Inevitable Discovery

by Melissa F. Miller

  It wasn’t Patrick, couldn’t be Patrick. Patrick was dead, had been dead for twenty years. She knew—intellectually, of course, she did. But she couldn’t pull her eyes away from the young man.

  He was Patrick. He didn’t look like Patrick. He was Patrick. He had Patrick’s thick, strawberry blond shock of hair. Patrick’s smattering of freckles splashed across the bridge of his nose. The squareness of his jaw, the slope over the ears, the broad shoulders and barrel chest—all Patrick’s.

  Not Patrick as she remembered him when he died, a thirty-year-old man. Adult and serious. This kid was Patrick when he graduated from high school, full of life and possibility and cocksure swagger.

  The teenager skipped the last step and jumped to the ground with a graceful, fluid motion. She stared as he unlocked his bike from the rack and swung one leg over it. He adjusted his backpack and reached for the helmet clipped over his handlebars.

  She raised her phone casually as if she were checking directions or a message and snapped a surreptitious picture without looking. She felt vaguely creepy and intrusive, but she needed tangible evidence of this ghost.

  He lifted his head and looked directly at her. She froze. Busted. Did he know she’d taken his picture? Her brain scrambled, searching for an excuse.

  But he gave her a wide, impersonal grin and snapped his helmet strap closed under his chin. As he did so, he lifted his chin and met her gaze, and her breath caught in her throat. Green eyes, her own wide-set green eyes look back at her. The same shape, same emerald hue.

  She exhaled and waved him across the crosswalk. He raised a hand in thanks and stood on the bike’s pedals, using his momentum to get a good start. The movements were etched in her memory from years of watching Patrick pedal away from the house.

  She watched his back grow smaller and smaller and tried to catch her breath, to still her shaking hands, to make sense of what she’d seen.

  “You’re being ridiculous,” she finally said aloud.

  Her voice was breathy and trembly in the quiet car. She was seeing ghosts because it was the twentieth anniversary of Patrick’s death. Of course, he was on her overtired mind. Twenty years ago today, and she’d been woken by a jarring phone, just as she had been that Saturday in 1999. That’s all this was. Any young man with vaguely Irish coloring and the right height and weight would have triggered an emotional response.

  Her logical arguments would have swayed a judge, a jury, any reasonable person. But they thudded against her own experience, dull, flat, and unconvincing against what she’d seen with her own eyes: her dead brother was riding a bike around the college campus.

  She opened her phone’s camera app and studied the picture. It was slightly off center, but in focus. She’d caught him just as he’d raised his head. He stared back at her from under too-long bangs.

  “Who are you?” she demanded of the image and half-expected it to answer.

  After a long moment, she rolled her eyes and tossed the phone in the center console. You’re exhausted, she told herself.

  She snapped on the radio to drown out her thoughts and headed down the hill.

  Patrick is dead. He’s dead. Dead.

  She repeated the words. They were a mantra, a painful, crushing reminder of reality that weighed on her chest like a stone. But they kept her grounded, tethered to reality. Because the reality was, her brother wasn’t bicycling around a leafy college campus. He was decomposing in a box deep in the earth in a cemetery across town.

  5

  Wednesday, November 24, 1999

  All Souls Cemetery

  Pittsburgh, PA

  * * *

  The cold rain fell harder, and Sasha turned up the collar of her black coat to cover her exposed neck. Next to her, her father gestured for her closest brother to shield her with his umbrella. Sean, staring dead-eyed and unseeing at the sea of the headstones that dotted the hillside, didn’t notice.

  Dad frowned. She shook her head. It didn’t matter. She welcomed the rain—feeling the cold rain that would make her wool coat itch and, later, smell like a wet dog meant that she was alive. Her eyes dropped to the fresh hole in the ground. Unlike Patrick.

  Dad shook his head and moved closer to her weeping mother, ensuring that his own black umbrella completely protected his wife.

  “There should have been a canopy,” Ryan muttered on the other side of Sean. She let his words wash over her, blotting out Father Timothy’s intonations.

