Swallowing Stones (18 page)

Joe shifted the car into reverse and backed out of the space. “So are you gonna talk, or what?”

“Just drive,” Michael told him.

“Drive where?”

“Anywhere. The Swamp.”

For some reason he could not explain, Michael felt drawn
to the Great Swamp that afternoon. And because it was a weekday, he knew not many people would be around.

Joe parked the car, pulled an old backpack from the trunk, filled it with three cans of beer, then headed toward the first trail. Michael followed. In the past he would have worried about being caught in the Swamp with beer. But that didn’t matter much now.

He knew without asking where Joe was headed. So when they came to a bend in the trail that opened into a wide circle, he cupped a hand over his brow and stared up at the Ghost Tree as if he had just run into an old friend he hadn’t seen in years.

The ground beneath the tree was completely bare. No ferns, no grass. Not even weeds grew there. And in the middle, solemn and majestic, stood the ancient and enormous sycamore. Hazy sunlight spilled down between its leaves. It looked far from ghostly.

He had heard once that the tree had gotten its name from the way it looked in the winter. Without its leaves, the thick bare branches appeared smooth and white, like brittle bones reaching skyward. Ancient souls were said to dance around the tree at midnight whenever there was a full moon. But for all the spooky old legends, the tree had never seemed haunted to him. And he and Joe had spent hundreds of hours beneath its branches.

Funny, he hadn’t thought about the Ghost Tree for years, except for that time in the park when he met Joe to explain about the stolen gun story.

Joe walked around to the other side of the circle, where the path continued, and Michael followed. They had gone only a few yards when Joe stepped off the path into the woods,
slapping branches out of his way. Michael knew Joe was heading for the pond, a special place they’d discovered years ago.

Their sneakers made sucking sounds in the soft mud as they walked along. The pond was only fifty yards or so from the Ghost Tree, but when they were kids it had seemed to take them hours to get there.

Within minutes they were clearing a space beneath a tree a few feet from the edge of the pond. It had been at least three years since they had last come to this spot. Joe rubbed his back against the rough bark, like a lazy bear, then slid comfortably to the ground. Michael sat beside him so that he would not have to look directly at his face.

Through the branches, he could just make out the top of the Ghost Tree. He thought about the times he and Joe had dared each other to spend the night there alone. Kids were always daring each other to sleep in the Ghost Tree. They claimed that if you could survive the night there alone, you could survive anything. It had become a kind of rite of passage for some of them, although Michael had never actually met anyone who had done it.

Joe took a beer from his backpack and offered it to Michael, who declined. “Okay, we’re ten thousand miles from civilization,” he said, yanking open the tab. “Now are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

“The cops were at my house last night,” Michael said.

“Again? Man, they never give up.”

Michael kept his eyes on the pond. On the other side, a large snapping turtle was slowly, laboriously pulling itself up onto a rock. “They know the bullet came from the Winchester.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a stream of beer escape from Joe’s mouth as he suddenly jerked the can away.
Joe grabbed his wet T-shirt, squeezing it with his hand. “
Your
Winchester? How do they know it was
your
Winchester?”

Michael told him everything that had taken place the night before. How they had traced the bullet to his gun and had found the empty casing in the woods behind the house. He told him everything except that the suspicion had shifted to Joe.

Joe finished the beer and opened another. “I keep telling you, man, they can’t prove a damn thing without the rifle. If they don’t have the murder weapon, they don’t have a case.”

Dragonflies skimmed the surface of the pond. Michael picked up a flat stone and skipped it over the water. He had never felt so lost before. Always, there was Joe. From the first time they met, even as small boys, he had known he could tell Joe anything, because Joe would not judge him. He would only listen. But that was not going to happen this time. And he knew, too, that no matter how all of this turned out, they would never come back to this place again.

“You need to know something,” he said quietly.

Joe had leaned his head back against the tree and appeared to be dozing. Without opening his eyes, he said, “What’s that?”

The air felt so heavy Michael thought he might drown if he took a breath. “Healey’s got this idea that maybe you borrowed the rifle and then said it was stolen to cover up the fact you fired it.”

