Accomplice (16 page)

She answered, “Go ahead.” I backed toward the steps. I felt like a cornered animal. “We’ll be right down here, if you need anything. At some point, I might go to check in on Brian and Sheila, but then Daddy will be here.”

“Are there going to be reporters all over the place?” At least the dread in my voice was real. I still had to get to the woods to bring home Chloe.

My mom shook her head. “They’ve planned a press conference for tomorrow afternoon. And they’ve set up a blockade down at the bottom of our road. The police have been very kind in recognizing we all need some time to ourselves—the Caffreys, especially. But I imagine that tomorrow it’ll be pretty busy around here.”

Upstairs, I sat on my bed and tried to make sense of it. I lay back, pulled the covers up around me, and tried to fall back asleep. All I wanted to do was wake up and find out that none of it had happened. Chloe would be asleep under the window across from mine. Maybe we’d stayed up all night watching movies or working on some project for school. We’d crawl back out of bed, have supper with our folks, and then watch movies on our computers or something. We’d talk about being famous someday, but we’d mean later, after we’d grown up and did something to earn it.

With my head under my comforter that other life seemed so perfect. It seemed inconceivable that I had ever decided it was somehow not enough. But the truth is, I don’t know if it was me who decided that. I think I was the one who just followed along.

I wondered what they were doing to Dean, if his mom had gone to the police station with him, if they’d let him
call a lawyer right away. In the movies, cops beat people during interrogations, but I didn’t know if that happened in real life. At least in Colt River, where Dean’s mom and the cop’s wife probably sang in the church choir together or the cop once coached Dean in Little League or something, odds were that they’d treat him okay. When my mom knocked on my door, I was crying, and that was probably a good thing. She didn’t have to know that I was crying for Dean West and what Chloe and I had done to him.

“Honeybear—” She hadn’t called me that since I was really little. “I’m going next door for just a little bit.”

“Okay.” It was hard to breathe—I was gasping and hiccupping.

“Would you like to come with me?”

“No, thank you.”

“I think it would really mean a lot to Mr. and Mrs. Caffrey, just to see you. They’re worried about you.”

Probably I was the last person the Caffreys were worried about. “I’m not ready to do that,” I said. No human being could actually do that. I didn’t care what Chloe said about making sure we didn’t act suspiciously and acting like I really believed she was gone, too. I was not going to sit there while her parents planned her funeral or tried to explain death to Cam when I knew she’d be
back before the quart of milk in their fridge soured. “Please.” I was openly begging my mom now. “I just want to be alone right now.”

“I just don’t know that you should be.”

“Can I bring Chauncey up here?”

“What?” Chauncey usually slept in the stables or, in the winter, the kitchen. But there were some nights—when I had the chicken pox, the night of my grandfather’s funeral—when my mom let me lead him upstairs to my room. “Okay. Yeah, you can bring Chauncey up. But, Finn, you need to be around people, too.”

“I know. But I’m just not ready yet.” I almost said,
Give me a few hours. I’ll be ready at, oh, maybe four in the morning.
“Please?”

“Well, okay.” I climbed out of bed and followed her down the stairs. She stopped halfway down. “Have you eaten anything today?” I just gave her dead eyes. “All right, but when I come back we’ll sit down together. I’ll make French toast. Or you can have a bowl of cereal or something.”

Dad was staring out the window toward the Caffreys’ house. He spun when Mom and I came down the steps and looked embarrassed to be caught. “You guys are going over?”

“I am.” Mom wound a scarf around her neck. “Finn’s just going out to grab Chauncey.”

“Ahh. Well, he’ll be pleased. I’ve got a busy bone you can give him.”

“Thanks.” We all just stood in the middle of the living room, though. No one seemed to understand how to move.

Then Dad said, “I was just thinking about that Margaret Cook girl.” He might as well have kicked me in the chest. “She followed that story so closely. Remember how happy we all were when the newspapers said that girl had returned home?” For one excruciating second, I thought my dad was going to cry.

Mom smiled. “She was so preoccupied with that story.”

“Chloe was always like that about news stories, though,” I said. “It wasn’t just Margaret Cook.”

“Oh.” Dad shrugged and smiled. “I guess it just crossed my mind because of what all is going on.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” Mom hugged him and then said, “Call over if you need me. Either of you.” She grabbed her purse and headed out the back door.

