by Susan Vaught
“I—uh, no. I’m from Jackson.” Her cheeks got red around the edges.
I tapped my fingers on the table a few times, then tried to be nice again. “Jackson’s big enough, I guess.”
“Big enough for what?” She looked confused.
“To mess up your brain so you say ‘firearm’ instead of ‘gun.’ ”
Now she looked really confused, and her cheeks got a bunch more red. Ms. Malone was smiling a little, and I could tell she was trying not to smile a whole lot. After coughing a few times, Stephanie Bridges came up with “ ‘Firearm’ is the proper term. They teach us to use proper terms.”
I stared at her. “Where? In DFCS worker school or something?”
“In social work school, and in our training classes.” Her face was all kinds of red now. That should have made me feel guilty, but it didn’t. “It’s supposed to make things more clear, and easier when we interview people.”
“It doesn’t make it easier for me,” I told her. “It just sounds stupid.”
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll try again. Does your dad have a big gun collection?”
She didn’t look mad yet. She didn’t sound mad either. Did I want her to be mad? Probably not. Only I did, a little bit.
“Dad was a soldier,” I said. “Now he’s a policeman. Of course he has guns, but he keeps them locked in the gun case and gun safe so they aren’t dangerous. I never shoot them unless he’s with me, except for my BB gun.”
The woman’s eyes got round. “You have a BB gun?”
Oh, great. “Yes. And safety glasses, and a certificate from the class I took at the sheriff’s department to learn to use it safely.”
This seemed to surprise her. “But aren’t you a little young to have any kind of gun?”
“You didn’t have any brothers, did you?” Ms. Malone asked, only it wasn’t really a question. “It’s a BB gun. It barely makes holes in cans.”
“You could shoot out your eye with that!” Stephanie Bridges almost yelled, and I wanted to bang my head on the conference table. “And no, I didn’t have brothers. It was just my mother and me, but I don’t see how that matters.”
“Sure you could shoot your eye out with a BB gun,” I said. “If you were stupid enough not to wear your safety glasses and stare into the barrel while you were shooting it, which would be hard, because it’s kind of long, and if I put my eye on the barrel, I probably couldn’t reach the trigger. Are you going to tell Dad you came to talk to me? Because I’m calling him about it the second you leave.”
Stephanie Bridges looked back at her papers and made a few more notes, letting the room get quiet around the air-conditioner hum. Then she said, “I’m not sure it’s a good idea to have guns in the house with children and a person who has mental illness.”
I sighed. “I told you, they’re locked.”
“Your mother opened the case,” she said. “How?”
The dull beat-beat of my heart made me bite my bottom lip. I so wanted this to be over, and I so didn’t want to answer this question. I thought about the gun case down in our big basement. There was a pool table down there too, and a television, and Dad’s weights, and a little bedroom with a bathroom and shower but no windows. I wanted to be down there right at that moment, watching movies and lifting Dad’s hand weights instead of talking to this woman.
“How did your mother open the gun case, Footer?” Stephanie Bridges asked again.
“She bent the lock. Look, I have to go to the restroom,” I said. “And it’s almost lunchtime. Are we done?”
Stephanie Bridges shifted her gaze to Ms. Malone, then seemed to process the title of the serial-killer book Ms. Malone was holding. “Are you teaching that in the classroom?”
“I took it up from a student,” Ms. Malone said.
“Which student?”
Ms. Malone gave her the best smile I had ever seen. “Footer asked if you were finished.”
Stephanie Bridges eyed her and the book, and then she eyed me. “For now,” she finally said. “But I may have more questions later.”
CHAPTER
7
Still Eleven Days After the Fire, but a Lot Happened, So It Feels Like Months. I Really Hate Days Like This.
I’d probably be a good journalist, because when I can’t stand stuff anymore and my brain does its freeze-frames, nothing matters more than the words. Like the conversation with Ms. Malone, after Stephanie Bridges finally went away:
Ms. Malone: I’ll take the serial-killer book back to the public library. Why were you reading it?
Me: Because Dateline said maybe a serial killer kidnapped Cissy and Doc Abrams. I wanted to see if any of the guys in that book kidnapped kids.
