Follow Me Down

by Sherri Smith

  I nodded. Tried my best to look reassuring. The toy car circled again. This time when it thumped the fence, Madison took off her flip-flop, slipped it on her hand, bent down, and whacked at the toy like it was a fly buzzing around. The fence billowed and the car teetered onto its side, wheels spinning in a frantic electric wheeze. I turned it back over, and it disappeared behind a garbage bin. “God, that’s so annoying.” Her phone trilled again; this time she looked. Her nails clacked against the screen. “I have to take this.”

  I was being dismissed by a fourteen-year-old.

  As I made my way to the door, I nearly ran into Dale Burton. He was leaning against the building. A massive remote control at crotch level. A vein popped in the center of his forehead. Was he trying to get my attention or Madison’s? He looked up me like he’d been waiting, smirked. “Keep your doors locked, sweetheart.”

  I scrunched up my face, brushed past him. What the fuck is that supposed to mean?

  * * *

  Back inside Lucas’s apartment, I ran the kitchen tap for a full minute to try to get cold water, but all I got was slightly above room temperature water that smelled like chlorine. All the ice trays were empty. He never refilled them. I sat down at one of the kitchen stools. Something was off about the apartment. I’d felt it the minute I walked in but thought I was just being cagey. The Christmas Polaroid Lucas had on his fridge was gone. I checked under the fridge, in that slit of space between the fridge and the stove, in case it’d slipped out from under its magnet, but it was definitely gone.

  I looked around, took the living room in. His ball cap, the one he was wearing in the photo that flashed on the news last night, was also missing. It’d been on the coffee table. The note Eric had left me was still there. Our two glasses from the night before looked completely undisturbed, but the half-finished bottle of bourbon was gone.

  I dug around the couch cushions, thinking maybe I’d moved his ball cap and the Christmas photo when I was drunk. Did I put on his cap, cry into the Polaroid after Eric passed out and then completely blacked it out? Had I just thought he left his note next to it, while still in an early morning stupor? Maybe I’d tossed the bottle of bourbon out without thinking before I left to meet Vanessa?

  Nothing in the couch cushions. I dropped to the ground, looked under the couch, felt my heart in my belly beating against the floor. The ball cap wasn’t there. I stalked down the hallway to this bedroom. I couldn’t tell what was missing from his closet, but there were bare wire hangers when there hadn’t been any before. In the bathroom, Lucas’s razor, hair gel, and cologne were also gone. Could Eric have taken them? Gone on a little impromptu shopping spree through my brother’s apartment while I slept? But why would he take the Polaroid? Why would he want a picture of me at twelve years old, of Lucas and Mimi? He wouldn’t. And I knew, knew, the electric razor was in the bathroom because I’d almost knocked it off the sink while I was getting ready and had moved it to the shelf over the toilet.

  Ohmyfuckinggod.

  So Lucas was in Wayoata. He’d been hiding in Wayoata this whole time. He had to know I was there. Where was he? Rage rattled through me. How could he do this? To himself? To me? I found myself pacing around in a small circle. What reason did he have to hide? Because he’s guilty sliced through my mind. I pushed it away. Maybe he wasn’t running at all because of this Joanna thing but from Tom Geller because he couldn’t come up with the money. Could he really be that big of an idiot to choose lying low to avoid a loan shark over staying put and clearing his name of murder?

  I sprinted back down the stairs. Outside, Dale and his car were gone. Was that what he’d meant by “keep your doors locked”? He’d seen public enemy number one enter then leave with an armful of his clothes. How did that even make sense? It was Lucas’s apartment. Plus, it had hardly seemed that Dale was offering up a concerned warning. He was trying to be creepy. Come and knock on my door—if not, I’ll just let myself in.

  Madison was reclining in a lounger. Her towel gone, drinking from a small silver flask, staring at the pool. I considered asking her how long she’d been by that pool, and if she’d seen Lucas, or anyone who looked like Lucas, go in or out, but decided against it.

