Caleb tried to squelch his panic. He watched two guys walk behind his vehicle toward a small blue sedan. One of them was Gerald from the Rockets. The lunch hour was almost over. Where the hell was he going? Probably where Gerald always went, past the rotary and down a suburban side road to a cul-de-sac to get high with friends until the last possible minute.
The police car passed again, still moving slowly, without any lights or sirens. It came to a halt directly behind Caleb’s truck. Caleb was going to be sick. He didn’t know if it was better to open the door and start running or to roll down the window and act casual or just sit and stare straight ahead, pretending not to see.
The police car inched forward. It was still behind the truck, blocking Caleb from backing out. He was trapped.
The whoop made him jump. One quick strobe of lights.
Oh god.
Another whoop.
Okay, okay. He put his hands on the wheel. Then he started rolling down the window, trying to come up with something to say, thinking, I’m sorry, Mom. I’m sorry.
He looked up again. The police car had pulled forward. It spun its lights again, and suddenly it was moving fast in pursuit of Gerald’s car, which was far ahead, turning out of the student lot.
Someone had told somebody something. Or yesterday’s false alarm was just making everybody more careful—except Gerald, apparently. The idiot didn’t pull over. He kept going, guaranteeing that not just one car but three took off after him, sirens blaring.
What felt like a burp welled up inside Caleb, and he was too busy starting up the truck to put his hand to his mouth. He vomited, just enough to fill his mouth and drip down his chin. He opened the truck door and spit it out, ashamed.
This was why everything had happened. Because he was a coward, because he didn’t think clearly and didn’t speak up. And because embarrassment was the first emotion that came to him in any moment of crisis. Not righteous anger, but embarrassment. Like when he’d first seen those photos at Vorst’s.
Even now, he was moving too fast.
Spit again. Swallow. Wipe your damn chin. Take a breath. Let the police car pull Gerald over and find the pot he definitely has in his car. Good.
Gerald was finally helping him, and the big stupid guy didn’t even know it. That was what Caleb had to do now. Make use of people who weren’t even his friends and general commotion wherever he went. He had to make use of confusion itself.
Right now, there were too many eyes everywhere. He’d need to come back here, but without the truck. He’d have to create a distraction, too—something that could keep all the cops away from the football field and anywhere else they could see too much or respond too soon.
Okay. It was starting to come together.
He’d have to come back on foot, just when everyone was looking elsewhere. He’d take the back route, the one that went past Vorst’s own house, through the woods. It’s what he should have done in the first place.
And there, only when he thought every option had vanished, did Caleb finally see how the plan should go, from the last satisfying moment to the tricky parts that led up to it.
See? Backward.
45
Ruth
Kennidy never had a chance to look Vorst in the eye and decide whether or not to grant him mercy. Ruth’s sister should have had that chance.
Ruth was still sitting on her living room floor between the couch and the coffee table, legs folded. The house was cold and perfectly quiet.
Nothing could undo what had happened to Kennidy.
Could it?
There was no need to travel forward, now that Scott was safe. Ruth had never tried to time-travel backward. She was sure that Bert wouldn’t be able to do it, but she hadn’t dared to consider whether she could. Maybe disbelief was the only thing that had stopped her, and that was what Reece had been trying to tell her, what she had really been trying to tell herself, when she told him to draw the figure eight on her wrist. She already knew she could see into the future. She had not accepted that it meant she could see—and travel—back as well. But the two must be connected.
On the one hand, Annie had had to practice dozens of times. On the other hand, Ruth had been practicing as well: going forward, but still. Her blurry vision, tinnitus and tremors bore witness to that fact.
If it were possible, the next thing was to decide what she would try to change. She had already tried—and failed—to bring herself into the scene outside the cabin. She could imagine herself into many encounters with the younger Vorst: she had been not only near his house countless times, but even inside his house as a young girl. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was what she would do once she got there. Look for evidence? Threaten him with violence?
There were other moments to consider as well. Ruth wished she’d asked her mom tougher questions on a dozen different occasions, right up to the moment Gwen was dying in hospice care. She wished she’d spent more time with Kennidy during Christmas breaks. There were so many regrets, so much that would have to change, and none of the moments or situations were specific and powerful enough. None seemed linked with a single color or physical sensation or intense emotional experience, anything Ruth could use as a portal.
Ruth closed her eyes and shuffled through hazy images. She was furious at Vorst, but she hadn’t been furious when Kennidy was still alive, because she hadn’t understood. There were limits to where one could go. Annie had been able to arrive only at moments of strong emotion. That was part of the equation.
Even with practice, even with Annie’s dogged determination and willingness to risk her own health, she hadn’t been able to go just anywhere. She could go only to a place where she’d once been and where she had already been emotionally aroused—perhaps furious or terrified—and somehow open to visitation by her own future self.
If that were the case, why did certain words keep echoing in Ruth’s brain?
Open the cabin door.
But there was an even simpler moment.
Maybe she’d misunderstood it. Maybe it was just open the door.
Mom, open the door.
