The Homecoming

by Alan Russell

  “Visit?”

  “They have favorite spots to visit.”

  “So what you’re saying is that they sightsee for pleasure?”

  Stella shrugged. “I wouldn’t call it that. I would say it’s more of a pilgrimage.”

  “And you were part of that pilgrimage?”

  “I was allowed a hint of it.”

  Froke stifled a sigh. At least he’d managed to cover most of the bullet points his handlers had wanted him to bring up. Even though Stella seemed interested in this topic, it wasn’t part of the agenda they were supposed to be discussing.

  “Our time is almost up, Stella. I hope you’ll reconsider the issue of medication, especially with your starting classes at high school. The pills would help with your anxiety.”

  Stella tilted her head, as if thinking about something. “Why do they want me to take pills?” she asked.

  Froke tried to make his alarm look and sound like confusion. “They?” he asked. “Who are they?”

  Stella didn’t answer. But neither did she hide the disappointment in her eyes. Not for the first time, Froke felt like a fraud. When he’d entered med school, he hadn’t wanted to go into psychiatry. It had just sort of happened.

  He stood up. It was time this house call came to an end. He wondered what Scarecrow would have to say about this session.

  “It’s not your fault you’re not good with pain or blood, Dr. Froke,” Stella said.

  Was she hinting at suicide? he wondered.

  But then she continued. “Your body betrayed you. Your hands used to tremble when you tried to treat patients. Your peers called you Shake ’n Bake.”

  Froke’s face reddened. “Where did you hear that?” he demanded.

  “It still plays heavily on your mind,” Stella said. “When you broadcast your pain so loudly, I can’t help but hear it.”

  Just hearing the nickname conjured up bad memories. Froke remembered the time he had wet his pants when paramedics had brought in a patient whose wife had slashed his genitals. The man’s injury wasn’t life threatening and didn’t even prove to be that serious, but Froke had still voided his bladder when confronted with the sight. Even the patient had thought that was funny, laughing along with everybody else in the ER.

  For a moment, Froke wanted to admit his deception. He wanted to beg Stella’s forgiveness. But he was afraid of what Scarecrow might do to him. Yes, he was scared of blood, especially the spilling of his own.

  “I won’t dignify your imagination with a response,” he said, “but I will say that the difference between us is that I have tried to address my deficiencies and surmount my problems. I accepted the realities, and I coped. You would be wise to do the same thing.”

  With as much dignity as he could muster, Froke departed Stella’s room.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Cheever called Eleanor Pierce from the road, and asked if Stella would be free to talk in half an hour’s time.

  “That should work out fine,” she said. “Stella’s session with Dr. Froke is just ending now.”

  “How’s Stella doing?” Cheever asked.

  “She seems happy, and tomorrow she starts school. I’m pretty sure I’m more nervous than she is, maybe because I know how cliquey kids can be.”

  “It’s a parent’s job to worry.”

  “I grieved for seven years. It’s a relief to be able to worry instead.”

  Cheever found Stella sitting at a table in the backyard. She was busy removing the peel from an orange, and greeted him with a smile.

  “Would you like a section, Detective?” she asked. “Or would you like your own orange instead? There are so many, they’re falling off the tree.”

  “I’ll take a section if you don’t mind,” he said.

  She separated a piece and handed it to him. Cheever thanked her, then popped it into his mouth. The orange was both sweet and sour to the taste, and he appreciated its tartness. Still, the last note was a bit sour, and he cringed. That seemed to amuse Stella.

  “I saw Dr. Froke driving away,” said Cheever, “and I think he had that same sour expression.”

  “He stayed over to talk with my mom. Part of it was arranging our new schedule, where we’ll be going to his office twice a week. But most of their conversation was about his being disappointed with me.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I haven’t been agreeing with him or going along with his agenda.”

  “That explains it,” said Cheever. “I knew Froke’s sour look was familiar, because I’ve been causing those kinds of looks all my life. What did you do to upset him?”

  “He wants me to start on medication that I don’t want to take.”

  “What kind of medication?”

  “Pills for anxiety and depression,” she said. “Why does he want me to take medication I don’t need?”

  “I’m sure he would say you do need it.”

  “He knows that I don’t.”

  “How can you be so certain?”

  She shrugged and said, “He was broadcasting his doubts.”

  “Are you talking about mindspeak?”

  “Yes and no,” she said. “A few of his thoughts came in and out, and I got this impression that he was pushing the pills because he was being told to.”

  Cheever considered her words. “Maybe he was being cautious. Maybe the Big Brother you were hearing was just his medical training coming through. Doctors sometimes aren’t sure of the best course of treatment for their patients. Maybe Dr. Froke thinks the default protocol for a patient like you is to start them on medication.”

  Stella shrugged, clearly unconvinced.

  “Okay,” said Cheever, “why would Dr. Froke—or anyone else—want you taking unnecessary medications?”

  “Wouldn’t that be a good way of showing that I’m not right in the head?”

  “And I thought I was a suspicious old cop,” said Cheever.

  Stella took a self-satisfied bite from a section of the orange.

