by David Bell
But he had to go. He had to be part of it.
So many people had gone to Julia’s funeral. So many people were sending cards and gifts and food while Summer was in the hospital.
He was part of it. A rather large piece.
He started for the door, opting to leave as many lights on as possible. He tried to remind himself to buy some timers, but he knew mundane thoughts like that entered and left his brain like water through a downspout.
He stepped outside, heading to the car. The sky was darkening, turning a deep purple. His phone rang, a call from Paige.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
A pause. “Bill? Have you left yet?”
“No. What’s wrong? Is Summer okay?”
“She’s the same,” Paige said, a little breathless.
“Asleep or whatever?”
“Yes, of course.”
Bill still didn’t feel relief. That meant there was something else going on. “What?” he asked.
“I just got a call from Teena,” Paige said. “She needs my help. Our help.”
“What’s happened?”
“Something’s going on at Clinton Fields’s house. Something happened to another girl.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Bill knew the way.
He didn’t bother picking Paige up. He cut through side streets, daylight fully gone, and entered the subdivision where Clinton Fields lived with his parents. Bill had been there a few times, dropping off Summer and even Haley. He remembered the girls’ excitement as he took them to meet their friends, their voices chattering, their energy not entirely concealing the teenage nervousness and insecurity underneath. He’d talked to the parents a few times. Clinton’s father was a florid-faced insurance agent, his mother a dietitian at a clinic one town away. Once when Bill dropped the girls off they shared a drink and chatted about the kids and basketball and town gossip. They went out of their way to offer sympathy over Julia’s death.
What had gone so horribly wrong in their house?
Bill turned onto their street. As soon as he did, he saw the blue strobing police lights, the spastic glow bouncing off the facing of every house. Three cop cars and, parked among them, an ambulance, a hulking beast topped with red lights.
“No, no,” Bill said. “No.”
He parked as close as he could, three doors away. Neighbors stood grouped in small clusters, their arms crossed, curiosity more prominent than worry on their faces.
Bill jumped out and headed right for a stocky, uniformed cop who stood with his thumbs hooked in his belt, a human wall.
“Is Detective Hawkins here?” Bill asked. He was breathless, his heart thudding. Only when he stood still for a moment, in the street with the flashing lights and confronted by the stoic face of a twenty-something police officer, did Bill realize how fully worked up he was. He looked at the front of the Fields house. The door was open, and glowing yellow light spilled out onto the lawn. Another cop was in the doorway, speaking into the radio fastened to his lapel.
Something happened to another girl.
Another. And couldn’t it have been prevented if the police had done something to Clinton and his friends sooner?
“Are you a family member?” the cop asked.
“My daughter . . . I’m Summer Price’s father.”
The cop’s eyebrows lifted almost imperceptibly. Bill wondered where they found these fresh-faced but passionless young cops. Were they born? Or made?
“You should just wait here, sir.”
“Tell Hawkins I’m here. What did they do? What went wrong in there?”
“Did Detective Hawkins call you?” the cop asked.
“No. One of those kids called my sister. Teena Everett. Is she in there? Is she hurt?”
The cop’s brow wrinkled. He tilted his head to the right. “Just hold on one minute, sir.” He raised his hand, shooing Bill back, and then spoke in a low voice into his own radio.
A couple of neighbors stood close by, a young couple in running clothes with an aging mutt on a leash at their feet. “Do you know what happened?” Bill asked.
The couple shook their heads. “We just moved in.” Then the couple started craning their heads, trying to see around Bill.
Bill spun. He saw the paramedics in the doorway, bringing out a stretcher.
• • •
As the paramedics came closer, Bill saw the shape of a body under a white sheet. He felt immediate relief when he saw the sheet wasn’t covering the girl’s face. She wore an oxygen mask, and her eyes were closed. Her brown hair was a loose tangle. Bill didn’t recognize her, but she looked young. Very young and very vulnerable.
Like Summer in that hospital bed.
Bill watched from a few feet away as the paramedics lifted the girl inside the ambulance. One stayed in the back with her while the other jumped out and closed the heavy metal doors.
“Is she okay?” Bill asked. “What happened to her?”
But the paramedic ignored him and walked to the front of the vehicle.
Bill looked around, saw the cop he’d first spoken to.
“Jesus, what happened to her?” he asked. “Did they beat her up?”
Bill again received no answer. The cop made the shooing gesture again.
“You can’t do that,” Bill said to him. “You can’t just brush me aside. My daughter is in the hospital. Another girl is dead. Those animals did it. They hurt that girl.”
“Sir?” the cop said, raising both of his hands chest high. “Just move back.”
“Wait—”
A familiar figure emerged from the house. Even from a distance, Bill recognized Hawkins. His broad belly, his smooth movements on the uneven grass. “Bill?”
Bill took the chance to move past the cop and started across the lawn, meeting the detective halfway. “What the hell’s going on?”
