Payback

by Melody Carlson

  For a moment I think I could be having a vision of a terrorist, maybe even one of the ones who plan to attack the McKinley High prom, but then he turns and looks directly at me so I can clearly see his face. To my surprise, it’s not a terrorist but my mom’s boyfriend, Steven Lowery. Then just like that—poof—the image is gone. I blink and shake my head and wonder if this was truly from God or just my imagination running amuck. Why would Steven be dressed in black and acting so goofy like that? Surely he’s not the predator who plans to shoot innocent kids at a high school prom next week. That’s just too bizarre.

  I jump when I hear a horn honk behind me. Then I realize I’m just sitting at the stop sign with no cross traffic coming. So I put my foot on the gas and move forward, still trying to sort out what I just saw…or imagined. Very weird.

  When I get to Olivia’s, I tell her about this most recent vision, saying that it makes absolutely no sense. “I’m not that fond of Steven,” I admit, “but I hardly think he’d shoot high school kids. And yet he seemed so sinister and evil to me. Not anything he did, but just a feeling I got. Silly, huh?”

  “It does seem pretty strange.”

  “I wonder what it means…Was it a legitimate vision or something I just imagined?” I shake my head. “Sometimes I wish God would just rent a well-lit billboard or maybe a reader board. You know, print out whatever it is in bold letters to get His messages across. Much simpler.”

  “But God wants to use people to get His messages across, Sam.”

  I nod. “Yeah, I know. But sometimes it’s confusing.”

  As we drive to the dress-rental place again, I tell her that I think I’ll have to disguise myself for the next prom so the guys in Stewed Oysters don’t wonder why I’m there or mention something to Conrad about me being with a different guy.

  “Oh yeah, I hadn’t even considered that.”

  “So I’m thinking a wig and some really wild makeup or maybe even sunglasses,” I tell her. “It’s a casino theme, so I suppose I could be a little over the top.”

  “I have a blond wig you could borrow,” she says.

  “Why on earth do you have a blond wig?” I frown at her. “In case you haven’t noticed, you’re already a blonde.”

  “The wig happens to have short hair.” She laughs. “Remember when I was thinking about cutting my hair last spring? Well, I ordered this short wig online just to see what I’d look like.”

  “You never told me that.”

  “Because it looked totally stupid.” She laughs. “The wig’s style is right out of the fifties or sixties—like a big bubble head.”

  “Sounds perfect. And maybe I’ll go for that flashy red dress this time.”

  “I’ll have to tell the guys in the band about the casino theme,” she says. “Maybe we can dress up too. This is going to be such a hoot, Sam.”

  I consider the irony as I pull up to the rental store. The fact that she’s thinking this is all about fun and games when, in reality, I’m actually trying to prevent an extremely serious crime…well, it feels slightly twisted. Still, I have to agree with Olivia, it is kind of fun too. Crazy.

  Five

  You don’t think Steven has anything to do with the prom shooting, do you?” Ebony asks me after I tell her about my latest vision. “Any possible links to terrorism?”

  “I can’t imagine that he does,” I admit. “But the image I saw of him seemed sinister.”

  “How do you feel about Steven…I mean, personally? Do you like him?”

  “To be honest, I didn’t like him at all to start with. But I guess I sort of got used to him. Do I like him? Probably not a lot. Still, he seems to make my mom happy. For her sake, I’m trying to be tolerant.”

  “And this seemed like an authentic vision from God?”

  “Yes…”

  “How about if I run a background check on him? Where did you say he moved from?”

  “Southern California.”

  “That’s rather broad. Did he mention a specific city?”

  “I think he said he has a brother in San Diego and a mom somewhere else down there…but I can’t remember him saying exactly where he’s from.”

  “And you say he’s an investment broker?”

  “Something like that—insurance, investments, that sort of thing.”

  “Do you know where he works?” I shrug. “No.”

  “Does your mom?”

  “I’m sure she must.” Now I frown as I remember something.