  “The reason I’m here today,” said Cheever, “is because I am a suspicious old cop. A witness came forward who says you lived with a man who claimed to be your uncle in a remote desert setting a few hours from here.”

  Cheever studied Stella’s reaction. You can’t be a cop for more than thirty years without being good at reading people. He didn’t have Stella’s purported ability to mindspeak, but he knew body language and had learned to trust his eyes and instincts far more than a lie detector.

  Stella stared at him blankly before saying, “He’s wrong.”

  “I showed him your picture. He says you’re older now, but he’s positive you’re the girl.”

  “Do you want me to act outraged?” asked Stella. “Do you want me to get angry? Is that what I’m supposed to be showing on my face now? I’m sorry, but those types of responses no longer come naturally to me. I think I’m getting better at smiling and responding happily, but I’m not good with my negative emotions yet. They’re being developed, though.”

  “You never lived in a silver Airstream trailer near the Salton Sea?”

  Stella shook her head. “I’ve never heard of the Salton Sea, and I don’t know what an Airstream is.”

  “I took some pictures at an art community called East Jesus,” he said. “Have you ever heard that name?”

  “No,” she said.

  Cheever turned his phone toward her. “I’d like you to take a look at these photos and tell me if anything you see looks familiar to you.”

  With his blocky forefinger, he tried to access the pictures, but Stella shook him off and reached for his phone. When she was finished scrolling through the photos, she handed back his phone and said, “I’ve never seen that artwork before, or that place.”

  “And yet I found there was something alien about many of those pieces. And I can see how an active imagination could picture the Airstream as a spaceship.”

  “How do you even know what a spaceship looks like?” she asked.

  �
�I don’t. I suppose my ideas are based on what I’ve seen in movies.”

  “I was never with that man, or in that place, or in that trailer,” she said.

  “You know I’m going to be trying to find other Salton Sea witnesses?” said Cheever. “You know I’ve worked your case so long that I have to see it through to the end?”

  “I’m glad of that. Your involvement makes me feel like I have a guardian angel. I would guess my being identified by your witness is a case of mistaken identity. But let’s say it wasn’t. What reason would he have to identify me?”

  It was sort of like her pill question, Cheever thought. And once again, he didn’t have a good answer.

  “Like most cops, I hate working a case and coming up short on answers. That’s why I keep digging and digging.”

  “I’m sorry I haven’t made your job easier.”

  “No one likes an easily solved puzzle,” said Cheever, “but now at least I can be curious and not anxious.”

  “You were anxious?”

  “Maybe that’s not the right word. When you first went missing, I barely slept. My fear was that I’d overlooked something, and I was afraid whatever it was could be a matter of life or death. As time passed, other worries surfaced. I didn’t want your abductor getting away with the crime. In my mind I kept reworking the crime, trying to think what I could do, or what I should have done. I guess you could say I was obsessive.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “My girlfriend actually encouraged me to have a special remembrance of you. She said that would help me say good-bye and put the case behind me.”

  “And did you do that?”

  “I suppose I did. It wasn’t elaborate. It wasn’t like the celebration of life that your family had in your honor. There were no pictures or speakers recalling favorite memories. Six months ago I looked out at the ocean at Torrey Pines Reserve, and silently read a passage from Charlotte’s Web.”

  “What passage?”

  He thought for a moment. “It was where one of Charlotte’s children was explaining to Wilbur that it was his time to be floating off into the air, and Wilbur was pressing him on where he would go.”

  “And he said, ‘Wherever the wind takes us,’ didn’t he?”

  “He did,” said Cheever. “And before floating away he said, ‘We take to the breeze, we go as we please.’”

  “You picked the right passage,” said Stella.

  “It seems like a silly exercise now.”

  “I hope not,” she said.

  “Speaking of passages, your mom tells me that you’re going to school tomorrow. Are you excited?”

  “I am,” she said, “even though I’m not sure what to expect.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Guy Wilkerson was out stretching on the corner of the residential street. It was a little before seven in the morning. Those who drove by gave him no notice; walkers and joggers were a common sight. After being confined for seven years, having the opportunity to exercise where and when he chose was nice, but it was secondary to his purpose. He was on the hunt and had methodically identified the spoor of his prey. He knew the makes and models of all the cars in the Pierce family, as well as those of their family friends. In fact, he had chosen to do his exercises at the entrance to their cul-de-sac.

  He finished his warm-up and started jogging. Slow but steady wins the race; it was just a matter of getting to his final destination.

  Although he’d spent hours learning familial routines, Wilkerson wasn’t even sure if that was necessary. Whenever Stella was near, he could feel her. Something in his being was attuned to her. When she was close, his spine tingled; it was almost like his vertebrae turned into a vibrating fork.

  He kept jogging. In a few minutes he’d circle back, then run right up to the Pierce house. Just outside the security gate he would pause, stopping to tie an imaginary loose shoelace. But now it was a little early for that. It would be at least half an hour before Stella’s brother, Michael, set out for school. So why was his body beginning to feel like a tuning fork?

