What We Saw at Night (22 page)

People trusted Garrett Tabor, a doctor’s son, an inspiration to young athletes.

I’d also started the readings for a psychology class that explored masculinity in American culture. They were drawn from fiction and non-fiction as well as scientific studies. Each text, in its own way, considered what it means to be an American man and how women and their thinking influenced the idea of maleness. One of the sections touched on sexual deviance, and the prevailing theories of why rape and sexual battery, or any kind of battery, had nothing to do with masculinity. Yet somehow they were almost exclusively an enterprise of men rather than women, and directed at women and children. Myths about the ways that a woman’s behavior “provoked” men to sexual frenzy were just that, although the ardent sexualizing of pre-adolescent female children was no help. Most rape victims were not glamour queens. They were helpless or believing, friendless or unguarded.

One observation throughout the literature troubled me in
particular. Almost always, within twenty-four hours before a murder, something had happened to upset these predators. Some incident affected them profoundly and emotionally, the kind of thing that screws up your radar. If your ability to sense things that are out of whack is your greatest camouflage, then distress strips it away and exposes you. Preoccupied people are people at risk. They wreck their cars. They wreck their lives. And those who hunt predators know exactly how to spot them.…

“Allie-Bear?” Juliet prompted in the charged stillness. “You were saying?”

I forced a laugh. “Right. Like I was saying: college but not college. All the work and none of the perks. No gorgeous guys and sororities and that stuff. Not yet.”

“You wouldn’t do that shit if you could, Allie.”

“But I want the chance to refuse.”

“Why’d you choose geek college then?”

“Geek college?”

“Choose to go to school for four years to be a little lab mouse comparing two pubic hairs under a microscope?”

“Because it matters,” I said. “Two hairs can mean the different between a bad guy getting caught or getting the chance to do it again.”

Silence dropped like a stone between us.

“Promise me you’ll never see him again, Juliet,” I whispered.

“I … can’t promise anything.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “I know you could never understand. He wouldn’t have gotten to you. You’re different.”

“I would have been too afraid. You’ve never been afraid.”

“No, you have common sense. You do. All I’ve ever been afraid of is missing out on something. You know, of dying.”

“Without ever having really lived,” I finished. “Juliet,
you’re living now. You’re being brave to shut him out. Especially if he really is dangerous.”

“My father’s the sheriff,” Juliet said, almost automatically.

“His father’s the freaking medical examiner,” I snapped back.

“Exactly,” she said, her voice suddenly cold. “Who could be better at making every trace of somebody disappear?”

I stifled a gasp. Not for nothing was Juliet a detective’s daughter. The idea of gentle Dr. Stephen, with his awkwardness and golf ties, colluding with his son in a girl’s murder and the accidental death of a teenager, was so far beyond the level of possible that not even
I
could boulder up there. But maybe that was a mistake. Juliet always pushed farther. That was her strength.

For maybe another hour, I lay there until I noticed that Juliet’s breathing had grown loud and steady. I pivoted to glance at her in the moonlight. She was asleep. Penguin was tucked between her right shoulder and her head. The G.T. tattoo poked out from beneath the bottom of her borrowed pajama shirt, gently rising and falling with her breath. Hatred like venom seeped outward from my stomach.

I won’t let you hurt her anymore
, I thought.

There was no way I could sleep, so I decided to text Rob. When I fumbled for the phone in my jeans, I saw that there was a text waiting for me. From BLOCKED.

Tonight, 11 p.m. Nicola Burns’s grave. To clear the air. Just you. You’re smart enough to keep this to yourself
.

F
unny: last Halloween, I’d visited the cemetery, too. Only then, I’d been the one pulling the strings, setting up the villain to pay for what he’d done to Juliet. Amazing that I’d even harbored such ill will toward Henry LeBecque. He may have been a weenie, but he was no monster. He was a lost and confused kid. He was even honest. Instead of pushing him into an open grave and giggling at the thought that he might have pissed himself, I should have been trying to repair his relationship with Juliet.

