Old School Bones (9 page)

EELS twisting in his guts, scowl frozen on his face, he climbs up the steps from the galley to the wheelhouse of the
Rosa Lee.
She is the outermost boat in a raft of trawlers at the dock.

The sun, inching above the horizon, has turned the length of New Bedford Harbor into a sheet of gold. The wind calm. He can see gulls just starting to test their wings, their voices mocking.

“What’s the matter with you?”

His father sits in his captain’s chair, wearing jeans and a gray sweatshirt. He twists a pencil over the knuckles of his left hand. A mug of steaming coffee in his right. The VHF radio is playing the National Weather Service loop for the offshore waters south of Cape Cod.

“I’ve got to go to Boston this morning.”

“What?”

“I just got a call.” His voice is still gravelly with sleep. He’s wearing the blue long-johns that he slept in below.

“Don’t mess with my morning like this, Mo. I’ve been waiting for something like two weeks to get back out there. Now we’ve got the weather. It’s March, the fish are running, and I’m behind on the boat mortgage.”

“Dad—”

“Tell me you’re not going to do this to Tio Tommy and me. Leave us short-handed. Soon as he gets the groceries, we load ice and fuel, shove off. Georges Banks here we come.
Cristo Salvador,
what a forecast we have. Looks like more than a week of high pressure!”

“Dad, I feel awful … but I can’t go. I have to meet someone at the Braintree T-station at eight-thirty. I think it’s an emergency.”

His father flicks the pencil that was in his hand across the wheelhouse. “Goddamn it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I thought you were done with lawyering.”

“I did too, but … now … people are counting on me.”

“Hey, I’m counting on you too.”

“This sucks.”

“You’re telling me.”

“Do you hate me?”

His father drops his mug into a cup holder and wipes his face with both hands.

“No … Hell no, buddy boy. I just can’t take these surprises the way I used to. You do what you got to do. Tommy and I will deal … But just tell me something.”

“Sure, anything.”

“Do you think you can really find this girl-killer, or are you simply looking to get laid with that Indian honey?”

“I don’t know, Dad.”

“You sure you don’t want to try to patch things up with Filipa?”

He has just seized a pole by the door in the subway car for balance, when the train jolts, tossing her into him. He staggers amid the crowd of morning commuters, spreads his legs to absorb the train’s acceleration, the shock of her body.

The Red Line lurches forward out of Braintree station. Her arms circle his waist. And the tears start.

“Shit,” she says. “I promised myself I wouldn’t …”

This is awkward. People looking. Coats and scarfs and knit caps hiding everything but their faces. Everyone, even the black men’s cheeks, silver in the neon lights of the car. Chestnut eyes rolling his way. Watching what he will do next. With this teenager, this Chinese, this girl called Gracie who won’t let him go.

“She’s gone … she’s.” Her words are more air than noise. Little bullets against his chest.

He does not grasp what she’s saying, but he comforts.

“It’s OK. Gracie, everything is going to be OK.”

She hugs him harder. He feels himself stiffen. But his left hand strokes the purple highlights of her bushy hair.

“Just let it go.”

“We … we lost her … she …”

She cries. Harder now. The howling of a cat. Pressed against his chest. On the third day of March. In a subway car. At 8:53 in the morning. In front of two hundred other people. Shit. Just shit. And him missing what’s no doubt going to be the first slammer trip of the spring on the Rosa Lee.

The train, screeching and rumbling through the tunnel, slows for the Park St. Station in the heart of Boston, stops. More than half the people in the car get off. Finally, as the train picks up speed again, her sobs sputter, end.

Still she does not let go of him.

He waits several more minutes, the train popping out of the tunnel to cross the Charles River Bridge, diving underground in Cambridge again, before he asks. His mind racing.

Who have you lost now? Who have we lost? More than Liberty? Awasha?

“Who’s gone, Gracie?”

She pulls her head back from his chest, looks up into his eyes. Her cheeks wet and pink.

“Tory.”

“Tory?”

She says Bumbledork scared the hell out of Tory yesterday afternoon. She left this morning. She didn’t even say she was going. Wouldn’t talk last night. Her mother came for her in a car. It was not even sunrise. Not even day yet.

“And that’s why you asked me to meet you in Braintree on this train?”

“I don’t know, Michael. Maybe I should go home too.”

“No one would blame you.”

“It’s so weird. Just a few weeks ago, of all of the Hibernia House girls, I was the one who really wanted to leave. Now … I’m the only one left. What do I do?”

“Why don’t we get off at Harvard Square? Get some breakfast. My mother used to say you always think better on a full stomach.”

She finally lets go of his waist, takes a seat in the nearly empty car.

“Really?”

He sits down next to her. “I’m living proof.”

“Sorry you missed your fishing trip. I’m sorry I melted down on you like that.” She stuffs the last bit of her second cheese croissant in her mouth and smiles a little. “Forgive me?”

