Dogs (16 page)

The Cody thing freaks me all day. It's like my brain is jammed. In the middle of the night I wake up, wild-eyed and sweating: what have I done?

Nothing. Called Dad. Big deal
.

Something's wrong. Dad knows about Cody.

It
was
a
fluke. He said his name along with a bunch of others.

No, I gave away where we are.

How?

I don't know, but I did. Dad's coming for us. It's my fault. I have to tell Mom.

Are
you
kidding? She'll go nuts. And for nothing.

But if Dad comes, he could hurt us. He could kill us—

That's Mom talking. Remember Dad's voice. He sounded nice.

Anyone can sound nice.

Dad's
not
coming, because it's
impossible
for
him
to
know
where
we
are. He got called on a calling card. And besides, remember that first call? He said not to tell him where we were because Mom would get mad. That means he doesn't know and he doesn't want trouble.

But what if he
does
know?

What
if
ducks
ride
bicycles? Don't be an idiot. If Dad comes,
Ken's here. Ken's a big guy. No way Dad could pull anything with Ken around. We'll be fine.

But, but, but, but, but—

It's like that all night, me arguing with myself. I hold the pillow between my teeth to keep from talking out loud.

I get up early and brush my teeth. I can't believe I'm the guy in the mirror. My face is gray as a corpse, my eyes puffy as gym bags. Saturday. A weekend with Mom and Ken.
Can
I
please
die
now?

They're already in the kitchen. They must hear me moving around, because they go quiet, like they've switched to whispers and hand signals. I go downstairs thinking about my secret calls and wondering what Mom and Ken were saying. I can't look them in the eye, not when I know I should tell about Dad but can't without setting off World War III.

“Rough night?” Mom's voice is gentle, which makes me feel even worse.

“Yeah.” I slump into my chair

She brings me my cereal. “We didn't sleep very well either.”

“I'm sorry,” I say quietly. “Really sorry.”

Mom squeezes my shoulders, happy and surprised. I'm pretty sure she thinks I'm talking about what I said about her and Ken. If that gets me out of talking about calling Dad, great. She motions to Ken and they sit opposite me. “We're sorry too. Ken, do you want to start?”

“Sure.” Ken leans over the table, trying to make eye contact. I glance at him. “You and I, we went off the rails a few weeks ago. It was my fault. You trusted me with something and I told your mom. I should've been clear I'd be telling her and explained why. We could have talked about it, maybe spoken to your mom together. But I went ahead and you got ambushed. That wasn't fair, and it's on me. I apologize.”

I look up slowly. Ken's giving me the puppy eyes he had when we talked about his kids.

“Yeah, well, okay,” I say slowly. “I mean, I kind of know why you thought you had to tell. And, yeah, if you'd told me first, I probably wouldn't have been so mad. Anyway, thanks.”

“So we're good?”

“I guess. Sure.”

“I have something I'm sorry about too,” Mom says, and takes my hand. “I should have talked to you about bringing Ken into our life as more than a friend. Sneaking around is a terrible thing, no matter how old you are. We've been talking—if you'd rather he stays at his own place, he will.”

“Absolutely,” Ken says. “This is your home. I'm just a guest.”

“Sort of more than a guest.” I manage a smile.

“Anyway…” Mom lets the choice dangle.

I stare at my cereal. I know Mom's never getting back with Dad and she deserves to be with someone. Ken doesn't get in my face or try to boss me around, and I know he cares about us. Plus if Dad ever shows up and tries something—I mean, he won't, but if he does—then Ken can take care of it and I won't have to feel like I put Mom in danger.

Ken clears his throat. “Maybe I should go upstairs so you and your mom can talk about this privately.”

“No, it's okay.” I look up. “You can stay if you want. Only—I know this sounds weird, but I just don't want to hear anything, if you know what I mean.”

Mom blushes. “Of course.”

“Not that I
have
. I mean, I haven't.”

