“I’m sorry, Mr. Stubbs,” I said. “But if you’re going to be like that, I’ll have to ask you to leave.”
Willie swung around quicker than I would’ve thought possible given his blood alcohol level and leveled his gun at me.
“Go ahead,” he said, cocking the hammer of his Smith and Wesson, “Ask.”
Things got a little crazy after that.
Something fast and furious came at Willie out of nowhere, ramming him into the counter and taking him to the ground. In my haste to get out of the way, I went down too, slipping on a slick spot of tile and landing gracelessly on my backside.
That was going to hurt tomorrow.
I heard a strange noise and lifted my head, spotting the cause of all the trouble.
Wilder was tugging Willie to his feet, the drunk’s arms twisted behind his back. Mr. Stubbs was not a happy camper, wiggling and whimpering and getting nowhere fast. That was the sound I’d heard, Willie’s pathetic whimpers.
“What’d you do that for?” Aunt B asked, staring wide-eyed at Wilder.
“Well,” Wilder said, “he had a gun.” Seeing her puzzled expression, he added, “And he was pointing it at someone.”
There was a moment of silence, and then slowly everyone, myself included, started to laugh.
“Well, sure he did,” Aunt B said on a full belly laugh. “Willie always has a gun.”
“Everyone knows that,” Ronnie stated.
George had to have her say. “He’s just an idiot who likes carrying the thing around.”
Wilder stepped back, releasing his hold on Willie. “But I thought...”
Now free, Willie picked up his gun and made a mad dash for the door, but just as he got there a black and white pulled up.
“Shit,” Willie muttered, tucking the gun into his waistband.
A car door slammed, and a second later Officer Garrison Henley pushed his way through the door.
“Evening B,” he said. Sending a nod to the rest of us, he turned to Willie. “Good Lord Stubbs, drunk again?”
Willie burped in response, swiped a hand under his nose.
“I sure hope you haven’t been waving that gun around. What’d I tell you last time?”
“It ain’t nice to hold people at gunpoint.” Willie recited the line like he was reading off a cue card. Then he stabbed an accusing finger at Wilder. “That boy’s crazier than a loon. I wanna press charges.”
“What’s he talking about?”
Aunt B shrugged. “The boy tackled him.”
Garrison blinked. “What’d he do that for?”
“That’s what I said. But to be fair, Willie was pointing his gun at my niece.”
“I didn’t hurt nobody,” Willie declared, ruining the effect by burping yet again. “That boy nearly killed me. Take him, not me. Everybody’s sayin’ he ain’t no good.”
“Let’s get you down to the station”—Garrison pointed Willie toward the door —”Time to sleep it off. Sorry about this, B.”
“Thanks Garrison,” she said. “You’re the best.”
The officer tried but couldn’t quite hide his wince. “Have a safe night everyone.”
Murmured goodbyes followed the two out the door, and things went back to normal. Aunt B started chatting again with her girls, Ronnie and George acted like they weren’t staring at Wilder when actually they were, and I considered getting up off of the floor.
“It’s never loaded,” I said, drawing Wilder’s attention. “The gun. Willie always has it on him, but the thing doesn’t have any bullets.”
Wilder nodded then reached down.
I took his hand without thinking. As he pulled me upright, I became aware of several things at once. First, the top of my head barely reached his chin. Second, this was the first time he’d touched me since saving me at the lake. Third, he really did have the prettiest eyes I’d ever seen. And fourth, I had the oddest feeling, the faintest flicker of recognition. It was like déjà vu; it felt like we, Wilder and I, had done all this before. Like I’d seen those eyes somewhere before. But maybe it was just the head rush I got from standing.
He held my hand a moment before letting go. His gaze held mine much longer, held me so completely I was unaware of anything except that stare.
“He does this at least once a month,” Aunt B said, coming up beside us. I was glad. Her familiar voice broke the spell that had fallen over me at Wilder’s touch. “Comes in, acts stupid, hauls out his gun. Then Garrison takes him away, locks him up for the night. Willie’s a sloppy drunk, but he’d never hurt anyone.” She shot Wilder an assessing look. “So. You’re the one who’s got this town all in a tizzy. I’ve heard a lot about you, Ethan Wilder.”
