You'll Miss Me When I'm Gone (21 page)

There was a pause. “Bonnie?”

“In answer to your questions: fine, yes, and yes,” she said. “The cops said dozens of kids from school have been getting these weird threatening calls and texts—and not just the kids in our class. I guess all the parents are freaking out. One guy alone, calling himself the Ice Tray Killer, sent out like twenty creepy texts. And there have been a lot of other sick pranks along those lines. So I guess I'm not the only one getting spooked out. But the police were concerned about the break-in, and they're beefing up patrols on our block. So I think we're okay for tonight. Anyway, thanks for convincing me to tell my folks and the police. I feel a lot safer now.”

Spencer wondered once again if that had really been Reed's Dodgers cap in his locker. Or had someone planted a random cap there just to screw around with his head?

“Are you still there?” Bonnie asked.

“Yes,” he said. The two screaming women had moved on. But he kept his hand over one ear.

“I told the police about Tanya—and the pencil shavings and how she was the only one who knew about our basement window with the bad lock. They said they'd talk to her. That ought to go over well with her. Huh, like she doesn't already hate me enough . . .”

“You did the right thing,” Spencer said.

“They asked me about you.”

Spencer felt his stomach clench. “Did you tell them we talked? I asked you not to—”

“The police were the ones who brought you up,” Bonnie explained. “They asked how well I knew you. I told them we've talked a couple of times, and that you seemed like a nice guy.”

“Is that it?”

“No, they also asked how you got along with Reed, and I was honest. I told them he was kind of a jerk to you. They already knew about your
Fight Club
moment with him on Thursday, and again in the smoking pit outside the lunchroom on Friday. They wanted to know what I saw and heard. Anyway, they got around to asking if I was aware you'd spent some time in a—an institution. I didn't want to lie. But here's where I might have botched things up for you. I said that someone had texted Reed about your stint in the institution, and that Reed was kind of rubbing your face in it. I'm sorry. I'm afraid I might have given them a motive for why you'd want him dead . . .”

“No, it's okay,” Spencer assured her. “That's stuff they already knew. You didn't make things any worse for me, really. And I'm glad you didn't have to lie on my account. I wouldn't want you to get in trouble if the cops found out . . .”

With the phone to his ear, he glanced over at the black Corolla, still parked near the mouth of the alley.

“I was right,” he heard Bonnie say. “You are a nice guy. Listen, my mom's calling me to dinner. I better go.”

“Okay,” he said. “Thanks a lot for calling.”

“See you at school tomorrow—if I don't get killed tonight,” she said.

She hung up before Spencer could tell her she shouldn't joke like that.

As he clicked off the phone, he saw the number 10 bus coming up the street. He glanced back over at the black Corolla. It was still parked near the mouth of the alley.

And the driver was still inside.

* * *

Spencer watched the raindrops accumulate against the window of the bus as it headed up Olive Way on Capitol Hill. He'd wanted to sit in the very back to make sure the black Corolla didn't follow the bus. But, unfortunately, the two backpack guys had hopped on before him and taken the backseat: “. . . And he came out of the fucking store, and I knew the stupid fuck was so fucking high, and I figured, like, fuck it . . .” Spencer wondered what swearwords they used when they were actually upset about something.

With his backpack in his lap, he sat near the rear door and tried to block out their conversation. He had another ten minutes before his stop—and then three blocks of walking in the rain to Diane Leppert's office.

She was the only other person who knew the whole story about what had happened that July night, six years ago—a night that hadn't stopped haunting him.

If only he hadn't mentioned to Garrett that his father had a gun.

He remembered Garrett wouldn't stop asking where the gun was. He just wouldn't let up.

“Listen, I'm not really sure where he keeps the stupid gun,” Spencer lied. They were spread out on the sofa—with the empty pizza box and Coke cans on the coffee table in front of them. “He keeps changing the hiding place.”

“Well, earlier, you acted like you knew where it was. Where was it the last time you checked? I'll bet it's in their bedroom . . .”

