He smiled a little. “You kidding? Cody was a great liar.”
“Yeah,” she said. Her voice cracked and trailed off. She started crying.
“It’s okay,” he said. “I’d cry, too, but I’m too tired.”
“It’s not…it’s not just that he’s dead,” she said.
“Then what?”
“I don’t want to lie anymore either. There’s something I have to tell you. I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you before. You’re so…good.”
He could feel her trying to pull herself together.
“What? What is it? Don’t leave me hanging.”
Her voice was halting. “No. Not now. I have to do it in person.”
He felt himself getting angry. He didn’t want to be angry—not now, not at her—but he felt it anyway. “No, just tell me. My brain is screwed up enough as it is.”
A pause, and then, “You’ll hate me.”
What the hell is she talking about?
“I couldn’t, Cheryl, not you.”
“You could. It’s about me and Cody.”
Silence. Devin felt that abyss open up in front of him again. The one that held the darker truths.
“We were together. After Karston died. Just once.”
Now it was Devin’s turn to fall silent.
“Devin? Are you there?” Cheryl said. “I need to hear your voice right now. I’m so scared. I just felt like I was lying to you and…”
Lying to the angels…
“I’ve got to go,” Devin said flatly.
“No, please. I need to talk to you.”
A feeling like a million fire ants chewing at his gut rose up in him.
“Yeah, well, right now I need some time,” he said. He felt cruel. He didn’t care. He pressed End and flung the phone into his bed, where it landed soundlessly against the folds of the bedspread.
It made sense, damn it. It made total sense. Cody was, well, Cody. Friendship or loyalty wouldn’t hold him back. It was Cheryl who was looking different to him now.
Two crooks and a slut…
The sound of his parents’ battle rose through the vents in his room. Shaking, Devin lay down on his bed, put his head in a pillow, and screamed. Once, twice, then when the third scream ripped his throat raw, he stopped.
Through the pillow, he heard his ring tone. Cheryl was trying to call him back. He turned the phone off, and the little light showing Cheryl’s number went dead. There was another beep from across the room, from his laptop. An image of Tunnel Vision filled the screen. Cody’s voice came through the speakers, low, harsh, and pointed:
No one’s pure, my love, love, love,
But if you cross the line,
Your deeds will call out to the wild,
And there won’t be much time.
Karston had stolen money from him. Cody had been amoral at best. Now Cheryl had cheated on him. That much of the song was right, no one was pure. But did it mean they were all condemned? What rules did the monster follow?
Monster. Maybe it was him. Maybe all the years he’d spent “straddling the fence” as Cody called it had welled up and out of him as this weird id-thing. Or maybe at least one of all the police theories was right, maybe Devin was psychotic, killing Karston and Cody himself and not remembering.
Curious, he got up and stepped closer to the screen, watching Cody twist in an impassioned performance with the rest of them dutifully backing. Cheryl was right; the dots were there again. They were swirling around Cody, focusing on his head, twirling frantically as if trying to get his attention.
The camera zoomed in for a close-up of the lead singer. Cody’s rough, handsome face filled the screen. The dots were still there, clearer now as they circled his mouth, his lips, the mike, the sources of the sound. There were ten, maybe fifteen, little transparent dots of light.
As he came to the end, they froze, and all at once flew away, as if it was too late and whatever it was they were trying to warn about would happen anyway.
Devin stopped the clip, backed it up, and played it again. Yeah, the specks were dancing around Cody, right until the end of the last verse. Then they took off, like little bats out of little hell.
First it had been him and Karston. Karston died. Now it was Cody and Cody died. What would the police make of this, he wondered? Dust. Same thing he would have before he’d seen the beast.
There were no dots dancing around him, though. None around One Word Ben. What about Cheryl? It was hard to say; she was furthest back in the shot, and there weren’t many close-ups.
