From Above

by Norah McClintock

  FROM

  ABOVE

  FROM

  ABOVE

  NORAH McCLINTOCK

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  Copyright © 2016 Norah McClintock

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  McClintock, Norah, author

  From above / Norah McClintock.

  (Riley Donovan)

  Issued also in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-4598-0933-8 (pbk.).—ISBN 978-1-4598-0934-5 (pdf ).—ISBN 978-1-4598-0935-2 (epub)

  I. Title.

  PS8575.C62F75 2016 jC813'.54 C2016-900548-8

  C2016-900549-6

  First published in the United States, 2016

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2016933648

  Summary: In this mystery for teen readers, Riley Donovan uncovers the truth about the death of a popular high school football player.

  Orca Book Publishers is dedicated to preserving the environment and has printed this book on Forest Stewardship Council® certified paper.

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

  Cover design by Teresa Bubela

  Cover photography by iStock.com

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  www.orcabook.com

  19 18 17 16 • 4 3 2 1

  Also by Norah McClintock

  Taken (2009)

  She Said, She Saw (2011)

  Guilty (2012)

  I, Witness (2012)

  About That Night (2014)

  Tru Detective (2015)

  Trial by Fire (2016)

  CONTENTS

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  AN EXCERPT FROM TRIAL BY FIRE

  ONE

  ONE

  A damp, dreary day was made drearier by Ashleigh’s lateness. Where was she? She should have been here ages ago. I glanced at the clock on the wall. Okay, she should have been here five minutes ago. But it wasn’t as if this was some last-minute thing she might have forgotten. She had been meeting me every day after class since school began. We did our homework together on the days she wasn’t working. I walked her to the grocery store on the days she was. That meant I never had to walk past Mike Winters’ locker alone.

  Mike’s locker was the first one at the top of the stairs. He was always there after school, and it took him forever to get his stuff together. I’d never seen a guy take so long. It meant that I couldn’t leave—okay, so I refused to leave—okay, okay, so I was afraid to leave—without having someone like Ashleigh leave with me. I realize how that makes me sound. But it’s the truth.

  Get over it, I told myself. What had happened, happened. It was history now. Besides, everything had turned out okay, hadn’t it? Sure, I’d accused Mike of terrible things. But I’d done it in good faith. I’d believed what I said at the time that I said it. It might be a lame defense, but it’s also the truth.

  “Boo!”

  I jumped and spun around, my heart pounding. Ashleigh.

  “Are you still here?” She seemed surprised.

  “Of course I’m still here. I was waiting for you. Remember?”

  “In that case, you’re lucky I came this way.” When she saw the blank look on my face, she shook her head. “You forgot, didn’t you?”

  “Me? You’re the one who forgot. We meet here at the same time every day.”

  “Except for today. I told you, Riley. It’s picture day.”

  “What?” Picture day? Today? “When? Now?”

  Ashleigh was right. I had forgotten. Otherwise I would have paid more attention to my hair. I would have dressed differently. There was no way I wanted to appear in my first-ever school yearbook with a greasy mop of hair and a pilled sweater that was the first warm thing I’d grabbed this morning. I blamed Mr. Jespers. If he hadn’t given us a ridiculous assignment—a multimedia presentation that expressed our individuality—I wouldn’t have stayed up half the night editing old videos together with music that was important to me. I would have gotten up in time to attend to my personal hygiene. I rooted in my backpack for my brush and wished I’d stuck a mirror to the inside of my locker the way most of the other girls had done.

  And I cursed school. I’d never liked the idea of it. I definitely did not enjoy the practice of it. When I’d lived with my grandpa Jimmy, which I had for most of my life, school had consisted of distance education via computer. That’s because Jimmy had been constantly on the road with his rock group, which had had half a dozen hit songs before I was born. When Jimmy died, I had been shipped off to live with Aunt Ginny, my mother’s younger sister. Her father, my grandpa Dan, took over my education for a while. But a couple of months back, Aunt Ginny had been offered a plum job, and we’d moved to Moorebridge. Result: I was forced to enrol in school.

  “Relax,” Ashleigh said. “It’s not that picture day. It’s National Student Photography Day. Hey, what happened to your four-leaf clover?”

  “What?” I looked at the small fabric loop on my backpack where the green-and-gold clover had hung ever since Charlie had given it to me for my fifteenth birthday. So your year will be filled with good luck, he’d said. But the clover was gone. I scanned the floor frantically.

  “Maybe it fell off in your locker,” Ashleigh said.

  I searched it thoroughly. The clover wasn’t there.

  “It could be anywhere.” I moaned. “I don’t even know how long it’s been missing.”

  “I’d help you look, but like I said, it’s—”

  “—National Student Photography Day. What is that anyway?”

  “You didn’t listen to me at all, did you?” She let out a dramatic sigh and rattled off a description that I had to admit sounded vaguely familiar. “It’s a contest. Students right across the country participate. There’s a theme every year. And the rule is that everyone has to take their picture on the same day at the same time—no cheating. There are great prizes—cash and cameras.”

