Disturbed

by Kevin O'Brien

  In his blue Speedo, George Camper, the captain of the team and a nice guy, strode past Chris. George shot him a concerned look before he disappeared past the row of lockers. “Hey, Fischer,” George said. “Do me a favor and shut the hell up.”

  “‘Don’t Let Your Son Go Down on Me’? Get it?” Fischer was saying to his buddy. “Are you brain-dead or something? Don’t you remember? Chris Dennehy and Ian Scholl—”

  “Shut up already!” Chris heard George growl. Then there was whispering.

  Chris buttoned his shirt back up. He quickly collected his jacket and backpack of books. He just couldn’t stick around there. He closed his locker, spun the combination dial, and then ducked out of the locker room.

  It was raining out, so Chris stood under the bus shelter while waiting for the number 331. Only a few other students were at the stop. They looked like freshmen. Chris didn’t have to wait long before the bus showed up. He took a seat near the back. Staring out the rain-beaded window, he thought about Ian Scholl.

  Ian was thin and pale with jet-black hair. There was something weird about his looks — he seemed pretty instead of handsome. Courtney claimed he must have sculpted his eyebrows to get them to look the way they did. Yet he didn’t have a metrosexual thing going on. He always dressed very neat and conservatively in what Courtney called Mormon clothes. Ian was a mess of contradictions. He was obviously gay, and just as obviously uncomfortable with it. His effeminate manner — paired with a rabid homophobia — alienated everyone and made him a prime target for teasing.

  Chris didn’t talk to him much. They were in the same English lit class, but that was about it. Mostly, he just saw Ian in the hallways, carrying his books like a girl — until some guy inevitably knocked those books out of his grasp or tripped him. On one of those occasions, Chris had felt bad for Ian, and he’d picked up one of Ian’s books for him. “Are you okay?” he’d asked.

  Ian had snatched the book out of his hand. “I don’t need any help from some dumb jock,” he’d hissed.

  Chris had let out a surprised laugh. “Well, screw you, then.” He’d turned and walked away.

  So later, when Mr. Corson had asked him to be nice to Ian, Chris resisted. They’d been jogging around the track together. Chris told him about the episode with the schoolbooks in the hallway. “The guy’s a jerk,” Chris said, between gasps for air. “I already tried to be friendly with him, and he got all pissy on me. And you want me to be his pal? No thanks!”

  Mr. Corson slowed to a stop, and then caught his breath. His Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band Concert Tour T-shirt was soaked and clinging to him. Jogging in place at his side, Chris had only a few beads of sweat on his forehead.

  “You weren’t offering Ian friendship,” Mr. Corson said. “You were offering him your pity. He was mad and humiliated. So he snapped at you. Give him a second chance. I’m not asking you to be best friends with him. Just be nice, and maybe persuade some of your pals to stop tormenting him.”

  Chris suddenly stopped running in place. “I’ve never tormented him,” he pointed out. “And the guys who pick on him aren’t my friends, so I doubt they’ll listen to me when I tell them to lay off. I don’t have that much clout around here.” He shook his head. “Really, I’m sorry, but I can’t help you out, Mr. C.”

  “Fine, I understand,” Mr. Corson muttered.

  “We’ve still got two more laps,” Chris said. He started running in place once more. “You aren’t pooping out on me, are you?”

  Mr. Corson nodded. “Yeah, I am,” he sighed. “You go ahead and finish up without me, Chris. I’m beat.” He turned and lumbered toward the school’s athletic wing.

  Chris remembered watching him walk away. He’d almost called to him. But instead, he’d just let him go.

  Chris heard the bus driver announce his stop. He let out a sigh and started to reach for the signal cord above his head. But then he hesitated. He didn’t want to go home just yet. He couldn’t pretend for Molly that everything was okay. He just didn’t have it in him right now. Slowly, his hand went down and he watched the bus speed past his stop.

  He realized there was someplace else he had to go.

  The bus made three more stops, and Chris was the only passenger left. He wasn’t too familiar with this part of the route, but he knew they must be getting close to his destination. He’d only been there once before.

