Never Wake (27 page)

Emma hesitated and then walked onto the elevator and into Troy’s arms.

Portland, Oregon, Years Ago

The Boy’s tie was too tight, his pants rode too high in the crotch and made a little swishing sound when he walked, and the gel in his hair made his scalp feel just like the time he had gotten head lice at school. He wasn’t at school and he didn’t have head lice.

He was in a courtroom with sixteen adults. All strangers, all staring at him, with eyes full of pity. All except one pair.

He sat with his hands folded and his back straight, as he had been instructed.

“How old are you, son?”

He leaned close to the mike, as he had been taught, and said, “I’m ten,” so loud that it echoed throughout the room.

The woman in the black robe smiled at him and said, “You don’t have to lean so close. It’s very sensitive. It’ll pick up your voice fine if you speak in your normal voice.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, also as he had been taught to do.

“I’m sorry.” Mr. Knightley, the defense attorney, didn’t look at all sorry. “How old did you say you are?”

The Boy didn’t like Mr. Knightley’s eyes. It was the way he looked at him, the way he looked at Hoyt. As if they were lower than toilet scum. He also wore so much cologne that when The Boy took a deep breath, he could taste it in his mouth. The Boy guessed it cost a lot of money, maybe as much as twenty bucks.

“I’ll be ten, day after tomorrow.”

“I see. Why would you tell me you’re ten if you’re nine?”

“’Cause I’m more ten than nine.” The Boy looked at the woman in the black robe wanting her to understand. “Mrs. Sally said that I’m supposed to tell the truth, all the time. And I swore on the Bible. So I wanted to tell the best truth there was.”

“So is that what you did when the police asked you about your daddy? Tell the best truth?”

“Your honor…” Mrs. Sally stood up and glared at Mr. Knightley.

The Boy thought she looked beautiful.

“Mr. Knightley, save the dramatics for some other time.”

“Yes, your honor.” Mr. Knightley walked toward the table where Hoyt sat, writing something on a piece of paper. Without turning around he asked, “Hoyt Junior, do you understand why we’re here?”

“Yes.” The Boy didn’t move, even though his insides felt jittery. He kept his eyes on Mr. Knightley, and he did not, as he had been instructed, look at Hoyt. He had made the mistake of doing that at the beginning of Hoyt’s trial. Hoyt had smiled at him. It wasn’t the smile that frightened him; it was the way Hoyt had reached for his crotch and gripped and twisted it until The Boy felt as if it were his balls being twisted, even though Hoyt was standing on the other side of the room. The smile never left Hoyt’s face.

“They asked me if I had seen my daddy do bad things.”

“And what did you tell them?”

The Boy didn’t answer at first.

“You have to answer the question, son,” said the woman in the black robe.

The Boy looked at Mr. Knightley and, forgetting he didn’t have to, leaned close to the microphone and said, “I told them that I hadn’t.”

“You changed that story later, right?”

“Yes.” The Boy left the sir off the end on purpose.

“Why’d you change your story?”

“Because I saw…”

“Your honor?” Mr. Knightley turned to the judge, but she ignored him and instead leaned over to speak to The Boy. The Boy could tell she was getting a little tired of Mr. Knightley. Good! So was he.

“Mr. Knightley doesn’t want to know what you told the police. He wants to know why you changed your story in the first place. Right, Mr. Knightley?” The Judge’s tone was stern, sort of how Ms. Carter got when the class was being too loud.

Mr. Knightley acted as if the judge hadn’t said anything and repeated his words.

“I was scared that I would get into trouble, too.”

“Now, why would you think you would be in trouble?”

The Boy felt angry with Mr. Knightley. He was trying to get him to say that he was lying. He knew that, but he didn’t understand why. He was just a kid. Hoyt made him do that stuff. It was all Hoyt’s fault; he was the parent, the father. No one knew he did bad things, right? Unless—he looked at Hoyt—unless Hoyt had told this man the things he had done.

“Because I was there sometimes.”

“When were you there?”

“I was there when Hoyt did bad things.”

“I see.” Mr. Knightley turned and walked away as if he was going to sit down, and The Boy felt a small amount of pressure lift off of his chest. But Mr. Knightley did not sit down next to Hoyt. Instead he turned around and looked at The Boy as if he had just remembered an important question. “Hoyt Junior, who let you into Ms. Carter’s house?”

“Nobody.”

“Who told you to go inside?”

“Nobody.”

“Did your daddy tell you to go into the house?”

“No.”

“So why were you there?”

“I wanted—I wanted to see her things.”

“You wanted to see Ms. Carter’s things? What were you planning to do with those things?”

“Nothing.”

“So, you just broke in to see her things.” Mr. Knightley looked at the jury and then back at The Boy. “Why did you urinate on Ms. Carter’s bed?”

The Boy flushed and looked at Mrs. Sally. “I didn’t mean to. It was an accident.”

“So, you just so happened to be near Ms. Carter’s bed when you had to go so bad that you couldn’t hold it?”

“Yes,” The Boy said.

“Thank you, Hoyt Junior. You’ve been very helpful.”

The Boy wanted to yell out in anger because he didn’t like this man. He didn’t want to be helpful; this was all Hoyt’s fault. Mrs. Sally had said so. All he had to do was tell the truth, and everyone would know it.

Mrs. Sally stood up. “How are you doing, Hoyt Junior? Do you need a glass of water before you continue?”

“No, ma’am, I’m fine,” he said, remembering this time not to lean too close to the microphone. She smiled, and he felt good that he had remembered.

“What did the police ask you about your father?” she asked.

“They asked if I had ever seen Hoyt do bad things.”

“And what did you tell them?”

