Standing up and addressing the room, I said, “Something important to realize about Misty’s parents is they basically don’t give a crap. They’re so tied up in their own issues, it’s doubtful they’re doing much at all to find her.” I had trouble controlling the anger in my voice. “You want to know what her dad said when a bunch of us went over to her house to see if we could find anything in her bedroom that might suggest what happened to her? He called her a tramp. When we asked if he was her dad when he first came to the door, he said, and I quote, ‘ that’s what her whore of a mother told me,’ you know implying he wasn’t sure he was actually her father. He then said they only reported Misty missing because the ol’ lady, meaning Misty’s mom, insisted they do that. He thought it’s more likely she ran off with a boyfriend! He’s a horrible person. I doubt very much that her parents are actually checking her activity online.”
With a serious expression on her face, Gail said, “It’s a real shame; but if her parents aren’t motivated enough to leave no stone unturned in looking for her, the police probably aren’t monitoring her online activity either. Especially in the case of someone who may have been taken overseas. That’s out of the jurisdiction of local police ... or even state police, for that matter.”
Felix said, “That’s a really good point. Who would be responsible?”
Gail opened her laptop. She said, “Don’t mind my cynicism, but I’m betting there’s some inefficient system in place for your average person who gets kidnapped where the buck’s passed on from one agency to another until it’s practically impossible to find them.”
Putting her head down to research the situation on her computer, she read bits of what she was finding out loud. “OK, here we go ... From the State Department website ... If your child’s abducted and taken overseas, you can speak to a country officer in the Office of Children’s Issues at the U.S. Department of State. Jesus, you can call from 8:15 AM to 5:00 PM. What if you get information about where your kid might have been taken to at 5:30 PM? Oh, you can also email them. I wonder how speedy they are at getting back to you. OK ... The State Department can provide you with information about various resources ... They can provide a list of attorneys in the country where your child is located.” Gail looked up with bewilderment in her eyes now shiny with tears. “Jesus...” She grasped her fiery red hair with both hands, as though getting ready to either make ponytails or pull it all out. “OK ... Let’s look up INTERPOL, the International Police Organization. Well, it says INTERPOL can assist the police in countries where someone was kidnapped. They don’t actually make any arrests themselves.”
Felix interrupted. “It sounds to me like kidnappers have a lot of time to stay ahead of the authorities, doesn’t it?”
I thought that was the perfect opening to remind everyone about Gabriella. I felt strongly that she was our best option for rescuing Misty. I explained how helpful she could be without saying anything about werewolves or shapeshifters. I emphasized how closely she works with the police, implying that she’d be working with the authorities rather than calling on a bunch of werewolves and people in animal form. I also emphasized that she’s an adult. I said, “From what Gail just told us, it looks like both the police and the State Department have limited options for rescuing people taken to other countries after being kidnapped. Gabriella might be able to work with INTERPOL and police overseas. She’s gained a lot of respect from the local police in my old hometown. She has visions about crimes and a lot of the time she’s absolutely correct. She’s had a vision about Misty’s location that totally matches the Lake Como area. We should give her a chance, see what she can do.” Everyone considered this in silence. I added, “It would be good to have an adult with experience in solving crimes helping us to find Misty. I mean, how are we really going to help with the rescue, with our school commitments and all? Sure, Luke here is brilliant in decoding forum posts and locating IP addresses—so are all of you with tech skills; but we can’t exactly skip weeks of classes to go overseas to solve a crime. I worked with Gabriella to find my best friend Annie who was kidnapped by the same bastards who took Misty and I’d like to do that again to find Misty and bring her home.”
Lin said, “Let’s take a vote. Show of hands: who wants to have the psychic Gabriella help us rather than going to the police or the State Department or INTERPOL or any other official agency for help?”
It was unanimous. Everyone raised their hand. Oh, thank God. I felt such a sense of relief. Bring on the werewolves. No sooner had I expressed that thought to myself than I started worrying that the werewolves might hurt Misty or scare her half to death. I’d just have to trust that Gabriella knew what she was doing.
