Disturbed

by Kevin O'Brien

  Courtney’s uncovered eye seemed to catch sight of him, and a tiny smile flickered across her chapped, blistered lips. Her right hand rested on her stomach. The bandage didn’t quite camouflage the fact that her first two fingers were missing. The other hand worked the volume on the TV control. She put it on mute.

  “Oh, crap, don’t look at me, Chris,” she murmured. She blocked his view of her face with her good hand. “I’m like something out of Night of the Living Dead.”

  Chris tried to smile. “Actually, you look better than you did the other day when I was here. The swelling’s gone down.”

  “You were here?”

  He nodded. “You were pretty well medicated.”

  “Are those dead flowers for me?” she asked warily.

  “Yeah, they’re dried, not dead.” He set them down on the dresser across from her bed. He noticed a big card with a cartoon nurse on the cover leaning against a vase of flowers.

  “Actually, they’re very pretty, thanks,” Courtney said. She finally took her hand down. “I got a card there from Madison. Can you believe it?”

  Chris picked up the card and opened it. Inside, Madison had written: Get well soon! I really miss you! XOX — Madison. He carefully put the card back. “So — are you in a lot of pain?”

  “It’s not as bad as it was,” she muttered. “They have me on a ton of drugs. I’m going to be a Vicodin addict when I get out of here — and I’ll be a circus freak, too.”

  “Don’t say that,” Chris whispered.

  The uncovered eye glanced toward the drapes. “Why not? It’s true.”

  “Do you know if they’re any closer to figuring out who did this to you?”

  “Nope,” she said, her ravaged face still turned away from him. “All they know is someone broke into my gym locker and rigged my cell phone. They think it might have been another student, pulling a prank that went too far. They’re not really sure.”

  Chris hadn’t heard that about the locker. So on two separate occasions, someone had broken into both Courtney’s and his lockers.

  She finally turned toward him again. “I heard about your father. I’m really sorry.”

  “It was a lot like what happened with your dad,” Chris said. “They found him in a hotel room — with drugs and porn. Some woman set him up to overdose.”

  “Only difference is your dad’s dead, and mine’s out on bail, living in a Best Western in Lynnwood.” Courtney sighed. “I’m not sure which one is better off.”

  “Remember the morning you had your accident, when you were driving me to school?” Chris asked. “You said that you told Mr. Corson about your dad. You said we all spilled our guts to him. And you were right. He knew my dad had screwed around on my mom.”

  “Yeah, Corson was wise to all our family secrets,” she said.

  “Did he know about Madison’s mom and her drinking problem?”

  “Sure,” Courtney said, with a weak nod.

  “It’s kind of like he came back to haunt us,” Chris heard himself say. “Every secret we told Mr. Corson has been exposed. Our parents are getting killed or thrown in jail. It’s like his ghost has come back to get even with every one of us on Willow Tree Court who did him wrong.”

  Courtney sighed. “I guess you blame me more than anyone else for getting him fired.”

  Chris didn’t say anything. But he was thinking, Yes, you and your iPhone.

  And that was what had exploded in her face.

  He stepped up to her bed. “Mr. Corson used to scribble down notes when I was talking to him in his office for those formal sessions. Did he do the same thing with you?”

  “Yeah, sure, he used to take a lot of notes,” Courtney said. “He probably collected some juicy stuff there, too. Who do you think has those notes now? The school?”

  Chris remembered, and he slowly shook his head. “No,” he replied. “Not anymore.”

  “Hi, Molly, it’s Rachel calling at around three-thirty. . ”

  Molly stood in her kitchen with the big UPS box on the counter. She hovered near the answering machine, listening to the voice mail.

  “I got your message earlier,” Rachel went on. “I’m fine. Don’t panic when you see my car isn’t in the driveway. You asked me to make sure if Natalie comes back that she doesn’t leave again. And I’ve done that. But I really need to go to the store. I know you’ll be home soon, because Erin’s bus drops her off at a quarter to four. I’ll be back before then, okay? I really don’t think you’re going to see Natalie again. But you’ll see me — very soon. Okay? Bye.”