I didn’t want to follow her and have the Caffreys see me go into the barn instead. I sat down on the edge of the sofa and Dad came over and put his hand on the top of my head.

“So, we’re bringing out the big guns, right?” he said. “Chauncey’s coming inside?”

“It that okay? I’ll clean up after him and everything.”

“Of course it’s okay. He’s been pretty excited about that freshly swept stable, though. You might have to drag him out fighting.”

It felt like I cleaned out the barn years ago. “Yeah, but fresh hay’s nothing compared to a bed with two quilts and a bunch of pillows.” That came out too light, too jokey. I shoved my hands in my pockets and looked down at my socks. Dad tousled my hair again.

“Well, I’ll leave the busy bones on the counter. You should fill up a water dish before you bring him up, too. I don’t want him drinking out of the toilets.”

“Okay.”

“You’re just going to be up in your room? We could watch a movie in the den. I could fix you something—”

“No, it’s okay. I just really want to be in my room right now, by myself.” I got halfway to the kitchen and then turned back. Dad was back to staring out the window, looking baffled.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Oh, it’s fine. I’ll just be puttering around here if you need anything.”

I filled one of Chauncey’s big metal bowls with water and laid a couple of towels over my bedspread in case he had muddy paws. When I got outside, he was lying on the porch steps, basking in the lamplight. He lifted his head and thumped his tail against the weathered wood. If someone came to arrest me right now, maybe
they’d notice how much Chauncey loved me. They’d think,
She can’t possibly have done this terrible thing—she’s so good with animals.
You always read in books how serial killers often started off abusing animals. They shot squirrels, or pets started disappearing from the neighborhood. There had to be some kind of opposite rule—people who grew up caring for animals ended up more charitable or something. Maybe I was just the exception to that rule.

Chauncey knew something was up, because he mouthed my arm the whole way into the house. He wasn’t biting; he just kept his big retriever’s jaw softly closed around my wrist as we walked inside. It’s sort of his way of holding hands. In the house, he got excited and I let him sniff around the kitchen and check in with my dad in the living room before I bribed him upstairs with a bone.

One year, when Chloe and I were racing each other to win the community service award, I suggested we train Chauncey to be a therapy dog. We’d take him to hospitals and retirement homes to visit with the patients. He had to get special shots and go through even more obedience training. And then when we were finally ready, I groomed him and tied a jaunty little kerchief around his neck and everything. Mom and I got him in the car and through the hospital lobby—only to have him pee as soon as the elevator started climbing. We tried three different times, and each time he peed in the elevator.

He was a good dog, though; he hopped right up on
the foot of the bed and gazed expectantly at me, waiting for his busy bone. Chauncey wasn’t like most dogs—he didn’t snap or bite. I could even reach in and steal his bone back and he’d just look at me like he wanted to say,
Excuse me, but I’d like to chomp down on that again, please.
I spent the next couple of hours lying on my bed, listening to the dog smack his lips and occasionally rubbing his belly. I dozed and woke. He dozed and woke. It helped because I didn’t have to be alone, but I also didn’t have to worry about reacting the right way in front of Chauncey.

I lay there, stretched out on my bed, petting and petting, waiting to calm down. I’d meet Chloe in the woods and explain to her what happened. Chances were she’d been watching TV all day and knew everything that had unfolded.

I’d find her and we would walk back to the houses together. We would wake up all our parents and explain what we had done. It would be awful—so awful that I really couldn’t even imagine how they would look at us, but they would have to go with us to the police station. The police would sit us in separate interrogation rooms and make us explain, in detail, exactly what we’d done.

It would be worse for me, I knew. Everyone would be overjoyed to see Chloe, in spite of themselves. They’d be angry at her, but they’d also be so thankful she was home safe. Her parents would have to pay a lot of money
probably, for the cost of all the hours spent searching for her, but it wasn’t like they didn’t have it to spend.

I didn’t know what they would do to me. They’d charge me with something. Probably interfering with an investigation. But the town, our parents, Dean West…it would be worse for me because I did all the lying. Chloe dismounted her horse, turned him around, and then sent him back in the direction of our stables. Then she hid in a basement for almost eleven days. She lied by omission.

I’d watched the whole town comb the woods. I’d helped staple up flyers. I’d let them drag the lake, and I’d said nothing. I’d toured Lila Ann Price through Chloe’s bedroom. I’d watched them lead Dean away. Twice. And I’d said nothing.

