Who is Mackie Spence? (19 page)

“Yeah. You're seeing Brody, right?” I say.
Why is she calling me? And so late?

“Right. I, um, have you seen Brody tonight?” she asks, in a choked-up voice.

“No. Is he missing?”

“I don't know. I can't find him.” She pauses. “I took Mackie's phone last night.”

I sit down on my bed and turn the volume up on my phone. Her voice is so faint I have trouble making out all of her words.

“Uh-huh,” I say, wanting her to keep talking.

She sniffles, but continues. “I used Brody's phone to make a call at Kyle's and saw all of the times he'd messaged Mackie. I wanted to see if she replied, so I took her cell phone.”

“How?” I ask her.

“I took it when she wasn't looking. I was going to put it back on the hay bale after I checked her outgoing log, but Brody grabbed it from me. I asked him why he was writing her so much if they were over. We had a bad fight.” Jilly begins to cry.

“So what did Brody do with Mackie's phone?”

“I didn't see him give it back to her, so maybe he still has it.”

Huh.

This is a whole new possibility. That Brody is involved.

“When was the last time you saw him?” I ask, hoping to calm her down and get more information.

“Um, at Kyle's party. I got mad and told him he was a liar. Now, he's not talking to me. He's not with Mackie, is he?”

Damn, I hope not!

I try to keep cool, as my hand clenches my phone.

“I don't know, Jilly. But it's not your fault that he's a jerk.”

“Okay. Just so you know, I don't have anything against Mackie. She seems nice. She didn't send any replies to his messages.”

“Jilly. Where do you think Brody is now?”

“I don't know. He said that his parents and Jake would be gone for the weekend, and we'd have the house to ourselves. We were supposed to have a party tonight. I went there today, but no one was home. I've called around and nobody's seen him. I thought he might be with Mackie, and you knew about it. I'm sorry.”

She's crying again. I want to hang up and go find Brody, but not for the reasons Jilly could want.

“Jilly, it's late. I'm sorry but I don't know where he is. Call me if you hear something, okay? And don't worry. Brody always makes sure he's okay.”

She mumbles something that sounds like “thanks,” and we say goodbye. I end the call and stare at my phone.

Brody took Mackie's cell phone from Jilly in the Davenports' barn.
Does he still have it?
I received texts today from her phone. This is a fact. Maybe Mackie didn't send them, though. Maybe it was Brody?

Brody could have called the Spences' house number to tell Mackie that he had her cell phone. Mackie told her mother she was going to get her phone, and left on her bike. Though she didn't like being around Brody, Mackie would meet him to get her phone back. To do that, she must have been with him some time during the day. Brody, the guy who Mackie said was obsessed with her and tried to make her feel like she owed him something.
Not good. Not good at all!

I stand in a rush, and run down the stairs. In the hallway, I grab a flashlight, my jacket, and reflector.

It is late, so there is no traffic as I start to run the streets leading to the island's northern point, near Locke's Pass, and then west to Port Claridon. The port is where the Camerons' waterfront home is located. I didn't care about anything but finding Mackie and making sure she's safe. If I have to go through Brody to do that, then I will.

I was at Brody's house last year, after one of our soccer games. Running the three miles fast, I use the beam of my flashlight and the dim overhead moonlight to follow the streets. A couple of times the uneven asphalt on the road shoulder throws me off balance, and I have to jerk upright to avoid falling.

Finally, I find the tall columns of mortared rocks that look like guards at the top of the Camerons' drive. Like most waterfront homes on the island, their house isn't visible from the road. Before me stretches a long driveway that winds back through the property into blackness.

I gasp for breath as I step off the road and onto the drive entrance. Woods on either side of me make it feel like I'm looking down a tunnel. The front of their yard is dense with salal and tiers of hemlock and cedar trees. I can't see much of anything beyond my small flashlight beam as I walk down the drive. Not wanting to tip off Body that I've arrived, I palm my light to keep the beam dim, and point it at my feet. I move cautiously forward.