Joe’s silence was deafening. It beat against Michael’s ears until the ache crept into his skull. When Joe finally did speak, his voice was low. The words slipped from his tongue like slow drops from a leaking faucet. “Yeah? And where would he have gotten that idea?”

Michael knew Joe was staring right at the side of his face.
He could feel his friend’s warm breath against his ear, but he kept his eyes straight ahead. “Who knows how Healey’s mind works?” he said. “He’s desperate. He’s got to make a case out of something. This thing’s been going on for weeks now.”

“So he’s going to make me a suspect?”

Michael skipped another small rock into the pond, but it hit the water wrong and sank. He watched the ripples tear at the surface. “Maybe not. It could be a bluff. Healey wants me to give him a list of everyone who was at my party. That’s forty other potential suspects to keep him busy for a while.”

Joe flattened the beer can against the tree with the palm of his hand. “And what am I supposed to do in the meantime? Just sit back and wait for them to come arrest me?”

The look on his friend’s face was more than Michael could bear. “No. That’s not going to happen. I’ll tell them the truth first.”

Joe was chugging the last of the three beers. “Either way I get nailed,” he said. “I’m an accessory, remember? And don’t forget, I’m the one who filed the false police report.” He stood up, swaying slightly, and threw the empty, crushed cans into the backpack. “Man, life really sucks, doesn’t it?”

Michael pulled himself up and put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Joe … what can I say, man? I never meant for any of this to happen. I don’t know how everything got so screwed up.”

At first Joe nodded, as if he understood, but Michael could see the twitching tightness in his jaw. It made him think of a wild animal about to bare its fangs. Then he said, “Yeah, well, screwing things up seems to be what you do best these days.”

Michael could only stare back at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Look at you, man. You had it all. Big jock at school, colleges practically knocking down your door …” His eyes narrowed. “A babe like Darcy Kelly.”

Michael waited. He had no idea where this was going.

But Joe only let out a disgusted snort, then turned and began to walk back toward the car.

Michael could think of nothing to do but follow. It was a long walk back to his house, and besides, Joe was in no condition to drive.

When they reached the car, Michael asked for the keys. Surprisingly, Joe didn’t argue; he merely handed them over without comment. The minute Michael put his hands on the steering wheel, they began to sweat. This was where it had all begun. Less than two months ago he had sat behind this same wheel, Joe by his side, on his way to take his driver’s test. Nothing stood in the way of his future. Nothing, until a stranger’s voice, floating over the airwaves from fifty miles away, had told him he had killed a man.

Joe was slumped down in the seat. His head bounced loosely against the headrest. Michael wondered if Joe had fallen asleep, but decided he was only pretending so that they wouldn’t have to talk.

Michael was haunted by the knowledge that if he had gone to the police the morning he first heard about Charlie Ward’s death, Joe would not be in this mess. He wouldn’t even be an accessory. Joe had done what he had because he believed he was protecting Michael. And Michael had never once tried to stop him.

It was already past six. But Michael knew better than to take Joe home when he’d been drinking. Instead he headed toward the highway, planning to find someplace to eat.

If he had been paying attention as he came up the entrance
ramp, Michael might have noticed the white Toyota Tercel that was stopped in front of him at the Yield sign. But his mind was on Joe. So when the Tercel began to move forward, as if to merge, Michael, cruising up the ramp, barely hit the brake pedal, and looked in his side-view mirror for oncoming traffic. He did not see that the Tercel had suddenly, and unexpectedly, stopped again. When he did notice, it was too late. He slammed the brakes as hard as he could but slid into the Tercel’s rear bumper anyway. The screech of brakes screamed through the hot summer air.

Joe bolted upright. “What the—”

“She was merging, then just stopped,” Michael said, scarcely getting the words out without a stutter. “It’s okay. I don’t think there’s any damage. I hardly hit it.”