  She noticed that at least the priest was standing under a tarp cover. He wasn’t getting wet. And neither was Patrick, snug and dry inside his box. Snug, dry, and soon to be lowered into the gaping hole. Her thoughts came and went as randomly and quickly as the drops falling from the gray sky.

  On the other side of her mother, Patrick’s wife—er, widow—Karyn wailed.

  Poor Karyn. For all the grief she and Ryan and Sean felt, Patrick’s wife’s searing loss was different. And her parents were feeling something else entirely. Burying their child had hollowed them out, leaving them empty-eyed and pale, stunned.

  She turned her neck and craned her head over her shoulder to catch Allie’s eye. She stood between Ryan and Sean’s wives, red-eyed and clutching a handkerchief—probably pulled from Riley’s bottomless tote bag. Allie nodded at her and flashed a wan smile. She let her gaze drift over Allie’s head and fall on Patrick’s friends, standing in a clump together. Some of them clung to the hands of girlfriends or wives. Some of them leaned their shoulders against one another in support.

  No Cole. Had he wanted to be there, or was he afraid to face her family? Her parents hadn’t heard from Cole, at least not as far as she knew, since the night he’d accidentally shot Patrick.

  He’d shot Patrick. The words punched her in the stomach and took her breath away.

  It had been this way all week. She’d sleepwalk through the day in a daze and then—bam—something, a song, a phrase, the smell of cinnamon rolls, would hit her and remind her that Patrick was really and truly dead. Shot and killed by his best friend.

  Her legs threatened to buckle, and she inhaled deeply.

  Keep it together. If you face plant in this mud, Sean’ll never let you hear the end of it.

  She exhaled—a big whooshing breath—and felt inside her coat collar until her fingers found her necklace. She rubbed her fingers over the spider monkey charm—a gift from Patrick last Christmas.

  She and Patrick, the youngest and the oldest. The ten-year age difference only exacerbated their personality differences. They were the yin and yang of the McCandless children. And the only common ground they’d ever found wasn’t on the ground at all. It was on the side of a mountain.

  She swayed again and gripped the charm. Just hang on. Don’t look down, and don’t let go.

  It was advice Patrick had given her once on a sheer rock face. She’d scrabbled ahead of him and gotten herself into a spot where she couldn’t reach the next handhold or foothold. She’d dangled there, trapped and on the edge of panic. With over a foot in height on her, Patrick had easily swung to the next hold and then grabbed her, saying, “Just hang on. Don’t look down, and don’t let go.”

  She made a noise, almost a mewl. It came out soft and small, partially blocked by the boulder of grief lodged in her throat.

  Her dad gave her another look, then leaned over and hissed at Sean, “Share your umbrella with your sister. She’s gonna catch a cold.”

  Sean rolled his eyes but inched closer and covered her with his umbrella. She tuned out Father Timothy, the relentless sound of the icy rain, and the image of her brother, still and lifeless, inside a box and let her thoughts drift far away.

  Sean brought her back with an elbow to the ribs.

  “Hey!”

  He cocked his head toward the hole in the ground. Her parents and Ryan looked at her expectantly. Karyn’s eyes were pinned on the hole. It was time.

  Sasha stepped forward and took the handful of earth the funeral director offered.

  As she tossed
it on top of the little pile of dirt already on the coffin, Father Timothy intoned, “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”

  She turned away.

  As the mourners made their way across the frozen grass, she caught up with Allie and linked her arm through her roommate’s.

  “Thanks for being here.”

  Allie turned to face her. She looked awful, almost unrecognizable. Her eyes were swollen and raised red welts stood out on her pale forehead and cheeks.

  “Are you okay?”

  Allie nodded and turned up the collar of her Burberry trench. “Yeah, I feel silly. Patrick was your brother, it’s just weird.”

  “Weird how?”

  “I feel …”

  She waited, but Allie didn’t go on.

  She squeezed Allie’s arm. “I get it. My brothers love you. They all think of you as another little sister.”