Mom and Ken look relieved. Mom squeezes my hand. Ken reaches across the table and holds my other one, then they take each other's.

“From now on, no more secrets,” Mom says. “Agreed?”

Ken and I nod. “Agreed.”

As if that's even possible.

Normally conversations like that make me embarrassed. Not today. Instead my worry bubble pops, and out of nowhere I'm flying. I feel safe: Mom and Ken are on my side. Why did I ever think Dad could make trouble? In fact, I feel so good I wash the dishes without being asked and make my bed so the blankets don't hang below the bedspread, which according to Mom is a big deal.

Mom and Ken are suddenly different too. Mom looks younger, and Ken's back to being relaxed. It's like we live in Happyville. In the late morning, Ken takes us over to Ramsay, where there's an actual French bistro. Mom and Ken have fancy-sounding pasta with squid and mussels and a salad of avocado and red leaves. I have a cheeseburger and fries—correction, a
hamburger
aux
trois
fromages
et
pommes
frites
.

Still, like always, as soon as one worry cartwheels out of my brain circus, another one somersaults into the ring. This new worry starts on the road back home. What do I do about Dad? I mean, it's great knowing he's still around and cares about me, but I can hardly keep doing our secret calls.

Why
not?

I can't take the lying. Too much stress.

There's a difference between keeping a secret and lying.

It doesn't feel like it. Mom won't think so either. Sooner or later she'll find out or I'll say something to Dad that
will
give us away.

If
you
stop
calling, Dad'll be upset.

I know. So what do I tell him?

We get back home late afternoon. I go upstairs to do some homework while Mom and Ken have a nap. That's what they're calling it anyway. I put on my headphones, turn up the volume, and try to do math. The numbers float in front of my eyes.

I look out at the barn. If I'm right, two bodies are buried in there. I imagine Mr. McTavish digging the graves and Mrs. McTavish's face, dead, eyes wide open in horror. I think of Mom's face. What would she look like dead? And Ken. And me.
Stop. This is sick.

I grip the sides of my desk and count to ten. It doesn't work. Something else suddenly scares me. Someone or something is in the barn watching me.

Right. Like when I pictured mutants behind the furnace, dogs in the cornfield, and bodies taped up in the attic.

No. This is real.

The
corn's down. No one could get to the barn without being seen.

They could've arrived last night or when we were at lunch.

But
who?

Mr. Sinclair?

He's weird, but he's not a perv.

Dad?

He
doesn't know where we live.

Cody knows. “Watch your back, dickhead. We haven't forgotten. We know where you live.” That's what his buddy Brandon said.

Why
would
Cody
do
something
here?

To prove he can get me anywhere.

He
wouldn't risk it. After your fight, he'd be the main suspect.

Not if he sent his gang and had an alibi. They can wait for me to step outside or break in at night. If they're in disguise, how can I prove anything?

Come
on, it's just your imagination.

Is it?

I'm nervous all through dinner, but I don't say anything. If I tell Mom and Ken, they'll think I'm hallucinating again, and everything will be wrecked, just when they're starting to act like I'm normal again. I shove a few peas around with my fork.

“What the matter?” Mom asks.

Uh-oh. “Was I talking out loud?”

“No. But you've got worry written all over your face. And you've hardly said a word since coming to the table.”

I try to fake a smile. “It's only math. There's a couple of formulas I don't get.”

“Want us to have a look after the dishes?” Ken asks. “Between your mom and me, we might be able figure it out with you.”

“Sure,” I say. Having them around will keep me distracted.

It did too. But soon it's lights out. I lie in bed all night imagining the worst. Every sound is huge—the coyotes in the distance, the dogs in the wind.

At Sunday breakfast Mom and Ken catch me moving my lips.

“Cameron, talk to us,” Mom says. “You're thinking about more than a few math problems.”

“It's nothing.”

“If it was nothing, you wouldn't be like this.”

I put down my spoon and look from Mom to Ken and back again. “I'm imagining something, okay? So no big deal. It's not real. It's all in my head.”