Nicola’s grave was the freshest in the lot, of course. It already looked like one of those graves you see on the news: festooned with flowers (some wilted, some still blooming) and photos and empty bottles and other detritus of a life snuffed out, items that only assume value and meaning when one of their shared possessors is no longer there to possess. I kept spinning in circles, partially to keep warm, but partially so Garrett Tabor wouldn’t be able to sneak up on me.

I wasn’t all that scared, though. The whole night had been such a royal fiasco that I was too ashamed to be scared.

First, neither Angie nor my mother could figure out why I didn’t want to go trick-or-treating with them. I feigned exhaustion (who wants to argue with an XP kid over
that
) and it helped that I’d had a fight with Rob. Or what they’d perceived as a fight.

As soon as the sun had safely set, he’d texted me that he wanted to show me a surprise. I told him I couldn’t. Then he texted
SCREW THE SURPRISE
and sent a series of photos of the cabin up by Ghost Lake. He and his dad had renovated it. I got the full-on real estate section treatment, a slideshow tour of our new romantic getaway: new glass windows, a little electric generator for lights and heat, a queen-sized bunk built from natural logs into one wall, piled with a thick mattress and pillows and a gigantic patchwork quilt. There was a log table, stools and shelves that held canned foods and candles. And of course, workout equipment for Parkour.

We were only seventeen. Rob’s dad had helped his son create a place of our own.

First I burst into tears. Then I called him and told him I had a mission, just tonight, but that I loved him and our cabin like crazy. He asked if it had anything to do with Juliet. I told him I couldn’t tell him. “So it does,” he said.

Only then did I notice Angie and Mom standing at the bottom of the stairs, Angie all decked out like David Belle—which just made me cry again. Whatever. The (feigned, or not) adolescent freak-out had done its job. Everybody left me alone, and I was able to sneak off in the minivan.

I glanced at my phone, half-praying Rob would call. Or my mom. Or Juliet. It was already 11:15. Maybe.…

My ears perked up. There was a distant rustle in the
cemetery’s blanket of autumn leaves. A moment later, he swept into view. He didn’t look remotely threatening. He simply plodded with his head down, his hands jammed in his coat pockets, his icy breath producing little moonlit clouds.

Crunch, crunch, crunch
went his boots. I thought of the tide.
Now? Now?

“Thanks for coming, Allie,” he said, keeping his distance.

I nodded. It was the first time I’d heard him speak. His voice was measured, slightly more high-pitched than his relatives, but resonant. Even at night, I could see now that he was not an exact clone of his cousin, Tim Tabor. His face was thinner, almost gaunt. His shoulders were broader. His hair was more closely cropped.

“What do you want?” I demanded.

“For starters, I want you to know that I didn’t hurt Nicola. I feel terrible about it. I feel terrible about what happened to you and your friend back in Duluth. I was joy-riding. I’m a nurse, Allie. I should have stopped and checked on you.… That was just stupid. I just didn’t want you to drive Juliet away from me.”

I’d planned for a quick getaway. My anxiety fueled my focus, just like in Parkour. My mom’s minivan was parked at the opposite end of the cemetery, at the back entrance. He’d come the way I’d expected, through the front, which meant that if I suddenly turned and ran, it was a straight shot past Nicola’s grave and downhill and to my car. I’d even prepared a note on my computer, so that if anything happened to me, Juliet’s dad would find it. Worst case: I would phone Officer Sirocco if I had to escape. His number was cued up. It was just a matter of touching the screen.

“I don’t believe you,” I forced myself to answer. “I saw what you did at the apartment. I saw those girls!”

“There’s only one girl, Allie, and you can see her anytime you like. She lives in Burnt Bluff. I can call her and you can talk to her.” He reached into his pocket (I flinched) and extended his phone. He clicked the speaker button. I could hear a ring tone.

Then a woman’s voice: “Gary? Is that you?”

“What does that prove?” I shouted.

