The Less-Dead (14 page)

I swallow hard, set down the carton of ice cream, and unfold the paper.

Burial? I think about the poem I just read. Bizarre. “So, I guess they’re done with the autopsy,” I say. “I guess it’s all over.”

“Yeah, looks that way. Hey, listen, dude, I’m really sorry, but I can’t go to the burial with you. I wish I could, but I got a job. At Guitar Center. I start Saturday. I’ll be on the floor, helping people try out instruments. It’s not Kinkos, but the DPCP’s really jazzed about it. Now, I know it’s taking time away from band practice, but I figure I can network with the employees, maybe even the customers, set us up with a few more gigs in town. What do you think?”

I’m barely listening. Carson peers at me. “Noah? Hey, are you okay?”

“Oh … yeah. I’m fine. Hey, that’s great, about the job. Congratulations, man.”

“Thanks. So, are you going to the burial? Because, I was thinking, it might help. You know, bring some closure, or whatever they call it.”

“Yeah. I’ll go.”

“Good. And, Noah? I know this has been rough, but you need to forgive yourself. You’re gonna drive yourself crazy if you don’t.”

“I know.” I look down, run my hand along the outline of Will’s book hidden beneath the covers.

“Okay, well, I’d better run,” Carson says. “There’s a youth group meeting tonight. My mom invited Kat for dinner, and I’m supposed to make the salad. I just hope the DPCP behaves himself.” At the mention of Kat, I immediately think of Aubrey, and the ache inside my chest returns in full force.

“Carson? Does Aubrey know it was me who found Will’s body?”

“She knows. I told her.”

This makes me feel even worse. Aubrey knows, and she hasn’t bothered to come see me. She hasn’t even called. “I guess she’s still pissed about the song?”

“Ah, don’t worry about it. She’ll come around.” Carson picks up the ice cream and hands it to me. “Noah? Remember Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. Food comes before girls. You need to eat.”

I take another bite. “Okay.”

“So, you think you might come to school tomorrow?”

I shrug. “I may give it a shot.”

“Cool.” He holds out his fist. I press mine against it. “But take my advice, okay? Shower. Because if you walk into the
Rock smelling like that, you could be charged with assault with a deadly weapon.”

I give Carson the finger. He grins. “That’s more like it.” When Carson leaves, I pull out Will’s book and reread the poem in the margin.
Potter’s Field. Field of Blood
. I stare at the string of numbers written below. On a whim, I grab my cell phone and dial. After two rings, a woman picks up. “Austin Memorial Cemetery, may I help you?”

HERE’S WHAT
I figure out on the way to the cemetery: Dead people get funerals. The less-dead, if they’re lucky, get a hole in the ground.

It’s the first really cold day of autumn, and the wind is whipping across the field of tombstones. I climb a grassy hill. In the distance I see Quindlan, Doomsday, and Hawk gathered near Will’s grave site. There’s a chaplain, too, wearing a collar and holding a Bible. Bouquets of flowers dot the landscape, but the place I’m headed for is barren.

Hawk leaves the others and walks over to me. “Noah, hey. You got my note.”

“Yeah. Thanks for letting me know about this.”

“No problem. I thought you’d want to be here. When I heard it was a sixteen-year-old kid who found Will’s body at the greenbelt, I figured it was you. You and Carson were the only ones who knew about the place. And when you didn’t
show up at school the next few days, it was pretty obvious. Anyway, are you okay?”

“No, I’m not.”

“Me neither. I still can’t believe what happened. None of it makes sense. Will was supposed to meet you that night, hear you play, then go home to his new place. He liked it there. I thought he was all right. I keep blaming myself, like I should have done more. But what? I’ve been running it through my head, trying to make sense of it. I just don’t know why he went back to the campsite.”

“I do,” I say. “He went to get his book of poems. He’d accidentally left it there.”

“How do you know that?”

“Quindlan told me. He was at the Red Room the night Carson and I played. He’d seen Will earlier that day. Will told him he’d lost his book and was going back to the greenbelt to find it.”

Hawk turns and glances at Quindlan. For a brief moment their eyes meet. Hawk looks away. “Noah? Did Quindlan tell you anything else? Anything about me?”

