Bloodstream

by Tess Gerritsen

  “Not now, he can’t.” Lincoln rose to his feet. “We need answers before the town meeting. I’ll get you in to see the boy, Claire. One way or another.”

  Standing at the parlor window, she watched him walk down the icy driveway to his truck. He moved with the balanced stride of a man who’d grown up in this unforgiving climate, each step planted squarely, the boot sole stamped down to catch the ice. He reached the truck, opened the door, and for some reason glanced back at her house.

  Just for an instant, their gazes met.

  And she thought, with a strange sense of wonder, How long have I been attracted to him? When did it start? I can’t remember. Now it was one more complication in her life.

  As he drove away, she remained at the window, staring at a landscape bled of all color. Snow and ice and bare trees, all of it fading to black.

  Upstairs, Noah’s music had started again.

  She turned from the window and flicked off the parlor lamp. That’s when she suddenly remembered the promise she’d made to Warren Emerson, and she groaned.

  The cat.

  Night had fallen by the time she drove up the lower slope of Beech Hill and pulled into Emerson’s front yard. She parked next to the woodpile, a perfectly circular tower of stacked logs. She thought of the many hours it must have taken him to arrange his wood with such precision, each log placed with the same care one usually gave to constructing a stone wall. And then to pull it down again, bit by bit, as winter consumed his annual work of art.

  She turned off her engine and looked up at the old farmhouse. No lights were on inside. She used a flashlight to guide herself up the icy front steps to the porch. Everything seemed to sag and she had the strange illusion that she was tilting sideways, sliding toward the edge, toward oblivion. Warren had told her the door would be unlocked, and it was. She stepped inside and turned on the lights.

  The kitchen sprang into view with its worn linoleum and chipped appliances. A small gray cat stared up at her from the floor. They had startled each other, she and the cat, and for a few seconds they both froze.

  Then the cat shot out of the room and vanished somewhere into the house.

  “Here, kitty, kitty! You want your dinner, don’t you? Mona?”

  She had planned to take Mona to a kennel for boarding. Warren Emerson had already been transferred to Eastern Maine Medical Center for his craniotomy, and would remain hospitalized for at least a week. Claire didn’t relish the thought of driving here every day just to feed a cat. But it appeared the cat had different ideas.

  Her frustration mounted as she went from room to room in search of the uncooperative Mona, turning on lights as she went. Like so many other farmhouses of its era, this one had been built to house a large family, and it consisted of many small rooms, made even more claustrophobic by the clutter. She saw piles of old newspapers and magazines, bundled grocery sacks, crates filled with empty bottles. In the hallway she had to turn sideways to navigate a narrow tunnel between stacked books. Such hoarding was usually a sign of mental illness, but Warren had organized his clutter in a logical fashion, the books segregated from the magazines, the brown paper bags all folded and bound together with twine. Perhaps this was merely Yankee frugality carried to an extreme.

  It provided plenty of cover for a fugitive cat.

  She’d made a complete circuit of the downstairs without spotting Mona. The cat must be hiding in one of the upstairs rooms.

  She started up the steps, then halted, her hands suddenly sweating. Deja vu, she thought. I have lived this before. A strange house, a strange staircase. Something terrible waiting for me in the attic …

  But this was not Scotty Braxton’s house, and the only thing lurking upstairs was a frightened animal.

  She forced herself to continue climbing as she called out, “Here, kitty!” if only to prop up her faltering courage. There were four doors on the second floor, but only one was open. If the cat had fled upstairs, she had to be in that room.

  Claire stepped through the doorway and turned on the light.

  Her gaze was drawn at once to the black and white photographs—dozens of them hanging on the wall or propped up on the dresser and nightstand. A gallery of Warren Emerson’s memories. She crossed the room and stared at three faces smiling back at her from one of the photos, a middle-aged couple with a young boy. The woman was round-faced and plain, her hat tilted at a comically drunken pitch. The man beside her seemed to be sharing in the joke; his eyes were bright with laughter. They each rested one hand on the shoulders of the boy standing between them, physically claiming him as their own, their shared possession.