“What the hell are you doing here?” Hawkins asked. “Who told you about this?”
“Teena Everett. She called my sister, and I came right over.”
Hawkins turned and looked at the house. Then he faced Bill again. “I see. . . .”
“What happened?”
“Bill, I think the best thing is for you to go home. You can’t be in the middle of an investigation like this. Go home. I’ll talk to you later, I promise.”
“You haven’t returned a single one of my calls all day.”
Hawkins looked exasperated, the muscles in his jaw clenching. “Bill, I’ve been working all day. And I got called out of Haley’s visitation to come here.”
“Just tell me—”
“Go. You need to go. I’ll call later.”
Hawkins placed a not-so-gentle hand on Bill’s back and applied pressure, moving Bill toward the street. Bill took two steps back and looked to the house again.
He saw two cops emerging from the doorway. Clinton Fields was in between them. When he saw Bill, the corner of his mouth lifted again, just as it had in the school parking lot. Bill moved quickly, lurching past Hawkins.
“What did you do? What did you do?”
The boy raised his hands defensively, shrinking back between the cops like a scared child. Bill swung his fist wildly, a haymaker that Clinton managed to duck away from. When he missed, Bill lost his balance. He straightened up, intending to swing again, but someone grabbed him across the chest, a thick forearm restraining and pulling him back. Bill fell to the ground, felt the damp cold through his dress pants.
“Okay, okay,” Hawkins said. “Get the kid out of here. His parents are pulling up right now. Let them take him to the station.”
Bill remained seated in the grass. He wiped his palms on his pant legs.
Hawkins bent down, his large face filling Bill’s vision like the rising moon. “Are you calmed down now?” he asked. “Do you want to have a quick
chat?”
Bill nodded his head, the blades of grass tickling his fingers.
Hawkins stood up, held out a big hand.
“Behave yourself, Bill.”
He pulled Bill to his feet.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The police car smelled like fried food and vomit. The metal grate between the front and back seats obscured Bill’s view of the street, preventing him from seeing what became of Clinton Fields and his parents. Bill’s hands were free, and he reached out only to find there was no door handle. Just a smooth, black surface.
He waited. His pants still felt a little wet from when he fell onto the ground.
After ten more minutes, Hawkins pulled the door open and sat down, the seat groaning under his bulk. He left the door open, allowing a cool gust of wind to come into the backseat.
“I know what you’re going to say,” Bill said. “You’re going to say I shouldn’t have done that.”
Hawkins held up his hand, requesting silence. For a long moment, he just sat in the seat next to Bill, staring straight ahead, his hands resting in his lap.
Bill’s face flushed. He felt embarrassed but not sorry. He refused to apologize for trying to protect his daughter. He only regretted that his return to her bedside would be delayed by sitting in the back of the stinking cruiser while waiting for a lecture.
“If you had hit that boy . . . someone could have pressed charges,” Hawkins said finally, his voice as cold and flat as the night wind. He reached up and scratched the area where his shirt collar touched his skin. “You shouldn’t even be here.”
“I got a call that something happened to a girl. Another girl just like my daughter. Of course I came.”
“To do what? Take a swing at a kid?”
“A kid who is some kind of monster. Did you see the look on his face? He was taunting me, egging me on.”
“I’m glad you didn’t take the bait.” Hawkins looked at his watch. The skin of his forearm was pale and freckled. “I have to go, but I’ll tell you what I know. Not because I think you deserve it, but just to keep you off my ass as long as possible. And because I need to know more about Teena Everett.” He cleared his throat and pointed at the house, his thick finger moving just in front of Bill’s nose. “About six kids went to Haley’s visitation tonight, but then they took the opportunity to slip out and come back here. The parents were still at the school, but the kids left. There’s no school tomorrow because of the burial.”
Hawkins put his hand down, but Bill looked at the house. Bright lights glowed in every window. Even in late winter, the yard looked neat and orderly, every shrub trimmed, every leaf blown. “What happened in there?” Bill asked, turning back to the detective.
“They were drinking. One of the girls had too much. Alicia Frank. Do you know her?”
“I’ve heard the name.”
“She must have been drinking earlier to get as intoxicated as she was.”
“That’s the girl on the stretcher?”
Grim-faced, Hawkins nodded, the bearer of bad news. “She was unconscious. She and Clinton had gone off alone, into the laundry room. Alicia must have passed out in there. It looks like Clinton came out and got his friend Todd. They took some photos of her in that condition and shared them on Snapchat. Typical teen stuff. They drew on her. Posed her with her finger stuck up her nose. Teena was there with them. She saw the photos, and, well, that’s when she called the police. And she called your sister.”
Bill turned away, looking back at the house. A lone cop came out the front door, his dark shape silhouetted for a moment. “Did they . . .”
“We’ll check for that. All of that. Alicia had some bruising on her legs. Clinton says it happened when she fell, that she stumbled over some laundry baskets.”
“Liar.”