  Getting to his feet, he made his way toward the front of the bus. The driver was a cinnamon-skinned, thirtysomething woman with short-cropped, shiny, dark auburn hair. Chris caught her looking at him in the mirror.

  “Excuse me,” he said, grabbing an overhead strap to keep his balance. “Does this bus go to the — the Evergreen Wasabi Cemetery?”

  “Ha!” She grinned up at him in the mirror. “You mean, Evergreen Washelli, honey! Wasabi is Japanese horseradish. Ha!” She gazed at his reflection; and obviously she saw he wasn’t smiling. She shifted in her seat a bit, cleared her throat, and nodded. “Evergreen Washelli Memorial Park is coming up in two more stops. Why don’t you sit down, honey? I’ll tell you when we get there.”

  Chris plopped down on the handicapped seat behind her. He figured the bus driver must have thought he was related to someone buried in the cemetery, and maybe that was why she got serious all of the sudden. “Thanks a lot,” he said.

  Chris thanked her again a few minutes later as the doors whooshed open and he stepped off the bus. He was about a half block from the open gates of the Memorial Park entrance. By the time Chris started down the private drive of the park, his hair was wet and matted down with rain. His jacket had become soaked. The cold dampness seeped through to his shoulders, and he shuddered. He passed the administration building, which resembled a modern-looking chapel. He’d gone in there on his last visit for help finding the grave.

  But he was pretty sure he still remembered where the marker was. Taking a curve in the road, he started up a gentle slope and kept a lookout for a tall statue of St. Joseph. That had been how he’d found his way when he’d been here back in January. The trees were bare then, and the grass had some brown patches. But everything was in bloom now, and the lawn was a lush, misty green — punctuated by squares of gray, rose, and white marble. There were only a few other people in the park, and they’d had the good sense to bring umbrellas. No one was close enough to see him muttering to himself: “I’m sure this is the way. I know St. Joseph is around here someplace. . ”

  He finally spotted the statue behind a huge evergreen. Just beyond that was a section of the cemetery with no upright markers. The grave he wanted to find was near one of the two Japanese maples on the far side of the section.

  As Chris trudged on the grass, he felt water seeping into his Nikes, soaking his socks. The rain seemed to be getting worse. His hands were wet and cold. He rarely strapped on his backpack, but he resorted to that now — so he could shove both hands in his jacket pockets. Shivering, he imagined catching pneumonia, maybe even dying.

  Well, he deserved to die.

  Perhaps they would bury him here among these flat markers, where people could walk over the gravestones, as well as the graves — and not give a damn. He realized that without any standing tombstones, it might be tough to find the right grave — a lot tougher than he thought.

  Chris reached the Japanese maples — with rain dripping from their red spidery leaves. He started looking for the marker. Near the end of the row, he reminded himself. He couldn’t remember the color. He walked up and down the end row of markers with his head down, looking at the ground. It was his posture of the day, because he didn’t want to talk with anyone.

  The only people he wanted to talk to were dead.

  And they hadn’t buried Mr. Corson yet.

  After a few minutes, the names started to blend together, and Chris retraced his steps. “You’re here someplace,” he whispered, running a hand through his wet hair. “I know you’re here. . ”

  Then at last, he saw it — a gray marker, a bit newer than t
he others. Chris stopped in his tracks and stared down at it. His throat started to tighten.

  IAN HAMPTON SCHOLL

  1994–2010Beloved Son — Rest with the Angels

  As he gazed down at the marker, warm tears mingled with the cold rain on his face. “I’m sorry,” Chris said. He shook his head over and over. “God, I’m so sorry. . ”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “Why are you doing this to us?” she heard her friend, Leslie, cry out.

  Marianne Bowles sat up in bed for a moment. She was thirty-two and single, with blond hair, blue eyes, and a lovely figure — though Marianne felt she stood to lose about ten pounds. She was in from Boston on business with Microsoft, and decided to spend the weekend with her old college roommate, Leslie and her husband, Kurt.