  “What is it?” she asks.

  “I don’t know…I just thought of something…It’s probably not even related.” I sigh, then shake my head. “It’s weird getting these messages from God and trying to figure out how they all fit together.”

  “Like a puzzle?”

  “Exactly.”

  “That’s what solving crime is all about, Samantha. We take lots of pieces. Some fit. Some don’t. We keep trying to put them together until we can see the big picture. You’re lucky, or I should say blessed, that God actually helps you with some of the pieces.”

  “Sometimes it doesn’t feel all that helpful.”

  She smiles. “Yes, I can understand that.” She picks up her pen again. “Now, anything else you can tell me about Mr. Steven Lowery? Do you know how old he is?”

  “I’m not positive, but I do know Mom’s about ten years older than him.”

  Her arched eyebrows lift slightly, but she doesn’t say anything.

  “I’m guessing he’s in his early thirties.”

  “Well, that’s a start anyway. And physical description? Hair color, eyes, height? And what kind of car does he drive? You don’t happen to know his license-plate number, do you?”

  I describe him as a young and less good-looking James Brolin. “Only his hair is lighter, but I think he gets it lightened,” I tell her. “Kind of a Hollywood sort of look.” Then I describe his car. “But I don’t know his license-plate number. I could probably nab it the next time he’s over.”

  “Great. I should have something on him in a couple of days.”

  At this point I come very close to telling Ebony about my mom’s messed-up bank account. But I know that sounds pretty suspicious and accusatory. Besides, Mom said she’d check with the bank today. For all I know, the whole thing may be all squared away by now. Plus I’m sure Mom wouldn’t be too thrilled about her private business becoming public knowledge. So I change the subject and tell Ebony about my scouting mission yesterday to the next prom site—the one with no marble floors. “It’s not the hotel in my dream,” I say finally. “At least I don’t think so.”

  “Well, that’s one we can take off the hit list.” She makes note of this, then looks curiously at me. “Any more clues about that kid being bullied?”

  “No, but I’m really praying for him. And I feel more certain than ever that he was the guy I saw in the shoe store on Saturday.”

  “I don’t want to worry you,” she says slowly, “especially with so much else on your mind. But I read a sad statistic just the other day…”

  “About what?”

  “About kids who are the victims of bullies.”

  “And?”

  “It seems they are at serious risk. Being bullied was listed as the number one cause of suicide among teens.”

  I nod as I remember Garrett now, how depressed he’d been just a few months ago, how he’d even considered killing himself…mostly because his dad had bullied him. Yeah, I can believe that.”

  “I’ll be praying for this kid too,” she assures me.

  “I just don’t understand why God would’ve shown me that vision if we weren’t going to be able to help him somehow. Don’t you agree?”

  She nods. “I do.”

  “Well, I’ll let you get to your work,” I say.

  “And I’ll let you get to yours.” She hands me another yearbook. This one is for McKinley High.

  Once again the plan is for me to spend a couple of hours carefully going through it to see if I can spot the pre
tty blonde or the guy who will be her date. And like before, I do my best.

  But by the time I drive home, I feel slightly overwhelmed again. After two hours of carefully studying that yearbook, I didn’t see one girl that I could be certain was the blonde in my dream. Eric even took the time to explain certain tricks to identifying people by their photographs. And I did manage to find a couple of girls who might be the one in the pale green dress, but I still feel rather doubtful. I also wonder if I’m going to be any good at this part of detective work.

  Mom pulls up to the house just ahead of me, and I can tell by the way she’s walking that something is wrong. She looks like there’s a heavy weight on her shoulders. My first concern is for Zach. Is it possible that something’s gone wrong in rehab? Could he have run away? I park my car in the driveway and hurry through the garage and into the house behind her.

  “What’s up?” I ask, making her jump. It’s like she didn’t even know I was there. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you, Mom.”

  “Oh…” She sets her purse on the island.

  “Is something wrong?”

