When some people get serious about a project, it is usually no big deal. But when Willy stops joking around, it’s time to get suspicious.
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Mindy added. “If anyone gets rowdy, Mr. Hattori is here.”
“Neighborhood Watch? You’re serious?”
“It’s the only way we could have the party,” Mindy said. “My mom and dad ended up going out to dinner. We’re part of Neighborhood Watch, too, so they know him. After the last time, they said if I had another party while they were gone, they’d never let me drive again.” Mindy smiled wickedly. “So, I emailed Mr. Hattori and asked if he would chaperone. He said he would be ‘most honored,’ that’s how he put it. They couldn’t say no after that.”
I smiled back. That was clever.
A powerfully built Ninja strolled through the open glass doors that led from the backyard into the house, and the noise level dropped. A black mask covered the Ninja’s face except for his sharp black eyes that seemed to take in the whole room. Mr. Hattori has huge hands; his knuckles are scarred and calloused. I’ve seen him break boards, bricks, and cinder blocks. No one would act up with him here.
“Is that a real sword?” I said quietly.
“His katana, yep, I think so,” Mindy said. “And the other one, too, the short one.”
Parker’s Scream mask hung under his chin. He put his hands on the tops of his thighs, straightened his back, and bowed deeply from his waist as Mr. Hattori approached. “Konban-wa, Sensei,” Parker said, keeping his head lowered.
“Parker-san.” Mr. Hattori acknowledged him with a brief nod.
Willy looked up from the box he had been peering into and craned his neck to see what everyone was looking at. His eyes stopped roving when he caught sight of Mr. Hattori. He put the lid back on the box and bowed the same as Parker.
In a few seconds, a dozen people were doing a version of Parker’s bow. Those who were not bowing looked sideways at the person next to them or stepped to the side and eyed the others who were bent over, and while they didn’t bow, they did not laugh or snicker.
“Hey, guys, knock it off. This is a party. Enjoy!” Mr. Hattori threw his head back and laughed uproariously.
Willy chuckled, but he was the only one. One-by-one people began talking again. Soon everyone was engaged in conversations that were louder and more animated than they needed to be.
Mr. Hattori strolled at the same steady pace through the house and out the front door. Mindy and I wove through the crowd and into the backyard.
“I like your costume,” I said to Mindy, who was dressed like Violet of The Incredibles in a red skinny top and black skirt.
“Me too,” she agreed happily, “especially the boots and gloves.” She eyed my costume. “I thought you were going to dress up like Pink.”
“I was but I didn’t have any money to buy a wig so I wore this”—I looked down at Mom’s old USC cheerleader sweater with big red and gold letters— “I wanted to take the letters off but Francine said she wanted to wear it when she’s older and the letters had to stay on, so Mom said no.”
“What a brat your sister is, and your mom doesn’t do anything.”
“Tell me about it: baby of the family.”
We stayed on the patio for a few minutes. I greeted some friends, admired their costumes, and then we went back inside.
Through the front bay window, I saw Mr. Hattori stroll across the lawn. Party crashers always roam around on Halloween and several cars inched past the house.
There are lots of rumors about Mr. Hattori. Justin said that Mr. Hattori is a descendant of a great samurai who was a Ninja. I don’t know if it’s true—Justin exaggerates a lot—but it’s believable. Another rumor is that Mr. Hattori once belonged to a Japanese gang, the Yakuza. I don’t know how it started but everyone has heard it. Dad said it was just that, a “rumor.” However, the tip of Mr. Hattori’s finger is missing. He said it happened in an accident—and who is going to argue with him?
The point is, just the idea of being in a gang or a cult where the initiation is cutting off a body part is enough to give anyone second thoughts. I don’t know anyone, young or old, who would voluntarily cut off anything.
A haunted house candelabra had been set in the dining room. Its purple light wavered from the dark room and into the hall where Willy and another boy were carrying the mysterious cardboard box.