  * * *

  I got in my car and drove around. Visiting our old childhood haunts. An outdoor hockey rink where Lucas had practiced Saturday mornings, so early it was still dark. The air so icy it took your breath away. I passed the house of one of Mimi’s old boyfriends, where she’d leave us sitting in a cold car waiting for her to come out and where we had shared our first cigarette swiped from her pack. Lucas had turned to me, woozy, lips blue, smoke coming out his nose. We’re gonna grow ourselves up, he said, and I knew exactly what he meant. Behind the convenience store where we’d inhaled bags of candy, back to our old house. It was all stupid. I knew it. He wouldn’t be in any of these places. But I couldn’t think of anywhere else he would be. I couldn’t see Lucas camping out in Dickson Park. He wasn’t an outdoorsy kind of guy, and it’d be too easy to spot a fire, not to mention an all-around bad place to hide out if he had any intention of trying to clear his name.

  It was dusk when I pulled into the Tall Pines Motel, an L-shaped drive-up motel that still bragged it had cable television and kitchenettes. The check-in clerk was a greasy-haired guy with impossibly thick eyebrows.

  I stood in the office, trying to think of code names Lucas might use, but the desk clerk knew right away who I was. “You’re the sister, aren’t you? I saw you on the news.” I nodded. “You need a room?”

  “No, I was just—”

  “I know what you’re gonna ask. If your pedophile brother was staying here, I’d turn him in. So if you don’t need a room, get out.”

  So that was that.

  * * *

  I couldn’t help thinking now that Lucas really was about to do something rash. That suicide was a real concern. Maybe he just felt fucked every which way—financially, his professional and personal life in ruins. He was going to kill himself because everyone already believed he was guilty. There was no other reason he would still be in Wayoata. But then, why take hair gel, cologne, a razor, and a ball cap? Did he really want to leave behind a nice-looking corpse? Was he going to gel his hair in case his cap fell off when he was jumping off a bridge or in front of a train? It didn’t make sense. Maybe he was back at the apartment. He’d just stopped in, grabbed a couple of things (would explain why later), seen I wasn’t there, but was now back, waiting for me.

  * * *

  A black truck showed up in my rearview mirror. Right away I knew it was the same truck from two nights ago. My hands gripped the steering wheel tighter, my heart started to whirl. I checked my seat belt. The truck was much dirtier, like it’d been off-roading somewhere muddy. It had the same overkill cab roof lights. I tried to get its plate number, but it was covered up with what looked like strategic streaks of grime.

  This time I wasn’t going to putter along, road-chum to this shark. I pulled a sharp U-turn. The truck had to veer out past me, but it easily scaled the paved median and caught up with me. Who the fuck was this? I kept thinking it had to be this Tom guy; he was following me hoping that I would lead him to Lucas, but he wasn’t being very discreet about it, and so that sort of defeated the purpose. Greg Yates? But this had started before he even knew who I was. I reached inside my bag for my phone to call Garrett, but the truck came up fast beside me and clipped my side-view mirror. It snapped off and dangled by a wire, thumping against my door.

  Asshole.

  I swerved to the right, hitting the gravel shoulder, jostling like a pinball. My phone went flying. It took three tries, the tires chafing the ridge of the pavement, the car lurching, before I managed to get back safely onto the road without tailspinning into the ditch.

  The truck was now in front of me, so I zagged down a residential street. Whisked through a maze of suburban loops. Parked in someone’s driveway. I waited. A kid on a bike wobbled past me, a reflective orange flag dangling limply off
his back wheel, an LED light blinking between the handlebars. His helmeted head showed no signs of distress, no Mr. Big Wheels charging up behind him. I put my car into reverse; before I was halfway down the driveway, the truck was back, blocking me in. It revved its engine. Flashed its lights.

  This was ridiculous. I ignored the blood pounding in my ears and swung open my door. I was not going to be intimidated. I wanted a name and license. This person had damaged my rental! Obviously so, and now there was no returning it and playing dumb about the dent and the rattle in the back, turning over the keys, and fleeing the rent-a-car lot. I was going to be stuck with paperwork and claims and deductible fees. Whatever else that needed to be done. Fuck. As if I needed to deal with this bullshit right now. I was about to confront the jerk when the owner of the driveway where we were holding the standoff came out their front door, yelling about what the hell was going on.

  The truck skidded back and was gone.

  * * *

  The apartment was empty. I looked for a note. Picked through his things again. No note, nothing else was missing.