I hesitate. “No, nothing.” It’s a lie, of course. I remember Quindlan’s exact words:
He’s bad news, Noah. Trouble. Keep your distance
. And now I realize that Hawk wasn’t at the Red Room either.

“What about Doomsday?” Hawk says. “Was he there the night you played?”

“Yeah. I mean, no. He came later on, when our gig was over. The Red Room caters to a gay crowd, and apparently Doomsday didn’t approve of the venue.

Hawk nods slowly. “Interesting.”

I wonder if Hawk knows that Quindlan’s an undercover cop. I’m dying to ask, but it’s too risky. Instead, I say, “So, you know Quindlan and Doomsday pretty well, then?”

“Let’s just say I know them well enough. But, Noah, we better go. They’re about to start.”

Hawk and I take our places around the burial plot. I nod hello to Quindlan, Doomsday, and the chaplain and then peer into the rectangular hole dug in the ground. Inside is a simple pinewood casket. Nearby, a concrete slab is lying on its side. It reads:

Seventeen years. Over just like that. Reading those dates feels like being punched in the stomach. I think about Will’s plans for next year. California. A job. Helping kids like him—alone and gay—find peace with who they are.

“Shall we begin?” the chaplain says. He clears his throat and takes out a sheet of paper. His script. “We’re gathered here today to bury our dear friend Will Reed, a young boy whose life was taken suddenly and unexpectedly. As some of you know, Will loved poetry.” I have to admit, the chaplain’s acting skills are pretty polished. He obviously never met Will, but you’d think they were long-lost friends.

I glance at Quindlan and wonder if he supplied the chaplain with the notes.

“One of Will’s favorite poems,” the chaplain continues, “was ‘The Road Not Taken,’ by Robert Frost.

While the chaplain recites the poem, Doomsday begins to sob quietly. I lower my head, remembering the tattoo on Will’s arm, and how that poem brought us together. I think about Will’s life, too, and how he really did take the road less traveled.

But do I? No. I’d be a hypocrite if I said I did. If only I could go back, change the way I acted the last time I saw Will. At least he would have known that I cared. But what good does wishful thinking do now?

When the chaplain finishes, he puts away the sheet of paper and opens his Bible.

“Today, I’d also like to celebrate Will’s life by reading a passage from God’s Word. The Gospel of John, chapter eight, verses three through seven.”

I look up, wondering if I heard right.

“‘The teachers of the law and the pharisees brought in a woman caught in adultery… .’”

I feel a tingling on the back of my neck. I glance around. Quindlan and Hawk have their heads bowed, but Doomsday is looking straight at me. I feel dizzy, light-headed. I plant my feet and stare at the ground until the chaplain finishes. “ ‘If any of you is without sin, let him be the first to throw a stone.’”

The chaplain bends down, picks up a handful of dirt, and sprinkles it over Will’s casket. “‘Remember, O man, that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.’ Please, everyone, join me.”

Doomsday is the first to stoop down and pick up a handful of dirt. He sprinkles it over the casket. The rest of us do the same. The sound is like heavy rain falling against a rooftop. “‘I am the resurrection and the life,’” the chaplain drones on. “‘He who believes in me will live, though he dies.’” He closes with the Twenty-third Psalm. “‘The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want …’”

“Noah?” Hawk whispers. “Hey, I’m not going to hang around and watch Will get buried. It’s too depressing. Do you need a ride home?”

“Oh, no thanks. I’m going to stay a little longer. But, Hawk?” I glance at Quindlan, who’s speaking with the chaplain, and Doomsday, who’s kneeling beside Will’s grave. “Do you know who gave the chaplain that Bible passage to read? The one about the woman caught in adultery?”

“No, I don’t. It was strange, wasn’t it? Sure didn’t make sense for a burial. Anyway, don’t hang around this place too long. I’ll see you at school. Take it easy, man.”

Doomsday leans precariously over the hole in the ground. His lips are moving like he’s whispering something to Will. I walk over, listen closely, and make out bits and pieces from Walt Whitman’s
Leaves of Grass
.

When he’s finished, he stands and marches down the hill. I watch until he disappears.