A boy I hadn’t seen before tried to follow, but Willy shook his head, and the boy withdrew. I wanted to see what they were doing and moved closer to the dining room. As I did, I glimpsed a tall dark figure exiting through the glass doors.
“What’s James doing here?” Mindy whispered.
Jade and James rarely go to any social functions—partly because some people think they don’t want to, so they don’t invite them, and partly because parents send a bad vibe if they mention it.
“You mean you didn’t ask him to come?” I said.
“I wanted to.” She shrugged. But I didn’t.
At a party where there is lots of talking and laughing, the atmosphere will change when one or more partygoers does something out of the ordinary. It might be a matter of attention being diverted to part of the room that suddenly becomes quiet; or a person moves too fast like they are scared away from something dangerous; or those around them simply draw back and other people notice it.
In the case of Willy, it was all three. I didn’t see him remove his life-size alien from the box, but when he carried it outside all heads turned, and again the noise level dropped. It was a creature like the one in Alien. It had the same gruesome odd-shaped head and the same raw reddish-brown skin. Slime covered its body—life-like enough to make me wince, and sticky enough to hang in thick globs and not fall off.
“Gross,” I said.
There were exclamations of disgust—as well as admiring oohs and ahs—as Willy moved through the room, but it was not until I saw the face that I knew why some people frowned disapprovingly. Overlaid on the alien face, above its many rows of pointed teeth, was a distorted death mask.
“Why does he have Logan’s face on that thing?” I said.
Was Willy’s ADHD so bad that he did not realize it was a sick joke about his own brother?
But Mindy’s answer was more puzzling. “Logan was the only one who would sit still long enough to take an impression.”
Sit still? Until I mistakenly thought Logan had drowned, every time I saw him at a distance, he appeared jittery and nervous. What could have made him calm down long enough to let anyone take a facial impression, and why?
Wanting an explanation, I went outside and Mindy followed close behind.
The front yard is wide. The house sits back fifty feet or more from the street. The fog still floated over the grass; tombstones and other decorations still dotted the lawn.
An empty swing with a wooden slat for a seat hung from the same oak tree where the ghoul was. Willy propped his alien in the swing. Then he tied each of its arms to ropes on either side. The head flopped sideways. Willy took the alien’s head in both hands and steadied it, but when he let go, it flopped the other way.
A pole lay in the shrubs. Next to it was a small birdhouse that had been glued to the top. Willy picked up the pole, punctured the skin at the back of the alien’s neck, and worked it down the back between the skin and spine.
He could not get the pole all the way down and left part of it sticking up behind the neck. He pulled a rope out of his pocket, wrapped it around the neck, and looped it into a knot. Then he yanked it tight.
I reminded myself it was just a mannequin, but it still looked brutal.
A boy called out, “What does Logan think?” There was no hint of laughter in his voice.
Willy didn’t answer; he just chuckled and then shoved the swing. It moved back and forth crookedly. The alien slumped to the side, the ropes twisted together, and its legs dragged in the grass. It turned slowly around until it faced me.
I stared into the lifeless
image of Logan’s pale gray face, the eyes half-open, mouth loosely closed.
An iridescent glimmer blurred Logan’s death mask. It shimmered, turned silver. I drew in a sharp breath: I was no longer looking at Logan. It was the man with the long silver hair. He opened his eyes and stared at me.
“Help me,” he breathed.
I screamed.
Chapter 13. Confided
Vampires, ghouls, and a few unmasked faces stared down at me as I lay on a couch in Mindy’s library.
“Hey,” Willy said, hovering over me like a headless ghost. “Are you okay? It was just a joke, you know. Logan wanted me to do it.” He turned to Logan, “Didn’t you? Tell Olivia.”
Pale and shaky, Logan seemed more like he had just gotten out of the hospital than helped plan a practical joke with his brother.