  Rachel knew her very well by now. When Molly had driven up the cul-de-sac and noticed there wasn’t a car in her driveway, she’d thought for certain something was wrong. But now that she’d listened to Rachel’s message, Molly felt better. It was 3:35, so she must have just missed her. Natalie couldn’t have come back, packed up, and left again in that short a time.

  Molly still had some Styrofoam peanuts stuck to the sleeve of her pea jacket when she took it off. More peanuts fell out of the UPS box and onto the kitchen counter as she dug out the smaller parcel again. She took out the jade elephant and carried it up to her attic studio. She was going to clear a space on her shelf for it. But thanks to Erin, there were some recent vacancies.

  Setting down Jeff’s elephant, Molly stopped and stared at her cola ad painting with all the characters through the ages — and the big, yellow X slashed across it. She hadn’t really assessed the damage yet. Nor had she cleaned up the mess Erin had made. She figured it might take a day or two, but she could fix the painting. As for the yellow paint on several of her elephants, a little turpentine could get that out.

  Molly carefully put the cap back on the tube of Naples Yellow Light and returned it to the drawer with the other paints. She set the brush in some paint thinner. Then she bent over and picked up the putty knife Erin used to break three of the more fragile elephants. Molly put the knife back in the jar, where she kept it with a couple of old brushes and a sponge brush — on the second to top shelf of her supplies cabinet.

  Before closing the cabinet door, Molly hesitated, and then glanced around.

  She stored a stepladder in the other corner of the room, and it was there now. The stool was near the easel, where she usually kept it. And there was a chair against the wall in another corner of the room, where it always was. None of those things had been moved close to the cabinet.

  Frowning, Molly glanced up at the putty knife in that jar — on a shelf that was almost six feet high.

  Erin was only about three and a half feet tall.

  Despite the November chill, she kept the window of her Honda Accord rolled down. It smelled like gasoline in the car. Two full five-quart canisters sat on the floor of the backseat. She had a grocery bag back there, too — with juice for Erin. She also had a blanket on the seat, in case Erin got cold.

  Drumming her fingers on the steering wheel, she watched the children file out the main doors of the two-story elementary school. One set of windows in the front had pictures of turkeys, pumpkins, and Pilgrims for Thanksgiving.

  Along with several other mothers, Jenna was parked in the line of cars behind three buses in the school’s loading zone. As the mob of kids moved closer to the bus, Jenna stepped out of the car and started looking for Erin.

  “Aunt Rachel?” she heard someone say.

  She’d persuaded Erin to start calling her that a few days ago. And she was pleased to hear it now.

  Lugging her book bag, Erin broke away from the crowd of youngsters and ran to her.

  Jenna squatted down, kissed Erin on the cheek, and then zipped up her open jacket. “I’ve come here to pick you up,” she whispered. “Molly wants me to take care of you this afternoon. She — well, she just doesn’t want to see you. I don’t understand her sometimes, I really don’t.”

  Her big eyes staring, Erin gave her a sort of puzzled, wounded look.

  Jenna shrugged. “Let’s not think about Molly. She’s so awful. It’s like
I was telling you the other day, the only reason I’m Molly’s friend is to make sure she doesn’t try to hurt you. I’m never going to let that happen, honey.” She took the book bag from her.

  “Erin?”

  Jenna glanced up and saw a stocky, pale woman of about forty waddling toward them. She had short hair, studded earrings, and wore a trench coat. Jenna smiled at the woman. “Hi, I’m Rachel Cross,” she said, holding out her hand.

  The woman eyed her warily, but shook her hand anyway. “I’m Shauna Farrell, vice principal.”

  “Molly said she’d call the school,” Jenna whispered. “Something tells me she didn’t. The poor thing, she’s going through a lot right now. She wanted me to take Erin for the afternoon.” She put a hand on Erin’s shoulder. “Honey, could you introduce me to Ms. Farrell?”

  Erin spoke past a finger crooked on her lower lip. “This is Aunt Rachel from next door,” she announced. Then she reached over and tugged at Jenna’s sleeve.

  “If you’d like, I can call Molly,” Jenna offered. “Only I think she’s resting.”

