Spirit Seeker (3 page)

“It’s neat,” I’d said. “It looks like a painting.”

But now there’d be yards of yellow police tape wound between the trees and over the lawn, a tangled web barring the doorway. If Cody, unaware of what had happened, were to return home, what would he think? What would he do? I couldn’t let him walk into that house alone!

I abruptly stopped my pacing and grabbed a bedpost for support. I knew what I had to do, even as a voice in my head asked,
Go to Cody’s house? A murder scene? In the middle of the night? Are you crazy?

If I really believed that Cody was innocent—and I had to! I had to!—then I couldn’t let this boy I cared about take the shock alone.

I scrambled through my closet, pulled on jeans and a T-shirt, and brushed my tangled hair. I reached for the wide silver and amber barrette Mom had given me on my last birthday. But as I picked it up from the top of the dresser, the
smooth, usually cool amber suddenly felt so warm against my palm that I jumped at the touch. It seemed to glow with a red-gold heat.

S
tartled, I dropped the barrette on the dresser top, where it lay under the table lamp, reflecting the light. I realized it must have picked up the heat from the lamp, so I picked it up again, pulled back my hair, and fastened the barrette in place.

As silently as possible I opened my door and crept down the stairs. In the kitchen, using only the glaring green light from the clock on the microwave, I scribbled out a note telling Mom and Dad where I’d be, before I slipped out of the house through the back door, the keys to Mom’s gray Camaro in hand. It was Saturday, so Mom wouldn’t be going to school, and she wouldn’t need her car—at least not for a few hours.

I drove almost a mile to West University, to the street on which Cody lives. I drew nearly opposite his house and parked the car, prepared to wait. Cody would be coming home—he
had
to be coming home—and I was going to be there for him when he arrived.

It was a hot, sticky September night, yet I was so frightened, my body was cold. I tried not to look at the house, but it loomed like a dark demon, demanding my attention. The police had left the drapes open, so the front windows gaped with blank, glassy eyes. The house was empty, yet, as I looked at it, it throbbed like a heartbeat.
Strange, shivery pinpricks of light appeared, then vanished.

Is someone already inside the house? Could it be Cody?
I wondered.

I had to know.

Although I realized the wish was totally unreasonable—surely Cody would have reacted to the crime tape—I slipped out of Mom’s car, quietly shut the door, and walked across the street, ducking under the crime scene tape. Close to the living room windows I could see the reason for the tiny flashes of light. The VCR on top of the television batted out a consistent
12:00
,
12:00
,
12:00
, a mindless robot waiting for someone to arrive and reset it.

I cut across the front lawn, ducking under the tape again, and circled toward the back of the house. If the door to the unattached garage was unlocked, at least I could find out whether Cody’s car was there.

Moonlight was merely a pale shimmer, scarcely enough to light the way. But over the years I had visited Cody’s house often, and I knew I could walk down the driveway to the back of the house, where it met the high board fence that enclosed the backyard, then follow the fence to the narrow door that opened into the garage.

Once past the brick, I reached out to steady my steps. My fingers touched the rough boards and slid across to the cold metal latch. To my amazement the latch suddenly moved, and I jumped back to keep from being struck as the gate whipped open.

A dark shape stepped through the opening, and a goggle-eyed face peered into mine. “Don’t you know there was a murder here?” a voice whispered, and strong fingers gripped my shoulder.

I tried to scream, but my throat was so paralyzed with fear, all that came out was a choking gurgle.

Squinting behind thick glasses, the man leaned forward so that his nose was just inches from mine. “Are you here because of the murder?” he asked. “It’s not a safe place to be. He might come back.”

“W-Who might come back?” I stammered.

“The murderer.”

I tried to take a step backward, but the man’s grip increased. “Say, aren’t you one of Cody’s friends?” he asked, and his voice softened.

“Y-Yes,” I said.

“I thought you looked familiar. Remember me? I live next door. I’m Ronald Arlington. Close friend of the family.” Without a pause he asked, “Where’s Cody?”

I shivered, wishing I knew. “He went to their lake house,” I answered. I well remembered talk-ative Mr. Arlington. Cody and I had tried to avoid Mr. Arlington ever since the time he’d corralled us on the driveway to talk and wouldn’t stop until Cody’s mom had come outside, politely insisting that dinner was getting cold.