  “And you’re participating?” It was amazing how much I didn’t know about my best friend. I’d had no idea at all that Ashleigh was interested in photography. In my defense, Ashleigh and I had met a mere two months ago, when I moved here with Aunt Ginny.

  “You bet I am. I came fourth in the regionals last year. I won a great camera.” She dug in her backpack and produced it. “Digital, but professional quality.” She glanced at the clock above the bank of lockers. “I really have to go. We only have two hours to get the perfect shot.”

  “What’s the theme?”

  “From above.”

  “From above what?”

  She grinned. “From above whatever you decide. One guy I know ditched his afternoon classes so he can be on the top of Bald Mountain in time to try to get a shot of the eagle’s nest up there.”

  “There are eagles on Bald Mountain?” That was news to me.

  “One girl is going to photograph lake life from the surface. You know, from above.”

  �
�That’ll be fun in the rain,” I said. It had started drizzling while I was riding to school. The drizzle had turned into a downpour, which had eventually slowed to a steady shower that continued all day. I wasn’t looking forward to the wet ride home.

  “Look out a window,” Ashleigh said. “The rain stopped fifteen minutes ago. The sun is out. And FYI, Mike pulled some strings with one of his uncles to get permission to go up on the water tower and get some panorama shots that he wants to turn into one picture of the whole town.”

  “Mike Winters?” The same Mike whose cutting glances I had been dodging for weeks? “Mike Winters competes in photography contests?”

  “I know he doesn’t seem like the type. But he’s good,” Ashleigh said. “You wouldn’t ever guess it, because he can be such a jerk. But put a camera in his hands and he’s a different person. He has an eye for a great shot. I heard him tell someone else in the camera club that he likes the way things look through a lens.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I have no idea. But wait till you see my entry.” She stowed her camera in her pack. “Gotta run.” She raced down the hall, leaving me to contemplate the notion of Mike Winters’ artistic eye. She was right. I never would have guessed.

  I rolled up my rain poncho, stuffed it in my backpack and went boldly down the stairs and out the front door.

  My bike was locked up at the recreation center next door to Lyle Murcheson Regional High School. Unlike the school, the rec center had proper bike stands. On my way there, I scanned every square inch of wet and puddled ground, hoping to spot something twinkling in the afternoon sun. Something like, say, a green-and-gold four-leaf clover. But the only sparkling items I saw were wadded-up gum wrappers and a nickel. I had to find that charm. Charlie was already mad at me for something that wasn’t my fault. Now he was going to think I’d ditched his gift on purpose.

  I didn’t find Charlie’s clover in the schoolyard, so I kept my eyes on the ground as I walked slowly behind the almost-brand-new rec center, praying that I’d find the charm before I reached the bike stands. Then I heard what can only be called a bloodcurdling scream.

  The scream was followed almost instantly by a chorus of other, higher-pitched shrieks. At first I thought it was from some ridiculous girl drama. You wouldn’t believe what the girls at my school screech about—everything from a new episode of their favorite TV show to the release of a movie starring the newest, hottest actor. It was pathetic. So when I heard all that yowling, I rolled my eyes.

  Until someone shrieked, “Call an ambulance!”

  Ambulance equals serious. I ran toward the commotion and found a clutch of girls in cheerleader uniforms, which explained the girly squealing. No one screams louder than a cheerleader. Put a squad of them together, and it’s hyper-banshee time. These cheerleaders were huddled on the pavement behind the rec center, where, I guess, they had decided to practice, given the squishiness of the school athletic field. But the squad wasn’t practising fan-thrilling cheers. Most of them weren’t even moving. Instead, they were frozen to the spot and staring at the ground. At something on the ground. Correction. At someone. I saw his—judging from the size of the shoes—sneakered feet first. The toes pointed to two o’clock and ten o’clock. I couldn’t see his face right away, but from the way some girls were crying and others were moaning ohmygawd, ohmygawd, ohmygawd, it was clear not only that something bad had happened but also that they knew the person to whom it had happened.

  The nearest cheerleader must have sensed an outsider, because she turned to me and clutched my arm. “Do you have a phone?”

  I reached around to the side pocket of my backpack, extracted my cell phone and elbowed my way to the front of the cluster of girls. I wished I hadn’t.

  Ethan Crawford, one of Lyle High’s standout athletes, was spread-eagled face up on the pavement, his thickly lashed hazel eyes staring up at where the breaking clouds were shifting slowly across the sky. He didn’t blink. He couldn’t. He wasn’t breathing. How could he, with all that blood pooled on the ground under his head?

  I punched 9-1-1 into my phone. While I waited for an answer, I looked up. Where Ethan was lying—not far from the base of a wall, feet closest to the wall, head farthest from it—as well as how he was lying—on his back, arms and legs outstretched—made me think he had fallen from above. I looked up. The sun chose that moment to break through the thinning cloud. It blinded me, and I raised a hand to shield my eyes. When I did, I caught a glimpse of someone on the roof of the rec center. At least, I thought that was what it was. A head and shoulders. A cheerleader grabbed my arm.