I asked everyone to stay while I answered the cryptic private message. We all agreed I shouldn’t say anything that would hurt Misty if her captives read my response, but that I should send something hopeful. I just wrote, “I’ll add Lake Como to my travel plans. I’m totally interested in going there. George Clooney, here I come.” It was vague; but if Misty had written the original message and figured I was on to her, she might conclude that I was sending help. I certainly hoped so. After everyone approved the message, I clicked the Submit button.
The drive home across the darkened landscape seemed longer than usual. Kai and I were mostly quiet.
After parking the jeep in the trailer lot, we walked in silence through our neighborhood. Every sound was magnified in the still of the night: flag ropes banging against poles, pinwheels turning, cats and most likely a few coyotes rummaging through metal trash cans.
When we got back inside, my mom was still up. She said, “I waited up for you. It was awfully late to be going out. Here, wait a second...” She went into the hallway. I heard the dryer door slam. Returning with my Pink Ranger outfit, she said, “I managed to get this clean. I washed it, turned it inside out and washed it again. The trick with this kind of thing is to wash it before the stains set.” Walking into the living room, she picked up my pink boots. Although they weren’t quite as shiny as they’d been, they looked clean. She said, “These were a much bigger challenge. I hosed them down outside, then used a bunch of Clorox wipes to disinfect them. They don’t exactly look new, but they’re wearable again.”
I felt so overwhelmed by emotion and relief and thankfulness that some degree of damage in my life could be repaired so quickly, I went over, wrapped my arms around my mom and gave her a big hug.
Then, immediately feeling awkward, I said, “Well, it’s late and it turns out I have to finish up some schoolwork.”
My mom accepted that and seemed perfectly OK with it. She said, “Well, I’m beat. I’m going to bed. See you two tomorrow.”
Back in my room, I popped open my laptop. Then I texted Gabriella. Despite how late it was, she answered right away with two words: What’s up?
I replied: looks like another message from misty. any news on your end?
Gabriella: Yes. The werewolf clan is meeting. Should have an answer by tomorrow. Send me a copy of the latest message from Misty, OK?
My thoughts wandered because I kind of freaked out that we had to wait another day for the werewolves to get back to us about rescuing Misty. Also, werewolves! I had barely accepted the idea that they actually existed. Now, I had to accept the reality that they worked together in a clan. I felt like I was losing my mind. Maybe I was just locked up in a mental ward somewhere spouting daydreams that werewolves existed and a psychiatric nurse was running off to get my meds to bring me back to reality. Everything felt so freaking weird.
I texted back: will send u misty’s message in my next text. thanks 4 ur help.
She texted back: You’re very welcome.
Kai and I decided to call it a night. It had been an extremely long day and night and we were both exhausted. Happy Halloween, kids! Turns out that ghosts and werewolves and other things that go bump in the night are real. Good night; sleep tight.
CHAPTER 19
The next day at school, I received a messag
e the old-fashioned way: on paper. Ms. Bell sent a note to me in homeroom, asking me to meet her in the library after school.
I thought maybe she wanted to talk about ideas for the holiday newspapers and forum artwork since clubs were canceled the week of Halloween, but it turned out it was a whole lot more than that. It was my future she wanted to talk about.
The library was empty. Half the lights had been turned off. This particular library wasn’t up to much. There just wasn’t enough funding. Lots of shelves had hardly any books on them.
I went down a bunch of aisles looking for Ms. Bell. A fluorescent light fixture buzzed and sputtered above my head. Adrenalin kicked in. I started feeling nervous. What if I’d been set up? What if the note wasn’t really from Ms. Bell? What if Jason Huffman overheard that I was planning to report him to the police? What if he’d lured me into the library to silence me forever?
“There you are.” The voice was so cheerful and friendly. Oh, right. Ms. Bell. Back to reality. It really was Ms. Bell who’d wanted to see me. She was in the library, waiting at one of the reading tables for me to show up.
Her hair was pink with purple streaks now. She’d had it completely dyed. No more blond, not even a single strand showing. She had on a turquoise jumper with a matching T-shirt and tights that were made to look like tattoos. In the Dictionary next to Colorful, there could totally be a picture of her on that day. Next to Blind, there could be a picture of me after looking at her outfit too long.