“Ronald is lonely,” Mrs. Garnett had explained that evening as she served the salads. “He’s retired and seems to have nothing to occupy his time. Recently his wife left him and threatened to file for divorce.”

“He has time to butt into everybody’s business,” Mr. Garnett had said.

“Now, Sam,” Mrs. Garnett had begun, but Mr. Garnett persisted.

“Yes, he does. He comes right out and asks what people paid for things—like a new sweater or a new car—and then he tells everyone. And he has to know who’s doing what and why, and he’s always got some kind of inside story about celebrities and politicians and stuff that he’s supposed to know for a fact.”

“I think he just wants a little attention,” Mrs. Garnett had said.

“Or a drink,” Mr. Garnett had said with a knowing wink.

“He’s really not such a bad old guy,” Cody had answered.

“Let’s please talk about something else,” Mrs. Garnett had begged.

I hadn’t given Mr. Arlington another thought … not until he’d popped through the gate, scaring me almost to death.

“The police came into my house and talked to me,” Mr. Arlington whispered into my face. “I told them I was the one who couldn’t stand the loud music, so I came over and looked in the window when the Garnetts didn’t answer their telephone.” Nervously he glanced around, as though he might be overheard. “I’m the one who discovered the bodies,” he said. “And I turned off the master switch to the house because the music was driving me crazy. The television people and the newspaper reporters came, but I didn’t tell them
that …” He broke off, fumbling with his words as though they were loose teeth, as he added, “Well, what I did tell them will be in the morning paper and the early newscasts.”

He released my shoulder, but I didn’t attempt to leave. Obviously Mr. Arlington had information I wanted.

“What didn’t you tell them?” I asked.

He gave a quick turn to look over his shoulder. “Never mind,” he said.

“If it’s important, the police should know about it.”

His eyes became slits. “They don’t have to know everything.”

Maybe he knew something, maybe he didn’t. I wasn’t sure how to reach him, so I said the first thing that came into my mind. “If it’s something that will help them catch the murderer, then I know you’ll tell them. Otherwise, you’d be helping the murderer.”

“The murderer might come back,” Mr. Arlington repeated in a husky whisper. “I live alone here, and I’m not so young anymore.”

I wasn’t getting anywhere, so I asked directly, “Did you tell the reporters that Cody wasn’t home?”

He nodded. “They asked where he was, but unfortunately, I didn’t know. I just told them what time I heard his car leave. He was driving down the driveway a little too fast, and when he does that, his car squeals, and I happened to look at the clock, and it was a good thing I did, I guess.”

I took a deep breath and asked, “What time did Cody leave?”

“Twenty-seven minutes after seven,” he said.

I had to ask. “And what time did the murders take place?”

“I asked the police that very thing, but they told me the medical examiner will determine that.”

I tried to phrase my question another way. “What time was it when you heard the loud music?”

“Somewhere between nine and nine-thirty. This time I didn’t look at the clock, so I can’t be sure.”

Joyfully I blurted out, “Then Cody couldn’t have been at home!”

“That’s what I already said.”

A car suddenly pulled onto the driveway, its headlights spotlighting us.

Mr. Arlington squinted and ducked, throwing an arm up to protect his eyes.

The car door opened and slammed, and I heard the anger in Dad’s voice as he demanded, “Holly, what do you think you’re doing here?”

T
he sky was beginning to lighten, pearly gray streaks from the east smearing the blackness. “I had to be here,” I said. “When Cody comes home …”

“
If
Cody comes home …”

“
When.
It has to be
when.
” I could be as stubborn as my father. “Someone who cares about him should be here for him.”

Dad winced, and I put a hand on his arm. “As a friend,” I said. “Dad, you know Cody and I have been friends since junior high.”

Mr. Arlington’s head swiveled from me to Dad and back again, as if he were a spectator at a tennis match. “You remember me?” he asked Dad, his voice barely a whisper. “I’m the one who found the bodies and called the police. I told that other detective—Mr. Martinez—what I heard and saw.”

“Yes, Mr. Arlington,” Dad said. “We appreciate your help.”

“It’s going to be on the morning TV news.”