Ruth was no longer in her living room, cross-legged on the floor with her back against the couch. She was in a quiet room with blond wood tables and modern tubular chairs and beige-and-white walls. She recognized the location from a recent dream as well as from her real life. It was a study room in the basement of the main campus library.
Ruth stared across the room at a no cell phone use sign even as she held the overheated phone to her cheek. She was talking to Gwen. That explained the mismatch of feelings in Ruth’s gut—the knowledge that this was normally a peaceful place, her private refuge, but now it had been invaded with bad feelings. Acid trickled into her stomach.
“You don’t know why?” Ruth was saying to her mother. “She’s been upset for days, but you haven’t even asked?”
“I don’t need to ask.” Gwen exhaled impatiently. “It’s always the same, isn’t it?”
“How long has she been in her room, Mom?”
It was 5:50 p.m., the library due to close soon. If she wasn’t careful, she might get locked inside. All the lights would go out. But that was less important than finishing this call.
Gwen and Kennidy had been fighting. Gwen hadn’t talked to Kennidy since Friday at 11 p.m. when her daughter had come home; that was early for Kennidy. Maybe Gwen had seen her in the kitchen Saturday around noon. It was Sunday evening now. According to Gwen, Kennidy had been in her room all day, and perhaps half of yesterday, too.
“You don’t know?”
“I wasn’t home the whole time.”
“Have you tried talking to her? Have you knocked on the door?”
“Of course I have, Ruthie. Do you think I’m stupid?”
This was a memory, albeit a vivid one. Ruth could still feel her lower back aching, and under her hand, the feeling
of living room carpet. She was in her house, still half-anchored to the present, not fully in the past, in the college library.
“But Mom, it’s not normal to be in your room all weekend. She doesn’t do that. Did you hear her get up to use the bathroom, at least?”
Gwen didn’t answer. In the silence that followed, dread flourished.
“Mom,” Ruth said, and saying it brought the moment into clearer focus: the feel of the phone against her cheek, her mother’s voice replying. Ruth inched farther into the corner so passing library staff wouldn’t see her through the study window.
“I’ve got to get to the store before it closes,” Gwen said.
“Not yet, Mom. Wait. You know she takes stuff. What if she did something stupid?”
“I’m sure she’s just hungover. She’s in a sulk.”
“Yes, a dangerous sulk. That’s why I’m worried. Are you sure you’ve heard the toilet flush at all lately?”
“She does this to me on purpose. I’m not going to reward her for that.”
“Checking on someone who might hurt herself isn’t a reward, Mom. It’s the bare minimum.”
This was not the conversation Ruth had had with Gwen the first time around. She’d never pressed her mother more than once or twice in a conversation. Ruth was more insistent now. No time for meandering conversation. No patience for Gwen’s long-winded complaints. And if this conversation was heading along a different track, it could only mean two things. Either she was remembering incorrectly, out of self-serving desperation. Or she really was back here, choosing to have this phone conversation differently. But only if she could focus. That was the only way she could stay.
Ruth focused hard on what was in front of her: the metal tubes that were the legs of the study table and chair. Heat of the phone against her cheek. Anxiety gripping her throat.
“And what do you mean by that?” Gwen asked. “The bare minimum of what?”
“The bare minimum of supervision you give a child at home under the age of eighteen who isn’t doing well.”
“Listen.”
“No, you listen,” Ruth said. “Please.”
“I told you, she’s in her room. She’s not coming out. We had a fight.”
“Mom.”
“Honey, you’ll have to call her tomorrow, if you want. Hell, if you want to drive all the way up here tomorrow around lunchtime, I can pretty much guarantee she’ll be home watching TV, not even in school.”
“Mom. No, listen. This could be serious.”
Ruth’s mother sighed again, and then pulled the phone away a moment to cough. Neither of those sounds had felt worth treasuring before, but they did now: the sigh, the wet cough, even the slightly labored breath. Because as much as Ruth was angry at her mother, she also missed her. She could hate her and still want her back.
“Mom.”
“I have to get going to the grocery store. They’re closing in an hour.”
In an hour. That meant it was six o’clock. Ruth could remember at the funeral, people asking, her mother refusing to answer, but Ruth had answered with as much cold candor as she could muster. “Mom found Ken in the morning. No, not just a few pills. Several bottles. She was methodical. They said it had probably been at least twelve hours since she’d overdosed. So it might’ve been around seven or eight p.m. the night before.”
“When did you last see her?” Ruth asked Gwen again.
“I told you already. I’m not sure.”
“Mom. Go knock on her door.”
“Ruth.” Gwen’s weariness had sharpened into irritation. “If you want to visit, come visit. But I can’t make her do anything she doesn’t want to do. She goes missing overnight, then she comes back and abuses me, then she holes up, looking for sympathy.”
“Mom.”
“Did you know she stole twenty dollars out of my purse last week?”
“That doesn’t matter right now.”
“Maybe not to you.”
“Mom.”
In real life, Ruth had never said it so many times, not as an adult, never with so much faith in this simple incantation. She had always been on Gwen’s side.
“Mom. I’m staying on this phone. You’re going to go to her room, you’re going to knock on her door, and if she doesn’t open—”
“I’m not going to piss off the landlord by breaking his doorknob.”
