by Shawn Inmon
Thomas nodded. “My mom is. Anne Weaver.”
Copeland walked up the steps, pulled the door shut, then turned to Thomas. “Where’s the key?”
“I don’t know, sir. It was unlocked when I got here.”
Carrie's father fixed Thomas with another disbelieving glare. His voice dropped into menace. “Get the hell out of here. Obviously, I'm not going to get anything out of you tonight. You’ll be hearing from me, one way or the other."
Thomas climbed on his bike and pointed it toward home.
This is as lost as I've ever felt. In either life.
Chapter Thirty-Six
THOMAS PEDALED ALONG the shoulder, keeping an eye out for lights approaching from either direction. Shit. "Get the hell out of here." And do what, exactly?
No way.
At the next corner, Thomas turned back toward the church.
No idea where to look for her. Why would she leave the church? If she did leave, why wouldn’t she take her car? None of this makes any sense. I’ll circle back toward the church and ride the streets around it.
After less than an hour of pedaling, covering every possible piece of pavement within a mile of the church with no sign of Carrie, Thomas stopped the bike in front of a darkened Veltex gas station.
Useless. Completely useless.
Shoulders slumped, he turned and pedaled toward home. It wasn't far.
Thomas leaned the bike against the house and walked around to the window to his room. Years before, Zack had stacked flat paving stones under the window years to facilitate sneaking back in. After a moment’s effort, Thomas was inside. He undressed and got into bed without waking Zack up.
Pretty sure I’m not going to sleep tonight.
He let one thought chase another around his brain. Soon, he was out.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
THOMAS WOKE WITH a start. It was light outside, a beautiful Saturday morning in evergreen western Oregon.
Spent the whole damn night dreaming I was still on the bike looking for Carrie. Or Amy. Which was it?
He rubbed his eyes, turned to look at Zack. Still out.
Everything is still good in his life, but mine has gone from great to absolute shit. What’s first on the agenda today? Telling Mom I’ve been sneaking out at night? Meeting with the cops? Having bamboo shoved under my fingernails?
He stood. Amy was curled up at the foot of his bed, head resting on her paws. She raised her head and blinked. “Sorry, Amiable,” he whispered.
He took two steps toward the bathroom, when a name jumped into his head in that way that makes everything seem to click into place.
Michael Hollister.
Wait. Michael wouldn’t have anything to do with this. Would he?
An image followed the name. Michael, vomit pooled in front of him, hatred in his eyes, and one word on his lips: “Weaver.”
No way. He’s sick, he’s a freak, and maybe he’s going to be a killer someday, but not yet. He wouldn’t risk killing someone right here in his hometown, when he’s still a teenager. He wouldn’t kill Carrie to get back at me, right?
Who am I trying to convince?
Thomas hurried on to the bathroom.
Hollister, if you’ve done anything to Carrie... Something about that line of thought seemed too dark to confront. I can’t believe he would actually do anything to her, but I’ve got to know.
I’ve got to go back to the goddamn cave. It’s the last place on Earth I want to go, but what if she’s there right now? What if she needs me?
He opened the door to get dressed, to make one last trip to Michael’s kill cave. In his hurry, he bumped into his mom.
“Tommy! What are you doing up so early?”
“Mom. Oh, crap, everything is all messed up. I’ve been trying to make everything better, but instead I’ve made everything worse.” Thomas felt tears, but held them back.
“Tommy, what in the world? Everything was fine last night. What’s happened?”
“Let’s go sit down.” He averted his eyes. “Might as well get it over with.”
As they sat on the couch, Thomas looked up at Anne's worried eyes. How much can I tell her? What can I not tell her? I wish I could tell her everything, but I know how that will turn out.
“Okay,” Anne said. “What’s going on?”
“You’re not gonna be happy.”
“It’s six o’clock on a Saturday morning. I’ve got to be at the hospital in an hour to work a twelve-hour shift. I’m already not happy. Tell me what’s going on.”
“After we got home from the movie last night, I snuck out.” Anne opened her mouth, then closed it as Thomas hurried on. “I’ve been seeing this girl named Carrie. I was supposed to meet her last night, but I was late getting there because we went to the movie. When I got to where we were supposed to meet, her car was there, but she wasn’t.”
“Let’s slow down. What time did you sneak out?”
Thomas hesitated. “Right after I went to bed.”
“So, Zack knew.” Thomas shook his head, but Anne cut him off. “Don’t start. If you snuck out that soon, Zack was obviously awake. I’m going to have to talk to him too.”
Thomas nodded miserably. “It gets worse. Carrie wasn’t there, but her dad was. He thinks something bad might have happened to her. I think so, too. He said he was going to talk to the police this morning and that they would want to talk to me, too.”