  She lets out a loud sigh. “It didn’t go well with the bank.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “They insist it’s not their mistake.”

  “Oh…”

  She lets out a long, weary sigh. “Not only that…but it seems the savings account has really dwindled as a result of being overdrawn.”

  I frown, curious as to how much money she’s talking about but not willing to ask. She already looks upset. “What’s next?” I ask.

  “Now I have to go over all my records for the past six months and see what I did wrong.”

  “Are you sure you’ve done something wrong? Couldn’t it be the bank’s mistake?”

  “They insist that it’s very unlikely. They say that ninety-nine point nine percent of errors are made by customers, not them.”

  “But still, there’s a chance.

  “A minuscule chance…and according to them, I have to prove I didn’t make a mistake before they’ll even look at their end of things.”

  “Oh.”

  “So that’s what I’ll be doing all night.”

  “I’ll fix dinner,” I offer.

  “Thanks. I’d appreciate that.”

  While I’m working in the kitchen, Mom spreads all her papers and banking stuff across the dining room table once again, and before long she’s punching numbers into a calculator and writing things down. I know she hates doing this sort of thing. She always has. And at times like this she really misses having Dad around. He was the one who always took care of finances. Consequently, I wonder if she might be a little careless in her bookkeeping. Not that I would ever mention this. Still, I feel sorry for her. And I feel sorry for myself too. The fact that the savings have shrunk—my college fund that I didn’t even know I had—is pretty discouraging.

  “How’s it going?” I ask when she sits down to a dinner of green salad and lasagna (the prepackaged kind from the freezer).

  She just shakes her head. “Maybe I should hand the whole thing over to someone who’s better at this.” She looks hopefully at me now. “Hey, you’re pretty good in math, aren’t you, Samantha?”

  I frown. “I’m okay, but I really don’t know much about checking accounts and banking and finances and stuff.”

  “Maybe I should ask Steven. He’s a financial whiz.”

  I want to tell her I think that’s a very bad idea, but I’m not sure how to say it without offending her. “Where does he work anyway?”

  “What?”

  “Steven. Who does he work for?”

  “Oh, I can’t remember the name. It’s downtown Portland… a big firm with some long names.” She sort of smiles now. “In fact, that’s exactly what I’ll do. He recently handled some pretty nice investments for me. Maybe I can hire him to sort this out as well.”

  “Investments?”

  “Yes. He let me in on this fantastic opportunity, Sam. Within a year or possibly two, I will actually double my investment. Can you believe that?”

  “How much did you invest?”

  “Oh, not a lot, at least by his standards since he’s used to dealing with some fairly wealthy investors. But it was my first time doing anything like this, so I was a little cautious. Now I think I should’ve invested more.”

  “Why?”

  “Because at least my money would be safer there. I can’t say as much for my bank. I’m tempted to switch banks altogether after this is over.”

  Okay, I am getting some pretty scary vibes right now. My mom’s money problems and that vision about Steven seem to add up to nothing but trouble. And yet how can I possibly bring this up? “Where’s Steven from?” I ask as I fork a chunk of tomato.

  “Southern California,” she says absent-mindedly

  “But where exactly?”

  She looks at me. “You’re sure getting curious about Steven all of a sudden.”

  “Well, you’re pretty involved with him, Mom. Why wouldn’t I be curious?”

  “I think he lived in several places down there. I know he has a brother in San Diego, and his mom is in Pasadena.”

  “Oh…”

  “You don’t like Steven, do you, Samantha?” I shrug. “I don’t dislike him…I don’t actually know him that well.”

  “But you suddenly seem suspicious of him.”

  I actually want to ask Mom why she’s not suspicious of him. I mean, she’s already questioned whether Zach or I had anything to do with her messed-up finances. But does she even stop to consider her mysterious boyfriend? She’s entrusted him with her investments, but she doesn’t wonder if he might have something to do with this? Is she that oblivious? Of course, even as I think this, I know my suspicions are pretty preposterous—not to mention slightly paranoid. And I’m not ready to make any accusations just yet. Still, I plan to let Ebony know.