He froze the screen and clicked through a frame at a time. It was digital video, and from a good camera, too, so the image was pretty clean. He tried to find a clear frame with Cheryl in it. Once he did, he captured the screen and opened it in his image editor. Using the magnifier tool, he zoomed in. There they were, circling her mouth, her head, her ears, as if infesting her with death.
Cheryl. Karston. Cody. Cheryl.
He zoomed in tighter. The image pixelated, broke up into little squares of different color and shading, but the light and dark still conspired to create an image. It wasn’t a clear picture exactly, more something that might be there or might not, like the face of the man in the moon.
Only this face didn’t look like the man in the moon.
It looked like Karston.
12
Devin’s parents couldn’t understand why, now of all times, he was suddenly so desperate to see Namana. They tried to put him off, fearful it was another sign of some hidden mental problem, or that the frantic, traumatized teen would just upset the fragile old woman.
His mother and father fought twice over it, long and hard, finally agreeing to forbid him, but Devin kept insisting, repeatedly and uncharacteristically. He didn’t whine about it like a child; he demanded it, in a tone of voice they’d never heard from him before.
So finally they relented, on the condition his father drive.
“You’re too upset for one, and we’re damned if we’re going to leave you alone again for a while,” his dad explained. He phoned the police, as he’d been instructed, to tell them where they’d be the next morning.
They’d planned on leaving at nine A.M., but the police called to ask for more details and phone numbers, which delayed their departure until nine thirty. Finally, his dad, his face a mask, stiffly tossed a file stuffed with papers onto the floor of the SUV’s passenger seat. He started the engine and wordlessly waited for Devin to climb in and put on his seat belt. They pulled out of the gated community, his father doing the speed limit, not a mile more or a mile less. Just the limit, as if every cop in the world were watching them.
In silence, they drove past the suburbs into the downtrodden industrial section of town, which was filled with old factories and rundown homes. It was only when they reached the interstate and the view of flat, square buildings surrendered to green, rounded hills that the invisible bond with Macy, and all its tensions and horrors, seemed to weaken just a bit.
His dad’s face softened, but the muscle beneath his right eye twitched. He blinked a few times too often, cleared his throat, and asked, with embarrassment, some pointless question about how comfortable Devin was in his seat, and if he’d managed to get any sleep.
Devin suddenly knew that what he had thought of as his father’s anger was really a kind of helpless fear. He wanted to pat his father on the shoulder, tell him what a great job he’d done raising his son, that his son was all right, and that everything was going to be okay.
But everything wasn’t going to be okay, so he couldn’t.
Eventually, his father broke the silence again. “There are things we have to talk about.”
“Age before beauty,” Devin said. It was an old line between them. His father smiled, remembering.
“Two big things. First, I’ve decided to request a transfer to San Diego. We’re going to put the house up. It’ll mean some big changes, like a smaller house, but…”
Devin stared.
&nbs
p; He should have seen that one coming. His mother had been begging to leave for years. She had family in California. The schools were better there, she insisted, and there were more opportunities. His father had almost given in about a year and a half ago. Devin hadn’t been doing so well in school, but then the band formed and both his parents were happy to see him so involved. His father had probably hoped the issue was buried forever. But now, no more Macy. California, here we come.
His father kept talking, as if he had to explain why he’d given in.
“Your mother was right,” he said. “I just didn’t see it. Macy’s been dying for years. Now it’s just gone to hell and it’s sucking us down with it. They don’t even have gang slayings like that in New York. I’m only sorry I let us stay here so long. That’s my fault.”
“You don’t have to…,” Devin started to say. He understood. Part of him hoped that whatever he’d unleashed wouldn’t be able to travel that far.
“There’s something else,” his father said. “It’s a little harder to…to talk about.”
Devin’s brow furrowed. What?
The emotion began to drain from his father’s face. The mask returned. He was bracing himself.
“After all that’s happened, and hell, we don’t even know what happened, but your mother and I…well, maybe it would be best…maybe you should just…look inside the folder,” he said.