Ms. Malone: This is where I’m supposed to lecture you about not messing around the Abrams farm because it could be dangerous, then get annoyed because you’re saying “Yes, ma’am” but really ignoring me.
Me: Yes, ma’am
Ms. Malone: Footer, while Ms. Bridges is involved with your family, I wouldn’t light any fires with magnifying glasses or poke around those ashes or check out any more books about serial killers. She might get the wrong idea.
Me: Yes, ma’am.
I remembered it all, but it was snips and snaps, with words in the picture instead of faces. No other sights, no other sounds, no other feelings. Snip, snap.
“What’d your dad say when you called?” Peavine asked me a few hours later, at recess.
“He was ticked.” I wiped sweat off my forehead with my arm, then scrubbed my arm on my shirt. “He’s checking with people. He said we’d talk when he gets home tonight.”
We were standing under the maple tree near the back of the sixth-grade wing. We could see Angel’s class out behind their wing, and across the street from the third graders a bunch of teachers were coming and going from the convenience store and fast-food restaurants, carrying sacks. There was a guy standing out beside the store too.
“Your dad and the doctors going to let you go to the hospital tomorrow after school?” Peavine asked.
“I threw a big fit this morning about seeing Mom, so probably.” I studied the guy at the store. He had on jeans and a red plaid shirt with the sleeves cut off. He had to be about to melt in this heat. His hair was dark and short, but he was too far away for me to make out more details. He stood near the store’s door eating a sandwich, as if he wanted to seem like he was minding his own business and having lunch, but I knew he was watching the playground.
Here was a suspicious stranger if I ever saw one.
“Look,” I told Peavine, nodding toward the store. “That guy is creeping me out. Just what we needed in Bugtussle. Wood lice, snakes, a fire, missing kids, my mother, a serial killer—and now a creep. We should maybe interview him.”
“Great,” Peavine muttered, like he was the one catching a creep at work, but then I glanced toward where he was pointing. Angel was standing near the corner of the third-grade wing. She had on a yellow dress covered in long ribbons. She also had one of her thick books clutched against her chest, and a ring of kids around her. The teachers were halfway behind the other corner, so they couldn’t see what was happening.
Peavine started forward, swinging his legs with a vengeance.
“She hates it when you help her,” I called after him.
“Yeah, well, too bad,” he shot back.
I followed. The kids around Angel didn’t see us coming. When we got there, the boy in front, a grimy little bully named Max Selwin, pushed Angel backward. Her shoulders hit the red brick wall.
“Gimme the book, freak,” Max said.
Angel stared at the ground and shook her head. “No.”
“I said, give it here.”
“No!”
Peavine didn’t stop at the line of kids. He shouldered right through them. They scattered sideways, letting me through too. Max raised his hand to grab Angel’s book, but Peavine hit him in the elbow with his crutch.
“Ow!” Max grabbed his arm and
whirled to face us. He had to look up to go eye to eye with Peavine, and that only seemed to make the kid madder.
“Oh, good.” His dirt-smeared face twisted into a sneer. “It’s the freak’s crippled brother.”
Max laughed. Nobody else did. I stopped beside Peavine, fists raised and ready. I’d never hit anybody in my life, but just that second, I thought I could.
“I can handle this,” Angel said from behind Max. “It’s no big deal.”
“Your sister’s a retard,” Max snarled at Peavine, only he couldn’t really pronounce the word right. It came out reee-tord.
“You’re trying to say ‘retard,’ ” Peavine corrected, like he was talking to somebody who couldn’t spell his own name. He gave Max the once-over, from his grubby tennis shoes to his lame band-logo T-shirt. “What you mean is ‘intellectually disabled’—and you’re stupid enough to think that’s an insult. If you’d called her a gutless wonder like Max Selwin, now that woulda been rude.”
Ruu-uude. Peavine’s accent got stronger when he was mad. More kids crowded around, and a few laughed at what he said. I saw some people from our grade headed over too.
Max let go of his hurt arm and lurched toward Peavine, who pivoted smoothly out of his way.
