The Leaving (8 page)

It seemed cruel.

Desperate to think about something—anything—else on their way to the outlets, desperate to get her mind off a foreign body working its way through her system, Scarlett said, “How’d you meet him? Steve?”

“Oh, he came into the bar one night. Then again the next night. And so on and so on . . .”

“What bar?”

“Thar she blows.” Her mother pointed out Scarlett’s window. They were on a small on-ramp to a bridge beside the Lamppost Hotel.

“It ain’t . . .”

Isn’t
.

“. . . the most glamorous job, but I’ve been there long enough I get to pick my own shifts and everybody pretty much leaves me alone. Haven’t taken a drink myself since the day you went missing, but happy to hand ’em out.”

/
 /
    
        /
      /  /      /
  /

“Really?”

“That night, the night before you were taken, I was three sheets to the wind when I was putting you to bed. And I was so H-O the next day when things got crazy—”

Aicho?

Oh
.

H-O?

“
H-O
?”

“Hungover.”

Like it should have been obvious. “

And I promised myself I’d be sober as a judge for whenever they found you. And they just never did, and I never could bring myself to take another drink. Just in case.”

“So wait. You were
drunk
when I said that thing about going to the leaving?”

“Yes, ma’am. But I remember that clear as a bell.” She looked at Scarlett and spoke slowly.

So slowly that Scarlett

could

see

her

mother’s

tongue . . .

on the
l
’s in . . .

“
Clear as a bell
.”

Scarlett looked at The Lamppost Hotel’s many, many windows and wondered whether anyone in there knew what was happening.

Whether guests with sunburns and big hats had the news on while they packed up their beach bags.

Whether the ticker at the bottom of the screen said:

GIRL REUNITED WITH ALIEN-OBSESSED RECOVERING-ALCOHOLIC MOTHER . . .

HAS NOTHING IN COMMON WITH HER . . . FULL STORY AT 8:00 P.M.

A song came on the radio that her mother turned up.

Something about wasting away again in Margaritaville.

It seemed to make her happy.

Scarlett wondered what that felt like.

Didn’t know the song.

Any songs?

Her mother said, “Maybe after things calm down and all, we’ll have a little party. You know, you, me, Steve, my friends. Bet your uncle Tom will drive down from Tampa.”

Scarlett ran a search:

Uncle Tom. Uncle Tom. Uncle Tom. Uncle Tom
.

     /
/  /
        /
     /
   /
       /

“What about my . . .”

Couldn’t

Remember

Ever

Saying

The word:

Dad.

“ . . . father?”

“Was never in the picture.” Her mother pulled into the outlet parking lot. “So you wouldn’t remember him at all.”

“What about grandparents?” She’d seen a photo back at the house—a woman with curly black hair and a soft, round belly perched on top of a skinny pair of legs, and holding what must have been a toddler Scarlett—and she’d known it was her grandmother.

“With the good Lord.” She made the sign of the cross. “Your grandfather in 2009 and your grandma the year after.”

Scarlett couldn’t focus.

When she’d disappeared, she’d been a girl with grandparents, and now all she had was this woman she couldn’t bring herself to think of as Mom.

The word had felt so wrong,

so sour,

that one time.

“They took it hard. What happened to you. And then we had a fall ing-out because, well, we all had different ideas.” She sighed. “Here today, gone Tamara.”

“What does that mean?” They were out of the car and walking toward the stores.

“Oh, nothing. Just something Steve says.”

The clothes were . . . too bright.

Too boxy.

Too . . . ?

Scarlett didn’t like anything she tried on. Most of it fit, technically.

But didn’t fit her.

Made her look too . . . something.

Too other.

Too someone else.

Lines all wrong.

Colors all wrong.

Patterns that made no sense on her.

They bought most of what she tried on anyway.

Because, well . . . because.

Here today, gone . . .

Ah.

Her mother’s
name
was Tamara.

“Can I call you that?” Scarlett dared as they walked toward the car. She’d worn a new dress out of the store and felt like an impostor. “Tamara?”

“No.” Tamara unlocked the car. “You may not.”

Lucas

A handful of people in FORENSICS shirts were taking photos and swabs near where Lucas’s father had fallen.

Died.

Lucas watched from the kitchen window, where he’d been studying a map of Opus 6 that hung on the wall, and started counting stones, then gave up. He couldn’t even begin to estimate how many there were, or how many hours it had taken his father—and by the looks of his brother’s muscles, him, too—to cut and shape and place them all.

When Chambers turned up, Lucas stepped outside. “I wasn’t sure I’d see you again.”

“Well, they’re letting me hang around for the time being.” Chambers stood on the front steps facing out to Opus 6. “Professional courtesy because of my history with the case. I’ll be acting as the liaison between you all and the FBI, generally facilitating things.”

Lucas nodded. He was wearing a T-shirt Miranda had left in his room for him, and shorts and boxers borrowed from Ryan. The decal on the shirt had two purple fists meeting in front of a triangle and read WONDER TWIN POWERS ACTIVATE! He had no idea what it meant.

“So what can you tell me about the tattoo?” Chambers turned to him.

“Nothing.”

Lucas had taken a photo of it with the phone Ryan gave him; he wanted to be able to study the image without craning his neck. The doctor who’d done his physical had glimpsed the top edge of it above Lucas’s boxers in spite of his hopes to keep it secret.

“Think you did it yourself ?” Chambers raised one eyebrow. “From the photo the doctor sent me, it looks kind of DIY.”

“People do that?”

“Apparently.”

“No idea.” Lucas shook his head. “Anybody else have one?”