The person in the Tercel had not moved, probably startled by the impact and the sound of the Mustang’s brakes. Michael backed up, pulled over to the edge of the ramp, and put on the four-way flashers. He wanted to see if the driver was okay. He was certain he hadn’t hit her car hard. Still, he needed to make sure. But before he could open the door, Joe sprang from his side of the car and with enormous, purposeful strides headed toward the Tercel.

Michael looked on as Joe peered in the window of the driver’s side, then jerked backward as if someone had suddenly pulled a gun on him. Before Michael realized what was happening, Joe jumped onto the hood of the Tercel and began to stomp on the windshield, alternating his feet, sometimes crashing down with both at once. He screamed at the girl in the car, calling her a crazy, stupid bitch, shouting until he was hoarse that she had almost wrecked his Mustang. Michael looked on in horror as fine weblike cracks spread through the glass.

Frantic, he ran toward the other car. “What the hell are you doing?” he shouted. But Joe did not seem to hear him. Again and again he brought his foot down on the windshield, until it began to cave in. Too terrified to think, Michael instinctively yanked open the car door to get the driver out before the glass caved in completely. And when he opened the door, he thought his heart might stop altogether. There, with her hands over her ears, eyes squeezed shut, screaming as loudly as she could, was Amy Ruggerio. With one final blow, the glass shattered around her, spraying tiny crystal shards that shimmered like sleet caught in her dark hair.

Michael put his hand around her arm and tried to pull her out, but she would not budge. She would not stop screaming. Maybe it was better if she didn’t move, he decided. Glass was everywhere: in her lap, on her shoulders, on her thighs. It covered the dashboard, the seats, the floor. It lay like chipped ice on her feet, left vulnerable by thin-soled sandals.

Above him, Joe stood on the hood of the Tercel, his body slightly hunched forward, swaying in a kind of stupor. He looked lost and confused, as if he had no idea how he had come to be there. When Joe looked up, Michael saw with shock that his face was soaked with tears.

By now several cars had stopped, parking along the edge of the ramp, clicking on their own hazard lights. People Michael did not know were talking Joe down from the hood of the car, were carefully helping Amy from the driver’s seat, gently picking glass from her hair, like apes grooming one another.

How could he have not recognized Amy’s grandfather’s car? Michael stumbled backward and sat down on the guardrail, feeling useless. He had done this. All of this. He had set it in motion. He suspected he was Joe’s real target, that his
Friend’s uncontrollable drunken rage was really meant for him. Amy had merely been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Like Charlie Ward.

He looked on as a woman in baggy orange shorts dusted glass from Amy’s hair. Then, for a split second, Michael thought he saw Jenna Ward’s face in Amy’s stunned expression. Not in her features, but in her eyes. Something in Amy’s eyes made him think of that first newspaper photograph of Jenna.

Michael swallowed hard. Everything was falling apart, shattering as surely as the windshield of the Tercel. And all he could do in that moment was sit helplessly by, surveying the wreckage, while strangers frantically tried to clean up the mess.

j
enna was standing only a few yards from the Ghost Tree when she saw her father. He was sitting next to Michael MacKenzie, his head bowed in conversation only inches from the Doy s. When her father saw her, he smiled and waved, beckoning her forward. Amy took her hand and pulled gently, but Jenna couldn’t seem to move. She wasn’t sure her legs would carry her. They felt as wobbly as two rubber bands. She began to scream at Amy to let her go.

Somewhere in the distance, she heard her mother’s voice, felt a hand gently shaking her shoulder.

Jenna felt as if she were caught between two worlds. She struggled to answer the voice, but it was as if she were underwater and trying to talk to someone on the surface.

Someone was rocking Jenna back and forth. In the dream it was Amy who, more persistent than ever, was pushing her forward. But it was her mother’s voice that Jenna kept hearing. She tried to open her eyes. Her lids ached with the effort.

“Jen?”

Jenna forced her eyes open and blinked.

Her mother was sitting on the edge of her bed. “I heard you cry out. I thought something was wrong.”

“I did?” Jenna’s tongue felt thick.

“Were you having a bad dream?”

Jenna closed her eyes and once again saw her father waving to her from beneath the Ghost Tree. “Yes. A bad dream.”

“You want to talk about it?”