Carter ignores me and keeps playing the game. He’s a goofball, a good-looking, athletic kid. Always been easygoing, likable, popular. He’s Mom and Dad’s favorite, and they’ve never even tried to hide it.
“You guys hear about the dead boy they found?”
“Mom’s freaked,” Alex says.
Carter just laughs and bobs his head.
“Did you know him? The guy who drowned?” Alex asks.
Oh, you mean the guy whose face was cut up into little paper strips?
“A little.”
“What do you think happened?”
“I don’t know.”
“The news says they’re investigating, that it could be a murder.”
I look at Alex and just shake my head, trying to get him to be quiet in front of Carter.
“I know everything that happened,” Carter says.
I have to remember that he isn’t six anymore, even though he sometimes acts like it.
“Did Mom and Dad say much about it?”
“Dad was acting really weird tonight,” Carter says. He’s still staring at the screen, killing soldiers and making blood go everywhere.
I try to get Alex to tell me what that means.
“He was in a fabulous mood tonight and decided to drink extra lots,” Alex says with his typical sarcastic tone.
For a second I feel a sick sensation inside of me. Then I hear the knock on the door and I literally jerk. Mom opens the door, and I let out the breath I was holding.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I tell her. “Why wouldn’t I be? I texted you where I was.”
“I want you coming home early from now on,” she says.
“Mom, look—”
“No. They’re saying Artie Duncan was murdered. We don’t need you riding your bike around in the middle of the night.”
“I was just over at Devon’s.”
“Then you can have him over here,” she says. “Your father and I discussed this.”
“I’ll be careful,” I say. “For all of us.”
She knows this means I’ll be looking out for Alex and Carter. That’s what big brothers do. Especially when those brothers don’t have a father looking out for them.
But the thought of having to spend evenings at home dealing with my dad is worse t han having to ride my bike around with a possible killer hiding in the woods.
Sometimes you can lock the doors and close the blinds, but the monsters are still there inside your house, sleeping and breathing and just waiting to wake up and terrorize you all over again.
Before heading to my other job of cutting lawns, I sit down at my laptop and search Facebook for Marvel’s name. I know that her last name is Garcia, so I look up a variety of names she might go under. Marvel, Marvella, even Marv. Nothing comes up. I do, however, see something strange on Frankie’s page. It’s a picture of someone whose house has been majorly TPed. All the trees in the yard are raining toilet paper.
The picture’s been shared on Frankie’s page, which is generally pretty inactive, so he probably doesn’t even know it’s there. It’s from someone I don’t know who’s tagged about a hundred people. Then I see what’s written next to the photo: Second time this poor guy’s house has been TPed in the last year. What did Seth Belcher do to anybody?
I take another look at the names of the people tagged and recognize a bunch of them as football players.
I’m pretty sure I know who did this. As sure as I am about who slashed my bike tires.
I’m cutting the grass when a truck stops on the street and the driver simply watches me. At least it seems like I’m being watched.
Don’t become Mom.
I’m not someone who jumps at horror movies or wakes up in the middle of the night with nightmares (that would be Alex). But ever since hearing about Artie Duncan, I can’t help being a little cautious. Artie wasn’t some loner, and he wasn’t a wimp. The day before he showed up dead, he was home with his parents and everything was fine in his life as far as anybody knew. If he really was murdered, then it makes sense for anybody in Appleton to be a little cautious. Especially when an old Chevy Silverado is just sitting there on the curb of the lawn I’m cutting.
I stop the mower and look back at the truck. Because of the brightness of the day, I can’t see inside the cabin. And with my wide sunglasses, the person inside can’t tell if I’m for sure looking at him. So I guess it’s a standoff.
Don’t become Artie Duncan.
The truck moves away with a groan. I’m sure it’s nothing. I’m sure it has nothing to do with Artie.
But maybe that’s what he thought too, until someone offered him some candy and he took it as a joke.
The summer has just started, but somehow I feel it’s going to be different from any other summer I’ve ever had.
I arrive at Fascination Street about fifteen minutes before Marvel is scheduled to show up to work. I’m supposed to be “training” her this week, so that means I’ll be working with her every shift. I already cut two lawns this morning, and now I’m at the job with no paycheck attached. But I’ll figure out something. I’m pretty good at that.
There’s an older guy with long hair looking at the Led Zeppelin shirts. We attract several different groups here at the store. Hippies like this guy. The alternative crowd, a group which to be honest I can’t exactly sum up, since it’s so varied. It could be a guy in all black who is a skater, or could be a girl with purple hair and five nose rings. Then there are the kids who have too much free time on their hands, the ones who come into the store because they want to buy the new Vampire Weekend album on vinyl. They look like Vampire Weekend and talk about Vampire Weekend and I really wish they’d just go away.
Harry must be depressed or something today, because he’s playing an old album by a band called Clan of Xymox, which should be subtitled The Saddest Group in the History of the World. I’m waiting for Marvel and checking my iPhone when the music stops and the lights go out. There are windows on two sides of the shop, but since the store is sunk down into the ground it’s never totally bright. The T-shirt guy doesn’t react, just keeps looking at shirts as the lights flicker back on, then off again, then on. The slow, moody music starts up again, stops, and starts up again like a death drone.