“Look, it’s me.” Logan stood straighter. “I’m okay.” He smiled but in an artificial way, as if he didn’t really mean it.
He turned to the crowd and said, “Hey guys, give Olivia some space, will you? I’ll stay here.”
Mr. Hattori stood with his arms crossed. His eyes cut sideways as he glowered his disapproval at Logan.
“Are you all right, Olivia-san?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said weakly. Even if I wasn’t, I would have said yes. Mr. Hattori seemed ready to knock heads together. He did not know why I screamed, and he was not convinced I was okay. He was right.
Everyone moved toward the doorway. As they left, they glanced back at me—and Logan—who would soon be the only ones left in the room.
“No, wait,” I mumbled. “Stay here.” Saying I was all right did not mean I wanted to be alone with him.
When I thought he was dead, I wanted to know what had really happened and why no one seemed to care. But him admitting that he and his brother had played a stupid trick made me mad: at him for doing it, at myself for getting scared. He was the last one I wanted to talk to. He also might ask too many questions about why I screamed. I could not tell him about the other face, the man with silver hair.
Logan nodded as if to reassure those who had turned around when I asked them not to leave. He gave them his familiar half smile. They left slowly, glancing back at us several times.
“Don’t be scared,” he whispered when we were alone. “I didn’t mean to scare you with all that talk the other night. I was just . . . making it up. Not sure why.”
I refused to nod in agreement or show any sign that I believed him. I was not going to let him off that easily.
He stared searchingly at me, as if it were more important that I remembered what he had said, rather than him having to explain it again. At first, I thought he meant the tattooing incident at the head shop. But as he became agitated—opening and closing his hands like they were numb and he was trying to get his circulation back; tugging at his sleeve and pant leg—I recalled something else.
I had been at yoga and the class ended. It was dark and I was supposed to call when I finished so Mom or Dad could pick me up, but I didn’t. I started walking along Manhattan Beach Boulevard and at the end of the block I turned the corner. There are lots of streets in the city that we drive past. We have no reason to go up or down any of them, they just happen to be on the same route.
The street I had turned on was dark and unfamiliar. Even if I had to take a few different streets and go out of my way to cross Sepulveda Boulevard, I was still going in the right direction and could get home. Maybe it wasn’t the safest thing to do, but it seemed harmless at the time.
When I was about a fourth of the way down the street, I became aware of a car following me. I didn’t turn and look to see who it was or walk any faster. I did not want to look like I was afraid.
Then the car pulled up next to the curb, and I got scared. Maybe the driver was a perv. Every now and then we hear about some creep stopping and exposing himself to a lone girl walking home from school. I glanced over my shoulder, ready to dart between houses, and recognized Logan.
“Need a ride?” He leaned over the passenger seat. “You shouldn’t be walking around at night.”
“Sure,” I said relieved. I had decided it was not such a good idea to walk home alone.
No one looks the same under streetlights when it’s dark, so I didn’t pay much attention to his face. However, when I got in the car, I noticed how pale and shaky he was. I didn’t want to come right out and ask if he was sick. If he was, and wanted to talk about it, he would; if he wasn’t, he might think I was insinuating he was on drugs. Some people are, but they won’t admit it if you pry.
It was a quiet, narrow street—no traffic jam or crowding—so there was nothing to be nervous about. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, shifted his position in the seat, and sniffed. He coughed, and without leading up to it, he told me about a job he had to do.
“I’m working up at Glasspool,” he said, with a dry laugh. “Can you believe that?”
“Glasspool,” I began, “you mean the haunted mansion in Palos Verdes?”
“Right,” he said. “Pretty strange place to be employed, isn’t it?”
It was, but I did not say what else I was thinking. Sure, they had groundskeepers, horticulturists, and maybe cleaning crews. It was not a place I would expect him to be employed at but if he had been in trouble it could be part of a work program.