Ahead are lights, but only outside, at the front porch and outside of the south wing. The house is huge. It has multiple rooflines, elevated decks, and six entrances. A square, two-story guesthouse sits about one hundred feet off the main house. The guesthouse looks completely dark. Ditto for the third building, a three-bay garage.

I stay close to the main house and slip along to the west entrance facing the water. Light filters around the edges of the kitchen's window blinds. Otherwise, the place appears to be empty.

After shuffling in a low crouch to move beyond the house, I peer through a window inside the detached garage. Brody's red convertible is parked inside with one other vehicle, a sedan that looks like it might belong to his parents.

I make my way back to the house, knowing that homes like the Cameron's have security systems. Experience has taught me electronic surveillance is hard to beat. But I need to find out if Brody is inside the house.

Moving into the main yard with its formal garden and waterfront, I stop behind some low shrubs so I can view the full west face of the house. Because the night is dark, I won't be seen but can monitor any change of lighting inside. Pulling out my phone, I tap in a message to Mackie's phone:

This should get a reaction out of Brody. If he has Mackie's phone.

I wait. There are no changes in the house lights. I move to the east side of the house that faces into the woods. No additional lights have been turned on. Nothing has changed in the house since I sent my text.

What if Brody isn't buying my message?
Because we run cross-country and play soccer together, he can spot my bluffs. If I really knew where Mackie was, I'd just show up, not send a message.

I jog around the building to sit on a garden bench off the kitchen entrance. Brody's car is here, so logically he is on the property somewhere. I can't get into the house, but nothing suggests that he's actually in the house.
Where else can he be?
The guesthouse? No. It's dark and looks deserted. Same for the garage. That leaves the grounds. Wouldn't he want to be comfortable inside the house? According to Jilly, Brody's parents and brother are gone for the weekend. So Brody has the run of the place, the whole property for that matter.

Brody. He's a creature of habit. I know that from playing with him. He favors certain repeat moves. But above all, he likes to be the leader. He has to be the guy in control. So, in this house, he'd want to be in rooms where he could see everything around him. All of those rooms have a water view.

I shiver from sitting in my own sweat.
Keep moving.
I walk around the house's corner to the west side and gaze up at the windows. Still no change in the kitchen lights. Turning slowly, I search the lawn and garden.
What am I missing?

Then I see it. A tiny light pops out just beyond the shoreline, in the water, like a low wattage security spot. The light is on the sailboat at the Camerons' dock!
Is Brody on their boat?

Again cupping my flashlight's beam, I edge through the flower garden to a stepping-stone walkway. The waterfront is about two hundred feet from the house. The tide is in and it looks like I can walk out on the dock and step into the water.
DARK WATER
. I shudder at the words Mackie spelled on the Ouija board.
Focus.

I strain to hear voices, any sound at all.

The tiny light seems to glow from below deck. Brody could be there. But I can't hear or see him. I need to find out. Moving fast down the stepping stones, it takes only seconds to close in on the gleaming white boat.

Walking on the wooden dock will be more of a challenge. The dock will creak with each of my footsteps. There is no way to disguise my arrival. I move cautiously, hugging the two-sided railing. At the end of the dock, I stand parallel along the starboard side.

During the summer of my freshman year, I took sailing classes through the parks department. But this boat is huge compared to the small Sunfishes I sailed. Stepping tentatively on deck, I listen and still hear nothing but a slight shifting of the boat.
Am I wrong?
Brody isn't here?

Ahead, a lighted stairway at the hatch leads to rooms below. This is the light I saw from the yard. I inch to the opening with my flashlight turned off. There is something sticky on the floor, but it's not slowing me. I focus carefully as I step down the stairs.

Whoa!
A man's legs, ending in deck shoes, stick out in the aisle from behind a tall cabinet. Someone is within six feet of me! But there is no sound. They look like Brody's legs. What's he doing? I've made plenty of noise. He should be alert and checking me out.

Holding my breath, I tense for him to make his move. Then I see Mackie's phone on a low table to the right of his legs.
Maybe she is here!
The figure behind the cabinet doesn't move.
Brody?