She pulled a book out of one of the shelves in the Art section. When she plunked it down on the table, I saw the title: William Blake: The Complete Illuminated Books. She said, “You should take a look at this. Blake was both a talented writer and a talented artist. You want to sign it out?”
I said, “Sure.” I mean, why not? I always liked looking at art.
She sat down and invited me to join her. As the light above us in the underfunded room continued to sputter and provide sketchy light, she asked, “You’re in the college prep track, is that correct?”
I said, “Yes.”
She then asked, “Where do you plan on applying to college?”
I knew I wanted to go to college, but I hadn’t given where too much thought. I had a lot of other things on my mind, for instance how Kai and I should report the murdered body of the little ghost boy to the police without seeming crazy or, worse still, guilty of the crime itself. I started nervously running my hands through my hair. I said, “I don’t know yet. I mean, I’d love to go to one of the best schools for Journalism, but I don’t know that I’d get in. I do have full tuition covered for the first year, which will probably be renewed for four years, because of ... some work I did at my old school.”
Ms. Bell looked at me kind of funny. She said, “I know all about that. You were quite a hero in your old town. Well, you’re also very talented. You’ve done an amazing job on our newspaper and forum here. You have the ability to make important contributions to the world. I’d like to help you apply to college, if that’s all right with you.”
I said, “Sure.” I could be so eloquent at times. It struck me as funny that she wanted to help me get into college for a program in communication when I was practically tongue-tied. Maybe that’s the difference between newspaper journalists and TV news reporters. As long as your pen or computer keyboard can do the talking for you, you don’t need to be eloquent in person. The pen is mightier than the sword ... and apparently a whole lot smoother as well.
Reaching behind her, Ms. Bell removed a cloth bag from the back of her chair. It was green with black alien eyes—undoubtedly another freebie or cheap purchase from Roswell. Reaching inside, she pulled out a stack of booklets. The top one had a purple cover with the words: Northwestern University. She spread the others out in the shape of a fan. New York University. Boston University. University of Missouri. Syracuse University. Those were far away from home. The whole idea made me nervous. I think I just stared at her with bug eyes. Yeah, TV journalism would never be my thing. Not if I stared bug-eyed at every Breaking News story. But, then, I wanted to be a writer, not a TV star.
Ms. Bell seemed undaunted. She said, “Take these home with you. Look through them. These are some of the top universities for journalism. You should apply. I’ll help you.”
I said, “OK.” I really appreciated what she was doing; but I seriously couldn’t picture myself leaving for college in less than a year, never mind going to one of the top colleges for journalism, or any college that was far away for that matter.
She put the booklets back in the bag and handed the entire bag to me. She said, “Just take this. The bag is a gift from me.” Then she handed me the William Blake book and said she’d sign it out for the classroom, just return it to her when I was done.
I thanked her, then left the library feeling that life was surreal. And I had the perfect bag over my shoulder to prove it. Alien eyes, what every teenager needs to be truly fashionable.
I hopped on the late bus and headed home. Curiosity getting the better of me, I reached into the bag and pulled out the booklet for Northwestern University. Oh my goodness, I couldn’t imagine ever going there. The students in the first pictures I saw looked so normal and preppy ... and happy. They didn’t look like me. Everything about them looked perfect. But, then, I looked at more photos and discovered there were all kinds of students! Guys with scraggly beards, girls with messy hair, white students, black students, Chinese students, a woman with a Muslim hijab. Maybe I could fit in there after all. Maybe I could find my tribe. Especially in the Journalism department. Reading the list of courses made butterflies take flight in my stomach. I had forgotten that I could ever get that excited. There were courses on Investigative Journalism and International Journalism, even modern ones like Journalism in a Networked World and even a course on the Journalism of Empathy. I read the description of the last one. It concentrated on how to write about people living along the margins of society.