  At the moment, it sounded like the two of them might be having a fight. In a weird way, it was kind of a relief to know Leslie and Kurt Fontaine weren’t so damn perfect after all. Marianne envied her old college pal. Leslie was still a knockout. She and Kurt seemed terribly happy. They lived in a gorgeous little English cottage — style house at the end of a cul-de-sac in the Madrona neighborhood. It had a sweet English garden with a stone pathway to the garage, which Kurt had converted into an office for Leslie and her thriving website-design business. It made ideal guest quarters — with its full bath, mini-fridge, microwave, and comfortable sofa bed, on which Marianne now slept. At least she’d been sleeping — until the voices from the house woke her up.

  They’d dined out at Cactus in Madison Park and had a few too many margaritas. But it had been a wonderful time, with lots of laughs and old college stories. Marianne had staggered down the stone pathway to her guest quarters at around 11:30, and she’d been asleep by midnight.

  She squinted at the clock on the end table: 1:55 A.M. She couldn’t believe Leslie and Kurt were still awake — and arguing, no less. Maybe they’d hit that wall some people hit after a certain amount of happy drinking — and then they become angry-drunk.

  “Oh, God, no!” Kurt yelled. “Wait, wait!”

  Marianne slumped back down in the bed and put her hands over her ears. She didn’t want to hear their private discussion, which sounded almost violent. She could still detect some muffled yelling from Kurt. So Marianne rolled over on her side and pressed the extra pillow to the side of her head. That seemed to block it out.

  She must have drifted off, because then she heard a tapping noise and glanced at the clock again: 3:17 A.M. It took her a moment to realize someone was knocking on her door. She’d locked it earlier. There was just enough light in the room for her to see the knob turning back and forth a bit.

  Pulling back the bedcovers, Marianne was about to climb out of bed. She hesitated — she wasn’t sure why. She already had a bit of a hangover, and didn’t want to have to listen to Leslie’s version of what they’d been arguing about. Marianne was just too tired.

  There were a few more taps on the door.

  She figured if Leslie wanted to talk that badly, she’d go fetch the key and let herself in. Marianne fell back into bed. After a few moments, she saw a shadow in the window — moving back toward the house.

  Her eyelids grew heavy and she felt herself drifting off to sleep again. Marianne’s last thought was about the light coming through the window. Strange, how bright it seemed outside. It was as if every light was on inside the charming English cottage — style home.

  * * *

  “Chris? Erin?” Molly called from the bottom of the stairs. They were both in their respective bedrooms. Erin had a ballet recital at 2 P.M. Chris was getting together with Elvis this afternoon. Molly had emerged from the shower an hour ago and was still in her bathrobe. She’d promised to drive Erin to her recital and attend the show.

  That had been two weeks ago — before she’d found out Angela would be there, too.

  Perhaps that was why Molly had been on edge most of the morning. It was Saturday, and the ballet show was in an hour.

  “Did either of you take the MapQuest directions from the basket on the kitchen counter?” she called upstairs to them.

  No response.

  “Erin? Chris?” she yelled.

  “I didn’t take’m!” Chris yelled back, his voice muffled by the closed door.

  “Me neither, and please, I’m trying to get dressed!” Erin screamed, very much the prima donna ballerina.

  Molly checked her purse for the directions. The night before last, she’d printed the MapQuest directions and set the printout by the phone on the kitchen counter. Now it wasn’t there. All she could remember was the recital hall was someplace where God lost his shoes in Mountlake Terrace.

  The printout wasn’t in her purse, either.

  She didn’t even want to go to this stupid thing. Why the hell couldn’t Angela drive Erin? Wouldn’t a mother want to spend that time with her daughter? What an incredible jerk. Molly really didn’t want to see her today. Angela was probably ready to dole out some more Don’t Trust Jeff advice, too.

  It had been a little over a week since Molly had spoken with Angela at the Neighborhood Watch potluck. They’d learned about Ray Corson’s murder that same morning.

  The police still hadn’t found his killer yet. Molly heard they’d interviewed Ian Scholl’s parents. They’d even spoken with Jeff at his office that day. They didn’t dare let on that he was a suspect, or even a person of interest. But he must have been — for a brief while anyway.