“Uh, er . . .” I clear my throat and cough.

No movement from The Legs.

Creeping forward, I stay on guard, ready for him to lunge at me. There's an empty gin bottle on the floor between us.
Has he passed out?
Great. If so, I'll have to rouse him to get answers about Mackie. I peer around the cabinet.

Shit!

It
is
Brody! He has three-inch, parallel cuts ending in puncture wounds covering his head, arms, and chest. His T-shirt is ripped all over. His hair is matted with blood from what look like holes capped with coagulated mounds of blood. Dried blood covers his closed eyelids. I stagger closer.

Alive or dead?

“Bro,” I whisper. I try again. “Brody, wake up. Come on, wake up, Bro.” I nudge his foot with mine. Still nothing.

Oh shit, crap, shit! He's dead?

I need to find out, but don't want to touch him. I walk around the cabin looking for matches. In a drawer I find a long, butane lighter, the kind used to light gas grills. Moving back to Brody's sickening self, I push, click, and light a flame about two inches under his nostrils. The flame flickers. He's breathing!
Yes!

I slump against a side chair. As much as Brody disgusts me, I don't want to see him dead. But he is crazy hurt, his skin raked and punctured. Blood is smeared everywhere on him. What happened? The sticky stuff I stepped in must be blood, and it tops the deck and stairs.
Is someone else on the boat with me?
The person who did this to Brody?

I push my panic down. I have to call for help. What about Mackie? Is she hurt, too? I call out, “Mackie! Come on Mac. Mackie, where are you?” My voice bounces off the walls.

Nothing.

Still calling her name, I make myself concentrate on moving through the cabin. There isn't any blood beyond the main room. That's good. Hopefully, it's all Brody's.

The doors to the rooms farthest forward are wide open. I check them out, including the shower and head. Empty. By this time I am shaking, and can hear my teeth chattering, but not from being cold. The whole place is absolutely beyond crazy.
Brody. Blood. Who could have done this to him?
Fear pushes up against my throat.

Climbing the stairs to the main deck, I call, “Mackie, come on, Mackie. Answer me. Mackie. Mackie.”

Silence.

I put my hand in my pocket to pull out my phone when I see a piece of light blue fabric with tiny white dots, torn in a long strip, hanging from a rigging. I step closer. Mackie has a shirt like this. I've seen her wear it lots of times.

Frantically, I pace around the deck.
Has she come and gone, or is she still somewhere on the boat?
I want to find her, more than anything. Brody is alive. He can wait.

Standing mid ship, I rub my eyes and stare out at the water in the bay on the port side. Feeling like a balloon that's slowly losing air, I make myself move. I want to get away from the dark water.

As I step off the boat onto the dock, I hear a sound overhead. It's an eagle's cry. That shouldn't happen. Eagles hunt during the day. They have limited night vision. But right now, an eagle is somewhere near me.
Oh crap!

I step back onto the boat, fold my hands across my chest to look non-threatening, and look up. I barely find the shape of the bird. It circles above, something eagles do when they're marking territory. Or searching below for prey.

Why is this happening?
Is this bird hunting me? I grab a padded cushion from a deck chair and hug it to my chest. The bird spirals just off port. Then it hits me like a lightning bolt, why the puncture wounds on Brody looked so familiar. They're the same size and pattern that I've seen on eagles that have been brought to the shelter after they've been attacked. By another eagle!
Is this bird circling to attack me?

Moving along the railing, I peer into the calm, dark water.
It's too dark. I need more light.
Pointing my flashlight beam down, I walk along the length of the boat, searching the water for whatever has drawn the eagle's interest.

I'm almost at the bow when I see a clump of weeds rolled up against the boat at water level. No, wait. It's not vegetation, but a cluster of sea otters rafted together, holding each other's paws. This is often how they sleep. Under my flashlight, pale jowl fur gleams against their darker head fur. Eyes blink up at me, very alert. I almost cover the flashlight, so as to not disturb them, when I recognize what floats in the middle of the group.