  Allie bit down on her lower lip and shook her head. “I don’t—”

  “I’m sure that does feel weird to you. But you’re family.”

  Of course it would seem strange to Allie. She was an only child, after all.

  Allie burst into fresh tears. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay.”

  It really was. Sasha was trying hard not to shed her own tears, to stay strong for her parents. Allie could cry for both of them.

  Allie managed a grateful smile as they reached the row of black limousines.

  They slid into the second car and settled in next to Ryan and Riley and across from Sean and Jordan.

  “Where’s Karyn?” Sasha shook the rain from her hair as she asked the question.

  “In the front car with Mom and Dad and Nana,” Ryan told her.

  Riley and Jordan resumed their conversation across the car.

  “I can’t believe Cole didn’t come.”

  Sean frowned at his wife. “It’s a good thing he didn’t. Unless he wants to get his ass kicked.”

  Jordan twisted her mouth into a frown. “I’m sure he feels awful. It was an accident.”

  “It was stupid is what it was.”

  Sasha leaned forward. She was itching to know what had happened, but ever since she’d been home, Sean had been close-mouthed and foul-tempered. And her parents clammed up mid-sentence whenever she walked into the room. She was as in the dark now as she’d been on Saturday morning.

  “Stupid how? What happened, Sean?”

  Jordan flashed her a disapproving look, but Sean answered in a rapid burst, like he’d been holding the words back through sheer will.

  “We were coming out of the Dirty Rocket—it’s a nightclub right on the Boardwalk. Pat wanted to get some food. We ran into this group of guys coming the other way, and some tall skinny guy jostled Dale. Words were exchanged.”

  “Words were exchanged?” Allie echoed in disbelief.

  She was obviously not familiar with testosterone-fueled machismo. Sasha’s sisters-in-law, on the other hand, were well acquainted with the notion. They rolled their eyes in unison.

  Sean went on as if Allie hadn’t interrupted. “There was some pushing and shoving. Some swearing. Nothing major. Then one of the guys reached inside his jacket pocket, and Cole yelled ’gun!’ Then he whipped out his handgun.”

  It was Sasha’s turn to interrupt. “Why’d he have a gun in the first place?”

  Sean shook his head. “I don’t know. I didn’t even know Cole carried. But he aimed across Pat at the kid. Everyone was shouting. Pat grabbed Cole’s arm and, I don’t know, I guess he jerked Cole’s arm up. The gun fired. The bullet hit Pat in the lung.”

  He fell silent and stared down at his hands.

  “The cherry on this crap sundae is that the other guy wasn’t even packing,” Ryan added in a tight voice.

  “What?”

  “The other kid, he wasn’t going for a gun. He was taking out his mobile phone.”

  Sasha pressed her hand to her mouth and tried to breathe. Sean was right. Her brother’s death was stupid. A stupid, avoidable tragedy.

  “Pull over, I’m gonna barf,” Allie whimpered.

  Sean pounded his fist on the divider and called to the driver. The limo came to a stop and Riley flung open the door. While Allie crawled out of the car and hurled, Sasha flopped her head back against the headrest and closed her eyes.

  6

  Wednesday morning

  * * *

  Charlie rested his forehead against the cold metal bars of the holding cell and tried to work out what time it was. His brain was fuzzy from exhaustion and fear, and he couldn’t think.

  He turned toward the small square window set high in the concrete block wall and rubbed his temples as he tried to estimate the time of day by the weak sunlight streaming through the dirt-streaked, barred window.

  Early morning?

  He wished he hadn’t dozed off and missed the sunrise, but the long hours of nothingness had pressed in on him and, finally, he’d surrendered to sleep. When he’d closed his eyes the sky had been purple-black, and when he’d opened them, the sun had risen.

  In truth, he was grateful for the rest and the reprieve from the unrelenting boredom that had replaced the fear and worry. But now it left him disoriented and wondering. How long until someone reported him missing?

