Dogs (13 page)

Everyone's jaw drops.

“I'm sorry,” Mom apologizes to the cops. “Cameron's always had an imagination. But this…this—”

“This is
real
, Mom. The bodies are taped in plastic, hanging from a rafter.”

“You can't possibly know that,” Mom says. “The trapdoor to the attic was sealed when we moved here.”

“Check it out if you don't believe me.”

“Cameron's right,” Ken says. “I think we should go to the attic.”

Yes! I could give Ken a hug.

“You're encouraging this?” Mom gasps.

“No. I'm saying Cameron believes what he's told us. Until he sees for himself that it's nothing, it'll be on his mind.”

“But the door's nailed shut,” Mom says, “and the nails are covered with so many coats of paint that we'll need a hammer and crowbar to break in. Think of the damage.”

“I am,” Ken says, with a nod in my direction.

Gee, thanks, Ken. Guess I was wrong about you being my friend.

Ken pulls out his phone and dials. He holds up a hand for us all to shut up. “Art, it's Ken Armstrong. I'm next door with Brian and George from the station. Look, I know this sounds strange, but we need to get into your attic. Katherine's afraid there'll be damage opening the trapdoor. I'll pay for repairs, but I wanted your okay.” He holds the receiver away from his ear; I'm guessing it's
not
okay. “Art, I'm sorry, I can't say why on the phone. But it's important, trust me… Thanks.” He hangs up. “Art will be right over.”

Mr. Sinclair drives up in his pickup, a stepladder and toolbox in the back.

“I'm afraid Cameron's let that research paper go to his head,” Mom tells him. “He thinks Frank McTavish killed his wife, their son, and her friend and locked their bodies in your attic.”

Mr. Sinclair gives me a look. “So, you're a guesser.”

“No, sir, I'm a knower.”
The
only
thing
I
don't know is what
you
know.

Mr. Sinclair snorts and heads upstairs with his stuff. We follow into the big room and watch him set up under the trapdoor. I'm kind of scared, but at least for now nobody's talking about Mrs. Murphy.

Ken volunteers to do the grunt work, but Mr. Sinclair won't hear of it. He scoots up the ladder, pries out the nails with a chisel and hammer, and bashes open the hatch with a crowbar. I knew he was tough, but wow!

Mr. Sinclair comes down. “If this is a crime scene, you boys better go in first,” he tells the cops, wiping sweat from his forehead.

The cops turn on their flashlights and go up. The beams scan the darkness. Silence. Mom puts an arm around me. Ken holds her hand. None of us breathes. They come down, all serious, and whisper with Mom, Ken, and Mr. Sinclair. Right, as if I couldn't handle what I just told them.

I stare up into the pitch black.
Sorry, Jacky, your hiding place isn't secret anymore. But I had to tell. I had to.

The whispering stops. Mom steps forward. “Cameron,” she says, like she's at a funeral, “would you like to come up with us?”

I nod. Heart pounding, I climb the ladder after the cops. Mom, Ken, and Mr. Sinclair follow.

“Have a good look,” the heavy cop says when we're all in the attic. He shines his flashlight in all directions.

The attic is empty.

“No. It's impossible.”

Mom grips my shoulders. “You see, Cameron? You see? It was all in your head.”

“It wasn't!” I pull away. “The bodies, they were here. Somebody moved them.”

The heavy cop has had enough crap. “Who? When? Where?”

“I don't know.”

Wait. In the barn Jacky said Arty knew he didn't leave the farm with his mother. In the cemetery he said Arty knew the secret place where he was hidden.

I whirl on Mr. Sinclair. “But
you
know. You know Jacky was here too.”

Mom's jaw drops. “Jacky?” Ken steadies her. “Who? What?”

“Jacky was the McTavish boy,” Mr. Sinclair says. “I showed Cameron pictures of us playing when we were kids. He left with his mother. Never saw him again.”

“That's not true.”

“How would you know?” the skinny cop asks.

“I just do. Mr. McTavish must've figured he couldn't keep the bodies up here for long. He had to get rid of them.”

“If you're so smart, tell us how,” the heavy cop says. “No human remains have shown up around here as long as I've been alive.”