The power comes back on just as Marvel walks through the door. She smiles as she sees me looking at her with what is surely a weird look on my face.
“What’s wrong?” she asks.
“Did you see that? Or feel that?”
“Feel what?”
“The power just went out. Like, just went out for a second.” And then you walked in and turned it back on.
“I didn’t see any storm clouds in the sky,” she says as she puts her purse behind the counter.
She smells like strawberries and looks like a fashion model in a loose-fitting yellow dress that comes to her knees. It has a flowery, lacy sort of top. She’s as tall as me in her high platform heels.
“Like your outfit.”
“I found this in a store for five bucks,” she says, gesturing to the dress.
I half expect her to spin around in it. Then I realize I’m standing there staring at her while she waits for me to tell her what to do. “Let me go get Harry,” I say. Let me dunk my head in some cold water too.
I’m seriously not usually like this, even with the girls I’ve liked in the past. Maybe it’s because things ended so badly with Taryn. Maybe it’s because I already have that summertime itch where I’m wishing it was the school year again. Or maybe it’s just the effect Marvel has on me.
Harry comes out and puts on an album by the Cars. Seems like he can’t play that depressing stuff with Marvel around. “Brandon here has donated his time specifically to help train you,” he says, knowing he’s teasing me.
“I’m here to help,” I say.
Harry lets out a laugh. Soon T-shirt guy buys three black ones that all look the same. I show Marvel how to ring him up. A monkey
could do this job.
For the next hour I show her how to stock and organize and restock and keep track of inventory, and I know it’s way too much detail for anyone to absorb in one afternoon. As I’m talking, I’m thinking of the things I really want to say.
Do you have a boyfriend?
Are you interested in going out on a date?
What do you like to do in your spare time?
But soon she asks a question that makes these others go away. “Did you hear any more details about the boy who was killed?”
I shake my head. “I saw a couple of articles online. Nothing new.”
“What are they saying?”
“That it was a pretty sick way for someone to die. He was cut up really bad. Missing parts of his skin. Something out of a horror movie.”
“That’s awful.”
“Sorry,” I quickly say. “Don’t mean to freak you out.”
“I’m not freaked out. I’m just sad. Sad that the world is so evil.”
“Stuff like this happens in Chicago, not Appleton.”
“It happens everywhere,” Marvel says matter-of-factly. “You can’t keep evil in a cage. It roams around like a wild beast. It can follow you anywhere. Anywhere.”
She walks away, and I’m left with goose bumps as the Cars play over the speakers. “I guess you’re just what I needed. . . .”
Just what I needed. Yes indeed.
“I’m dozing off watching you kill people.”
Devon spends as much time playing video games as I do working. And it shows, since I’m on the couch next to him falling asleep while his character in the game refuses to die.
“It’s late anyway,” I say.
He pauses the game and looks over at me. “I need to tell you something.”
“You’re starting to get arthritis in your hand?”
Devon doesn’t laugh, and that means he’s deep in thought. I really hope he’s not going to start talking about another Fear Zone video game releasing this summer.
“It’s something Artie Duncan told me once.”
I look at him and know he’s not joking, but I still expect a punch line. “What?”
“About Otis Sykes.”
“I didn’t know you hung out with Artie.”
Devon shakes his head. “I didn’t. He was my lab partner in geology one semester. We were talking about stuff—oil drilling, fracking—then we got onto the subject of Sykes Quarry.”
Appleton’s quarry is named after Otis Sykes, a reclusive older guy I’ve never seen, only heard of.
“So what did he say?” I ask.
“To stay away from that guy. From Otis Sykes. I asked if he knew him, and he said yeah. He said it in a way that was like a definite ‘Yeah, totally know the guy, and I’m afraid.’”
“So what are you saying?”
“Nothing. Just . . . Artie said that last semester.”
“Have you told anybody else?”
“No, ’cause, well, I don’t know. It’s probably just something he said. I’d forgotten about it till yesterday. But . . . you know?”
“People have been talking about creepy Otis since I was a kid,” I say. “But I’ve never even seen him.”
“Me neither.”
“Maybe we don’t want to see him.”
“Maybe,” Devon says.
He’s thinking way too much, which can be a scary thing. I’m too tired to talk about it.
Doesn’t every town have a cranky old guy that kids make up stories about?
A couple of nights later, a whole week after Artie Duncan was found dead in the Fox River, I get a text from Devon as I’m closing up the record store by myself. I’m a bit cranky because I was expecting Marvel would be working with me. Some guy came in and kept me late, talking about how music was getting louder these days but quality was going down. I really, really wanted to find something interesting in the conversation, but I couldn’t. Still, I was nice and pleasant so Harry wouldn’t fire me.
Devon’s text reads Meet me by the quarry. Seriously.
