” I whispered.

  “Stephen Angeles.”

  I started to shake my head, and then I bent quickly back over the photograph and found the date. Michael would have been around eleven.

  “Was Michael there when—”

  Jason was already nodding before I finished my question, and I blinked a few times. Habit when I was talking about Michael’s past. Keep the eyes dry at all costs. Jason easily interpreted the gesture and started to pull the file back toward him, but I shook my head vehemently, and he let go. I started flipping through the rest of the papers. There were several photos of the child from different angles, including one of the back of his small, blood-caked head. There was also paperwork on when he arrived at the Johnsons’, which wasn’t too long before his death. The trial ended abruptly when the Johnsons pled guilty to second degree murder in exchange for a more lenient sentence. There was no paperwork on Michael.

  “Is that it?”

  “Isn’t that enough, Cate?” he asked. “Doesn’t that answer your questions? It’s obvious that Michael must have been abused, too. That must be why he turned to drugs and—”

  “He was clean when he died!” The words erupted from my throat like lava from a volcano, and the people at the table across the room from us turned to see what was going on.

  “Sh…what are you talking about? Everybody knows—”

  “He was clean,” I whispered forcefully. “I know it. Luke Devlin knows.”

  “Cate, listen to yourself! We talked about this. You can’t change who Michael was just because you don’t want to believe it. If anyone had reason to be on drugs, it was Michael. He probably needed them just to forget—”

  “Forget what? This murder? What else?”

  Jason usually had incredible control over his impulses and emotions. He’d demonstrated that time and again during our summer romps in his bed, but he flinched subtly.

  “You have more, don’t you?” I accused. I could see it in his eyes. He knew more about what had happened to Michael than he was telling. He just didn’t want to upset me. “What else do you have? Let me see it.”

  He pressed his lips together unhappily, but reluctantly dug one more photo and another plea agreement out of his coat pocket. I glanced at the plea agreement first. Seven years. They’d pled guilty to child neglect in Michael’s case in exchange for a sentence of just seven years added to the murder sentence. I tossed the plea agreement aside, disgusted, and pulled the photo across the table. I didn’t understand what I was looking at. It was a photo of a wooden trap door in a dirty concrete floor, closed and bolted shut. I looked up at him questioningly. Jason pointed at the photo.

  “That’s where the police found him.”

  “Found who? Found Michael?” I looked back at the picture, at the trapdoor, and a low moan escaped my lips. “In there?”

  Jason nodded.

  Oh shit.

  The snow was up to my ankles by the time I hiked into the woods that afternoon, and it was still coming down in heavy white clumps. The huge flakes somehow made it through the dense pine rafters and into the shadowy gray interior of the forest, clothing the ground in damp white wool. White. Cool gray. Deep green. I missed them all. My eyes kept coating the soothing colors with Michael’s hot blood. In my mind’s eye, it spilled bright red from his mouth onto the newborn snow, steaming as it melted its way down to the ground. My emotions had reached the boiling point. They had gone from rich, black sorrow to riotous rage. What else had the Johnsons done to him?

  And Jason—when he’d refused to give me more details about the abuse Michael suffered, I’d stormed out of the coffee shop. He’d begged me to stay and calm down and looked worried when I left. I suppose I should have been grateful for the information he did give me. I’d have to call him later and apologize…

  “What’s wrong, Catherine?” Michael was speaking before he fully materialized. His eyes were screwed up with concern. “Is your grandmother okay?” Since the night I exploded about her illness, he never failed to ask about her, and I never failed to shut him down, subject closed.

  “She’s fine,” I said vaguely, then asked, “Why would you—”

  “You just seem…stressed,” he said, shifting his weight restlessly. “You’re usually pretty happy when you walk into
the woods.”

  My simmering rage made my voice shaky, and I took a deep breath to steady it. “Not here, Michael.” I wanted to be safely cocooned in our lightning tree clearing before I told him why I was upset. He was going to be pissed that I dug into his past again.

  “Okay.” Where I failed at patience, he excelled. He would wait forever for me to be ready to talk about something I didn’t want to talk about. “Then, I have a surprise for you. Ask me where you should meet me today.” He relaxed and grinned.

  “What?”

  “Go on. Ask me. Where should I…” he prompted, rolling his hand around in a circle in front of him.

  “Okay…where should I meet you?” I asked uncertainly.

  He smiled. “Why don’t I just walk with you?” he said. “I’ve been practicing.”

  “I’d like that,” I murmured, still buried eyebrow deep in dark emotions.

  “I thought you’d be happy,” he said as he fell into step next to me. He sounded disappointed.

  “I am. I just…” I looked sideways at him and saw a drop of sweat drip down his arm. It slid over the tattoo on the rounded muscle of his bicep and then followed the muscle’s contour back toward the crook of his elbow before disappearing on the inside of his forearm. Another drop ran down the back of his neck, which was glistening with sweat. He looked hotter than hell.

  “Crap, Michael. Aren’t you cold?” I don’t know why I never thought to ask before. With his one bare foot, sleeveless shirt and cutoffs, the poor kid was half-naked.

  “I wish. It still feels like it’s over ninety freaking degrees to me, just like on the day I died. And when I concentrate, like I’m doing right now, I get even hotter.”

  “Oh. You don’t have to—”

  “Hey, there’s practically squat I get to do for you. You come out here and entertain my sorry ass no matter what the weather is…”

  I started to shake my head. I wasn’t going to be entertaining him today.

  “…don’t ruin it by being all, you know, self-sacrificing, Catherine.” He rolled his eyes and then looked ahead again. He was concentrating hard. For me. Why did I have to be the one to dredge up his past? I started to get angry again, and I felt my forehead tense up. He glanced over at me, quiet concern evident on his face, but didn’t ask.