Garrett Tabor whispered, “I’ll call you later, sweetie,” then shut the phone.

“That could be Gina. Or Dr. Wilenbrand. That could be anyone but Juliet.”

He sat down on a stone bench. Slowly, he ran his fingers through his hair and seemed to massage his forehead. “I don’t expect you to understand. I love her.”

“Her? The woman you just called sweetie?”

“Juliet.”

“You
love
her? You’re old enough to be her father. You tried to ruin her. You tried to make her into your own personal slave. Like that woman you just called.”

His face changed then, like ice melting in a hot pan. All the fake sincerity slipped and there again was the empty face behind the balcony glass. I backed towards Nicola’s grave. My fingers moistened. The phone slipped to the bottom of my pocket. “I’m … I’m going to be a criminal justice student,” I said, and the words sounded ridiculous in my own ears. “I know about hair and fiber evidence and other evidence, too.”

He smiled and stood. “That’s great. So do I. Raised on it, you could say. But we weren’t talking about a crime, because none has been committed.”

“You stole the battery from Rob’s phone,” I said. I forced myself to meet his unreadable gaze. “You stalked two kids and jeopardized their lives.”

“You can believe all you want to believe, Allie,” he said. His voice remained a polite monotone, a stark contrast to my scratchy quaver. “But no one is supposed to use a public park as a private playgound.”

I shuddered.
My God. He really was there. He really did do it
.

Without thinking, I whirled and sprinted toward the minivan. He was faster than I imagined he would be, but he gave up the chase fast. He was smart, no doubt about it. I was sweating as I vaulted over graves and sidestepped tombs. In seconds, I was at the back lot, the minivan eerily vulnerable there in the gravel, alone. My fingers shook nearly uncontrollably. I pressed the unlock button and slammed the door shut and jammed the key in the ignition and struggled to
start the goddamn car—

I held my breath. He was probably revving up his own car right now. I had to get home. I had to put distance between him and me. I jammed my foot on the gas. At the mouth of the highway, I stopped, forcing myself to breathe again. Checking to make sure that I had enough gas and that the doors of the car were all locked, I heard a car motor.
Shit
. His headlights swept through the trees.

As I swung out onto the highway, only three miles from my own driveway, the Alfa Romeo fishtailed out from the path behind me

What if I led Garrett Tabor to my house, where Angela and my mother were getting ready for bed? Now was the time to call Juliet’s dad. Why hadn’t I called him earlier? When I frantically snatched for my phone, it bobbled in my hand and it dropped to the passenger seat, vanishing on the floorboards.
Stupid, stupid, stupid
.… The headlights bore down upon me in my rearview.

No choice but to gun for downtown and scream for help. Then I saw a light. Of course.
Thank God
. Gitchee Pizza.

Throwing the car into park, I leaped out, and grabbed the handle of the glass door, shouting, “Gideon!”

The doors were locked.

The red convertible screeched to a halt beside me. Garrett Tabor jumped out. I ran down the alley for the fire escape, muscling up onto the lower rung and tucking my feet as he lunged for my legs. I darted up the ladder to the roof. If only I had my headlamp.…

I winced. There was a piercing staccato explosion. Then I froze, my legs turning to jelly. I knew that sound. It was a shotgun blast.

It reverberated throughout the darkened streets and buildings. Well. Apparently I really
hadn’t
learned that much from my brief foray into the minds of serial killers. Garrett Tabor was going to defy expectation. He planned to dispose of a victim with a shooting. Which meant I wouldn’t die at the age of thirty after my toxic skin finally gave up on me; I’d die at the hands of a monster on the very roof where I last remembered having real, honest fun with my two best friends.

“Get the hell off my property,” Gideon’s voice yelled.

Falling to my knees, I peered over the edge of the roof. Barely visible at the mouth of the alley was Gideon Brave Bear. He swayed slightly but lowered his barrel towards the bottom of the ladder, where Tabor had dropped himself. Gideon cocked the gun a second time. My shaky lips formed a smile.