One of my mom’s lawyer friends mentioned a judge who said car washes are places where drug deals sometimes take place. The lawyer told his clients who were on parole to find a job somewhere else because if they had to appear in front of that judge, and the probation report said they were working at a car wash, he would automatically think they were doing something illegal and violating parole.
If Logan had gotten a job at an unlikely place such as Glasspool, maybe it was for the same reason. If it was, I would encourage him to get out of there.
“What’s the job?” I said. “What are you doing?”
“Tattooing,” he sniffed. “It’s a party.” He gave a short laugh, sniffed again, and turned to me; his face split into a too-wide grin. Can you believe that?
“Maybe they want to . . . support each other?” I said, trying not to show what I was thinking. That’s mental, no one has tattoo parties. “It might be easier to have someone stick needles in you if your friends are around to . . . encourage you.”
Logan barked a laugh. “They won’t be feeling any pain.” He looked back at the road, pulled to the side to let an oncoming car pass, then turned and stared at me. “They’re all dead.”
I waited for him to laugh or say he was joking.
When he didn’t, I said, “You’re not serious, are you?”
“I am.” He paused as though looking inward. “Crazy, isn’t it,” he said in a quiet voice, “what people with money will do.”
It was obvious to me he was trying to make light of it, but he was scared to death and I had no answer to give him.
“They’re having me tattoo dead people,” he said, his attempt at humor sliding away, his mouth pressing into a straight line.
“You don’t have to do it,” I said. “Logan, that’s sick. Tell them you don’t want the job.”
“I would,” he said, his voice shaking, “but I can’t.”
“Logan,” I began, “where did they get the bodies?
He shook his head slowly but didn’t answer. He didn’t
jitter or sniff after that. He seemed resigned. I didn’t ask him anything else. I scarcely breathed till he dropped me off in front of my house.
“Take care,” I said.
He gulped and rubbed his nose, but he did not leave.
“Logan, listen,” I said firmly, “call if you want to talk. No one can make you do anything you don’t want to. You know that.”
He seemed dazed and would not look at me. He ran his hand along the top of the steering wheel, then nodded.
I watched him as he drove away. It was the last time we spoke until I saw—or thought I saw—the trending topic about him b
eing found dead under the pier.
I was about to ask Logan about the tattooing job and if he had really made the whole thing up, when we were interrupted.
“Olivia! I made hot chocolate.” Parker stood in the doorway, his face pale. He tried to smile lightheartedly and hide his concern.
“Sure, man,” said Logan, glancing at him.
“Logan, wait,” I whispered. “I saw something on my phone saying you were—had—well, something about the pier and drowning.”
He turned white. “It can’t be.” A tremor ran through his body. “They said it was going to be all right—”
“Stay there, Logan,” Parker said. “I’ll make another cup.”
“Who said it would be all right?” I whispered.
“Take care of her,” Logan said to Parker. He rushed out of the room and did not look back.
Parker set the chocolate on the desk and reached down to help me up.
I pulled my arm away and glared at Parker—and the doorway where Logan had been.
What the heck. Shaky or not, I could take care of myself.
Chapter 14. Spooked
Two more weeks passed without seeing Abigail. She hadn’t been at school and had no social media presence that I could find.
Maybe she moved away or transferred to another school. With all that had happened, it would be understandable. I could have asked Mom if she had heard anything at work, but if I had become friends with Abigail as she requested, I wouldn’t need to ask. To make a point of announcing it made no sense.
I decided to stop by Abigail’s house on the weekend. If there was a For Sale or For Rent sign, it would mean she had transferred to another school and her family was getting settled before the house was sold or rented. If she was still living there, I would try to make amends for being such a wimp.
Having made up my mind, my outlook brightened. Fulfilling an obligation—or taking steps in the right direction—made everything easier. My backpack felt lighter than usual; I no longer dreaded the Spanish test; and the blister on my foot from volleyball practice only hurt if I put all my weight on it.
One of Us: The City of Secrets Page 10