I groaned.
“And I’ve heard about you,” Wilder said.
“No doubt it was illuminating,” Aunt B said dryly.
Wilder’s face gave nothing away.
“You ever had your palm read? I could offer you a real good deal, half off your first reading.”
“I have to get back to work,” he said. “Maybe some other time.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” Aunt B called as he walked out the door. “Well, he’s not at all how I pictured him. Imagine,” she said in wonder, “taking on a guy you think has a loaded revolver? Nope. Nothing like I thought he’d be.”
“Me neither.” I stared at the place where Wilder stood moments before, then looked down at my hand. Me neither.
CHAPTER 9
And that’s how I ended up at the Bowie Library at 10:00 a.m. on a Saturday doing research on an alleged murderer who’d already tried to save my life.
Twice.
Wilder was just too big a mystery to ignore. He’d sparked my curiosity, first down at the lake then again that night in the bakery. I couldn’t understand how someone accused of something as heinous as killing his own sister would be so quick to play the hero. True, Willie’s gun had been empty, but Wilder didn’t know that. Something about his story just didn’t fit. I had to know more.
Googling his name at home hadn’t told me much. Correction, it told me that there were a whole bunch of “Ethan Wilders” out there, who were most definitely not the Ethan Wilder I was looking for. The guy wasn’t into social networking. No Facebook, no Twitter. It was almost like he didn’t exist.
It wasn’t until I typed in Ethan’s name along with “Anne Wilder” and the words “Bowie, Georgia” that I struck gold.
There were several hits for the same article, but unless I paid for a subscription, all I could see was a blurb. It was taken straight out of The Bowie Telegraph. A note at the end said a full-length hard copy of the article could be found at The Bowie Library.
Hence, my slogging through the library’s old record books.
“Excuse me,” I said, stopping a passing librarian. Wendell Pickens was older than dirt, moved slower than molasses, but he’d always been kind to me. I’d been looking through the archives awhile, but I’d yet to reach the 2000s. “Where would I find Telegraph articles from about four years back?”
“Top shelf,” he said.
“Of course,” I mumbled.
Eyeing my five-foot-five frame from behind his larger-than-life glasses, the man took pity on me. “What year do you need?”
It took Wendell a few minutes to get up the ladder, even more to come back down.
“Here you are,” he said, slightly out of breath as he handed me the book.
“Thanks a lot, Mr. Pickens.” I took the heavy tomb to my table, the one I’d commandeered in the back for privacy. It took me a second to find the right article, and what I found didn’t make a whole lot of sense.
“Seventeen-year-old Anne Wilder was found dead last Saturday morning in the back of her family’s house in Bowie, Georgia. Bowie Police responded to a distress call made around 11:00 a.m. from the home of James and Pearl Wilder. Anne’s younger brother, Ethan Wilder, 13, found her body in the family’s backyard pool. Authorities are unsure of the official cause of death, but the wate
r in Anne’s lungs suggests she survived several minutes after the gunshot wound sustained to her abdomen. Bowie Police are still trying to locate the weapon used in Anne Wilder’s shooting.”
I read the article a second time then sat back. So much of this didn’t add up.
Shouldn’t the gun be right there? In her hand, in the pool or just outside it—where Anne must’ve dropped it, if she had in fact committed suicide? Unless she’d used her last breath to throw it into the woods? But why do that?
And what about a suicide note?
I checked again just to be sure, but no. There wasn’t a note mentioned. I was no expert, but I’d seen enough CSI’s, courtesy of George, to know people usually left something behind. A last farewell to the world, a final goodbye to loved ones, something.
Next to the article, there was that same picture from the Mercy Hope memory book. Jim and Pearl with their million-dollar smiles, Anne resting her head on Ethan’s shoulder, Ethan wearing a grin he couldn’t seem to stop.