“I know. He didn't bury them.”

“What did he do then, Mr. Kid Detective?”

This is the most horrible thought I've ever had in my life, but it's the only thing that makes sense. I turn to Mr. Sinclair. “Your father was Mr. McTavish's best friend. He had a grinder. It would've been so simple. You
know
. Tell them.”

“Oh my God, Mr. Sinclair. I'm sorry.” Mom's breathing so fast I think she'll faint. She cries out to anyone who'll listen. “Cameron's father, he tried to kill me, and we've been on the run. Cameron's had dreams, he's mixed up in his head, he needs help, he's not well, he's—”

“Stop it, Mom! This isn't about Dad. You always blame Dad. Always. For everything. It's not his fault!”

“Enough!”

“No! It's not enough. It's never enough. No matter what I do, you think I'm crazy. You always have. Well, I'm not! If anyone's crazy, it's you!” I drop to my knees and bang my fists on the floor, then my head. Ken pulls me back. I fight him off.

The heavy cop locks me in a choke hold. I black out.

When I come to, Ken and Mr. Sinclair are gone. I don't ask where or why. I don't say “sorry” either. I don't say anything.
Why
am
I
here? Why am I anywhere?
I
wish
I
could
disappear
forever.

The cops get me down the ladder and onto the couch in the living room. I stare at the baseboard across from me. Mom's been crying; she goes to the kitchen with the thin cop. They talk quietly, while the other one stands in the archway, arms crossed, in case I do anything. Eventually Ken returns with an overnight bag and the cops leave.

“I'm going to set up a cot for Ken in the big room upstairs,” Mom says. “He'll be staying here tonight.”

“What? You're scared of me?”

“No, Cameron, I'm scared
for
you.” She sits beside me and puts her hand on mine. I don't stop her, but I don't look at her either, just keep staring at the baseboard. “If you have another outburst like what happened upstairs, I'm not strong enough to stop you.”

“So, like, do I call you Ken or Mr. Security Guard or what?” I say to Ken without looking up.

“I'm here to help,” Ken says. “That's all. I care about you. We all do.”

“Right.”

“Ken's going to arrange an appointment for you with his family doctor,” Mom says. “The doctor should be able to give you medication for your nerves until we can set you up with someone to talk to.”

“You mean a shrink.”

Mom pauses. “This is my fault, Cameron, not yours. I should have seen this coming long ago. These past few years have been so hard on you. I thought I was all you needed, but I was wrong. I'm sorry.”

I hear what she's saying, but it's just words.

“The officers say there won't be any charges as long as nothing else happens. They think it would be a good idea for you to stay home for a few days. Do you have any classes with Cody? Are your lockers near each other?”

I shake my head.

“Good. They say it's best if you see him as little as possible.”

Yeah. After all, I'm a freak, right? Like I could beat up a guy like Cody. As if.

“Ken's canceling his appointments for tomorrow. He'll be here with you while I figure out things with the school. I'll see your teachers and get work for you to do so you don't fall behind. I'll also speak to your history teacher and have him cancel that essay about the farm.”

“There is no essay,” I say quietly.

Mom catches her breath. She's about to say something, but Ken must've caught her eye because she doesn't. “We'll get through this,” is all she says.

I get ready for bed, and Mom comes in to say good night. She turns on a night light, reminds me Ken's down the hall if I need anything, and gives me a kiss on the forehead. “I love you.”

I stare at the ceiling. “Mm-hmm.”

She leaves. I hear Ken and her setting up the cot. It's not very comfortable; he must really like her. I hear the stairs creak as she goes downstairs to her room, and then I hear Ken settling in. Everything goes quiet. I lie still for a very long time.

Jacky, why weren't you there? Where are you?

Silence.

Maybe Mom's right. Maybe I
am
crazy.

Mom checks on me in the morning; I pretend to be sleeping. I ache all over. There's a nasty bump on my forehead and my arms are bruised. I really banged myself up last night.

