Blood Trail

by Nancy Springer

  By the time they got done, some of them would be saying I killed Aaron myself.

  Damn phones anyway. Mom was on ours talking with the cops about the threatening calls. When she was finished, and when I was sure she was in the bathroom and she wouldn’t hear me, I called my father.

  But he wasn’t home. Story of my life. I left a message on his answering machine: “Dad, hi, this is Jeremy. Would you do me a favor? I want you to get me a gun.”

  chapter eight

  “Hold your head up, son,” Mom told me softly as we walked to the church door for Aaron’s funeral.

  Easier said than done, when I’d been getting hate calls for three days. When people who didn’t even know me were saying I was a lying bastard lower than dog doo. When I was wearing a suit and I felt dressed up like a circus monkey. When there were news photographers climbing the trees to snap pictures of me. When even the stony old mountains seemed to be watching me. But screw all that. I did what Mom said. I yanked my eyes off the pavement and looked around as we reached the end of the line waiting to go in.

  People looked at me, then looked away like they didn’t know what to do or say. Three guys from the football team walked over to me and muttered, “Hi, Booger,” then stood beside me looking the same way.

  A few people glared. “Dirty liar,” taunted a girl’s voice from the crowd.

  “None of that, miss,” growled one of the cops at the door. There were uniformed police everywhere. Crowd control, I guess. School had started today, but seniors had the day off to attend Aaron’s funeral. Nearly everybody in my class was there, and it seemed like nearly everybody in Pinto River was there, too. To show sympathy for the family? Or to gawk at them and at me?

  The guys from the team kind of drifted away.

  “… should be ashamed to show his face,” muttered a man’s voice in the crowd.

  “In this country it’s innocent until proved guilty,” said some woman quietly, and I couldn’t tell whether she was talking about me or Nathan.

  That was what really freaked me. Most people, the ones keeping their distance, I couldn’t tell what they were really thinking. Like, were they just embarrassed? Or trying to stay in good with the Gingriches? Or did they really despise me? All around me and especially behind me I heard people mumbling to each other—about me?

  I felt a big warm hand on my shoulder, turned around, and there was Coach from school. “Jeremy,” he said, “how you doing, son?”

  All of a sudden I got choked up and couldn’t answer. But my sister was standing there and she said, “He’s being a total boogerhead.”

  Coach smiled. “Good.” He said to my mom, “Okay if I sit with you folks?”

  “Jeremy.” Another voice, a girl’s, and there stood Morgan, looking at me kind of puzzled. “What made you change your mind?”

  Oh. Jeez. I was the one who had yelled at her to shut up about Nathan. I told her, “I’m not sure I even have a mind. Listen, I’m sorry—”

  “Forget it.” All of a sudden she gave me a hug, then headed away.

  “That’s Jeremy Davis,” whispered a voice behind me. “What’s he doing here?” I didn’t turn around.

  Once we finally got inside, it was dim and crowded and way quiet. Hushed. All those people making barely a sound. That silence made me feel like I couldn’t get enough air. Or maybe it was the too-sweet smell from an avalanche of flowers up front.

  Around the casket.

  Other than zillions of flowers, and candles burning to keep him company, Aaron was lying there all by himself in the closed casket. There hadn’t been any viewing. No chance to say good-bye, but no need to see Aaron all hacked up, either. I imagined him the way I remembered him, round-faced and shiny-eyed, lying in that glorified polyurethane-and-wood box with gold doodads. It probably had puffy satin lining, too. He would have laughed at it.

  Just inside the door, a man turned to me and shook my hand; it was the bright-eyed little detective who’d busted the truth out of me. “How are you doing these days?”

  “Like you said,” I told him. Maybe he’d heard. A couple days ago the cops were letting the Gingriches get some stuff out of their house, and I’d tried to talk with Mrs. Gingrich, but she’d slammed the door in my face. Jamy had gotten the same treatment when she’d tried to ask how Aardy was doing.

  I told the detective, “You called it. Getting worse by the day.”

  “Yeah, but then it’ll get better again. Hang in.”