“Noah?” I turn around. It’s Quindlan. From the corner of my eye, I see the chaplain heading toward the funeral home.

“Hey,” I say. “Where’s Doomsday going?”

“Oh, he’s got some unfinished business here. But tell me, how’ve you been?”

“Um, not too good.”

“Yeah. It’s been a rough week. Every afternoon I find myself looking for Will. I keep thinking he’s going to turn the corner on the Drag, wave to me, hang out for a while. Doomsday’s been a wreck too. I still can’t believe Will’s gone.”

“Me neither.” I look around and lower my voice. “So, how’s the investigation going? Did they find anything new from the autopsy?”

Quindlan sighs. “No, not really. The medical examiner said Will was strangled, like Kyle and Paul, but that was obvious from the start. One strange thing, though, is that the cross on his chest was carved about three or four hours after he died, which is different from the other two murders. Kyle’s and Paul’s carvings were done immediately. So the killer either stayed with Will for a while, or left and then went back to the crime scene. In all three cases, though, the guy was very professional. Highly experienced. What they call an organized killer. He left no DNA behind, no fingerprints. Nothing.”

“So, in other words, they still don’t know much?” I say.

“Right. But I do have a little inside information.”

“Really? What?”

“Well, I spoke with the FBI profiler yesterday. Turns out,
there’s some evidence he doesn’t want released to the public just yet. Right now they have reason to believe Warren Banks killed both Kyle and Paul. Paul was murdered twenty-four hours before the police arrested Banks, and that’s why Banks is still in custody. But it’s possible that someone else—maybe another member of the Westboro group—killed Will. Anyway, they’ve got some leads now. It’s just a matter of time.”

“Another member from Westboro? So they think there may be a group behind the murders?”

“It’s possible. A group that believes they’re doing God’s will by exterminating evil. Specifically, gay teenagers.” He shakes his head. “Maybe they figured no one would care if they preyed on gay foster kids.”

“God, that’s so sick. Anyway, I hope you’re right. I hope the detectives know what they’re doing.”

In the distance I hear a dog barking. I peer across the cemetery and see Hercules chained to a tree.

“I better go,” Quindlan says. “Just call me if you need to talk. And visit me anytime. You know where I hang out.”

“Quindlan? Wait. I need to ask you something. Do you know why the chaplain read from John, chapter eight?”

“That was Doomsday’s idea. He used to read to us from the Bible from time to time, and that story caught Will’s attention. He liked it a lot. Said he could relate to the woman caught in adultery—how she was nameless, alone, and how the religious leaders wanted to stone her. And he liked the way Jesus answered them: ‘He who is without sin, let him cast the first stone.’”

“Yeah,” I say. “I like that too.”

“And there was something else,” Quindlan says. “Will wondered what Jesus wrote in the sand. He said it must have been something beautiful, like a poem. For some reason, that always stuck with me. With Doomsday, too. Anyway, why do you ask?”

I think about Will’s book hidden under my bed. The book I can’t tell a soul about—especially Quindlan. Not that he wouldn’t understand—I think he would—but the fact is he’s a cop. One who’s serious about his job. If push came to shove, he could arrest me. “Well, it just didn’t make sense,” I say. “It’s not a passage you usually hear at a burial.”

“You’re right. In fact, I think we upset the chaplain a little.” He smiles. “But, hey, I’m glad you came today, Noah. Guess Hawk invited you.”

“Yeah. He seems like a decent guy.”

Quindlan shakes his head. “Don’t be so sure. Remember what I said. If you see him around school, stay far away. He’s not a person you want to associate with.”

As Quindlan takes off, I hear voices. Soon three men appear. Gravediggers. They begin shoveling dirt onto Will’s casket, talking about what they’re going to have for lunch, laughing as they work. Hawk was right. This is too depressing.

The wind kicks up. I zipper my jacket and pull up the hood. I’m alone now, with time to kill and a lot of thinking to do. I walk along the path and read some of the nearby headstones.

I stop, realizing that the date must be a record of her birth
and
death. A stillborn. The plain headstone is covered with dead leaves and grass. I wonder if anyone visits her. I move along.

No last name. No year of his birth, only his death. Probably a homeless guy, like Doomsday. I wonder if he had a tragic story too.