  From what Molly had read, the police figured Corson’s death was the result of a random robbery that had gotten out of hand. The Arboretum was close enough to the University District, where there had been a rash of armed robberies lately.

  Chris had told his dad he wanted to attend Mr. Corson’s wake this weekend. He wanted to pay his respects, and maybe even apologize to Mrs. Corson for that whole mess back in December. But Jeff insisted it was a private service, and Chris wouldn’t be welcome there. Besides he didn’t need to apologize to anybody for anything.

  In the end, Chris had ceded to his father’s ruling and sulked about it for the better part of an evening.

  Jeff had spent the last four nights in Denver. He was coming back in time for dinner tonight — if his flight wasn’t delayed.

  Molly had endured the last few nerve-wracking nights without him. The Cul-de-sac Killer had struck again last weekend, slaying a Madrona couple. An old college friend visiting from Boston had been asleep in a guesthouse behind the residence. She hadn’t heard about the Cul-de-sac Killer, so she hadn’t been alarmed when she noticed nearly every light on inside her friends’ house when she awoke Sunday morning. She found her friend’s husband in a coat closet on the first floor. His hands were tied behind him, and he’d been stabbed repeatedly. The wife was in the master bedroom closet with her throat slit. The woman from Boston told police that she’d heard them in the middle of the night — and thought they were arguing. And later, someone had tapped on her door, but she hadn’t answered it.

  Of course, Molly read every article she could about the murders — and then she wasn’t able to sleep at night.

  Last night had been the worst. Chris had gone out for a movie and pizza with Elvis. Molly had let him take her car. But when Chris still hadn’t come home by midnight, she grew more and more anxious — not only about her stepson but also for Erin and herself. After tucking Erin in bed, she’d been reluctant to go up to her studio and work. If someone broke in, she might not hear anything until it was too late. She imagined coming down from her studio to discover Erin’s empty bed — and her body in the closet.

  So Molly sat in the family room with the TV on. She kept expecting to see someone through the glass doors, lurking at the edge of the forest in the back. Finally, she closed Angela’s ugly drapes, blocking the view entirely. She almost telephoned Henry down the block, but stuck it out until 12:25, when Chris finally came home.

  Just having a semi-adult in the house made her feel safer — which was also kind of silly, because three of the killer’s victi
ms were adult males. Still, Molly was able to relax a bit with Chris there.

  He’d asked to use her car again this afternoon to hang out with Elvis, but she had to drive Erin to her ballet recital.

  Molly still couldn’t find the damn MapQuest directions. She decided to go into Jeff’s computer, check the sites she’d last visited, pull up the page, and print it again — a solution she should have thought often minutes ago.

  On her way to Jeff’s study, she ran into Chris coming down the stairs. His hair was carefully combed, and he wore a pair of pressed khakis, a crisp-looking blue shirt, and black loafers, shined and buffed. He carried a lightweight, dark jacket.

  “Well, you look nice,” Molly commented. “I thought you were getting together with Elvis. You look more like you’re going out on a hot date.”

  He frowned at her a bit. “No, we’re just hanging out, that’s all,” he muttered. At the front door, Chris threw on his jacket. “We — um, we might go to the art museum. I just didn’t want to look like a bum.”

  “Can I drop you at Elvis’s? It’s on the way, and there’s still time before Erin’s Swan Lake stint.”

  “It’s okay. I’m taking the bus downtown and meeting him.”

  “Well, try to be back in time for dinner,” Molly said, patting his shoulder. “Your dad’s coming home, and I’m fixing lasagna. Tell Elvis he’s invited, too.”

  Chris just nodded distractedly. “I’ll call and let you know. Bye.” Then he headed out the front door.

  Molly glanced at her wristwatch. She still had to get dressed. “Erin, honey!” she called upstairs. “Just to let you know, we’re leaving in about twenty minutes!” Then she murmured to herself. “If I can ever track down how to get to this damn place. .”

  She headed into Jeff’s study, sat down at his computer, and got online. She clicked on the browsing history arrow. She was about to scroll down to MapQuest.com Search Results when she noticed two sites listed near the top: King County Metro Online Trip Planner and Bonney-Watson Funeral Home, Seattle.