He hesitated. He considered telling a lie, and then he remembered what she had told him earlier that morning. “I told them that I had never seen my daddy hurt anyone.”

“And was that the truth?”

“No, ma’am.”

“When was the first time you saw your daddy hurt somebody?”

“I saw him hit Pam.”

“Who’s Pam?”

The Boy looked at her like she was crazy, and then remembered that the other people might not know. “Pam is my mother.”

“How old were you when you first saw your father hit your mother?”

“I don’t know. I was young because I was wearing the pajamas with the feet the first time I remember it happening. I’m not sure how old I was, though.”

“That’s okay. That gives us a good idea.” Mrs. Sally smiled and The Boy felt warmth in his chest for having said the right thing.

“Anyone else?”

He thought real hard now; he didn’t want to disappoint her. “I saw him hit a man who had given him the finger in the Freddy’s parking lot.”

“Anyone else?”

“He broke into people’s houses and took their stuff. He hurt them, too.”

“Did you see him do this?”

The Boy nodded.

“Remember, you have to speak out loud so that Beverly, the woman typing on the keyboard over there, can take down your statement. Do you understand?”

“Yes, ma’am. Sometimes I saw. Sometimes I just heard.”

“Did you ever see your father break into people’s homes and hurt them?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“When?”

The Boy told of the attack on the woman with the little dog. He didn’t tell what he did to her dog and then to her. He made it sound like he had watched and not done anything, but that wasn’t true. He was being extra careful not to look at Hoyt.

“So why did you tell the police that you had never seen your father hurt anyone?”

“Because I was scared.”

“What were you scared of?”

“That he would do the same thing to me that he had done to them.”

“Who were you scared of?”

“Hoyt.” He looked in Hoyt’s direction and then away.

“You mean your father?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Where did you first meet Ms. Carter?”

“At school. She’s my teacher.”

“Do you like her?”

“Yes, ma’am, she’s real nice.”

“What kinds of things do you like about her?”

The Boy didn’t know what to say at first. “She thinks I could be a doctor.” He looked at the judge. “I used to want to be a judge for a long time, too. I changed it to a doctor. Ms. Carter told Hoyt that she thought I’d do good in math and sciences.”

“And what did Hoyt do?” Mrs. Sally asked as if he had not already told her this.

The Boy shrugged and then remembered he had to answer out loud. “He laughed and said I just wanted to look at naked girls.”

“Did that make you feel bad?”

“No, he always laughed at me.”

“So, you liked Ms. Carter because she believed you could be a doctor.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“So why would you break into her house if you liked her?”

“School was out. I didn’t get to see her no more.”

“So you broke into her house?”

“Yeah.”

“How did you get in?”

“She left a window open in her basement, so I crawled through it.”

“Had you done this before?”

“Yeah…uh no…not by myself. Just with Hoyt.”

“Did Hoyt show you other ways to get into people’s homes?”

“One time he had me act like I had to pee real bad, and one time I acted like I was a dog scratching at the door. Another time I acted like I was lost.” The boy frowned. “Oh, and he started showing me how to pick locks. He said if I practice every day, I could be as good as he is in a few years.”

The Boy forgot that he wasn’t supposed to look at Hoyt. He froze when their eyes met.
He wants to kill me. If he ever gets out, if he ever escapes, he’s going to try to kill me
. The Boy looked away, swallowed, and crossed his legs. He wanted to look up to see if Hoyt was staring at him again, but he didn’t.

“Why did you urinate in Ms. Carter’s bed?”

“I…I didn’t mean to.”

“Why were you in her bedroom?”

“I just wanted to see where she lived.”

“Why?”

“Because I used to pretend that Ms. Carter was my mother.”

Mrs. Sally leaned close. “Why would you pretend something like that? Didn’t you tell us that Pam was your mother? Why would you pretend that Ms. Carter was your mother if you already have one?”

The Boy was confused. They hadn’t talked about this and he didn’t know what he was supposed to say. He thought hard before he answered. “Ms. Carter is nicer to me. She doesn’t curse at me, and she thinks I’m smart. Pam says mean things to me and hits me sometimes. She also says I’m just like Hoyt.”

“Do you think you’re like Hoyt?”

“No, ma’am,” The Boy answered before Mrs. Sally had finished talking. He saw the corner of her mouth turn up and he felt warm inside.

“So if you like Ms. Carter, why did you urinate in her bed, Hoyt Junior?” Mrs. Sally asked.

The Boy looked at Hoyt and then at the judge; he felt a soft sob escape his chest. He was tired. He wanted his grandmother. Even Pam would do, but neither of them was in the courtroom. He hadn’t seen them since the police had taken him from the house. The judge’s eyes looked kind. The women in the jury looked sad to see him cry, so he didn’t feel like a stupid little kid when the tears rolled down his cheeks. He wasn’t at all surprised when the familiar need to pee came over him. He closed his legs tight against it.

“Why did you urinate in her bed?” she asked again, her voice was soft this time.

He let out a sob. “I got in her bed because I wanted to feel close to her. Like she was my mother, only I fell asleep and I…I wet the bed in my sleep. When I heard her come in, I ran away but she saw me.”

It was a lie, of course. He didn’t wet the bed. He had peed on Ms. Carter’s bed because being in her bedroom had made him have to go real bad.

He looked at Hoyt then. Hoyt’s eyes looked like those shiny black rocks he found in the quarry sometimes. He should have been afraid, but he wasn’t. He felt more powerful than he ever had. He had taken Hoyt’s secret and made it his own. He didn’t feel like a weak little boy anymore. He had all the power. He put his hands over his face. Through the slit in his fingers he could make out some of the jury. Their faces were concerned and full of pity. He could also make out Hoyt’s murderous stare. He was pretty sure the jury saw that, too.