Chambers said, “Don’t know yet.”

They stood there, as if waiting for something to happen, like watching the wind. It was too nice a day for a murder investigation, and Lucas wished he could go surfing or ride a Jet Ski or anything but this.

Chambers probably felt that way, too.

“What did you mean the other day,” Lucas said, “when you said The Leaving ruined your life?”

Chambers gave him a look. Like,
really?

“What? I want to know.”

“My sad tale?” Chambers pushed his shoulders back, stretching. “You can probably guess.” He took a pack of gum from his pocket and slid a piece out.

“You were so focused on the case that you neglected your wife.”

“
Ding ding ding
.” Offered the gum to Lucas, who declined. The detective put a piece into his mouth before he said, “
And
daughter. Don’t forget the neglected daughter.”

“And now they are . . . ?”

“Wife is remarried. Daughter is in college. ‘Estranged,’ I believe, is the word.”

“And you?”

“I’m here with you, so what does that say?” Chambers shrugged. “And paying for college like it’s some kind of penance.”

“Did you know my father well?”

“As well as I knew any of them, I guess.”

“Was he crazy?”

“Nah.” Chambers shifted his gaze from Lucas to the middle-distance of Opus 6. “This all probably kept him sane.”

The whole place was, on the one hand, extremely disturbing. Because what kind of crazed person would do
all that
? But there was something . . . calming about it, too.

“Are you going to charge me?”

“Waiting for the autopsy report,” Chambers said. Then he turned and said, “You’ll let me know if you think of anything? The tattoo?”

Lucas nodded and Chambers left. Lucas went inside and watched from the kitchen window until the forensic team also left, then he went back out to explore parts of the grounds he hadn’t walked yet. The map of Opus 6 on the kitchen wall showed a large stone at the highest point, and Lucas imagined that was meant to be the final piece put into place—whether as a gravestone or something else. Now that top swirl of stones seemed to look particularly . . . empty.

He wondered whether the final stone was here somewhere, waiting.

Walking across a plain of stones down by a shaded area at the back of the lot, flattened and arranged just so, Lucas came to a bridge—one large, flat stone—over a passageway. Looking down before crossing, he felt a sort of vertigo—different from the carousel spins. Which maybe made sense, considering how his father had died, but was there something more to it?

Something wrong in his brain?

Something that would never heal?

Everything was too quiet.

He half missed the news vans.

Half wanted reporters to ask him questions that would maybe inspire answers.

He’d show them the tattoo, see if it led to anything. Since it was no longer a secret anyway.

Had it been forced on him? Or on
all
of them?

Had
he done it himself ?

Which was worse?

At the end of his tour—having given up on finding the centerpiece stone—he ducked through a long, deep tunnel, came out the other end, and saw something shining past a cluster of thirsty bushes. Pushing through some brush, he spotted a shabby, old RV with a ray of sun reflecting off the side-view mirror. It didn’t appear at all road-ready.

Did someone live there?

He turned to head back toward the house to ask Ryan about it, whether it was even theirs, and to eat something before the playground meet-up, but his brother was right there.

Lucas nodded toward the RV. “What’s that?”

“Come on.” Ryan wagged a key in the air. “I’ll show you.”

AVERY

She texted Sam when she got out of the pool—

Can you come get me?

Crazy stuff happening

—then got dressed and waited on the front steps.

When he pulled up, she got in and said, “Just drive.”

They ended up at Lakes Park—about twenty minutes inland. She and Sam had rented a bicycle for two on their first date here. Had even ridden the tiny train that ran around the grounds, through little villages made out of dollhouses and miniature oddities. They’d spent hours making out in the far corners of the parking lot, too, a few times since.

Not in a while, though.

They walked out to a picnic table on a bridge over the lake. A large white bird took off from a small island as Avery sat down.

Was Sam remembering, too? That first date? How fun everything had seemed at least for a little while?

Back before she started feeling like he was maybe not as cute as she’d originally thought. Or smart enough to be with her, either.

Being with him had started to turn her into this nasty, petty person.

“Everything okay?” He sat across from her.

“No, Sam, everything is not okay.”

See?

“You know what I mean.” He stared at her.

“What
do
you mean?” He was already annoying her. Being with the wrong person made you not right in the head.

“I
mean
, tell me what’s going on.”

“Well, I’ll probably be on the news any minute now.”

“What did you do?”

“I talked to one of them. Ryan’s brother. He remembers a carousel. So I went on camera and said that if he can remember one thing, he can remember more. Right?”

“I don’t know, Avery. I guess, yeah.”

Sam was a
really good guy
. She reminded herself of that a lot, too. He was actually
too nice
for her.

He said, “I think maybe you should let the police handle it, you know?”

“I’m supposed to sit around and do nothing?” she said. “I’m sorry but if you don’t understand why I have to find him, then maybe we shouldn’t—”

“He’s probably dead, Ave.”

She felt like she’d been slapped. She must have looked like it, too. Who did he think he was? He knew nothing about anything. Nothing about what it felt like when your life was headline news.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “but someone had to say it. Everyone is saying it.”

“I’m not an idiot, Sam.”

He shoved his hands into his shorts pockets; he was straddling the bench of the table, like he was ready to walk away at any moment.

“What else are people saying?” Avery asked. “Since everyone knows so much more about it than I do.”

“I don’t know. Just . . . stuff.”

“What stuff ?” She was losing patience.

“See, I don’t even know if I can say it without you freaking out.”

“Just say it.”

“It’s that maybe they’re terrorists. Maybe they’ve been brainwashed into some kind of suicide mission or something.” He seemed almost excited by the idea of it.