She’s turned a corner,
he thinks, knows he should feel some relief. But his heart is still surging against his ribs.

“You think the school is missing you yet?”

She looks around, maybe seeing where she is for the first time. The tables at Au Bon Pain are packed with Harvard students this morning, bubbling with anticipation for their coming spring break.

“I have to tell you something important. I almost forgot. With Tory suddenly leaving. Shit, what was I thinking?”

“You mean something about your headmaster bullying you?”

“More like blackmail, wouldn’t you say? Like with his threats about Doc P?”

“Extortion. You gave him back Liberty’s journal to protect Awasha?”

“Well yeah.”

“Let me ask you something hard about her.”

“OK?”

“You think she had something to do with Liberty’s death?”

“Jesus, Doc P? No! Liberty was like her favorite. Why?”

“What about Sufridge?”

She bites into her third croissant, powers down a half-cup of latte.

“That asshole! How should I know? He’s obviously trying to hide something. But.”

“What?”

“But that’s not what I forgot, Michael. I had to see you. I had to give you the photocopy of Lib’s journal for safe keeping. And I couldn’t tell you this stuff on the phone. Someone might be listening, right?”

He shrugs. Kind of doubts it. Who would bother bugging her cell calls? But whatever.

“So talk to me.” He can hear his heart in his ears.

“I went to see Kevin last night after Bumbledork tried to beat up on me.”

“Singleton?”

“You know he thinks you’re some kind of cop.”

“You didn’t tell him something different?”

“No. But he’s pretty scared.”

“Good. Maybe he’ll tell the truth.”

She says he’s really freaked. Like he thinks maybe he is going to get busted for killing Lib. He’s pretty sad, too. She thinks he really loved her.

“From what I’ve seen, lots of killers do.”

“Huh?”

“Love their victims.”

“Yeah, but I don’t think he killed her anymore. Do you?”

“I don’t know. I’d say that’s an open question. Why?”

“Because he said he’s worried about me. I guess you made him think I could be in danger. He wants to help.”

“Who?”

“Me.”

“How?”

“He said he’s heard stuff about a rebel secret society.”

“What do you mean
rebel?”

“I don’t know, that’s just what he called it.”

“It still exists?”

Kevin’s not sure. But he told Gracie his older brother—the guy is twenty-five—said that when he went to T-C, Hibernia House was still a boys dorm. There were rumors about a secret room.

“Yeah …?”

“I think I should take a look. But I can’t go back to that school yet. I feel too crazy.”

“What do you want to do?”

“Take a long walk. Like to another country. And then I want to buy you dinner.”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t try to weasel out of this … unless you want to see me throw another fit.”

He shakes his head. “Why didn’t I go fishing?”

She shoots him a warning glare. Then her lip starts to tremble. “I think I’m going to cry again.”

“You ever eat
moqueca
or
lombinho?”

A ghost of a smile. “There’s a first time for everything.”

“Let me make a phone call first.”

“WE need to talk!” Denise Pasteur closes the door behind her, steps into Awasha’s office. “Gracie Liu is missing.”

“What?” She puts down a copy of
Sula
by Toni Morrison that she’s been rereading for a seminar she’s running for African-American kids. Kicks her chair back from her desk, stares up from her seat at this tornado that has just blown into her life.

“She missed all of her classes today. I just got the attendance reports from her teachers. When did you see her last?”

“You were there.”

“This morning when Tory’s mother came to get her at Beedle Cottage?”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t see her in the dining hall at breakfast later?”

She didn’t go. She was way too disturbed. Tory’s leaving came as such a shock … She just beat it over here to the office. Put on her headphones and lost herself in Al Green and her book for hours.

“You check Beedle Cottage?”

“She’s not there. Did she seem desperate to you this morning?”

“How should I know. I was a basket case. Why?”

“Because she and Tory had a couple of tough meetings with Bumbledork yesterday afternoon. Didn’t they tell you?”

No. When would she have seen the girls to talk? Doesn’t Denise remember they went to
The Winter’s Tale
together last night, then they …

“I guess I’m kind of out of it.”

“What happened with Bumbledork and the girls?”

“That man plays everything close to the vest. I was hoping you could fill me in.”

“How do you know about his meetings with—”

“Edith. She’s not only his secretary, she tallies the daily class attendance lists. Called me when Gracie turned up absent and was not on the infirmary’s sick list.”

“Oh.”

Did you see the blood? The bathtub so full of blood? Not like in the movies … but purple … Her body just a shadow …

They both know the two of them are going to be in the hot seat if Gracie doesn’t turn up soon. They’re the ones responsible for her safety. Dean and house counselor. First Liberty dies on their watch, now they lose her best friend. What else can go wrong?

