Endangered (17 page)

MY BEST FRIEND MIGHT DIE
.

My parents should be punishing me for, well, everything. They're letting me off the hook so I can sit in an uncomfortable chair in the ER waiting area. No one says why because it doesn't need to be said.

The worst might occur, and whatever I've done, I don't deserve to be locked in my room while she's fighting for her life. She needs my moral support, and I need to be in a position to provide it, Mom's words and Dad's blessing.

Me, I see it slightly different.

I'm
still
being punished, forced to endure the torture of knowing one of the people I love most may lose her life because of what I've done. Or didn't do. Or . . . God.

I'm hunched, face in hands. I press against my healing eyes, making them ache again. I can't apply enough pressure to stave off my tears. Visions of strobing emergency lights, and Ocie's crumpled little body. The
paramedics stabilizing her with a backboard, a medieval-looking device that straightens the spine and immobilizes the head with a bunch of Velcro straps. I recognize it from the gruesome teen car accident footage we watched in Driver's Ed, a class Coach Bottin taught.

The memory makes me shiver even though I'm sitting under a ceiling vent blasting warm air. I don't want to think about Coach, or Keachin, or the Admirer. Especially the Admirer.

I have as much success stopping those thoughts as I did stopping the car that ran Ocie down.

He did this. It's not a prank played in poor taste, and it's not a game. I've been terribly mistaken to ever think of anything that's happened in terms of fun and play.

Mom sits with me for hours. When Mr. Horton comes down and gives us an update, I focus on his mouth. Not his eyes. They are dark and glassy, sunken like the eyes of a fresh zombie head on
The Walking Dead
. Usually he's vibrant, as bubbly as Ocie, with his eyebrows sitting high on his forehead while telling me and her some joke we don't get. Now, he's sluggish and robotic in tone, the personification of a PSA.

“Mei woke up, but she's incoherent. They gave her something for the pain. Her legs are broken, so's her left arm. There doesn't appear to be any internal bleeding, but there's some concern about her head. She”—his voice cracks, he quickly pulls it together—“she's not out of the woods yet.”

Mom asks if there's anything we can do. Mr. Horton says pray.

By 10:00 p.m. Mom's antsy, wringing her hands, pacing, looking like she could claw her own skin off.

“Mom, you know that bacon and potato casserole we make”—by “we” I mean “her”—“I was thinking the Hortons might like some.”

She bites, anxious to get away from this place. “Yes, yes. That is a
wonderful idea. I can cook it tonight. But what about you?”

“I'm going to stay until I hear something else. If that's okay.” We drove in separate cars, and no one seems pissed that I took mine without permission, considering all that's happened. She agrees, kisses my forehead, and tells me she loves me. Once she's gone, I resume the hand-wringing, and pacing, and desiring to claw off skin.

Four more hours, fatigue starts to set in so I take a short walk to stretch my legs. Standing in an ER isn't a smart move. Seats fill fast.

With my chair gone and the day wearing me down, I eye a clean corner occupied by a potted plant. I'm not above crawling behind that plant and taking a nap. As I'm about to settle in, Mr. Horton appears again. His eyes more sunken than before, the corneas pink and moist, his shoulders slumping.

He gives me the last update.

Mr. Horton sits next to me, holding my hand, comforting me through my sobs. I feel horrible for taking his attention from Ocie, but I'm afraid to let him go, or even speak. Like he might take back what he said.

“Mei's talking. Not a lot of words, but enough.”

“When can I see her?”

“It could be a while. She's not up for visitors yet.”

“Tell me again, so I know it's real. She's going to be fine, right?”

Now he's tearing up. “Yes, the doctors believe so. There are still tests to run, and she's got some painful rehab ahead. We'll help her through that.”

Yes. We will.

“I need to ask you something, Lauren.”

“Okay.”

“I told the police you might've seen something. Did you?”

A couple of officers questioned me earlier. I wondered what keyed them to me. Now I know. I told Mr. Horton what I told them.