Dad glanced at the open gate to the backyard, its torn yellow tape trailing on the driveway. “This is a crime scene, Mr. Arlington,” he said. “It’s off-limits.”

“I didn’t disturb anything.” For a moment Mr. Arlington looked frightened. He suddenly held his watch close to his eyes and said, “I don’t want to miss the early news, so if you don’t need me …”

Without waiting for an answer, he scuttled across the driveway, toward the front door of his house.

In contrast to the Garnetts’ large, beautiful home, Mr. Arlington’s dark brick house was small, plain, and old. Back in the 1980s, when Houston was booming and lots of people had a great deal of money, West University boomed too. One by one the tiny brick homes and their lots were bought for hundreds of thousands of dollars, the houses were demolished, and expensive homes rose in their place. I guess builders expected the entire area to change, but suddenly the oil business cratered, buyers almost disappeared, and many West University blocks were left in a frozen pattern of mansions interspersed with modest bungalows.

The spreading morning light outlined a pickup truck coming down the block, rolled newspapers flying from its windows and slapping the sidewalk. Police cars began to arrive, some marked, some
unmarked. Officers in uniform and plainclothes detectives climbed from their cars, some cradling coffee mugs as though they were lifelines. The detectives mumbled greetings to Dad, exchanged brief information, and entered the Garnetts’ house and yard. For a moment my mind went with them into the scene of blood and gore. I shuddered, vividly aware that Dad had to go through this kind of horror over and over.

He turned sharply to look at me, and I realized I’d whimpered.

I wanted to hug Dad, to hold him tightly and pull him away from the horrible specter of violence and death. But, instead, I took a deep breath. “I’m okay,” I lied.

A Channel 2 truck drove up, followed by one from Channel 13. Reporters and camera operators zoomed out like bees from a hive, and soon the sidewalk was covered with a tangle of cables and equipment.

A reporter, microphone in hand, propelled herself toward Dad.

“Go home, Holly,” Dad ordered.

“I can’t, Dad,” I said and begged, as angry tears blurred my vision, “Please don’t make me!”

Dad hates tears and doesn’t know how to handle them. I heard Dad tell Mom once that whenever a suspect broke down and cried, it was hard for him to stay in the room. I know he thinks that Mom and I—so much alike with our red hair and green eyes—are a pair of emotional weaklings, but at that moment I didn’t care.

“Please,” I repeated.

Dad answered gruffly, “You can stay for a while, but don’t get underfoot, and don’t talk to the media.”

Dad didn’t need to worry. The people from the press and television stations, who continued to arrive, weren’t the least bit interested in me. Zeroing in on Dad, they asked, “Are there any new developments? Have you arrested the Garnetts’ son? Is he a suspect?”

I was shocked that Cody was guilty in their minds, simply because he’d survived and his parents hadn’t.

A guy with a camera glanced at me and asked, “Are you anybody?”

I shook my head. I wasn’t the kind of anybody he was looking for. He joined the group surrounding Dad.

Mr. Arlington poked his nose outside his door. He scuttled out to pick up his newspaper, then hurried back inside his house.

The temperature rose rapidly, heat spreading over us like melted butter in a swarmy yellow puddle, so I claimed a patch of deep shade under one of the large oak trees on Mr. Arlington’s front lawn and sat cross-legged on the grass.

Curious neighbors drifted over to watch the action, lining the sidewalk across the street as though they were waiting for a parade to pass by. Two more cop cars arrived, and the officers joined Dad on the driveway, elbowing through the group of reporters. After briefly talking with Dad, one of the officers headed for the Garnetts’ backyard. The others stayed on the lawn, talking to each
other. What were they doing? Who or what were they waiting for?

Mr. Arlington came out of his house again and moved in a slow, sidewise gait to where I was sitting. “They showed me on TV, and my name was in the story in
The Houston Post.
I wish they had left me out of it.” He shook his head sadly and wrapped his arms about his chest as though he was trying to protect himself. “I wish … I wish I hadn’t told them anything,” he said.

“You did the right thing,” I reassured him.

He squatted down and tilted his head, peering at me from the corners of his eyes. “You said if I didn’t tell them all I knew, I’d be helping the murderer.”