Spencer kept changing the subject. Fortunately, Garrett got more and more interested in
Se7en
. But once the end credits began to roll, he started in about the gun again. He was determined to find it. He wore Spencer down.

“Okay, you were right earlier,” he sighed. “It's in my mom and dad's bedroom. But that's off-limits.”

Garrett hopped off the sofa. “I'll bet I can find it.”

“Oh, c'mon, please, don't go up there,” Spencer said. But Garrett was already rushing up the stairs. Spencer hurried after him. “Hey, y'know, it's past eleven. My folks might be back any minute. We're not supposed to go in their bedroom. My dad will kill us if he finds out!”

“Why? What is it—a sex dungeon or something?” Garrett laughed. He headed into the master bedroom. “Is this the fornication station?”

As Spencer stepped in after him, he saw that Garrett was already opening the drawer of the nightstand on the right side of his parents' bed.

“Listen, Garrett, we really can't be in here. Plus it's dangerous. What if the gun goes off accidentally?”

“I just want to look at it, that's all,” Garrett said, peeking under the bed. “It's not like I'm going to shoot you with it. Tell me if I'm getting hot or cold.”

Spencer watched him check the other nightstand. He cringed when Garrett opened the closet door. “I'll bet it's in here,” Garrett said.

“It isn't,” Spencer sighed. “Listen, do you promise just to look at it—for like, thirty seconds?”

Garrett smiled and nodded eagerly. “Yeah, that's all I want to do.”

“And then we're going to put it away, right?”

“Of course.”

Spencer took a deep breath, marched over to his father's dresser, and opened the bottom drawer. He pulled the Glock 19 out from under a pile of folded casual shirts. With his fingertips, he held it by the barrel and reluctantly passed it to Garrett. “Thirty seconds, starting now,” he said. “One, two . . .”

“Shit, it's loaded,” Garrett said, examining it. “I can tell. This mother could do some damage.” He pointed the gun at Spencer. “You know, you really piss me off sometimes.
Bang!
”

Spencer flinched.

Garrett laughed. “Hey, relax, the trigger safety's on.”

“You have fifteen more seconds,” Spencer said, nervously tapping his foot.

Garrett stuck the Glock in the waist of his cargo shorts, and then whipped it out as if in a gunfight. He repeated the move.

“Okay, time's up.” Spencer held out his shaky hand. “C'mon, my mom and dad could be back any minute.”

“I want to see how I look with it,” Garrett said, heading out of the bedroom.

Spencer followed him down the hallway to his own room. He didn't understand it. His parents had two different mirrors in their bedroom, but Garrett had to pose in front of the full-length mirror on the back of Spencer's door. “Just like James Bond,” Garrett said. He pointed the Glock at the mirror and pretended to fire. “Die, you son of a bitch!
Bang!
Fuck me? No, fuck you!
Bang!
”

“C'mon, Garrett, hand it over. Please? Thirty seconds, that was the agreement.”

But his friend kept up his charade in front of the mirror—waving the gun, screaming at his reflection, and imitating heavy metal music. Past all of it, Spencer heard the front door open downstairs.

“Oh, God, that's them! Give it to me!” He tried to grab the gun.

But Garrett wouldn't surrender it. He opened his mouth to laugh, but no sound came out. “Oh, Jesus,” he finally whispered. “Your old man's gonna shit . . .” He backed away and hurled the gun under Spencer's bunk bed.

“Damn it,” Spencer hissed. “Why'd you do that?”

“To hide it . . .”

Spencer dropped to his knees. Now he had to crawl under the bed to retrieve the stupid gun—and his parents were already in the house. He could hear the footsteps downstairs, and his mother talking quietly.

“Spencer!” his dad yelled. He sounded angry. “Spencer, get down here!”

He couldn't see the gun under his bed. He straightened up and then hurried to the top of the stairs. “How was the party?” he called, a little out of breath.

“Come down here!” his father replied.

Biting his lip, he crept back to the master bedroom doorway. He saw his father's dresser drawer was still open. He padded across the room and shut it. Then he hurried back toward the hallway, stopping only to switch off the light.

Stifling a laugh, Garrett waited for him near the top of the stairs. He didn't seem to realize how serious this was.