All the butterflies fell from the sky and dropped dead in my stomach. I lived along the margins. Nothing but trailer park trash. I closed the booklet. This was too much for me at the moment. I’d faced many fearful things in my life. I was sure I’d eventually face my fears of not being good enough and make myself apply to college; but I felt like a fish out of water, gasping for air. I needed time.
When I got home, my mom had the TV on. There was some kind of Breaking News on local TV. I almost tuned it out until I saw footage of Bottomless Lakes Park—and the exact lake where I’d found the ghost boy and Kai’s Aunt Doli had been murdered! I was just going to talk to Kai about reporting the boy’s body to the police as soon as possible. What ... the...? The caption along the bottom of the screen said: LOCAL PSYCHIC FINDS BODY OF MISSING BOY. White letters against a bright red banner. That image burned itself into my retinas.
My mom said, “Oh, hi, Shade!”
I wanted to answer, but my eyes were transfixed on the next image that popped up on the TV screen. It was the missing boy! I had to imagine that face with weeds coming out of his mouth, submerged in dark water, his skin deteriorating; but my impression was that that was the same boy I’d found. Then the news guy said, “Now maybe the family will have some peace of mind. Sam Nakei Jr. was the son of Sam Nakei, owner of Sam’s Comics.”
I have a vague memory of saying, “Hi-mom-how-are-you-I-have-lots-of-homework-see-you-at-dinner,” real fast like it was one word and dashing off to my bedroom to see Kai.
I threw open the bedroom door. Kai was watching a show on her laptop.
In a breathless, agitated voice, I said, “Did you see the local news, Kai?”
She looked up at me with wide eyes, fright written all over her face. With all the murders lately and skinwalkers on the loose, breaking news could mean any number of horrifying things.
I said, “It’s the little boy we found. Just get on local news...”
She hit a bunch of keys and brought up video of the report I’d just seen my mom watching. This time, I watched
the whole thing.
After a section on the boy himself, there was a piece about the psychic.
Kai put down her laptop, hopped up from the bed and started pacing around the room. She kept shaking her hands as if trying to throw off nervous energy the way one might throw off water. It didn’t work. In a nervous, high-pitched voice, she said, “I have a feeling about this, Shade. A really strong feeling. Is that by any chance the woman you saw on top of the cliff the last time we visited Sam at Bottomless Lakes Park?”
I sat down and grabbed her laptop. I replayed the part of the video about the psychic. Her name was Viola Magpie. She had Navajo features with blue eyes. She was wearing a flowered shirt with a long gray skirt and black boots.
I imagined the edge of her skirt twirling as she turned around to disappear at the top of a cliff. It had been so dark, though. The woman was basically only a shadowy shape when I saw her. I said, “I have no idea if this is the person I saw or not, Kai. It was so dark.”
She said, “Yeah, but I have this feeling that they’re one and the same.”
An idea exploded in my head like a lightbulb being turned on in a darkened room. I grabbed my cell phone. Searching through my contacts, I said, “I’m calling Gabriella.”
Gabriella answered right away: “Gabriella, Psychic here.”
I blurted out, “Gabriella, have you seen the news about a little boy’s body being found near me ... at Bottomless Lakes Park?”
She said, “No, I haven’t, dear. Why do you ask?”
I explained the whole situation. I guess the story had only made local news.
Gabriella asked, “Who’s the psychic?”
When I gave her the name of Viola Magpie, she got madder than I’d ever heard her. She said, “Viola? She’s a total fraud! She has a very bad reputation in the psychic community. Other psychics refuse to work with her. We don’t want our reputations sullied. Most police departments won’t use her because she’s hit-or-miss with the cases she works on. Sometimes she solves the crime. Other times, she comes up with nothing. And more than once she’s accused the wrong person, which only came to light through DNA sampling.” She paused, then added, “I’ve heard stories about some of the crimes she appeared to solve. One time, after she got a little bit too much notoriety for supposedly solving a serial murder case through psychic powers, a woman came forward claiming she had known the suspect and had reported his name to Viola. Who knows if that was true or not, but most of the professionals in the psychic community suspected it was.”
Shade and the Skinwalkers Page 24