“Stop it,” Angel yelled. She started toward Peavine and Max, but I grabbed her. She dropped her book and tried to jerk out of my grip. “He’s going to get hurt.”
I held on tight. “Peavine’s fine. He can take care of himself.”
“No, he can’t!”
Max swung his fist at Peavine, who just moved out of his way again—but the kid almost connected. Worry filled me up so fast, I didn’t even realize I had let go of Angel until she was standing between Peavine and Max, both hands raised, palms out.
“You leave my brother alone!” she yelled.
Max made like he was going to walk off, then turned in a blink and planted his fist right in Angel’s belly. She cried out and doubled over, hitting her knees. Before Peavine could react, Max kicked Peavine’s left-hand crutch out from under him.
I shouted and smacked the sides of my head with my hands. Peavine seemed to fall in slow motion. The smell of smoke burned my nose. My ears buzzed, then roared. Dizziness washed over me, and the world started changing and the day turned dark.
Happening again . . .
Not real . . .
But it was real.
A little boy crashed to the ground, right in the spot where Peavine had been standing. The boy was so small, so much thinner than Peavine, so much more breakable. A man loomed over him, fists swinging.
The world tilted and I ran forward, heart thudding. I threw myself at the man and hit at him before he could hurt the boy. He hit back. I expected pain and darkness, but his fists barely stung my chest and shoulders. I hit him some more, and people started yelling loud enough for me to hear it through the buzz in my ears, and the fire kept burning.
“Leave him alone!” I yelled. I couldn’t breathe. Tears stung my eyes, then streamed down my face. “Don’t touch him!”
My knuckles hit skin over and over, and the man let go of the little boy and covered his face with his arms and rolled into a ball, and hands grabbed me. Somebody shook me.
“Footer. Footer, stop!”
What was Ms. Malone doing at the Abrams farm? What was I doing at the Abrams farm? I tried to pull away from the shaking, but I couldn’t, and little by little the darkness and fire rattled right out of my head. Everything that wasn’t real faded away, the day got bright and hot, and I was looking at my teacher instead of a man beating up a little boy. Max Selwin was curled up on the ground nearby, and some teachers were talking to him.
Across the street, the guy in the plaid shirt stood watching. He was drinking a Coke. I couldn’t really see his face for the sweat in my eyes, but for some reason I thought he was laughing.
I glanced at Peavine, who had gotten to his feet. He had both metal crutches back in his grip. One looked a little dented. His right elbow was cut and bloody. Angel used the hem of her dress to dab at it, and she didn’t look at me. Peavine nodded in my direction, like, Thanks. The hundred thousand million kids who had crowded around us, and the guy in plaid across the street, they just stared.
“I think you’d better come with me, Footer,” Ms. Malone said.
She took my arm, and I let her lead me toward the office.
From the Notebook of Detective Peavine Jones
Interview of Rocky Davis, Eleven Days After the Fire
Location: Television Room in Footer’s House
Mr. Davis: I’m only doing this to make Footer happy because she had a rotten day. You know that, right? None of us are actually suspects.
Footer: Thanks, Dad. [Hugs Suspect.] Let’s start with the fire. Where were you the night the Abrams farm burned?
Mr. Davis: At work.
Footer: Can anybody verify your alibi?
Mr. Davis: [Sighs] Will the night shift of the Bugtussle police force do?
Footer: I suppose. [Journalist chews the end of the pen she’s carrying, even though she doesn’t write anything during these interviews.]
Mr. Davis: Your mom always did that thing with the pen. [Suspect smiles.] All through school. Even back then she shone like a star for me, and I set out to be her sky.
Footer: Her sky? Dad, that’s lame.
Mr. Davis: What does “lame” mean?
Footer: Dad can’t be a real Suspect, Peavine. He’s too clueless. “Lame” means lame, Dad. You know, corny.
Mr. Davis: Adele called me her rock back then. Nothing corny about that. She said she wanted to be my flower. [Suspect closes his eyes for a second, then smiles.] Her sweet voice on the phone kept me going for my four years in the army, out in that endless desert. Not sure what I would have done if I hadn’t had her love to guide me home. Folks wonder why I stick by her now that she’s sick, but she’s my wife, and she waited for me. The way I see it, it’s my turn to wait for her.