  And the boy with the cowlick and the missing front teeth—this must be young Warren, basking in the glow of his parents’ attention.

  Her gaze moved to the other photographs and she saw the same faces again and again, different seasons, different places. Here a shot of the mother proudly holding up a pie. There a shot of father and son on a riverbank with their fishing poles. Finally, a school photo of a young girl, apparently Warren’s sweetheart, for at the bottom someone had drawn in a heart containing the words Warren and Iris forever. Through tears, Claire stared at the nightstand, at a glass of water resting there, half full. At the bed, where gray hairs had been shed on the pillow. Warren’s bed.

  Every morning he would wake up alone in this room, to the sight of his parents’ photos. And every night, the last image he’d register was of their faces, smiling at him.

  She was crying now, for the child he once was. A lonely little boy trapped in an old man’s body.

  She went back downstairs to the kitchen.

  There was no sense chasing after a cat that didn’t want to be captured. She would simply leave food in the dish, and come back another time. Opening the pantry door, she found herself staring at dozens of cans of cat food stacked on the shelves. There was scarcely anything in the kitchen for a man to eat, but pampered Mona was certainly well-supplied.

  Today she’ll be expecting tuna.

  Tuna it would be. She emptied the can into the cat dish and placed it on the floor next to the bowl of water. She filled another bowl with dried cat food, enough to last several days. She cleaned out the litterbox. Then she turned off the lights and walked out.

  Sitting in her car, she glanced one last time at the house. For most of his life, Warren Emerson had lived within those walls, without human companionship, without love. He would probably die in that house alone, with only a cat to witness his exit.

  She wiped the tears from her eyes. Then she turned the car around and drove down the dark road for home.

  That night Lincoln called her.

  “I spoke to Wanda Darnell,” he said. “I told her there may be a biological reason for her son’s actions. That other children in town have been affected, and we’re trying to track down the cause.”

  “How did she react?”

  “I think she’s relieved. It means there’s something external to blame. Not the family. Not her.”

  “I understand that perfectly.”

  “She’s given permission for you to interview her son.”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow. At the Maine Youth Center.”

  A long row of beds lined the wall of the silent dormitory room. The morning sun shone in through windows above, one bright square of light spilling down on the boy’s thin shoulders. He sat on the bed with his legs tucked up against his chest. His head was bowed. This was not the same boy she had seen four weeks ago, cursing and thrashing. This was a child who’d been beaten down, hopes and dreams trampled, only his physical shell remaining.

  He did not look up as Claire approached, her footsteps echoing on the worn planks. She stopped beside his bed. “Hello, Taylor. Do you feel like talking to me?”

  The boy lifted one shoulder, barely a shrug, but at least it was the semblance of an invitation.

  She reached for a chair, her gaze falling briefly on the small pine desk next to his bed. It was a badly abused pie
ce of furniture, its surface gouged with four-letter words and the initials of countless young residents. She wondered if Taylor had already carved his mark into this permanent record of despair.

  She slid the chair to his bed and sat down. “Whatever we talk about today, Taylor, is just between us, okay?” He gave a shrug, as if it hardly mattered. “Tell me about what happened, that day in school. Why did you do it?”

  He turned his cheek against his knees, as though suddenly too exhausted to hold up his head. “I don’t know why.”

  “Do you remember that day?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Everything?”

  He swallowed hard, but didn’t say anything. His face suddenly rippled with anguish and he closed his eyes, squeezing them so tight his whole face seemed to collapse on itself. He took a deep breath and what should have been a howl of pain came out only as a high, thin keening.

  “I don’t know. I don’t know why I did it.”

  “You brought a gun to school that day.”

  “To prove I had one. They didn’t believe me. They said I was making it up.”

  “Who didn’t believe you?”