Anne was quiet for a moment. “I don't know this Carrie. What do you think has happened to her?”
“Like maybe somebody kidnapped her, or took her somewhere.”
Anne gave a patient sigh. “Don’t be ridiculous, Tommy. This is Middle Falls, Oregon, not Los Angeles. Young girls don’t get abducted off the streets here. Why would anyone do that?”
“Well, I think Michael Hollister might have done something to her.”
“Who? Michael? The boy that took Amy? Why in God’s name would he do something to this girl?”
Thomas’s shoulders sagged. I shouldn’t have started this. Too many blind alleys I don’t want to walk down. “Mom, I think he might have done it to get back at me.”
“For what? Rescuing Amy? If anyone needs getting back at, it's him, and I don't care how rich his parents are, the law is still the law. After this, I'm calling them, and that's final. But first I'm going to have the rest of the story.”
Thomas exhaled a deep sigh. “Mom, I haven’t been telling you the truth about everything.”
“I'm beginning to realize that. Now’s a good time to start telling me not just the truth, but all of it. I don't care how embarrassing it is. You're talking about an abducted girl, and this is adult business, and you no longer get to keep any secrets. Do you understand me, Thomas?”
“Okay.” At least as much as I think I can. But in the end, Mom, you're wrong. Some secrets, I have to keep. I told you that Michael had like a clubhouse behind the school, and that’s where he took Amy, right?"
"Yes. Did you lie to me?" The sad, resigned defeat in her eyes almost made him break down.
"More like I left out a lot of the truth, Mom. He had this weird little cave where he took animals and tortured them to death. I followed him out there one day–that's how I found his torture stuff, and I released a cat that he was probably going to add to his skull collection–but he knew I’d been there. He took Amy to scare me into not telling anyone about it.”
Anne opened her mouth again, but Thomas held up his hand. “Please, Mom. This is hard, and you asked for the truth, and I'm telling you. Let me get through it." She nodded, made a keep-going gesture. "I was really pissed at him for taking Amy like that, so a few days ago, I snuck into his locker at school and put one of Amy’s poops into his sandwich."
Anne's hand went to her mouth, eyes wide. "He didn't."
Thomas could not repress a smile. "He did. He ate it, then puked all over the lunchroom."
She half closed her eyes, shook her head. "That's the most disgusting thing I've ever heard of in my w
hole life, and I'm a nurse. Seriously, Tommy?"
He nodded. "Now, I think he might have done something to Carrie to get even with me for that.”
Anne sat in stunned silence for about ten seconds, then pointed at him. “You, just sit here. Don’t move.” She walked into the kitchen and dialed five numbers into the rotary phone. “Evelyn? It’s Anne. I’m scheduled to be on at eight, but I’ve got an emergency at home. I’m not going to make it in.” Thomas could hear surprise, irritation, even frustration in the disembodied voice. “Yes, I know. I’m sorry. I’ll be in tomorrow.” Without waiting for a response, Anne set down the receiver, then started a pot of coffee and lit a Viceroy. She sat back down on the couch.
God. She looks closer to the age when I committed suicide. It's like she just aged a decade.
Anne exhaled a cloud of bluish smoke. “I’m having trouble with all this, but I really don’t understand why you put…feces in his sandwich. Why did you do that?”
“Didn’t you hear what I said? He was torturing animals to death. He had a cat locked up in a cage that would have been next, if I hadn’t let it go. He’s a sick freak, and I wanted to get back at him for taking Amy. Now, I wish I hadn’t. I wish I could go back and undo it.”
And maybe I can. Carrie rode the suicide express a dozen times. I could start over too. Thomas looked at the worry and uncertainty etched in every line on her face. If I did start over, what do I leave behind here?
A grieving mom and brother, wondering why I did it.
Shit. There are no good answers.
Anne said, in suffering-mother mode, "Someday, Tommy, you will have to learn that you can't just undo everything and start over. But I notice we're now talking all about Michael's feces sandwich, instead of a missing girl." Thomas made as if to speak, but Anne bore in. “Now look at me. The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but, if you love me at all."
Shit. She has never said that to me before, that way. Ever.
"Tommy, did you have anything to do with this girl’s disappearance? Are you helping her run away?”
“I wish I was, Mom. I would feel a lot better right now.”
"And why would you feel better?"
"Because I'd know where she was, and that she was safe. I like her a lot, and I don't know where she's at or if anything happened to her, and it scares the crap out of me. And I think Michael may have done something to her. He's evil, Mom, really evil, not just a bad kid." Damn it! What if she gets nosey about that?
“I should think that's obvious, if he tortures cats and kidnaps...dognaps dogs. Okay, we’re going to tackle this head on. Go take a shower so you’ll look more presentable. I’m going to get dressed and have some coffee. Then we’re going down to the police station and see if we can get to the bottom of this.”