Chauncey looked up at me with his wet, trusting eyes. I kept petting and he rolled over, kicked his legs a little, and gave me his belly to rub. His tail wagged because he thought I was a good person who’d never hurt him. I heard the back door slam a couple of times, realized my mom was probably going back and forth. I kept my door closed.

One time, I figured it was safe to go to the bathroom. This is hard to admit, but for a couple of tense minutes I stood in front of the medicine cabinet, imagining how much I’d have to swallow to close my eyes and just drift away. I could just lie there with the lights off and the dog
at my feet. When they found me, they’d think I was overwhelmed with grief for Chloe. And when they found Chloe, she’d be the one who would have to explain everything.

There wasn’t a lot there, though. There was an antibiotic, Mom’s allergy meds, and Aleve. Slim pickings on the suicide shelf. So I went back to my room. I didn’t turn on the TV or my computer or even check my phone. I just lay there. At around ten-thirty, I zombie-walked downstairs, with Chauncey close to my side. I felt guilty. Half of his busy bone sat in its wrapper on top of my desk, but I needed to save it for later so that I could slip out the back door without him creating a fuss.

My parents sat at the kitchen table. Mom had a yellow legal pad in front of her, and the two of them were listing tasks they could take care of for the Caffreys. I went to the fridge for the water pitcher and poured myself a glass. Mom practically launched herself out of her chair.

“Why don’t I make you a sandwich?” she asked.

“No, thank you.”

“Really—it’ll take me two minutes.” She was already pulling crap out of the fridge—wax paper packets, jars of mayonnaise and mustard.

“I’m not really hungry—”

“Let your mother make you a sandwich, Finn,” Dad chimed in. “It’ll make her feel better.”

So I sat there while she cut off the crusts and poured me a glass of milk.

“Thanks,” I said. She set the plate on the table next to my dad. “I can sit in the dining room if you guys need to be alone.”

“Don’t be silly.” I knew she was just going to sit there hawkeyed, making sure I ate. “Would you like some chips?”

Chloe and I had this thing we loved—we put plain potato chips on tuna fish. Chloe would explain in her weirdly accented gourmet voice,
“The crisp of the potato ideally augments the tuna’s soggy tendencies.”

“Finn?” Mom broke into my thoughts.

“No.” I looked up at my dad next to me, my mom at the pantry. “No, thank you. I don’t care for potato chips.” I ate while they discussed the next day.

My mom ticked through the events. “They’re sending out a representative from the police force to explain what to expect over the next few days. She’ll get here at nine.”

“A woman?” Dad asked.

“Yes, a woman.” Mom’s voice clicked with warning.

“Hmm. I guess that makes sense, that a woman cop would come out and deal with the victim’s family. Comforting, right?”

“For Pete’s sakes, Bart!”

“What? I just think it’s interesting. What’s wrong with noticing something like that?”

“Well, maybe she’s coming out, not because she’s a woman, but because it’s her job to coordinate aspects of the investigation with the family. That sounds like a difficult job to me.”

“Yeah, but easier for a woman.” I thought my mom was going to pick up the uneaten half of my sandwich and throw it at him.

“I don’t understand why it would be an easier job for a woman.” She glanced at me. “Nor should we assume she is the only female police officer working the case.”

“I never said that. But you know, you’ve been really good at dealing with the Caffreys and all. You know what they need, what to say. I get over there…I just want to pour Brian a drink. That’s about all I can think of to do…” He trailed off.

“Oh, honey.”

“Seriously. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply—”

“Well, you just have to be careful how you word things. You’re the father of a daughter, you know.” I felt like piping up that probably he was the father of a daughter who had disqualified herself from any future forays into the world of law enforcement, but instead I just kept quiet and started on the second half of the sandwich. My parents didn’t usually fight in front of me. Usually, they closed themselves up in the den or the bedroom and doors slammed and voices rose, but I didn’t hear details. This was like watching a sitcom where there’s a big
misunderstanding and the audience knows the fight is silly and then they just have to wait for the characters to catch up.

But then my dad said, “I’m very aware that I’m the father of a daughter and, frankly, it seems like an unimaginable responsibility right now.” His voice caught and my mom gasped a little. She bent down to hug him and she whispered, “Oh, Bart.” And just as I was ready to pretty much sink through the kitchen tiles, they both reached out for me. I sort of leaned toward them, across the table, and let them hug me. They probably thought it was a Big Moment. I was thinking it might be the last time they hugged me for a long while.