  Gray-suited undertaker guys were packing people in, but all the pews were crammed butt to butt now. Aaron would have made some kind of joke about that, too, people cheek to cheek but not slow-dancing.… My eyes fogged up. Damn, where was Aaron now when I needed him? Dumb clown, why did he have to go and get killed? I felt like I was never going to laugh anymore, without Aaron around.

  I could see Mrs. Ledbetter up front—she must have claimed her seat practically at dawn. Mom and Jamy and I didn’t get to sit down. We stood against the back wall, and Coach stood with us, even though most of the guys from the football team had kind of clustered along one side.

  After a while the Gingrich family filed in from someplace behind the altar and sat in their own pew up front. Mrs. Gingrich, Nathan, Mr. Gingrich, and four older people, Aaron’s grandparents. All of them in dark clothes.

  “Where’s Aardy?” My stupid sister sounded loud even though she was whispering.

  “Shhh.” Mom whispered much more softly. “Maybe she’s too upset.…”

  I could understand that. I mean, Aardy had found Aaron’s body. Maybe the doctor had put her on sedatives so she’d sleep for a month. What surprised me was to see that Nathan and Aaron’s father had flown in from Minnesota. Right there he was, sitting down beside Nathan, on the other side from Mrs. Gingrich. He’d hardly ever bothered to come see his sons when they were both alive.

  Then the minister came in, wearing black robes and stood behind the pulpit to start the service. The church got dead quiet.

  “The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.”

  Didn’t make any sense to me. I tuned out, staring at the back of Nathan’s neck. His face when he came in hadn’t showed me a thing except white and tight. I wondered whether he was getting any more sleep than I was. I knew from camping with him that he wasn’t a real sound sleeper.…

  He’d said he was napping when Aaron was killed? Since when did Nathan nap? He motored like a revvedup engine all the time.

  Okay, maybe even Nathan napped once in a while. But … I didn’t know what getting stabbed to death was like, but Aaron … Aaron must have made some noise.…

  No. Damn it, no, this was no damn time to think about it. I tried to listen to the sermon, and I noticed the preacher was sweating. Even from the back of the church I could see his pink face shining. I guess it was a rough service. He said that all things happen in accordance with God’s purpose, which sounded kind of lame. Same when he said Aaron was happy in heaven—I wondered if the Gingrich family was buying that any more than I was. Maybe they believed, but I knew Aaron shouldn’t have died, damn it, especially not that way. God would comfort the Gingrich family? Lame. But when the preacher said we should all pray for justice, there was kind of a murmur in the church, and some deep-voiced man said, “Amen.”

  Was that what Aaron’s family wanted? Was that what I wanted? Justice?

  Not if it meant …

  No. I wanted to stop thinking about it. Thinking wasn’t going to bring Aaron back.

  Mostly I just wanted it to be over.

  The service ended, eventually. The family left the same way they’d come in. One of Aaron’s grandparents sobbed, a raw, embarrassing noise that sounded very loud in the silence. Mrs. Gingrich hid her face in her hands. Mr. Gingrich just looked fierce, even though there were tears on his cheeks. Nathan looked the same as when he came in.

  Nobody said anything as we all filed out. I kept my head up. If anybody was giving me the evil eye, screw them. I was start
ing to get pissed off. Somebody had killed Aaron, and that person should pay, not me.

  Out front, one of the gray-suited undertakers stopped us and asked whether we were going to the cemetery. Mom said, “No.”

  I said, “Mom, I want to.”

  She turned, and I was surprised to see how tired and wet-eyed she looked. “Jeremy I don’t think—”

  “He was my best friend, Mom!”

  Coach said, “I can take him, Mrs. Davis.”

  So I got to stand beside Coach and watch six members of the football team carry Aaron’s casket out. I felt kind of grateful that I wasn’t a pallbearer but mostly bummed that the Gingriches hadn’t asked me. I should have been there for Aaron.

  People piled into cars for the procession. It was a long, slow drive to the cemetery, winding between the hills in Coach’s Jeep Cherokee with one of those little purple FUNERAL flags waving from the fender. Long, slow, and silent. Coach said something about football. I said, “I think I’m going to have to quit.”