  Behind him he could hear a car coming up the street. He didn’t even have to turn to know she was there. But he couldn’t help himself. His head turned as the car passed, and there she was, sitting in the passenger seat. Their eyes met, and Wilkerson saw the girl’s surprise. She knew who he was. She knew what he was. Although they’d been apart for years, he could still detect her special glow.

  He continued jogging. Part of him hoped the mother would stop the car and confront him. That would allow him to be close to Stella. And he’d stare at the girl the entire time he was telling Ma Pierce it was a free country, and he had every right to be where he was. He’d make her freak out as he had when she’d visited him in prison. Then he’d tell the bitch that unless she wanted another zero or two added to his lawsuit, she’d better shut the hell up and leave him alone. And as he finished talking, he’d look at Stella and lick his lips.

  The car didn’t stop, though. That meant the girl had chosen not to say anything to her mother. Wilkerson liked that. He watched the vehicle make a left. That was the way you’d go if your destination was the high school.

  He kept jogging.

  Looking into Wilkerson’s eyes—looking into his soul—switched something on in Stella. It was more than just going on alert or feeling the need for flight or preparing for a fight. A hyperawareness came over her. She looked at her mother and felt her thoughts in her head.

  Maybe we should have talked about homeschooling Stella. Why didn’t we ever discuss that? I’m a teacher. Wasn’t that once my calling?

  Never before had Stella picked up entire sentences or even words. Since her return there had been occasions when she had tapped into the emotional currents that came with a recurring thought or a memory that couldn’t be put aside. But now everything was not only amplified, but more specific.

  Maybe she should tell her mother about Guy Wilkerson. Hadn’t Detective Cheever made it clear that he wanted to be contacted right away if Wilkerson ever turned up? But Stella maintained her silence. She feared the consequences of speaking more than not speaking. If she told her mother about Wilkerson, Stella knew she would be confined to the house. Her mother probably wouldn’t even let Luke Hart take her out for surfing lessons. And it would be the excuse her mother needed to homeschool her. Although Stella had mixed feelings about going to school, she knew it was time to go out into the world.

  At the moment, though, it was a noisy world. Her mother’s thoughts continued their intrusion. Stella had this feeling that seeing Wilkerson had switched on some kind of defensive mechanism in her brain she wasn’t even aware she had.

  Playground politics can be so mean. And there are so many cliques at the Torrey Pines Academy. Stella won’t know how to navigate them.

  She tried to shut out her mother’s worries and thoughts, but had only limited success. It wasn’t like she could put her hands over her ears. Luckily, the high school was only a five-minute drive away.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” said Rosa Hernandez, shaking Stella’s hand.

  I guess the congressman’s not going to be here. He’s probably sleeping in. I wish I could have slept in.

  Hernandez was the high school’s freshman counselor. She motioned for Stella and her mother to be seated.

  The counselor reached for her to-go container of coffee, and took a big gulp. “Thank heavens for vitamin C,” she said.

  Come on, caffeine, kick in.

  Hernandez started talking about the high school. It was a speech she’d given many times, and she was able to recite the pertinent facts without even thinking about them.

  “We’re proud of the fact that the Torrey Pines Academy is ranked fifth in the state academically, and that’s out of almost five thousand high schools. So, yes, our students are smart and motivated.”

  Hernandez took another long pull of her coffee.

  And a lot of those same students are spoiled, overprivileged brats.

 
“But I wouldn’t worry about this school being too much for you academically, Stella,” she said. “The numbers from your entrance exam were very impressive, especially in science and math. And if you have any questions about your course work or need help, we offer after-school tutoring every day in the library.”

  The counselor turned a page. She had never before encountered a transcript as barren as Stella’s. There were no middle-school records whatsoever.

  The supervisor said I shouldn’t ask about the gap in her records. Supposedly it’s being worked out on the district level. I guess if you’re the daughter of a congressman, you can just waltz in here.

  Stella tried to shut down the intrusive thoughts, focusing her attention on the framed pictures of Mrs. Hernandez’s two girls. Pictures of those same girls could be seen on the walls. Judging by their most recent photos, the girls were a few years younger than Stella.

  “Are those your daughters?” asked Stella. “They’re beautiful.”

  “Sylvia and Laura,” Mrs. Hernandez said, and Stella felt her happiness. “They’re eleven and ten, going on eighteen and twenty-one.”

  The counselor turned to Eleanor. “They grow up too fast, don’t they?”

  That was something Stella’s mom could wholeheartedly agree with: “Oh yes.”

  The mothers shared a smile. Then Mrs. Hernandez reviewed Stella’s course schedule.

  “The first few days are probably going to feel overwhelming,” she said. “Getting familiar with a new school is always difficult, but I want you to know that my door is always open to you.”

  “Her brother, Michael, is a senior here,” said Eleanor. “He’s supposed to be looking out for Stella.”

  Isn’t he the boy who jumped from the cliff? All the kids have been watching that video. But does Mom even know? Better not to say anything, I guess.

  “I’m sure he will,” said Mrs. Hernandez.

  The counselor looked at the wall clock, then turned her gaze back to Stella. “First period starts in ten minutes. Do you want to have a student escort you to class?”

  “I thought I could do that,” said Eleanor.