  “Ambulance!” she screamed. “He needs an ambulance.”

  I looked up again. Whoever had been there was gone.

  The 9-1-1 operator answered, and the training Aunt Ginny had drilled into me kicked in. I told her there was a teenage boy lying on the asphalt at the back of the recreation center in Moorebridge. “I don’t think he’s breathing,” I added, even though I could see that he wasn’t.

  “Is anyone doing CPR?” the operator asked.

  “No.”

  “Do you know how to do it?”

  “Yes.” Everyone on Jimmy’s tour bus, including me, had taken regular CPR and first-aid refresher classes. Jimmy had insisted on it. Just in case, he had said.

  “Then do it now,” the operator said. “And stay where you are. Don’t touch anything except the victim, and don’t let anyone else touch anything. An ambulance is on its way.”

  I ended the call, shooed the gaggle of cheerleaders away from the body on the ground—I mean, the person. Ethan. They backed up a little but refused to leave, which was probably good because I had no doubt a police car would arrive along with the ambulance, and the cops would want to question everyone.

  An ambulance arrived quickly. Moorebridge is a smallish place, although it’s the biggest town in the county, home to the regional high school, the regional hospital and the regional police service. It’s also the seat of county government and the home of all county-related jobs. The hospital is five minutes from the high school if you stick to the speed limit. The ambulance hadn’t.

  One of the paramedics asked if anyone had seen what happened. One girl said in a shaky voice that right after the cheerleading squad had started practicing, she’d thought she heard something hit the ground “like a sack of sand.” She’d seen something out of the corner of her eye. At first she thought she was looking at a pile of old clothes. It took her a few seconds to make out a hand. She’d gone to investigate. She sounded stunned, as if she didn’t believe what had happened. The other paramedic nudged me out of the way and knelt beside Ethan. He looked somber when he listened to Ethan’s heart. He radioed his dispatcher and reported that all vital signs were absent and Ethan had what looked like severe head trauma and other trauma-related injuries. A moment later he covered Ethan and herded everyone back several more meters.

  The first police car arrived. It seemed to have taken forever, although it was probably only ten minutes. A uniformed police officer got out. I didn’t recognize him. He consulted with the paramedics and started separating witnesses (the cheerleaders) from the small crowd that had gathered with them. They pointed me out, and he shepherded me into the small herd of girls, shuffled us away from the body and told us to stay put until someone took our statements. Then he started in on crowd control, urging the bystanders—a smattering of high-school-age kids and adults—to step back and, preferably, move along. Nothing to see here, folks. Another squad car pulled up and disgorged two more uniforms. They began to establish a perimeter around the scene with trestles and crime-scene tape.

  Next came the plainclothes cops. Them I recognized—Detectives Martin and McFee. They stepped into the taped-off perimeter and spoke first to the paramedics. Then they examined the body without moving it. When they finished, Detective McFee looked around. Her eyes lit on me, but she didn’t betray any sign of knowing me. I tried not to take it personally. That’s just the way Aunt Gin
ny is—professional to the nth degree. Her boss scanned the crowd too. He is actually Detective Sergeant Martin, but I’ve never heard anyone call him that. Most people call him Josh. Either that or just plain “Detective.” His reaction to seeing me there was decidedly unprofessional, if you ask me. He shook his head slowly, as if he wasn’t at all surprised to find me in proximity to trouble and would be even less surprised if I turned out to be involved in or, better yet, guilty of whatever had happened.

  Now that they had finished their preliminary look at the scene, Aunt Ginny and Detective Martin turned their attention to the witnesses. They started with the cheerleaders.

  When Aunt Ginny finally released the last of the squad, she squared her shoulders and prepared to deal with me. Detective Martin thrust out an arm to bar her way. No way was he going to let her question her troublemaking (in his opinion) niece. He wanted that job himself.

  He came at me, notebook in hand.

  “Riley.”

  “Detective.”

  “I hear you were the person who called this in.”

  “That’s right. None of them had a phone handy.” I nodded at the cheerleaders, who were standing around on the fringes of the field as if not sure what to do next. A uniformed officer finally guided them through the trestles and under the black-and-yellow tape.

  “I don’t suppose you saw what happened.” From his weary tone, I guessed this was supposed to be a rhetorical question.

  “No, I didn’t.”

  He sighed. Relief? Exasperation? I couldn’t tell.

  “What can you tell me about what happened?” he asked.

  “I’d just left school. I was walking over to the bike racks at the rec center. I heard screaming,” I said. “I went to check it out, and I saw the cheerleading squad. They were clustered together right there.” I pointed to where Ethan was still lying, covered now against prying eyes and the elements. “They were standing around Ethan.”

  “So you know the victim?”