  “Thanks for dinner,” says Mom as she returns to her bookkeeping task.

  I begin cleaning up the kitchen but find myself eavesdropping as she talks on the phone. It sounds like she’s leaving a message for Steven, telling him that she’s trying to untangle her bank mess and asking if he would be interested in helping her. Then I hear her quietly say, “I love you,” before she hangs up. This actually gives me the heebie-jeebies. She loves him?

  I finish loading the dishwasher and then go upstairs to my room, telling myself that I should probably butt out of my mom’s business. I mean, Steven might be a perfectly nice guy, and I could really stick my foot in it if I falsely accused him…but what about that vision? What was up with that?

  So without hesitation I hit my knees, and I ask God to lead me through this maze of a life. And I acknowledge that just because I’m not overly fond of Steven, that doesn’t make him a criminal. But if God is trying to show me something, I do want to know. I want to be wise as a serpent…innocent as a dove. Finally I pray for Steven, that he would come to know God personally, that he would live the best possible life, both for his sake and for my mom’s. And then I let it go.

  I am running as fast as I can, so hard that my lungs are burning and I can’t catch my breath. But when I turn to look, they are still behind me. Three guys, all bigger than me, and all look enraged. I don’t know why they’re so angry, but I have a feeling that if they catch me, I’ll be dead. Or in a lot of pain. So I continue to run, turning down some sort of alley, but the next thing I know it turns into a dead end, a cement wall with a green Dumpster pushed up against it. If I can climb onto the Dumpster, I might be able to pull myself over that wall, but as I’m scrambling up, someone grabs me by the back of my jacket, pulls me down, and throws me to the pavement. A tall guy with dark hair, narrowed eyes, and clenched fists bends over me. “Thought you could get away with it, Allen. Thought you could outsmart us, didn’t you?”

  I just look at him speechlessly, holding up an arm to protect my face. But now they are punching me, kicking me, swearing at me, and yelling, “You’re gonna p
ay, Allen!”

  I wake up in a cold sweat. My heart is pounding with fear, and it takes me a moment to calm myself, to catch my breath, and to realize it was only a dream. I try to remember the details, besides the fear and the running and the useless attempt to escape. Why were those guys so angry at me? What had I done? And why were they calling me Allen?

  I turn on the light and reach for my notebook. With my hand still shaking, I write these things down. As I write, I realize that I wasn’t the actual victim in this dream. Oh sure, it felt like it. But I realize that this Allen person is the same guy I had the vision about a few days ago, the same guy I saw at the shoe store. And he seems to be in real danger.

  It’s not even five in the morning…too soon to get up. And so I pray for Allen. I ask God to protect him and to send me more information to help him. I beg God not to allow Allen to be hurt like in my dream. I ask God to shield Allen from any possible thoughts of suicide, to keep him from giving up. And I ask myself, why are these guys picking on him? What has Allen done to make them so angry? Or are they simply bullies, picking on him because they can get away with it? My heart aches for Allen. Once again I plead with God to watch over him and to show me how I can help him. As I finally drift off to sleep, I wonder if Allen goes to my school. Tomorrow I will try to find out.

  Six

  When I see Conrad on Tuesday morning, I can tell something is really wrong. At first I assume it might be because of me. It seems unlikely, not to mention slightly paranoid, but I wonder if he has somehow discovered that I went to a prom during the weekend.

  “You look like you lost your best friend,” I say as I meet him by his locker.

  “I’m pretty bummed.”

  “What’s up?”

  “My parents got some new lab reports yesterday afternoon,” he says, “regarding Katie.”

  “Oh no…” I put my hand on his arm. We’ve all been worried about his little sister this spring, and we’ve been praying for her to get well, but the last I heard, her health had improved. “I thought she was doing better,” I say.