  When our mother was in one of her interested-in-her-kids moods that usually came between boyfriends and during bouts of boredom, she’d turn into a pathological snoop. She’d play concerned parent and poke around our bedrooms, believing she was being careful not to leave any evidence of her intrusion, but there was always something she forgot. How meticulous could a drunk really be? I could usually tell when she had been in my room because of the wet rings from her glass on my dresser. After my first kiss, I wrote in my journal that I went really far with a boy (especially laughable now, because this boy was Skinny G). An exaggeration, but it was so momentous that it felt that way. That week Mimi took me to my pediatrician and put me on birth control. She didn’t even tell me what the appointment was for until we were locked in the room with Dr. Bernard, a kind-faced man who looked like he always had a Werther’s Original in his pocket to offer you. I’d been going to him since birth.

  “Put this one on the pill, stat! I can’t raise another one.” Mimi laughed. An ugly sound in the tiny room among all those instruments of healing and the cartoon wall decals. I stared at Eeyore.

  “We’d have to do a pelvic exam first.” He eyed me in a way I didn’t like. I had no idea what a pelvic exam was. I was likely the dinner topic at his house that night. I could see Dr. Bernard shaking his head, between bites of mashed potatoes and Shake ’n Bake, full of dismay. Can you believe how early kids are starting these days?

  Mimi consented, all flirty. “Whatever you need to do, Doctor.”

  In the car on the way home, there was no talk about respecting my body or abstinence, just “Don’t get pregnant.” A simple instruction. Probably Mimi’s most shining parental advice, until she added, “Least not till you get your own place.”

  So Lucas and I developed some time-tested hiding spots that, as far as we knew, our mother never discovered. I stored the weed I bought once and never smoked (my drug days were lying in wait for me at college) in the battery compartment of an old toy, not because I’d get in trouble for having weed but because Mimi would smoke it. Lucas taped his condoms to the bottom of dresser drawers. He kept love letters from Carolyn down an air return vent. We both hid money behind my bookshelf, taping it there inside an envelope, because Mimi was also terrible for “borrowing” money and not paying me back. If I asked for the money, she’d point out that I really owed her for the amount of electricity I’d used since being born. Initially, when Lucas and I got our own places, we laughed about how we still hid things. Old habits died hard. Maybe, out of habit, Lucas had put something in one of those spots.

  I opened his bottom drawer, felt around. Nothing. I opened a vent, unscrewing the grate with a butter knife, but came up with a handful of dust. Checked the back of his kitchen cupboards, under the kitchen drawers, under the cutlery tray. I didn’t even know what I was expecting to find, really. A reason, I guessed, why he wasn’t there. Something meant just for me. He must have known I’d come.

  Nothing. I cursed. Slammed my fist on the counter. I sat down again on the couch. Felt tempted to sail into oblivion on Valium. Lucas had been gone now for six days. Six days if he went missing the day he sent Zoey the breakup text. Some part of me was still hoping that he was going to simply show up with some story of a stalled truck on his way back from a deep-woods retreat or white-water rafting up north. Not that Lucas even had his truck, or would ever venture into anything rougher than a Holiday Inn.

  “Where are you?” I howled at the flat screen. Gripped my hair. My eyes darted around the room.

  I looked at the books on his bookshelf. Dog-eared paperbacks of high school required reading. Then I looked at the shelf itself. It was pushed back tight against the wall, but the top teetered forward ever so slightly. I pulled off the books. Dragged the shelf out, felt up the cardboard back of it. A manila envelope was taped to the back with duct tape. I carefully pulled the envelope free, peeled opened the glue seal, and stuck my hand inside. Feeling something feathery and soft, I flinched back like I’d touched something sickeningly dangerous, like a junkie’s haphazardly discarded needle or a rabid animal that bites. Something infectious. I set it on the coffee table, gingerly, as if it could blow up at any second.

  I sat down on the couch and stared at it. Nothing was written on the envelope, not TOP SECRET—Mia’s eyes only.

  A flurry of knocks on the door. The urgency made my heart drop. He’s back, he’s here. I got up, opened the door without thinking, expecting Lucas to slink inside, collar up, a fedora tipped low, all incognito. I can explain. I hid the envelope behind a toss cushion on the couch and answered the door.