Devin reached down and lifted the straw-colored file. It was thick with paper. Inside were a series of color Web page printouts. Images sprinkled among the text showed happy teens engaged in sports and other wholesome activities as they played on lush green fields with new equipment beneath a perfect blue sky. Other images showed the teens accepting guidance from older, wiser adults. Everyone smiled. Everyone was pleasant. Everyone was healthy.
Devin flipped through the pages. There were about twenty. Some had the perfection of their layout marred by handwritten notes from his father, and certain sections were highlighted in yellow. It still took a moment for Devin to register what he was looking at. They were ads for the rich kids’ version of drug rehab centers—behavior modification camps.
Devin stared, mouth open wide. His father exhaled and started talking again.
“It’s something we need to think about. Some of them look pretty nice. You’d have Internet access, a DVD player. We were thinking you could start maybe next week, avoid all the mess of moving, then meet us in San Diego later, start there with a clean slate.”
If Devin’s father were expecting some kind of fight, he didn’t get it. Instead Devin just laughed. It was a dismissive, derisive laugh that mushroomed uncontrollably into a ghoulish cackle. At the end of it, Devin just shook his head. “You know, Dad, I’ve never taken any drugs, but I sure as hell am thinking about it now.”
“Don’t talk like that,” his father said.
So he didn’t. He didn’t say anything for the rest of the drive.
The Daybridge Senior Care Facility looked just like the bright and shiny institutions in the folder his dad had dutifully prepared. It all seemed so clean, until they walked into the well-lit, tastefully decorated lobby and the smells Devin associated with old people filled the air. Dried skin dying too quickly. Sweet food mashed up so that it was easy to chew. A whiff of some gross cleaning fluid that didn’t mask the other smells.
Devin signed in at the counter. He turned to give his father the pen, but his old man shook his head. “No, Devin. I can’t see her. After you…after what happened yesterday, I’m just too drained. Half the time she doesn’t recognize me anyway. I’ll wait here.”
Devin looked at him, wondering if there’d ever be a time he wouldn’t want to see his own parent because it was too draining. Then, realizing he already felt that way about both of his parents, he just nodded. It would be easier to talk to Namana alone.
To the right of the counter was a large white door with a little window in the center and a serious metal lock and plate on the side. As Devin was buzzed in, his father called to him. “Don’t say anything to upset her.”
Devin pretended not to hear. If his father wanted to issue orders, he should have come along. Alone, Devin entered the white corridor and let the door click shut behind him. The old-people smell was stronger, but the view was more pleasant because the hall opened up into a wide, sunny space. As he walked forward, he saw an angled ceiling that was nearly all glass and filled the room with natural sunlight. There were plants on either side of every lounge chair, more standing against the support columns, and even a few small trees, giving the area a natural, open feel.
A few of the residents occupied some of the chairs. Some played chess; others read. One tall bald man wore what looked like a hospital gown. He leaned against a pillar like he was one of the trees, a white birch. His eyes were vacant, and he moaned softly as mucous dripped in a long viscous strand from his nose, halfway down his chest.
Devin tried not to stare. Or inhale. He stepped slowly into the center of the room. Some of the women looked at him and whispered to one another. They giggled and tried to catch his eye. It was utterly gross to think they were flirting with him, so he forced himself to assume they were just being friendly. He scanned their faces. It’d been maybe three years since he’d seen Namana. He wasn’t sure how much she might change in that time. Could one of these women even be her?
He was about to speak to one of the gigglers when a uniformed nurse appeared at the far end of the room, guiding a small, snow-white-haired resident with a walker. The last time he’d seen Namana, her hair had still been gray mixed with a few strands of black, and she’d been heavier. This frail woman looked more like someone had started making a life-size Namana doll, but had run out of material. It was her, though.
He walked up and smiled as sincerely as he could, reminding himself of Cody on stage. “Hi, Namana, how are you?”