Sykes Quarry is not far from the record store; I can take a bike path and cut through the woods to get to it. There is a massive swimming pool with a beach around it, a place that stays busy through the hot summers. The guys and I go there sometimes, though it tends to attract more families and screaming kids than hot girls.
Why? I type back.
Going to the quarry during the day is one thing, but I have no idea why he wants to go there tonight. It’s almost ten and the quarry is closed.
’Cause if I disappear tonight you’re going to feel guilty when I show up dead.
For a second I laugh, but then remember our conversation the other night and I’m not sure Devon is trying to be funny. Where are you?
Come on the bike trail and you’ll spot me.
I tell him I’m leaving in a few minutes. Sure, the police and parents and adults everywhere have been warning us for the last week not to stay out at night and not to be alone and not to do a lot of things. But I don’t know. The bike path still seems safer than other places. Plus, I’m very curious.
The path eventually links to a dirt drive that circles around to Sykes Quarry. There’s a chain-link fence at the edge, where you can look down and see the quarry. It’s less to keep people out than to prevent a car or bike from driving off the steep incline. I coast on my bike until I hear someone calling my name.
“You took forever,” Devon says.
“I was closing down the shop. You could’ve come in and helped.”
He’s dressed in black, and his forehead and his cheeks have black on them.
“What’s all over your face?”
“Camo.”
I take a sniff. “Smells like shoe polish.”
“Never mind. Leave your bike up here.”
“Where are we going?”
“Just come with me.”
I follow him down the road to the entrance of the quarry, but Devon doesn’t go inside. Instead he heads toward a field that leads to the parking lot. The sky is overcast, so we don’t stand out too much walking around here.
“What are you going to show me?”
“Something I spotted the other day and didn’t have the guts to stick around and investigate further.”
This really doesn’t inspire confidence, but I follow him anyway. He leads me beyond the empty lot and toward the woods. Devon seems to know where he’s going. I follow him into the trees and up a steep hill.
We walk for about ten minutes. It’s too dark in these woods to tell if we’re on a trail or not. About halfway up the hill, Devon stops and puts a finger on his lips. He points to my right.
There’s a house in the woods. One little light is on outside a door.
“I didn’t know there was a house here.”
“Shhh,” Devon says again. “Just listen.”
We stand there for what feels like an hour. At first I’m intrigued, but when nothing happens I get bored. I’m about to say What are we doing here? when I finally hear something. It’s a low rumbling sound. Like an engine of some kind.
“What is that?” I ask.
Devon only nods and raises his eyebrows.
“Seriously, Devon, what was that?”
“That’s Otis Sykes’s house.”
“Sykes? Quarry Sykes? Lives there?”
“You’re a genius,” Devon says in a hushed voice.
We hear a door opening, and both of us drop to the ground. Then we hear footsteps, followed by the sound of someone digging. If it wasn’t late at night and I wasn’t holding my breath feeling my heart beating in my mouth, I’d say no way to any of this happening. But it is.
I start to say something, but Devon cups a hand over my mouth. The digging continues for a little while, then the shuffling sounds again and the door closes. Soon the light goes off.
There’s no more engine rumbling. Devon eventually makes a gesture that we should go. I’ve been ready for the last half hour.
“W
hat was that all about?”
It’s fifteen minutes later, and I’ve followed Devon back home. We nearly got spotted by a cop, but managed to get off our bikes and duck into some bushes as he drove past the path. It’s not like we’re breaking the law, but we’ve been highly encouraged not to be out at night. The last thing I need is a cop telling my parents to keep me in after dark.
“So what’s this all about?” I ask. “What made you decide to become a detective?”
Devon is all hyper energy at the moment. He goes and checks to see if his parents are anywhere near, then proceeds to break out a candy bar. “There’s something I have to tell you,” he whispers. “Something you can’t tell anybody.”
This surprises me. I thought I knew everything about Devon. “What?”
“Just hear me out, okay?”
“Okay . . .”
He looks around again to make sure the coast is clear before he speaks. “I bought pot from Artie. A few times.”
I laugh. I can’t help it, but I do. The thought of Devon buying drugs. Or smoking weed. It’s crazy. “Shut up,” I say.
“And what I think—I think he used to get the stuff from Otis. Or maybe from a guy who got it from Otis.”
I add everything up in my head even as Devon keeps talking.
“I wanted to see if Otis Sykes lived around here. Because of what Artie said.”
“So you went looking for him in the middle of the night? Hoping to find—what? More pot? A drug lord?”
“I went the other night with Barton.”
“What?” I ask. “He knows about this too? Where was he tonight?”
“He’s as loud as a rhinoceros. The other night he kept laughing.”
“Were you guys smoking then?”
Devon doesn’t answer, which is a yes. There’s something both amusing and creepy about this. Amusing because I’ve never even seen Devon drunk. Creepy because what if the drugs had something to do with Artie’s death?
“That engine,” I say. “What’s that about?”
“Maybe he’s cooking drugs. Like meth or something.”
“You’ve watched too much Breaking Bad.”
Marvelous Page 4