I hear Mom and Ken talking in the kitchen, and I'm pretty sure it's about me. Mom leaves before eight. She probably wants to see the principal first thing. When I finally come down, Ken gets me corn flakes and grapefruit, the whole time talking about the weather like nothing happened last night and it's not totally weird he's here.

“You like coffee with milk, right? And lots and
lots
of sugar?” He winks.

Me and that cappuccino machine. I don't feel like smiling, but I do. “Not really.”

He watches me eat. “Want anything else? Living on my own, I know how to make bacon and eggs. I'm also pretty good at takeout.”

I shake my head. It's hard, but I have to say it: “I'm sorry about the attic.”

“That's okay.”

“I hope Mom knows.”

“Absolutely. She loves you.”

I have to focus on my toast or I'll lose it. “I was so sure.”

“I've been sure about lots of things that didn't turn out the way I expected. Nothing wrong with that.”

I think for a long time. “There's a reason I thought what I thought.”

Ken smiles. “There's always a reason why we think things.” He's not going to ask. He's going to make me say it.

“Promise you won't tell Mom?”

“I can't promise that. But whatever it is, she'll understand.”

“She won't.”

“Well,
I
will.”

I look in his eyes, and he looks right back. Okay, here goes. “A few nights after we got here, I thought I saw a kid looking out from the hole in the hayloft. I knew there'd been a boy who lived here years ago because of the stuff in the basement. I found his drawings in the coal room. His name was Jacky. Want to see them?”

“Sure.”

I take Ken up to my room and show him the pictures.

Ken frowns. “I'm no expert, but this boy sure doesn't seem like a happy camper.”

“No kidding. I knew the story about Mr. McTavish and the dogs from school. And see how his mom disappears from his drawings? And the dogs and the pitchfork and the blood and all?”

I pause. Ken nods, not like he's judging, just listening, waiting for me to go on. So I do. “Anyway, what with all of that, I started to wonder if Mr. McTavish had killed her, and if maybe the kid I thought I'd seen was Jacky's ghost or something. Especially after I heard how Cody's great-grandmother thought Mr. McTavish killed not just Jacky's mother, but Jacky and her cousin too. So I started to research. And I got that stuff from you and the
Bugle
.”

“And things got bigger and bigger in your head until last night.”

“Yeah. But even before that. Way before. I mean, I've been hearing his voice, sometimes just in my head, other times like he's beside me.”

Did I actually say that? Ken keeps on nodding, like what I've said makes total sense. “I can understand why you were so upset.”

“You can?”

“One of the many things I like about you, Cameron, is that you care about people. You try and imagine yourself in their shoes. So I'm not surprised you'd feel for the boy who made these drawings, imagine how he'd look and sound.”

“But I do more than that. I talk to him, Ken. All the time. Mom says my lips move. She's right. Sometimes I catch myself.”

That part's harder for Ken, but he doesn't laugh. “I think we all talk to ourselves. Maybe we don't talk out loud or move our lips, but when things are important, we imagine what we're going to say or what we should have said.”

“Not to a ghost.”

“No, maybe not. But I'm not God. There are lots of things I don't know or don't understand. Maybe it's only because I've never been through them.” He gives me a fatherly pat on the shoulder. “You're a good kid.”

“Thanks.” Before we get up, there's something I have to say. “I'm glad you and Mom are friends.”

I'm playing video games upstairs when Mom gets back. She has a word with Ken, then calls me to the living room. She looks like hell.

“For the rest of this week you'll be coming to town and doing your schoolwork at the realty office. I can't have you here alone. Ken's agreed to stay overnight till we know things have settled down. Next week you'll be at school on probation. The Murphys are very upset, but they've agreed with the principal that you can attend class if you don't speak to Cody; you have your lunches in the guidance office, not the cafeteria; and you don't take the school bus. I'll drop you off in the morning, and you'll report to the office at the end of each day, where you'll wait till I pick you up after work. Finally, there are to be no more video games.”

“What?”

“Cameron, this isn't a conversation. It's what's happening. You'll be seeing Ken's doctor this afternoon. I'll be asking him to refer you to a therapist, for reasons that should be obvious. Cameron, talking to imaginary friends. To ghosts.”

I whirl on Ken. “You told her!”

“I had to.”