I looked back at Anne Wilder’s smiling face.
“What really happened to you?” I muttered.
Scanning ahead, I couldn’t find any more articles on Anne. There was no follow-up, odd considering the strange nature of the case. All I could find was her obituary, which told me nothing new. On my way out, I thanked Mr. Pickens again, leaving with more questions than answers.
“Hi, we’re the BHS chapter of S.C.A.L.P., a virtuous organization of young people dedicated to staying pure. Would you like to make a donation?”
Startled, I looked up.
“Oh.” Serena Sanchez frowned. “It’s you.”
She walked back to a table covered with a baby blue table cloth, frilly trim with crosses inside hearts, and a S.C.A.L.P. poster hanging off the front. They hadn’t been there when I drove to the library this morning. I’d have noticed that much “cute.”
“Would you put that thing away already?” Serena said to Janet, slamming the S.C.A.L.P. collection bucket down. “How are we supposed to get people to donate if you keep listening to that crap.”
“What?” Janet said, still looking down at her iPad, a steady stream of sound coming out. “It’s the local news app. Dad says it’s important to watch the news.”
“Yeah,” Alexis muttered, “if you’re in your fifties.”
Janet stuck out her tongue.
“This was a dumb idea anyway. Only losers come to the library on a Saturday.”
All three of them looked to me.
“I see your point,” Serena sighed.
I rolled my eyes. “I can hear you, you know.”
“Hey guys, look,” Janet said excitedly. “Jim Wilder was attacked!”
“What?”
It had to be the first time Serena Sanchez and I had the same thought. It was a little creepy.
“Listen.” Janet turned up the volume, and despite myself, I walked closer to the Demented Divas. The video showed an old Victorian two-story surrounded by police and an ambulance.
“Jim Wilder, the well-known and respected reverend of Mercy Hope Baptist, is currently in Bowie Medical being treated for neck wounds sustained from an animal attack.” Remmy Peabody, the newscaster, was beside himself. His snow white comb over quivered with excitement. “Throughout the year, Jim makes several visits throughout the community to spread the word of God. He was at such a visit early this morning with his son, Ethan Wilder, when the dog attacked him. No one knows what precipitated the attack. The animal, belonging to Mae Thrush, was never known to be violent.”
Here they cut to a shot of fifty-eight-year-old Mae. Wild nest of brown hair, thin, waif-like body, her flowing white sundress nearly swallowed her whole. I’d never known Mae when she was young, so to me she’d always looked like an apparition, a shadow. The old spinster people called Crazy Mae behind her back.
“What a freak show,” Serena said, but Janet shushed her. I liked her a little more for it.
“Paramedics say Thrush’s background in medical training made all the difference,” Remmy’s voice said as a shot of a man in an EMT uniform appeared.
“She used to work the graveyard shift. Twenty-eight years of training.” The EMT shook his head. “With a serious injury like that, to a vulnerable area like the neck…Jim wouldn’t have stood much chance without her.”
Remmy came back on screen to finish. “We have just gotten confirmation that Jim Wilder is in stable condition. The golden retriever with a whitish gold coat escaped into the woods behind Thrush’s house before authorities could apprehend him. He is believed to be dangerous and, if seen, should be approached with extreme caution. Remmy Peabody, 13Alive News.”
The screen went black, and without thinking I said, “What about Ethan?”
“Excuse me,” Alexis sneered. “You’re not a S.C.A.L.P. member. Who invited you?”
Another thought struck me. I didn’t know Mae had a dog. Never, in my seventeen years of living in Bowie, had I seen Mae with a dog.
“Hey.” Janet snapped her fingers in front of my face. “Either make a donation, Doherty, or get lost.”
More to thank Janet for the news story than anything, I dropped a dollar into their bucket, and turned to go.
“Wait.” Serena tugged me back around and planted a S.C.A.L.P. sticker right in the center of my chest. “Live pure,” she said, smiling sweetly.