Spencer started down the steps, with Garrett behind him.

“Oh, for God's sake, it's no biggie,” Spencer's mother was saying in a hushed tone. “You always get this way when you've had too much to drink . . .”

“Shut up,” his father grumbled. “And don't touch that. Don't touch a thing.”

“I can't deal with you when you're like this. I'm taking a sleeping pill.”

From the front hallway, Spencer could hear them in the family room, where he and Garrett had been watching the movie. They'd left the TV on. He headed toward the back of the house while Garrett remained by the stairs.

In the family room, Spencer found his father standing between the TV and the sofa. He'd loosened his tie, and his face was a little flushed—the usual sign that he was drunk. It was an on-again, off-again problem. He tended to get pretty smashed at parties, which irritated the hell out of Spencer's mother. When he was drunk, he'd get angry and abusive. Although he never hit either one of them, he was still pretty scary. Spencer's mother was in the kitchen area, which was separated from the family room by a counter. She looked pretty in a red, sleeveless party dress. She was downing some pills with a glass of water.

“What the hell is this?” his father asked, nodding at the coffee table in front of the sofa. “We treated you guys to pizza. Are we supposed to clean up after you, too?”

Spencer stole a look toward the front hallway, where he knew Garrett could hear every word. Anyone listening could have figured out his dad was hammered. He was so embarrassed. He glanced at the source of all the trouble: an empty pizza box, some dirty napkins, and a couple empty Coke cans. “Sorry,” Spencer mumbled. “We were gonna clean it up. We just didn't think you'd be home this early . . .”

“And the TV's on—with no one watching it. How'd you like to pay the Dominion Virginia Power bill?”

“I'm sorry.”

His father scowled at him. “Well, don't just stand there like an idiot. Clean up this goddamn mess.”

Spencer's mother clicked her tongue against her teeth. “Larry, you're being an ogre . . .”

Spencer started to gather up the box, napkins, and Coke cans. “Mom, it's okay.”

“It's not okay!” his father snapped. “Where's this friend of yours? Is he still here?”

Spencer dumped the cans in the recycling bin under the sink. “He's in the other room,” Spencer whispered. “Dad, can we please leave him out of it? This was all my fault . . .” He started to crunch up the pizza box to fit it inside the garbage can.

“You two need to hit the sack right now,” his father said as he headed to the liquor cabinet. “I want you two in your beds, no video games, no chitchat, nothing. You're going to need your sleep because you're both doing yard work in the morning to pay me back for the pizza. Maybe then, you can learn a little gratitude.” He dropped some ice in a glass.

“Oh, Larry, ease up,” his mother muttered.

He glared at Spencer. “Upstairs, the two of you!” he barked. “Go on. And I don't want to hear a peep out of either one of you ungrateful brats.”

A half hour later, they were in their bunks in Spencer's room: Spencer in the bottom bunk, and Garrett on top. The lights were off. Spencer's father had just been in to check on them. Spencer could still pick up the faint odor of alcohol that had been on his breath. “You two slackers get ready for a seven o'clock wake-up call,” he'd said before closing the door.

They'd remained quiet and listened to him lumber down the hallway to the master bedroom. Then, past the low hum of the house's air-conditioning, they'd heard the other door shut.

“Your old man's a real prick, isn't he?” Garrett whispered.

Spencer stared up at the slats holding the mattress overhead. “He gets that way after a few drinks,” he said. “Really, he's not so bad.”

“Well, I'm not doing any yard work for that asshole tomorrow,” Garrett hissed. “You can bet on it. I can't believe the way he talked to you downstairs. You deserve better, Spence-o. How about him carrying on like he treated us to a weekend in Las Vegas or something? Big spender! It was thirty bucks for a pizza. Get over it, numb nuts.”

Spencer shushed him. “He might hear you . . .”

He was still on edge, wondering if his father would discover the gun was missing. These next few minutes before his father went to bed were crucial. Chances were pretty good his dad wouldn't go into that drawer any time tonight or tomorrow. Most of the shirts in there were for fall or winter.