  He eyed the other men slumped against the walls, sitting on the floor or curled up on the scattered metal frames that lacked the mattresses they needed to call themselves proper beds.

  “Any of you guys know what time it is?” He pitched his voice soft and low so as not to wake anyone who was managing to sleep through part of their captivity.

  Were his students lined up outside his office door waiting to pepper him with questions about Howard Zinn and nonviolence and radical honesty? He wondered about them because he didn’t dare to let himself think about Raquel. She must be out of her mind with worry. He’d never not come home. In all the years that they’d lived together, he’d never once stayed out all night without calling her. If he was arrested, she was his one call. Always.

  But this time, there’d been no call.

  He hoped that when he hadn’t shown up by morning, she’d had the presence of mind to start calling the local public defenders. Although he was beginning to suspect a PD wasn’t going to do him a lot of good, not this time. This was different.

  He glanced around the dirty, cold cell. His gaze fell on a rust-colored stain near the drain in the middle of the floor. Had it been made by rusty water, heavy with metals and impurities, or by a past detainee’s hot blood pouring out of a wound? After a long moment, he decided he didn’t want to know.

  Finally, after he’d given up on getting an answer to his question about the time, a long-haired dude in the corner jutted his chin toward Charlie. “I think it’s about nine. After eight, for sure.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. The guards had a shift change while you were sleeping. Figure that was eight o’clock. The sun was up.”

  It was a reasonable guess. Law enforcement often worked eight to four, four to midnight, and midnight to eight shifts. Sometimes the schedule was six to two, and so on. But if the sun was up, it hadn’t been six o’clock when the guards had changed shifts.

  “Thanks, man.”

  “Yeah.” The guy jammed his hands in his pocket and glanced away.

  Charlie understood. It didn’t pay to get too friendly with one’s cellmates. Any one of them could decide to cut a deal with the state by providing evidence against you, real or manufactured, to save their own hide. Or, even worse, anyone could be working undercover, planted there specifically to elicit information for the authorities. That was just the way the game was played. And anyone who knew the rules of the game knew not to get suckered.

  But hours of boredom and uncertainty won out over Charlie’s better judgment, and he found himself edging his way along the cell wall, closer to the guy in the corner.

  “Charlie Robinson.” He stuck out his hand.

  The man stared at it for a long moment before giving it a
quick, reluctant shake. He dropped it like it burned. “Barefoot.”

  Charlie assumed that was a surname, but Barefoot didn’t elaborate.

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Barefoot.”

  The guy shook his head. “Nah, man. No offense, but I’m not at all happy to meet you. Not here. Not like this.”

  Charlie laughed. “Fair point. They pick you up at the protest?”

  “Why you want to know? You a reporter or something?”

  “No. I’m a professor.”

  “No crap?”

  “True story. I teach a grassroots organizing class, and some of my students put together last night’s vigil for Vaughn Tabor. I figured I’d show up in solidarity. I’ve had lots of time to question the wisdom of that decision.”

  “You and me both, man.” Barefoot nodded.

  “Why did you ask if I was a reporter? Did they pick up any journalists last night?”

  Not so long ago, Charlie would’ve been shocked to hear about a reporter getting arrested while covering a peaceful protest. But as the definition of media had expanded to include anybody with a blog or a Twitter account, the First Amendment press protections had dwindled proportionally.

  Barefoot didn’t respond.

  But a skinny kid looked up from examining the dirt under his nails and bobbed his head. “Yeah, they did. I know they grabbed Will Grant from the campus paper and some freelancer for one of the city papers, but they took them to the regular police station. Not … here.”

  Charlie recognized the kid from campus. “What’s your name?”

  “Jackson.”

  Apparently, surnames were taboo in the cellblock.

  “Thanks, Jackson. I take it this isn’t the Milltown PD, then?”

  “Come on, man.”

  “Yeah.”

  He’d known from the jump that the Milltown police department had nothing to do with his capture, but he’d been holding out hope that local law enforcement was somehow involved. The alternative was frightening, but not unexpected.