  The vice principal’s expression softened. She smiled and shook her head. “That won’t be necessary. Please give Mrs. Dennehy my condolences.”

  “I’ll do that,” Jenna said. “Thank you.” She took Erin’s hand and walked her to the car.

  She made sure Erin was buckled in the front passenger seat. Then she reached back, took out a box of Juicy Juice from the bag, and offered it to her.

  Erin took it, but then frowned at the box with the straw in it. “It’s already open.”

  Nodding, Jenna started up the car. “Yes, I opened it for you, honey.”

  “I want one I can open up myself,” Erin said.

  “Don’t be silly,” Jenna said. “Now, drink up. . ”

  “But I want one I can open—”

  “Goddamn it, don’t be such a little brat,” she growled.

  Erin gazed at her. She looked a bit scared.

  Jenna shook her head, and clicked her tongue against her teeth. “You know, that’s what Molly’s always saying. She says you’re a very bad girl, and that’s why God made your mommy and daddy die. Isn’t that a horrible thing for her to say? I don’t believe that for one second. She’s just being mean. I think you’re wonderful, Erin. I wish you were my daughter.” She reached over and stroked her hair. “You have pretty blond hair, honey. But sometime soon, we should change your hair. In fact, we’ll both change our hair. I could use a different style and different color — nothing permanent, mind you. We could both be redheads for a week or so. Wouldn’t that be fun?”

  Erin shrugged. “I guess. . ” She still eyed her juice container suspiciously.

  “Of course it would be fun,” Jenna said firmly. She pulled into traffic. “Now, drink up. It’s your favorite. . ”

  Fifteen minutes later, no one noticed the black Honda Accord parked in back of a strip mall, where half the stores were shut down. There, by the Dumpsters, no one saw Jenna take something wrapped in a blanket from the front seat of the car. She carefully transferred it to the trunk.

  Then she ducked back inside the car and drove away.

  He didn’t have the address anymore. It had been nearly eight months since he’d gone there by cab that one time. He remembered it was in Kent on Forty-second Avenue, one of those boring-looking new apartment complexes.

  As Chris drove his father’s Lexus through rush hour traffic on Interstate 5, he kept thinking about that call to Mrs. Hahn. “How does it feel to have everything taken away from you?” the woman had asked. “Now you know what you did to me.”

  Mrs. Corson’s husband lost his job and his family because of a sex scandal. Mrs. Corson had lost her daughter, too. Tracy Corson had run away and didn’t even come back for Mr. Corson’s funeral. “Because of you,” Mrs. Corson had told him, “our lives were destroyed.”

  He and Molly had started it all when they’d reported to the principal about Mr. Corson hugging Ian in the varsity locker room after hours. The whole thing might have blown over, but his dad and mom had both become so worked up over the incident. Then Mrs. Hahn and Mrs. Garvey got involved. And between Courtney and Madison, it was suddenly all over the Internet, Twitter, and Facebook about Mr. Corson and Ian.

  In a matter of eight months, all of the people responsible for Mr. Corson’s firing had had their lives snuffed out or destroyed.

  Mrs. Hahn was wrong. The rash of deaths, accidents, and tragedies on Willow Tree Court didn’t start when Molly had moved onto the block. The devastation began shortly after Mr. Corson was murdered. And his death was still unsolved.

  Chris gripped the steering wheel so tight that his knuckles turned white. He anxiously watched for the Kent exit and saw it was in the left lane of the Interstate. A car horn blared as he switched lanes to make it over in time. His stomach was in knots. He wished he had an exact address. He only had a vague recollection of how the taxi had taken him to Mrs. Corson’s apartment complex.

  But he remembered Mrs. Corson very well, and that part didn’t quite make sense. She was kind of dumpy with frizzy brown hair and a birthmark on her cheek. Plus she looked older than Mr. Corson. According to Roseann, the woman with his dad at the hotel bar on Friday had been cute, with a good figure. Maybe Mrs. Corson had toned up, but most birthmarks couldn’t be removed.