  “J.D. and Eddie. They’re always bragging that their dad lets them shoot his guns.”

  Jack Reid’s sons again. Wanda Darnell had said they were a bad influence, and she’d been right.

  “So you brought the gun to school,” said Claire. “Did you plan to use it?”

  He shook his head. “I just had it in my backpack. But then I got a D on my test. And Mrs. Horatio—she started yelling at me about that stupid frog.” He began to rock, hugging his knees, every breath catching in a sob. “I wanted to kill them all. It was like I couldn’t stop myself. I wanted to make them all pay.” He stopped rocking and went very still, his eyes unfocused, gazing at nothing. “I’m not mad at them anymore. But now it’s too late.”

  “It may not be your fault, Taylor.”

  “Everyone knows I did it.”

  “But you just told me you weren’t in control.”

  “It’s still my fault …”

  “Taylor, look at me. I don’t know if anyone’s told you about your friend, Scotty Braxton.”

  Slowly the boy’s gaze lifted to hers.

  “The same thing happened to him. And now his mother is dead.”

  She saw, by his look of shock, that he had not been told the news.

  “No one can explain why he snapped. Why he attacked her. You’re not the only one it’s happened to.”

  “My dad says it’s because you took away my medicine.”

  “Scotty wasn’t taking any medicine.” She paused, searching his eyes. “Or was he?”

  “No.”

  “This is very important. You have to tell me the truth, Taylor. Did either of you boys take any drugs?”

  “I am telling the truth.”

  He looked at her, his gaze unflinching. And she believed him.

  “What about Scotty?” he asked. “Is Scotty coming here?”

  Tears suddenly stung her eyes. She said, softly: “I’m sorry, Taylor. I know you two were good friends …”

  “The best. We’re best friends.”

  “He was in the hospital. And something happened. We tried to help him, but there was—there was nothing—”

  “He’s dead. Isn’t he?”

  His direct question was a plea for an honest answer. She admitted, quietly: “Yes. I’m afraid so.”

  He dropped his face against his knees, and the words spilled out between sobs. “Scotty never did anything wrong! He was such a wuss. That’s what J.D. always called him, the dumb wuss. I never stood up for him. I should’ve said something, but I never did …”

  “Taylor. Taylor, I need to ask you another question.”

  “… I was afraid to.”

  “You and Scotty were together a lot. Where did you two spend your time?”

  He didn’t answer; he just kept rocking on the bed.

  “I really need to know this, Taylor. Where did you two hang out?”

  He took in a shaky breath. “With—with the other kids.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know! All over.”

  “In the woods? At someone’s house?”

  He stopped rocking, and for a moment she thought he hadn’t heard the last question. Then he raised his head and looked at her. “The lake.”

  Locust Lake. It was the center of all activity in Tranquility, the place for picnics and swim races, for boaters and fishermen. Without it, there would be no summer visitors, no flow of money. The town itself would not exist.

  It all has something to do with the lake, she thought suddenly. Water and rainfall. Floods and bacteria.

  The night the water glowed.

  “Taylor,” she said, “did you and Scotty both swim in the lake?”

  He nodded. “Every day.”

  15

  The town meeting was scheduled for seven-thirty, and by seven-fifteen, every seat in the high school cafeteria was filled. People were crowding into the aisles, lining up along the walls, and spilling out the rear doors into the cold wind. From where Claire was standing, off to the side, she had a good view of the speakers’ table at the front. There Lincoln, Fern Cornwallis, and the chairman of the Town Board of Selectmen, Glen Ryder, were seated. The five members of the board were clustered in the front row.

  Claire recognized many of the faces in the audience. Most of them were other parents, whom she’d met at high school functions. She also saw a number of her colleagues from Knox Hospital. The dozen teenagers in attendance had chosen to stand at the rear of the cafeteria, and were tightly clustered together as though to ward off attack by their elders.