The doors were cheap. The knobs were cheaper.
“Mom. You’re going to try with a butter knife. You’re going to try with your foot. You’re going to call 911 if you can’t get it open, and not later, when you come back from the store. Now. I’m going to wait here, on the phone. Don’t be scared. I’m not going to hang up until you get that door open.”
The certainty in Ruth’s voice had finally touched a nerve. Gwen’s tone changed.
“Did she call you? Did she say she was going to try something?”
“One of her friends called me just before you did.” It was a lie. Ruth couldn’t name one of Kennidy’s friends if her life depended on it. “Disconnect if you need to call 911, but I’ll be waiting for you to call me back.”
“You don’t think I’m a good mother.”
“You’re going to be a good mother. You’re going to get that door open and you’re going to get Kennidy help.”
The sound of distant sirens brought Ruth back to the present. At first, she felt a sense of accomplishment and blessed relief. Her face was wet with tears. The ambulance and police cars were coming, she must be hearing them through the phone, still connected with Gwen and waiting, and if it had only been six o’clock on that memorable Sunday, it wasn’t too late. They’d get Kennidy’s door open. She may have taken the pills already, but she was still alive. They could pump her stomach. But how had Gwen called the ambulance? Maybe Ruth was forgetting. Maybe Gwen had hung up and called her back. It didn’t matter.
Ruth exhaled, cheek against the carpet. Without knowing it, she had slid onto her front, on the floor. She’d made it to the past and back again, or so she thought, and the difficulty she was having now, unable even to lift her head, was proof of how difficult a trip it had been.
But the sirens didn’t stop.
46
Reece
Reece was ready with his team, about to run out on the field. The football game had started late due to a problem with parking for many attendees, slowed down by the fascist security volunteers who, without school-district permission, had manned the two public-property rotaries.
On top of that, Gerald had gone missing. From the football field, they’d heard sirens, and Raj told Reece that someone had seen Gerald speeding away from the school lot in his car. But no one was that stupid.
“Well, maybe some people are that stupid,” Raj admitted. “What do we do now, boss?”
“We make seven people look like eight.”
The Rockets spent the first half of the football game on a side field, working out how to change their formations without him. Reece had thought it was hard replacing Caleb with Mikayla and Justin over the course of several days. Now he’d learned he could problem-solve absences or injuries in minutes when it was necessary. High-speed choreographing was a rush, actually, like a complicated three-dimensional puzzle. Maybe he wasn’t meant to be a dancer—or not only a dancer. Maybe he was meant to be a choreographer or show manager or logistics person, or maybe a little bit of all of them. Fancy that.
Now that the show was ready to start, Reece looked toward the stands and saw his parents. They hadn’t come to the school for a long time. When his mom caught him looking, she pumped a fist in the air. He felt an unexpected wave of emotion well up and looked away, swallowing hard. Scanning the stands and the grassy strip along the perimeter of the field, he saw teachers and parents of friends, some standing, others seated on blankets or folding chairs. There was his counselor; there was M
rs. Holloway; there was Mr. Webb, standing, squinting off into the distance, hands on his hips.
Reece scanned the sidelines one more time for Ruth. He expected her to be with Mr. Webb. She was supposed to be here. It was silly to be disappointed, but that’s how Reece felt. He’d been wrapped up all week in her Annie Oakley mystery, but he’d also been wrapped up in this performance, rehearsing up to the last minute. Where was she?
He wasn’t offended, just disappointed. She was going to miss this: the purely exuberant six minutes—that’s all they got—where shit could go wrong and they’d simply have to adapt and make it look like it was on purpose. Now, whatever happened, happened. Now, they could have fun.
47
Ruth
Ruth was confused, first by the sirens. Then, as they faded, by the sound of some distant bass beat, palpable even at this distance, causing the very floor she was lying on to vibrate in time to catches of music blaring from the school nearby. She tripped, trying to get up. When she put a hand out to the floor to brace her fall, she saw bright droplets of blood.
She got up more slowly, hands out and ready to catch herself if she fell again, noting as she rose the smear of blood on her inner arm, another small stain on her jeans. But she couldn’t see any cuts. Then, finally, she was looking at herself in the mirror. The blood was trickling from her ear, which didn’t hurt. It felt only odd, cotton-stuffed.
There was that low bass beat again, accompanied by some higher synthesized riffs coming from far away. It had to be loud to travel this far; is that what the sirens had been for? Police responding to a complaint? But no, they had started up first, the beat after. She couldn’t make out a melody. When she clapped a hand over the left ear, the non-bleeding one, she heard only the muffled thud of her pulse and that horrible bass, like a hammer tapping her skull, trying to crack it open like an egg.
Kennidy. It came back to her now.
What happened to Kennidy?
The loss of hearing in one ear, plus the blurry vision in one eye or some kind of damage to one side of her brain, made her feel like she was leaning to one side. She staggered out of the bathroom, down the hall and past a bookshelf, hand out in search of balance, toppling framed photos as she passed.
Annie and the Wolves Page 31