  “Get out of this car.” He was trying to joke, but I didn’t say anything, so he said, “Jeremy, don’t quit yet. Don’t make any decision right now. Things will get better.”

  Yeah. Right.

  Not anytime soon, that was for sure. I hate cemeteries. All the stupid heavy headstones, stupid flowers and trees, stupid sunshine when it should have been raining. I stood under the stupid tent beside Aaron’s open grave, looking down into that raw hole in the clay and shale, and when I lifted my eyes, Mr. Gingrich scowled at me over his son’s casket.

  The minister said some more stuff. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Aaron’s stepfather and mother dropped a little dirt on the casket. Nathan did, too. I faced him about five yards away, but he didn’t look at me. His face still looked just the same, like a ceramic Nathan mask.

  “Go in peace,” said the minister.

  Nobody went. Nobody moved except Mr. Gingrich, striding over to me. He stopped in front of me and glared into my face from about six inches away. I think the only reason I didn’t step back from him was because I was so damn tired of everything.

  He whispered at me between his teeth, “Traitor.”

  “Mr. Gingrich, I’m sorry about Aaron,” I said, meaning it.

  “Judas! How dare you—”

  “He was my best friend.”

  “Get out. Get away from him. Don’t you ever—”

  Coach said, “Mr. Gingrich, you’re upset, you’re saying things you’ll regret—”

  “You stay out of this!”

  A policeman showed up at Mr. Gingrich’s side. I knew him a little because he’d been keeping an eye on my house—it was getting so that I knew all the Pinto River cops. This one gave me a quiet, friendly look and touched Mr. Gingrich’s elbow. “Your wife’s waiting for you, sir.”

  Mr. Gingrich turned to him and stabbed his finger at me. “I want him out of here!”

  “He has a right to be here, sir.”

  “It’s time to go, anyway,” Coach said.

  Fine with me; I was tired. I followed him to his car, and we left.

  More silence as he drove me home. Finally I said, “So you don’t think I’m a liar?”

  “I don’t see any reason why you would lie, Jeremy. But there’s a lot I don’t understand.”

  “Me neither.”

  He pulled up in front of my house and said, “Oh, for God’s sake.” I saw too: yellow ick splattering the brick and the windows, along with sticky bits of shell. Somebody had egged the place while we were at Aaron’s funeral.

  chapter nine

  When I finally got to sleep that night, I had a dream that was almost worse than lying awake. I don’t remember all of it but I do remember that Aaron passed me the football and I fumbled and Coach yelled at me, “Liar! Liar!” but Aaron smiled and said it didn’t matter, he was just being stupid, imagining things. Then somehow he had the football again and he ran it between the other players, only they weren’t players, they were couples in tuxedos and evening gowns, he was running through the prom and every footstep left a blood trail. I screamed, “Aaron, run!” and he ran like a devil was after him, over the roof of the church and down Main Street and through Rose’s café and his dad’s store and all over Pinto River, leaving a blood trail everywhere. He ran into the development, down through my basement and up again and across his lawn, where all the dead flowers were lying, and instead of a football he was carrying his severed head under his arm, tracking blood like floods of red ink out of a lie detector machine. I screamed, “The river! Head for the river!” like in an old movie, like the bloodhounds were after him. We ran and ran, I ran with him up mountains and over cliffs and down the winding river road, and he left blood on the sky and blood on the boulders and scrub pines and blood on the asphalt as he ran. When we got to the river and he dived in, the water turned blood red. He dived into the swimming hole and disappeared, he didn’t come up again, and I knew he was dying but I couldn’t do a thing to help him, I stood there dripping sweat and tears, with my legs aching like my heart, just stood there in the shallows with a giant crayfish clamped onto my ankles like shackles. Only Aaron’s head stayed on the surface. It floated past me, looked at me and said, “Booger, I’m scared—”

  I woke up sweating. My throat hurt like I had a knife blade stuck in it. I heard someone whimpering and sobbing, and it wasn’t me; it came from across the hallway. My stupid sister, crying in her sleep. Then she sighed and quieted down. Maybe she woke up. Outside, a car blasted past with the stereo thumping. Somebody yelled almost as loud as the stereo, and I heard a rock or something hit the front of the house.