  Glen Ryder banged his gavel, but the crowd was too large, too agitated, to hear him. The frustrated Ryder had to climb onto a chair and yell: “This meeting will come to order now!”

  The cafeteria at last fell silent, and Ryder continued. “I know there aren’t enough seats for everyone in here. I know there are people outside who are upset about having to stand in eight-degree weather. But the fire chief says we’ve already exceeded this room’s occupancy limit. We just can’t allow anyone else to enter, unless someone else exits first.”

  “Seems to me some of those kids in the back could leave and make room for adults,” a man grumbled.

  One of the teenagers retorted: “We’ve got a right to be here too!”

  “You kids’re the reason we’re here in the first place!”

  “If you’re going to talk about us, then we want to hear what you’re saying!”

  Half a dozen people started to speak at once.

  “No one’s being kicked out of here!” yelled Ryder. “It’s a public meeting, Ben, and we can’t exclude people. Now let’s get on with it.” Ryder looked at Lincoln. “Chief Kelly, why don’t you bring us up to date with the problems in town.”

  Lincoln rose to his feet. The last few days had drained him, both physically and emotionally, and it showed in the drooping slope of his shoulders. “It hasn’t been a good month,” he said. A typical Lincoln Kelly understatement. “What everyone seems to focus on are the murders. The shooting at the high school on November second, and then the Braxtons on November fifteenth. That’s two murders in two weeks. What scares me even more is, I don’t think we’ve seen the worst of it yet. Last night, my officers responded to eight different calls involving juveniles assaulting others. I’ve never seen this before. I’ve been a cop in this town for twenty-two years. I’ve seen minor crime waves come and go. But what I’m seeing now—kids trying to hurt each other, kill each other—trying to kill the people they love …” He shook his head and sat down without another word.

  “Miss Cornwallis?” said Ryder.

  The high school principal rose to her feet. Fern Cornwallis was a handsome woman, and she had taken pains to look her best tonight. Her blond hair was swept into a gleaming French twist, and she was one of the few women in the room who’d bothered to apply makeup. But th
at touch of bright lipstick only emphasized the anxious pallor of her face.

  “I want to echo everything Chief Kelly just said. What’s happening in this town—the anger, the violence—I’ve never seen it before, either. And it’s not just a problem in the school. It’s also a problem in your homes. I know these children! I’ve watched them grow up. I’ve seen them around town, in the school hallways. Or in my office, as the occasion warranted. And the ones who are getting into fights now, none of them are kids I would have labeled troublemakers. None of them gave any hint, in past years, of being violent. But suddenly I find I don’t know these children anymore. I don’t recognize them.” She paused and swallowed hard. “I’m afraid of them,” she said quietly.

  “So whose fault is it?” yelled Ben Doucette.

  “We’re not saying it’s anyone’s fault,” Fern said. “We’re just trying to understand why this is happening. Between our school and the middle school, we’ve brought in five new guidance counselors on an emergency basis. The high school has a district psychologist, Dr. Lieberman, working intensively with our staff. Trying to come up with a plan of action.”

  Ben stood up. A sour-faced bachelor in his fifties, he had lost an arm in Vietnam, and he was always clutching the stump with his good hand, as though to emphasize his sacrifice. “I can tell you what the problem is,” he said. “It’s the same problem we’ve got all over this country. No goddamn discipline. When I was thirteen, you think I’d have dared to pick up a knife, threaten my mother? My old man woulda whapped me up the side of the head.”

  “What are you suggesting, Mr. Doucette?” said Fern. “That we spank fourteen-year-olds?”

  “Why not?”

  “Try it!” yelled one of the teenage boys, and he was joined by the other kids in a chorus of jeers: “Try it, try it, try it!”

  The meeting was out of control. Lincoln stood up, raising his hand in a plea for order. It was a measure of the respect the town held for him that the crowd finally quieted down to hear him speak.

  “It’s time to talk about realistic solutions,” he said.