“I got caught at the light on Highmore. I heard tires screeching. By the time I got there it was over. Oc—I mean, Mei—was in the street. But I thought I saw a car speeding down the block.”

He nods. “A Mustang?”

“I'm not sure. Maybe.”

“I suppose it doesn't matter. I was speaking to the police a few moments ago, before we got the good news about Mei. They found the drunk son of a bitch who did it, and there's”—he stammers here—“
evidence
on his car so it should be a slam dunk when they prosecute him. I was sure you'd seen something, though. If that was the case, it would only help our side.”

A lot of things compete for space in my head, fatigue being the heavyweight contender, but I have questions. “It was a drunk driver in a Mustang?”

Mr. Horton shifts from relief to mild rage. “Repeat offender. Guy's got more DUIs than teeth. Maybe this is enough to put him in jail once and for all.”

“Why were you so sure I'd seen something?”

He shrugged. “I thought I heard that funny horn tap you do.”

Honnk-Onk-Onk-Honnk. Come, Ocie, come
.

Mr. Horton heard my honk? Did Ocie? Is that why she stepped into the street?

I can't believe the person who tried to kill my best friend is a drunk driver. The same way I can't believe a humiliated former coach killed Keachin Myer.

My Admirer is playing us all.

Voicing my suspicions is not an option. The last time brought on this snowball of misery; to do it again might bring on the avalanche.

No more talk, then.

Mr. Horton relays more of the info he gathered from the police. How they found the fall guy passed out drunk on his couch, his blood-spattered car parked in his driveway like he'd just come back from a beer run.

How does someone pull
that
off?

“I know you've had some troubles over the last few days,” says Ocie's dad, drawing me back to our conversation, “and I want to be clear that I don't approve of what you've been doing in your spare time, but I do approve of your friendship with my daughter. I'm glad you're here, and she's going to be happy to see you when she's able to handle visitors. Until then, I think you should go home. If you give me a moment to go up and see Mei, I'll come back and drive you.”

“No. She needs you more than I do. I'm okay to get home.”

I've been given a directive. No more distractions. Ocie's going to be okay. That's all I need from Mr. Horton until I can see Ocie myself. The rest of my energy goes into exposing the bastard that put her here.

Mr. Horton hugs me, promises to call when Ocie can have visitors, disappears into the depths of the hospital.

I don't leave right away. Something—possibly a very stupid something—bubbles up in me. I'm tempted to draft an angry, curse-filled text to my Admirer, but don't. His flawless plans, everything he's done to me, is not because he's some all-knowing god.

It's because I'm predictable.

Right down to how I honk my car horn.

Everyone I ever caught, I caught in some routine. Some habit, shady or
otherwise. People get into a comfort zone and if you wait long enough, you can get right into that comfort zone, with them.

I start a new text, send it, but not to the Admirer.

Despite it being 2:00 a.m., Quinn Beck, the college intern/wannabe reporter who tried to warn me that my life was about to go to hell, responds promptly.

IT'S NO SMALL FEAT LEAVING MY
house the next day, even with Dad away at the gym again (fittest man in the world lately). This is where, I'm ashamed to say, Ocie's injuries come in handy. My parents spoke to the Hortons, and they know she's not allowed to have visitors yet. I have another angle, though.

“I want to buy her a pair of shoes. For when she's able to walk again.” Low, I know.

Mom doesn't buy it as is. “It has to happen today?”

“No. But, if I sit here and do nothing, I'm going to have a breakdown, Mom.” This is not a lie. I'm on edge. For reals. “My best friend almost died yesterday.”

“Fine. Go. If you are not back in two hours, be prepared to live in your room until your aunt comes for you.”

“Deal.” I kiss her on the cheek and note her scent, soap and vanilla. How long it will take me to forget it once I'm gone to the Peach State? Shaking off the thought, I drive to the library, where Quinn and I agreed to meet.