  God damn everything. I lunged out of bed and stomped downstairs. Without turning the light on, I plugged the phone in and quick-dialed my father.

  On the third ring he picked up. “Yo.”

  “Hey, you’re there.”

  “I ought to be,” he said. “It’s three in the morning.”

  There were a lot of things I could have said, like he could have still been hanging out at the Tipple Tavern, or he could have been with his girlfriend, or if he wanted me not to call at three in the morning, he should have called me back when he got my message. But all I said was, “Yeah, and people are throwing rocks at the house.”

  “Just the usual dumb crap. Have they hosed down the car and dumped flour on it yet?”

  “No, because it’s in the garage!”

  “They could get in there if they wanted to. Break a window, slash your mom’s tires—”

  “Yeah, and they might try it.”

  “So what do you want me to do about it, son?”

  “You’re the security expert.” Like I said before, my father works security at the county courthouse. It must have been because he knew somebody, since he was never any kind of cop. When criminal court is in session, he mans the metal detector at the front door and he gets to help guard prisoners. Between that and hanging out at the Tipple, he knows everything. Even though I hadn’t heard a word from him, I could count on it that he knew what I meant about people throwing rocks.

  I told him, “They egged the place yesterday.”

  “So? Just the usual stupidity, like I said. Did it wash off?”

  “Mom said don’t bother, just leave it that way for a while. Like we don’t care.”

  “Your mother is a wise woman,” Dad said.

  “Whatever,” I said. Dad always said Mom was a wise woman, but that hadn’t kept him from walking out on her. I told him, “I need a gun for self-defense.”

  He sighed.

  “Dad?”

  “Is your mother asleep?”

  “I guess so.” She wasn’t asking me what the heck I was doing on the phone at three A.M.

  “Okay. Don’t wake her. I’m coming over.”

  The guys with the cranked-up sound system went past twice more before Dad got there. I kept the lights off and got a look at them out the window. Some kind of dark-colored pickup truck, with Baja lights and a roll bar. Each time they roare
d past, they yelled and threw something.

  Finally Dad tapped at the door. He never came inside the house, so I went outside to talk with him. “Watch where you step,” he said, shining a big security-dude flashlight on a paper bag that had splatted open against the doorstep. “Looks like nice fresh cow manure.”

  It smelled like nice fresh cow manure, too. I just stood there shivering. Except for streetlights and his flashlight and some people’s landscape lights and stuff, it was dark out there. I didn’t like it.

  “You scared?” Dad asked.

  “Yes!” I had got to a point where I didn’t even mind being a coward.

  “That’s dumb. You don’t have to be scared of those jerks.”

  “Like hell,” I said.

  “Son, this is all going to blow over. And these cretins aren’t going to do jack except yell and throw crap.”

  Mostly for the sake of argument I said, “Yeah, but what about the murderer?”

  “What about him?”

  “He’s still out there!” And all of a sudden I realized it could be true. There really could be a murderer hiding in the black pines and hemlocks that grew like a beard all over the mountains. Or maybe closer. Maybe behind a boulder in the river bottom. Maybe watching from the poplars at the edge of my yard. Damn dark shaggy trees everywhere, damn rocks and caves, damn abandoned mines and foggy hills, he could be anywhere.

  Dad looked at me kind of odd.

  “The psycho who killed Aaron!” I said, getting louder. “Or intruder, whatever, maybe he’s a serial killer, maybe he likes to carve up high school jocks.”

  Dad started to laugh.

  “Stop it!” I hated him. “I need a gun, Dad!”

  “Get a clue, son!”

  That hurt. I yelled, “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Shush! You’ll wake your mother.” He kind of gulped, then mostly stopped laughing. “You know who killed Aaron as well as the cops do.”

  “I don’t know anything!”

  “C’mere.” He took me by the elbow and headed me toward his old Hyundai. Once I sat in the passenger seat and locked the door I felt calmer. Also, Dad was being serious now, which helped.