She twisted her head slightly and looked at him, then moved her hand in a spastic twitching motion, as if waving him away. Her hand moved at the wrist, but her fingers dangled lifelessly. There was a blue bruise on the back of her left hand, from some IV needle or another.
She continued waving, but the smiling nurse helped her into a chair, laying her down like a blanket on top of the thick cushions. The nurse put the walker against the wall and said, with what seemed an inappropriate amount of energy, “There! All set!”
Devin came closer. Namana raised her head. Her blue eyes were hazy behind the thick glasses, but now at least they seemed to really focus on him. She scrunched her eyebrows a moment, as if trying to place Devin’s face.
The nurse leaned down till she was right next to his grandmother’s ear and said loudly, “This is your grandson! Devin! He’s come to see you!”
Namana bobbed her head slightly. She agreed.
The nurse turned to Devin with a wide smile. “Sometimes she forgets,” she said in a pleasant stage whisper. “I’ll leave you two alone. Call me if you need anything. I’m Angie.”
“Thanks,” Devin said. Angie spun and walked away.
He looked at his grandmother, wondering if the whole trip had been a waste, if there were anything at all she’d be able to tell him. Surprisingly, her hand again dangling from her wrist, Namana waved him closer.
“What is it, Namana?” he said, putting his head nearer. He was still about a foot away, nervous. Even after everything he’d been through—maybe because of it—he was afraid of her because she was so old. She waved him closer still. He complied, by inches, until he was just close enough for her to grab him hard by the back of his head.
He was surprised by how strong she was. Her grasp made him feel like a child too weak in body and soul to resist as she pulled his face down to hers. They touched, nose to nose. Then, she didn’t so much kiss his cheek as make a soft pup-pup sound with her smacking lips near his skin.
“Devin,” she said softly, as if it were the answer to a test question that had been plaguing her.
“Namana,” he said, and hugged her gently. A
s he pulled back, he saw her eyes fill with tears. Guilt rushed up inside him for not seeing her for so long. There was a tissue box on a table next to the chair. He pulled out a sheet and patted her wet cheeks with it. She bristled, grabbed the tissue, and pushed her glasses up and out of the way so she could use it to dab her eyes.
“Sorry,” he said.
“I’ll do it,” she croaked. “I’ll do it. You’re a baby. Shouldn’t have to…”
Devin managed a bitter little smile. “Not exactly a baby anymore, Namana.”
She narrowed her gaze at him, trying to focus on his features. “No, you’re not,” she said sadly. She leaned forward a little and added conspiratorially, “Neither am I.”
They both laughed. Devin felt grateful he could still recognize her.
Now came the hard part. The reason for the visit. He didn’t want to “upset her,” as his father said, but he had to find out what she might know about the creature.
“Namana, do you remember that song you used to sing me, to put me to sleep?” he said. “When I was a baby?”
A sweet smile spread on her lips. She started humming, then she closed her eyes and put her arms out in front of her, as if recalling what a child in her lap felt like.
As he listened, the years crumbled, and Devin remembered what it was like to sit with her, feeling warm and snug as she sang, holding something in his hands, some stuffed toy made of dark fur. A teddy bear?
He was surprised and embarrassed at how well he’d remembered the melody. He’d been thinking he’d made more of it up, but as she hummed, he realized he’d reproduced it note for note, word for word. Another illusion came crumbling down as he realized he was no musical genius, he’d stolen the song whole hog.
“Lay still, still, still,” she croaked. Her voice wasn’t harsh at all, the way he remembered it; it was gentle, soothing. At least it was now.
If it wasn’t his song, whose was it?
There was something compelling in the melody, something that made everyone who heard it speechless for a few moments. Maybe that was part of its magic, that the song would stay in your mind, and then force its way out again. Was that why he remembered it so precisely? It explained why he felt drawn to it, why his usual ambivalence had vanished when he’d sung it at the last show.
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