The Portside public library is small, brightly lit, a hard place to sneak. Still, my paranoia is on another level. My Admirer could be Satan himself, hopping from body to body like a winter cold.

Every single person who crosses the library's threshold is a suspect. An elderly man paying his fines is my number one suspect, until he's replaced by a mother pushing her child's stroller. How do I know that's a real baby and not some plaster-and-paste facade meant to conceal cameras and torture devices? Skateboard-toting middle-schoolers en route to the computer lounge, a notary public meeting some suspicious cardigan-wearing grandma-type to stamp her documents, the maintenance guy fiddling around in an exposed electrical socket. All enemies until proven otherwise.

“You're early.”

I suppress the urge to jump. I'm tired from waiting at the hospital and didn't notice Quinn Beck's arrival because I was too busy profiling all the others in my vicinity. Stupid. My Admirer could've slipped in, too.

My phone's clock reads 1:45. “So are you,” I say.

He sits, dropping a heavy satchel between us. He removes a slim, silver digital recorder from a side pouch and puts it on the table, the mic pointing toward me.

“Put that away,” I say.

He frowns. “I thought you wanted to talk.”

“Not to your little machine. Not yet.”

His smile returns. He puts the recorder away. “What's this about, Lauren?”

“Stopping a very bad person.”

A slight head shake. “I'm not following. I thought you called to talk about cyberbullying. An insider's perspective.”

The “cyberbully” thing is a pinprick to my eardrum. Me? The bully?
This is where we are. Moving on: “This is about catching Keachin Myer's killer.”

Something between the smile and frown now. Quinn says, “Her killer is already in jail.”

“Coach Bottin didn't do it. I don't think.”

“Who, then? Because best I can tell, the only other person who showed potential for extreme hostility toward her is you.”

“What if I told you a fan of my site has gone too far?”

“I'd say it sounds like hyperbole.”

“I can show you proof. Messages. Photos.”

“Of this fan?”

“No. I'm hoping you can help me there.”

“Lauren, I'm trying to get my news career started. For that, I need news.”

“Aren't there such things as investigative reporters? I'm asking you to investigate something that you can later report. How's that not helping your cause?”

He sighs, looks around like he's hoping someone will drag him away from me. “Show me.”

“Off the record,” I say, because I've seen people on TV say it.

Another sigh. “Off the record.”

I boot up my laptop, which I snuck from my house, sliding my chair around so I can properly walk him through things from the beginning.

Twenty minutes in, he's hooked.

Beck's laptop is next to mine, he's keying in notes and questions. The skeptic vibe is still strong, but he's taking me seriously for the moment. Maybe
he has nothing better to do on a Sunday afternoon. I'll take what I can get.

“One thing I'm wondering,” I say, clicking to the photo of Keachin's split skull, shrinking the image so no nosy passersby or librarian thinks we're looking at torture porn. “The police told me this was a crime scene photo. They also said they've had problems with people selling them to journalists. You know anything about that?”

“I know there are better ways for people to make money than”—he makes finger quotes—“stealing photos from the police.”

“Not getting the sarcasm, Beck.”

“I've heard of photos making their way into the hands of journalists when they aren't supposed to, but it's usually some cop doing the selling. You know, they picked the wrong horse out at Colonial Downs and don't want to get evicted. That sort of thing.”

“You think the cops lied to me.”

He shakes his head. “I doubt it. Don't see a reason in it. I'm just saying, since your connection to all this became apparent, I've paid close attention to our coverage as well as to the other news outlets. This is my first time seeing this photo. Your guy didn't sell it to anyone around here.”

“Just for me then.”

“I guess. He must be a real romantic.” Beck pauses, says, “Did you get the sarcasm that time?”

“I did.”

We're sitting side by side. Beck grabs his chair, does this weird lift-turn thing so he's facing me. I think he expects me to do the same. I don't comply, because I recognize this as the heart-to-heart position. He's about to talk some sense into me.

“Lauren, look, this stuff is compelling—”

“Don't do it, Beck. I'm not crazy.”