“That's an important thing to know,” Mom says. “A major first step.”

Ken frowns. “But it doesn't get rid of the fear, does it? Maybe if we knew where it's coming from, we could do something to fix it.”

Nice. As long as I say what I'm thinking's not real, they'll take it seriously.

“Mom”—how do I put this?—“remember how sometimes you'd think Dad was in a car in the shadows across the street?”

“He was.”

“Right. But you never actually saw him.”

“I didn't need to. I knew.”

“Okay, well, it's like that when I look at the barn. I haven't seen anyone, but I think someone's watching me.”

Mom tenses. “Your father?”

“I don't know who. Cody maybe? Or some of his gang?”

“But this is all in your head, correct?”

“I guess. I don't know.”

“It's hard to live without fear after all your father did,” Mom says. “But you're safe now.”

“All the same, this Cody kid
is
in the area,” Ken says. “We know he wouldn't
really
come on the property. But it doesn't stop the worry, does it?” He gives me a reassuring smile. “Why don't we check out the barn after breakfast to clear your mind? It's always best to face our fears.”

“I know, and I do that all the time with pretend stuff, like checking out zombies in the furnace room. But…” My voice trails off.

“I can go by myself, if you'd like,” Ken says.

“No, I don't want you getting hurt.”

“Why would Ken get hurt?” Mom asks. “There's nothing there. I say we should all go out. I've never been inside that barn. It'd be interesting.”

“No. Look, I'll go with Ken. You stay inside in case there's a problem. I mean, there won't be, but just in case. I'll have my phone.”

Mom and Ken exchange glances. “Fine,” Mom says. “I expect a full report and then we can all have a good laugh.”

Ken and I walk back to the barn. I try not to glance up at the hole in the loft. We go inside and turn on our flashlights. We scan the ground floor; shadows roam from stall to stall.

“Let's start at opposite sides and go up and down the aisles till we meet in the middle,” Ken says. “That way our imaginary intruder won't be able to escape. If you see anything, yell. I'll be right over.”

What a baby I am. With Ken here, last night feels like a dream, especially with him whistling pop songs. The shadows are creepy, sure, but that's normal. I mean, it's an old barn…and it has dead bodies in it. Where are Mrs. McTavish and Matthew Fraser buried? I imagine their bones poking through the ground in the stall ahead of me, and the one after that, and the one after that, till Ken and I finally meet up.

“See anything?” he asks.

“No.”

“Good. Let's check the loft and get back inside. It's cold.” He grins. “Your mom's sure right about needing to dress warm.”

We start climbing the stairs, Ken first, me looking back over my shoulder even though I know no one's behind me.
Please
let
the
upstairs
be
empty. Please let there be nobody there either.

We get to the top. What a relief. There's nothing here but the birds on the rafters.

“Feel better?” Ken asks.

I nod. “Sorry for all the…you know.”

“No big deal. Being scared is nothing to be ashamed of. We all are from time to time.” He laughs. “Someday I'll have to tell you how scared I was of you the first time we really talked, that morning you came to my office.”

“You were scared of
me
?”

“No kidding. I thought, If this kid hates me, I'm toast with Katherine.”

I smile. “Yeah, well, I'm a scary guy. Ask anyone.”

Ken gives me a pat. “Okay, inside. I want a coffee.” He heads below.

What an idiot I was. I shake my head and go to leave. At the top of the stairs I have one last look around.

A cold, sick feeling fills my stomach. When I was here before, an old pail was on its side in the middle of the room. It's not there anymore. It's beside the hole in the wall, turned upside down to make a stool. Cody probably used it while he watched me in my room.

I have to tell Ken. No, hold on. What if
I
used it when I spied on Mr. Sinclair? That was so far back, I can't remember. I could have moved it without thinking, probably did. One thing's for sure though. From now on, I'm keeping my curtains closed. And I'm not going outside alone.