Footer: That’s sweet. [Journalist looks part happy, part sick.] Now, the night of the fire—
Mr. Davis: We made you together, didn’t we, Footer? And I couldn’t ask for a better daughter, even when you pretend I’m a murder and kidnapping and arson suspect. I was at work, kid. No way around it. Afraid I’m a dead end in your investigation.
Footer: [Journalist has mouth open, can’t seem to respond. Detective takes over.]
Me: Mr. Davis, what do you think happened at the Abrams farm?
Mr. Davis: I honestly don’t know, son, but I’m afraid those children died in the fire.
Me: Who shot Mr. Abrams?
Mr. Davis: I don’t know the answer to that question either, but I figure it was somebody with a grudge.
Me: Why?
Mr. Davis: Because people don’t usually shoot other people unless they’re mad about something.
Me: But it could have been an accident, like with Ms. Davis and the snake—hey, what’s your opinion on the events of today? That DCFS worker coming to see Footer, I mean?
Mr. Davis: That’s probably not printable, Peavine. [Suspect frowns.] I’ll take care of getting rid of those guns she’s worried about before another day passes. I just hope Footer’s smart enough not to tell that woman any of her wild ideas about serial killers and deadly walruses. You won’t do that, right, Footer?
Footer: You’re getting rid of our guns? No way, Dad!
Mr. Davis: I have to, honey. We have to face the possibility that life may never be just like it was before your mom got sick. For now we have to make changes to keep her safe—and us, too.
Footer: [Journalist looks very sad.] She’s been having a lot more problems since that fire. It’s like she’s more worried about Cissy and Doc than she is about us.
Mr. Davis: You’re not exactly yourself either, beating up a boy on the playground, for God’s sake. I know that kid jumped on Angel and Peavine, but still. Ms. Malone said it was like you were in another world. What were you thinking, Footer?
Footer: I—I want to see Mom.
Mr. Davis: I’ll see what I can do, but I want you to stop making up all kinds of conspiracy theories about this fire and worrying yourself half to death.
Footer: Hey, I don’t make up conspiracy theories. We really could have a rogue walrus on our hands.
Mr. Davis: To you, being funny is the same as being strong. I get that. But strong people don’t smack younger kids on the playground. You need to keep a hold on yourself, and don’t get too wrapped up in this detective-journalist thing you and Peavine are doing.
Footer: [Journalist gets the eating-lemons look and leaves the room. After three seconds, her bedroom door slams.]
Me: Um, okay.
Mr. Davis: Sometimes she reminds me so much of Adele, it scares me.
Me: Mr. Davis, will Footer get sick like her mom one day?
Mr. Davis: The doctors say there’s a ten percent chance. But that means she’s got a ninety percent chance of being just fine. [Suspect runs his hand over his face and looks tired.] If Footer gets sick too, I don’t think I could stand it. I can’t lose both of my girls, Peavine. I just can’t.
To: crime-investigation/[email protected]
Cc: Peavine Jones
Bcc:
Subject: Creeps and Serial Killers
Attach: shoepic.jpg
Dear Mississippi Bureau of Investigation:
Your website is hard to figure out, and I couldn’t really find a place to send information about current cases. The national FBI website had something about the Jackson office and a lot about civil rights—but no e-mail addresses either. So I’m using the general mailbox. Sorry if it’s the wrong place.
My name is Fontana Davis, but most people call me Footer. I am eleven years old. I don’t lie very much. It would be a lie if I said I never lied, so I’m not doing that, because you need to trust me.
I live near the Abrams farm in Bugtussle, where Cissy and Doc Abrams disappeared during a fire. My friends Peavine Jones and Angel Jones went with me to the farm to look around after the police guard left, because we wanted to figure out what happened. We didn’t find anything important, but I kept thinking somebody was watching us. At first I thought I was going crazy (and so you don’t get surprised, my mom has some problems like that, but she’s in the hospital right now and I’m not, so I can’t be too bad off, plus my dad’s a veteran and a police officer, so that should count for something).