“That's not for me to determine. Whoever this Admirer is, he's screwing
with you. There's a reason the police look at husbands, wives, and lovers when someone gets killed. Those people
tend to be the killers
. Bottin's had a bad go the last few months. His career was done. He was facing possible prosecution as a sex offender. Wasn't like his life was great before that. He'd lost almost everything in a house fire and was living in an apartment he could barely afford. I'm surprised he didn't snap sooner.”

“What did you say?”

“I'm surprised he didn't snap sooner.”

“No”—I switch to a different photo on my Mac—“Coach Bottin's house burned down?”

“Yeah. I read about it in the story notes at work.”

I maximize the photo of a burning room.
Dante
. “Is this his house?”

Beck shifts uncomfortably. “I don't know. I only saw notes. No pictures.” Then, like he's breaking bad news, “This doesn't mean there's a connection.”

“There's a chance, though.” More than a chance. “When I asked my Admirer how he got this photo, he said he ‘lit a match.'”

“Your criminal mastermind murderer-hacker is also an arsonist?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe not.” He navigates to a secure site for channel 9, logs in, and brings up some bookmarked files. “The notes also said Bottin admitted to leaving candles burning near some drapes. The fire was his fault.”

That stumps me. My hot connection fizzles. “Is there any way I can get a copy of those notes?”

“Absolutely not. I could get fired for passing you internal documents. Since I'm an intern, you can appreciate the psychological damage I'd suffer if I lost a job that doesn't actually pay me.” He's giving me the judgment stare.

“I'm not crazy.”

“You keep saying. Really, I don't think you are.”

“What do you think?”

“I think you're looking for some way to not have to shoulder the load of all this.”

“A way for it to not all be my fault?” I say.

“That's not what I mean.”

It's what
I
mean.

He's gathering his things, like he's the one with the midafternoon curfew.

“Beck, wait. I need to ask another question.”

“Here I thought
I'd
be doing the interview today. Go on.”

“Do your notes say where Coach Bottin's new apartment is?”

He drums his fingers on the tabletop. Then, he opens his laptop again, bringing up another internal document. He makes a show of looking in another direction. “You didn't get this from me.”

Bottin's address is on the screen. I note it in my phone. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome. The next favor comes from you, though. Don't text me again unless you're willing to go on the record. The cyberbully angle is timely and with you as a source, I can pitch it to my boss.”

“In other words, you want to build your career on my personal misery.”

“You wanted to be my friend. There's a reason I don't have many. Good day, Lauren.”

In the hour before I'm due home, I forgo the mall and Google Map Bottin's apartment. His complex is in a cropping of recently built “luxury apartment communities,” each having a unique visual flair. Cobblestone facades, or shale, or wrought-iron railings on the stairs and balconies.

The complex I'm interested in is called
Preserve
, and has a tagline on a plaque below its cedar plank signage that reads: “Nature's Home.” As if the geometric sections of warm autumn colors—orange, and brown, and burgundy—like a Lego tree house set, didn't sell the theme already.

I bet Keachin loved coming here. The newness of the complex makes it look more ritzy than it probably is, enough to impress a shallow girl.

It's not real luxury, though. Actual rich people would've put a wall around this place to protect it from prying eyes and potential intruders.

Like me.

Twisting in my seat, I lean back so my gearshift pokes my kidney. It's enough to keep my camera lens from protruding beyond my open car window as I shoot.

There are about a dozen blocky buildings, some containing maybe six apartments, with a few taller buildings housing eight. Each building has its own number for postal purposes. Bottin's is the third I zoom in on. I note the security door, and the digital keypad/intercom next to it.

My phone rattles in my cup holder. I glance around the street for any occupied cars, anyone who might be watching me.

I've got enough shots for my next steps. Holstering my camera in its case, I send a quick text back to him before driving home.

More texts follow, but I don't answer. I have research to do. Plans to make. I have a game to win.

Taylor's concern can wait.