“You want my opinion? I think your friend, that ex-lawyer, has something to do with this. I think this is about that man’s encouraging those girls in this misguided fantasy that Liberty did not take her own life.”

“He’s a good guy. He grounds us. He has the perspective of a man who has been through hell over a murder case. And a man who knows the law. Didn’t I tell you my mother really—”

“How do you know he doesn’t have Gracie with him right now? Doing god knows what? The girl is a risk taker and vulnerable, I mean really vulnerable, right?”

Something snaps in her head.

“Why don’t you call him?”

“I think he was leaving on a fishing trip today.”

“Maybe he changed his mind. Maybe he lied to you.”

Streaks of pain are shooting up her throat. She picks up the phone, punches in his cell number, waits. The receiver shakes subtly in her hand. Her skin burns as the dean settles into a free chair, reading her from head to toe with impatient eyes.

The phone rings once, twice, a third time. Then a forth.

She is just about to click off when he picks up. His voice annoyingly cheerful. A bit like her brother Ronnie’s when he’s been drinking for hours. There’s some kind of noise in the background, the buzz of voices, a restaurant … or a pub maybe.

Suddenly she feels her throat flooding with stomach acid.

“Have you got Gracie with you, Michael?”

“I told her we should call you. That you would be worried.”

Denise Pasteur’s eyes still searing her.

“What the hell is going on?”

“It’s OK. We’ve had some bumps in the road. But I’ll have Gracie back at school in an hour.”

Some kind of Latin music—lots of drums—coming out of the phone, singing.

“What language do I hear? Where are you? It sounds like—”

“Awasha, I can’t hear you very—”

“What?”

“Meet us at Hibernia House, seven o’clock. Alone.”

The dean leans closer, trying to listen to the conversation … just as it ends.

“What’s going on?”

“He found Gracie. It seems they’re having dinner. She’ll be back around eight. We can get the story then at Beedle Cottage.”

“Those two are in a world of hurt!”

She has been waiting in the dark for at least a half hour inside her old apartment at Hibernia House, looking out the kitchen window. Now two figures are trudging up the alley. Staying in the shadows. As soon as she hears footsteps coming up from the basement entrance, up the basement stairs, she flings open the door from her study into the stairwell, pounces.

“What the hell have you two been up to? Were you in a bar when I called?”

“Not exactly.”

“Not exactly?”

“It was a
churrascaria.”

“What?”

“A Brazilian place. Kind of a barbeque. In Inman Square.”

“But it’s a bar.”

“Well …”

“Doc P, it’s not his fault. I asked him—”

“I’m in no mood for lame excuses, Gracie. You cut classes and you end up at a bar in the city with … with … Do you have any idea how this looks?”

Michael clears his throat. “I can explain. Things got kind of complicated today. But maybe a little clearer, too.”

“What are you talking about, Michael? Oh, yeah, they sure did get clearer. Can you even guess at the shit storm that is about to descend on your head from the administration of this school? The dean is freaking out.”

“The dean?”

“Denise Pasteur. My god, I went to you. I pleaded for your help. I trusted you because of my mother. And now—the two of you. Michael, she’s a child and you … What were you thinking?”

Gracie’s face darkens. “Jesus Christ, Doc. Stop! Just stop. Please! And listen for once. While there’s still time.”

“What do you mean?”

He blinks, trying to clear the static from his head. “We need to start looking through Hibernia House for a secret room.”

“I made Michael meet me this morning because he was the only one I could turn to …”

“What about me? I was right here.”

Not last night, she says. Not this morning after Tory left. She couldn’t find Doc P. She needed to talk to an adult. Really needed to talk. About Tory and Bumbledork. And Kevin.

“Kevin?”

“Gracie thinks he wants to help us.”

“He could be the guy who killed—”

“Maybe … maybe not.”

“What?”

“I called my detective friend this afternoon. He said his lab rats looked for a match between Kevin’s prints on the water bottle and the prints on the Red Bull. No match.”

“So?”

“There are two unidentified sets of prints on the Red Bull, plus yours and mine.”

“Kevin is out of this?”

He says maybe. Unless he was smart enough to use a pair of gloves when he was handling that Red Bull. Lou Votolatto thinks the kid is hiding some secrets. Who knows? But gave Gracie something new.

“I went to see him last night, Doc P. He’s taking things pretty hard.”

She tells Doc P about Kevin’s older brother Clyfe in California, about the rumors of a secret room in Hibernia House back in the Nineties.

“You mean a party place?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

He slips four cinammon Altoids into his mouth, figures it would be smart to mask the scent of the two Brahma beers he drank with dinner.

“I told Gracie we better all have a look.”

“Where?”

“Kevin’s brother thought it had to be somewhere upstairs.”

“You think this kid is sending us on a wild goose chase, trying to distract us?”

“Have you got a flashlight?”