  The other thing that didn’t seem right was the toolshed catching on fire next door at Rachel’s house. She hadn’t even been living on Willow Tree Court at the time of Mr. Corson’s firing or his death. Why would Mrs. Corson pick on her?

  Hunched close to the wheel, Chris watched for the street signs. He was pretty sure this was the same road that led to her apartment complex. He’d just passed Forty-seventh Avenue Southeast, and he could see a forest just beyond the new townhouses and apartment buildings. Just five more blocks, he told himself.

  Another thing that didn’t quite make sense to him had been how his mother had been murdered — along with Larry and Taylor. Those two had nothing to do with Mr. Corson. Why did they have to die? Had they just been in the wrong place at the wrong time? He remembered how he’d planned to spend that night at Larry’s with his mother. Larry and Taylor had been scheduled to go on some overnight trip to Olympia, only it had gotten canceled at the last minute. Had the killer been planning to find his mother alone in that house?

  Wrong place, wrong time.

  He saw the street sign for Forty-third Avenue, and the layout was beginning to look familiar. Chris turned left onto Forty-second and noticed the NO OUTLET sign. He could see the gate ahead — and the four identical beige buildings beyond that. He remembered Mrs. Corson lived in the second building on the second floor, but he had no idea what apartment number it was.

  Parking in an alcove near the entrance, he climbed out of the car and checked the directory by the pedestrian gate. It was one of those phone intercom-directories. The instructions on how to use it were embossed on the steel plate that had the touch keys and phone cradle. He hated these damn things. He pressed *99, and then selected 2 for the ABC listings. It was hard to see the names past the glare reflecting off the dirty glass to the display window. With the pound sign, he scrolled down the tenant roster to the C’s. But he didn’t see Corson listed there.

  Was Molly right? Had Jenna Corson moved onto their block? Was she calling herself Natalie now? He’d never seen Natalie. She’d probably been avoiding him, knowing he’d recognize her.

  He heard a car approaching. He still had the phone in his hand, and pretended to talk into it as a woman in a station wagon pulled up to the entrance. He noticed her reach for something on her sun visor. With a click and a mechanical hum, the gate slid open. Chris watched her drive through and head toward the first building. He waited until she was far enough away; then he quickly hung up the phone and snuck through the entrance just as the gate started to close again.

  Second building, second floor, he told himself. Maybe the current tenant knew where Mrs. Corson had gone.

  T
he wind kicked up, and he hiked up the collar to his school jacket as he made his way to the second building. He glanced up at the overcast sky. It would be getting dark soon, he could tell.

  Chris was pretty sure it was the second alcove with a stairway that had a sign: UNITS E — H. He climbed up only one flight, but he was short of breath as he stopped in front of apartment 2-F. Under the doorbell, he noticed a piece of white tape with Yeager scribbled on it. But he could see there was another piece of tape beneath that. Chris carefully peeled it back, and saw the handwritten J. Corson.

  He rang the bell. He could hear movement on the other side of the door. He waited a few moments, then rang the bell again and knocked. The door opened as far as the chain lock allowed. Peering out at him was a slightly chubby woman with brown bangs in her eyes and a thumb-sucking toddler in her arms.

  “Hi,” Chris said. “Sorry to bother you, but I’m trying to find the woman who used to live here, Jenna Corson.”

  The woman shook her head. “She didn’t leave a forwarding address. I can’t help you.” She shut the door.

  Chris felt a huge letdown. Slump-shouldered, he stood by that door for another moment.

  Suddenly, it opened again. “Hey,” the woman said, peeking out at him. She bounced the toddler in her arms. “Try Monica Ballitore in three-G, one flight up. She was a friend of hers. She might know where you can find her.”

  “Thanks a lot,” Chris said. Then he hurried up the stairs to apartment 3-G and knocked on the door. He heard footsteps, and then someone’s voice on the other side. “Yeah, who’s there?” she called.

  “I’m looking for Monica Ballitore!” Chris replied loudly.

  The door swung open. “That’s me,” she said. “Who are you?”

  Chris stared at the fortysomething woman. She had frizzy brown hair and a birthmark on her cheek. An unlit cigarette was in her hand.