“Why did Teena call your sister?” Hawkins asked.
Bill explained about their meeting at the hospital, the connection they seemed to have formed. “My sister is a sucker for hard-luck cases. She wants to help the girl. I guess I’m surprised Teena was there. I thought she was on the outs with those kids.”
“Who knows? Maybe she’s gained some status by being friends with Summer and Haley.”
“I want you to nail their hides to the wall,” Bill said, emphasizing his point by jabbing his finger in the air. “You’ve got it now. They screwed with another girl. They left Haley’s funeral and attacked another girl.”
“No one is using the word ‘attacked’ but you, Bill. You should go home. I’ll forget about tonight’s escapades if you just go home.” Hawkins left the car. He came around to Bill’s side and pulled the door open, stepping back while Bill stood up. “I’ve got to go to the station.”
“They’re so stupid,” Bill said. “All of this going on and they attack someone again. And take pictures.”
“Were you smart when you were young?” Hawkins asked.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
They buried Haley the next day. Sleet fell from the sky, pinging off windows and car roofs, glazing the streets and sidewalks with a thin layer of ice. For a good reason, Bill skipped the service. The morning was given over to waiting for a brawny orderly to arrive and roll Summer’s bed through the hospital’s labyrinthine hallways to the new room.
Once the process of moving her began, Bill and Paige walked ahead and sat in chairs near Summer’s new room. The rehab wing was newer. The modern furniture made it feel less like a hospital and more like an upscale doctor’s office. The walls were painted a metallic gray; the light fixtures gave off soft light. Even the magazines looked newer and nicer.
Bill needed to say something to his sister. He tapped his fingers against the armrest.
“You should go home, Paige. She’s out of danger, and we don’t know how long she’ll be here. You have a family to get back to.”
Paige was already shaking her head, a loose strand of hair bouncing around her face. “They’re fine. They’re probably glad I’m gone. I’m going to stick around a while longer.”
“I just don’t want you to put your life on hold for me. For us.”
“This is my life,” she said. “We’re family, remember?”
Bill stopped tapping the armrest. He reached over and squeezed her knee. “Okay.”
“I got a quick text from Teena this morning,” Paige said.
A woman came into the waiting area with three small children. She looked haggard and older than her years. Bill wondered if some tragedy had befallen her husband, the father of the three children, and now she was spending her days in a rehab center waiting room, hoping for the best and preparing for the worst.
“What did she say?” Bill asked.
“She’s scared. She thinks those boys might be lying about what happened to Alicia. But she didn’t say much more. I’m going to reach out to her later.”
“I haven’t heard from Hawkins, but I’m trying to be patient like you said.”
“What are you doing about work?” she asked.
Bill shrugged. One benefit of not traveling much was that he had accumulated a fair amount of sick and vacation time. They needed him on the job, but the world managed to turn without him there to oversee the upgrade of Internet coverage in the residence halls or to take an occasional phone call from a befuddled history professor who simply needed to learn how to attach a Word document to an e-mail.
“They’re covering for me,” he said. “It’s a good group.”
“I read about the state budget cuts,” she said.
“It’s mostly on the academic side. Not in our office.”
Bill wanted to convince his sister not to worry about him, but he struggled to convince himself. He was caught in a vise—he needed to be away and tend to Summer, but the longer he was away, the more his department might realize they functioned just fine without him. As one of the more senior members of the te
am, he knew he’d be the first to get axed if the budget cuts grew worse. And then without health insurance or a steady income, how would he manage Summer’s recovery? How much time would it take to find another job? And what if he had to relocate or commute?
“You sure?” Paige asked. “You could go in for a half day. I could sit here with Summer—”
“No, no,” Bill said. “No, I can’t leave her alone.”
“She wouldn’t be alone.”
Bill just kept shaking his head. “My place is here, no matter what happens.” He pointed at the floor. “A husband can’t walk away. . . .”
“A dad, you mean?”
“What’s that?”
“You said ‘a husband.’ I think you mean a dad can’t walk away.”
A nurse and the orderly emerged from Summer’s room and indicated they could go in.
“Neither one should,” he said, going back. “Neither one.”
Paige followed Bill into the room. It too was a vast improvement. The walls and curtains were warmer, the bed less industrial. A large window looked out on a copse of trees, and despite the bleak weather, it felt good to be able to see something natural. If it hadn’t been for the awful circumstances of Summer being severely injured, it would be a pleasant space to rest or relax in.
Bill went to Summer’s bedside, leaning down close to his daughter and giving her a gentle kiss on the top of her head. She looked frail, a fragile collection of bones and flesh, one that could collapse at any moment. Paige walked to the other side of the bed and bent down, disappearing for a moment and then reemerging with Winnie the Pooh in her hand.
“He keeps ending up on the floor,” Paige said.
“Probably hard to hold with her hands bandaged.”
“Yeah, maybe. Are you sure she really likes to sleep with it? Maybe she doesn’t anymore.”