  It was the caretaker, Russ, looking pie-eyed and reeking strongly of body odor and stale everything: skin, smoke, beer, whiskey, motor oil. “Hi. Jus’ want you to know you can park in your brother’s spot.”

  “OK.” What fucking time was it? After eleven at least. Didn’t anyone use a phone in this town? Plus, I’d been parking in Lucas’s spot since I got there.

  He tottered forward like someone had pushed him. “It’s closer than visitors.”

  I nodded. “OK. Great.” My hand started to let the door go.

  Russ’s eyes jumped around. “Your brother, hear from him at all?”

  “No. I … I have to go.”

  Russ said something incomprehensible, followed by garbled laughter. His face stretched out into some warped fun-house grin.

  I started to close the door. His arm swung up with surprising speed, held the door open. “You alone?” This was like the start of a really bad horror movie, when the teenage girl answers yes or lies so badly she might as well have said yes.

  “Dad!” It was Bailey, standing in the hallway, barefoot, her face red with fierce embarrassment. Russ turned, slurred something about it being past her bedtime, turned back to face me. Bailey grabbed him by the arm, her large hand easily encircling his wrist like a handcuff.

  “Fuck off. We’re just talking.” He tried to buck off her grip, but couldn’t. He was too drunk. I started to tell Russ to settle down, but Bailey shook her head at me. A stay-out-of-it glower. Every family member of a drunk has their own specific way of handling them, so I backed off. Gave her an I-know nod.

  “Now.” Bailey’s other hand was on her hip now, her foot almost tapping like she could stand there with him all night if she had to. Russ belched in her direction, offered a smeary ’scuse me. “Sorry. He’s never like this. It’s his new meds. He’s not supposed to drink on them.”

  “I’m not on meds,” Russ grumbled and swayed. I could tell he was losing focus on whatever he’d had in mind when he pounded on my door.

  “Come on.” Bailey managed to lead her dad all the way toward the elevator while keeping her viselike grip. He staggered next to her like a toddler. She pushed the Down button with her foot.

  I locked the door, both bolt and chain.

  I kept my back against the door for a minute, as if my body weight adde
d the extra security necessary to keep trespassers out, before moving back into the living room. To the couch.

  * * *

  I pulled the envelope out and dropped it on the coffee table. I went through a mental tug-of-war of whether it could’ve been planted, by the police, by someone else who was trying very hard to make Lucas look guilty. But the police don’t miss planted evidence. And if someone had been trying to set him up, why would they do such an effective job of concealing it that the police missed it? No, you’d toss it in a partially opened drawer or something. Plus, who else would know the money hiding spot aside from Lucas?

  I thought of all the forensic things that might be on it, saliva, fingerprints, maybe a shed eyelash or two. Things I already disturbed by reaching inside it. I told myself not to touch it again. Don’t touch it. I stood up, took a step back, my hands planted on my cheeks. Did I really want to see what was inside it anyway? My twin was part of a major murder investigation and I just found a hidden envelope, there could be nothing good in there.

  And here again I flexed my muscle for pathological denial. It’s probably nothing. I blinked once, like I’d just brainwashed myself. Easy-peasy. Nothing to see here. Move along. I breezed down the hallway toward the bathroom and showered in my brother’s shower. I soaped under my fingernails, where that thing inside the envelope touched my hand. Then toweled myself off with one of his gross bleach-stained towels. He needed new towels. Why couldn’t he recognize that and go and buy some towels? Was that so fucking hard? Maybe if he spent less time at Casey’s Bar and more time at Bed Bath & Beyond, he wouldn’t be in this situation. I balled the towel up and threw it at the tiny garbage can, knocking it over, which just pissed me off more. I wanted to go home. To my own apartment, where my linen closet was stacked with new, fresh towels that weren’t frayed at the edges in long knotted braids that snagged at my nipples. Where a woozy, sweaty caretaker didn’t make late-night house calls. I wanted to sleep in my own bed. Go for a run and hear the wind tunneling between skyscrapers. I wanted to see crowds of people I didn’t know. I wanted to know my brother was there, safe and sound, going about his life. Country mouse to my city. I grabbed the red makeup case, pulled all the bottles out, put them back in. Left the case on the bathroom sink and slammed the door shut.