#
When I took my break that night, I went by the music store again. My palms were sweaty, and I didn’t know why. The reverend was the only thing anyone was talking about, but I couldn’t stop thinking about Wilder. Or his sister’s strange death.
“You’re back,” Wilder said from his place behind the counter.
“Yep.” I thrust my hands into my pockets. “Doc around?”
“He just stepped out.”
“Oh,” I said, taking a seat on my stool. The place was dead. Wilder and I were the only two in the store. “So, I heard about your dad. Glad he’s going to be okay.”
“Yeah,” Wilder said. “Me, too.”
“Are you okay?” When he didn’t answer, I rambled on, “You’re probably sick of people asking you that, right? You look fine. I just wanted to make sure. I heard you were there, too. Every single person who came into the bakery was talking about it. Animal attacks don’t happen all that often, you know. Must’ve been pretty scary, seeing your dad like that.”
He shook his head, studying my face like it was the most interesting thing in the world.
“Something wrong?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “It’s just you’re the first person who’s asked if I’m okay.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
There wasn’t much to say after that.
Over the next couple weeks, we developed a routine. I’d visit the music emporium every day on my break—something I’d always done, but now it was for more than just the music. Wilder would come to the bakery around seven every night, order coffee and sit there until he finished his cup. He never ordered seconds, never sat with anyone. It could’ve just been coincidence. He did work one door down. But after a while, it felt like we had a standing appointment.
The girls started showing up to the music emporium on a Tuesday. From my perch a few feet away, I couldn’t miss them. Who knew Wilder had such a huge following? Up first was a leggy blond with high cheekbones and tons of confidence.
“You know, Ethan, I never believed it for a second,” Tuesday said, running her fingers over his hand. “Not one second. Killing your own sister? I told my friend Kristy there was just no way. That boy is far too fine to commit a crime.”
Even with her playful pouts and lingering touches, I noticed he only looked at her twice the entire time she was there.
Wednesday a brunette with big brown eyes literally launched herself at him, attaching her lips to his neck without uttering so much as a “Hey, how’re ya?” Unaffected, Wilder simply pushed the girl away, said a few words then ignored her. It made me feel kinda sorry f
or her to be honest. Thursday’s girl was Cora Deets, a sophomore I knew from school who was a real sweetheart, and Friday’s was Selena Sanchez. I’d seen Selena in action, and for Wilder, she pulled out all the stops.
“Hey, baby,” she said, clad in a slinky top, short-short skirt, and heels that screamed hootchie. “Why didn’t you ever call? I’ve been waiting to see your number pop up on my screen.”
“I was busy,” Wilder said.
“Too busy for me? Now, sugar, I can’t imagine anything that could be so important.” She flipped her hair, batted her lashes. “I thought about you last night.”
So much for living pure, I thought, fighting my gag reflex.
“Mmm.” She ran a hand over his cheek, licking her lips in a way I guess she thought was seductive. It kinda reminded me of one of those lizards on the Discovery Channel. “It was very hot, and I was very lonely.”
It was probably just my imagination, but I could’ve sworn Wilder glanced my way.
“Call me,” she said, giving her hair one last toss as she strutted out the door.
When he didn’t fall all over himself like many a male before him, I breathed a little easier.
I found myself thinking about Wilder more and more. Whether it was in the hallways at school or picking up groceries, I’d catch myself looking for him. In the classes we shared, I tried not to stare—or at least not stare too much—but when school ended all bets were off. My stomach did an embarrassing little flip whenever I saw his bike parked outside the bakery.
I was turning into a stalker.
Wonderful.
Guys could get away with stuff like that. Girl stalkers just came across as desperate and sort of sad. The realization was almost enough to kill my curiosity and stop me from looking into Anne’s death. Almost.
CHAPTER 10
“You sure you want to do this?” George asked.
“Yeah,” I said, trying to keep the nervous edge out of my voice. “Why not? I mean, the worst they can do is tell us to leave, right?”
“Or lock us up,” George muttered as we made our way to the police station.
The Unbelievable, Inconceivable, Unforeseeable Truth About Ethan Wilder Page 8