Thomas suppressed a sigh of relief that would have been unexplainable. He got up and went to their bedroom, passing boxer-shorted Zack in the hallway. “What’s all the excitement?” Zack asked.
“Tommy, go on,” Anne said. She shot Zack a look. “Come sit down, Zackary, we need to talk.”
Thomas looked up at Zack's expression, which needed no words to convey: I don't know what you did, you little freak, but you drug me into it, and I am going to beat your ass.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, Thomas came back into the living room looking as respectable as he got. Zack was alone on the couch, watching out the front window. Anne emerged from her bedroom at the back of the house, purse over one arm. “Ready?”
Zack craned his neck and stood up. “I don’t think you’re going to have to go see the cops. I think they’re making a house call. I'll get dressed.” He went back to the bedroom. Thomas pulled the drapes aside and watched as Middle Falls’ one unmarked police car slowly rolled to a stop. A dark-haired man in his mid-thirties stepped out, wearing slacks and a short-sleeved white shirt. He reached in the car, grabbed a sportcoat, slipped it on, and walked up to knock on the slider. Anne stepped forward and opened it.
“Morning, ma’am. I’m George Madison, a detective with the Middle Falls police force.” He produced a badge. “Were you expecting me?”
“We were getting ready to drive down to the station, Detective. I'm Anne Weaver, and this is my son Tommy. My other son is getting dressed. Please come in. Would you like to sit down?”
Detective Madison looked around the small living room. “Is that coffee I smell?
“Yes. Would you like some?”
“If I’m not taking your last cup, yes, Mrs. Weaver, thank you.”
"Please call me Anne, Detective."
Is my mother sort of flirting with this cop? thought Thomas. She's certainly trying to be charming. I wonder if she realizes how obvious she is.
"Fine, then, Anne, thank you." The detective pulled out a small blue notebook and opened it. "Would it be okay if we sat at the kitchen table?"
"Absolutely. I'll bring the coffee."
Madison settled into the chair at the end of the table and looked Thomas over, glancing at his notebook. "So, Tommy, am I safe in saying that you've met Mr. Gerald Copeland?"
"Yes," answered Thomas.
“Mr. Copeland came into the station bright and early this morning. He says someone kidnapped his daughter. That she’s not the stay-out-all-night type of girl, although he did admit she had been sneaking out to see you.”
Thomas sat in silence. You’re pretty good, Detective Madison, but there wasn’t a question in there anywhere, was there? He stared back, willing himself not to break eye contact. I’ve got to remember I am a teenage boy and act like one, or this guy will be able to tell something’s up. I’m not sure what he’ll do if he catches a weird vibe, but it probably won’t be helpful.
Anne set a cup in front of the detective. “Cream or sugar?”
“Thank you, no,” said Madison, picking up the cup. “Black is fine.” He turned his attention back to Thomas. “Well? Is Carrie Copeland the stay-out-all-night type of girl? Maybe her dad has the wrong impression. Dads often do.”
“Absolutely not. Carrie’s gone through a lot—”
“Right. Mr. Copeland said her mother passed away this last year.”
“—and she went to the church to think. She felt close to her mom there. When we wanted a place to go and talk, that’s where we went.”
Madison blew on his coffee, took a sip, and smiled. “Good coffee, ma’am. Thank you. Is that where you two were last night? At the church?”
“I was going to meet her there, but Mom took us to the movies.“
“What did you see?”
“Logan’s Run.”
Detective Madison scribbled a note. “Then what?”
“Well, I was going to meet Carrie at ten o’clock. I couldn’t tell Mom I was leaving, though, so I didn’t get to the church until around eleven.”
“And how did you get out of the house?”
Thomas squirmed. “Through the window in my bedroom.”
Madison looked at Anne. “What’s your other son’s name?”
“Zackary. Zack.”
“Do they share a bedroom?”
Anne nodded.
The detective raised his voice. “Zack? Can you come join us for a moment?” Zack appeared as if he had been just around the corner. Detective Madison stood up, introduced himself, shook Zack's hand. "Could you have a seat with us at the kitchen table, please, Zack? Just need you to help clarify a few things for me."
"All right, officer." Zack sat down.
“What time did you go to bed last night?”
Zack cleared his throat, found his voice. “Around eleven.”
“So, you were in the room when Tommy here snuck out?”
Zack flushed, glanced at Anne. “Yes.”
“Okay, then what happened, Tommy?”
“I knew Carrie had already gone to the church, so I rode my bike over there.”
"You knew she had gone there? Did you call her?"
"No. I guess I should say we planned t
o meet there, and she's pretty reliable, so I assumed she'd be there waiting for me."
The detective wrote something down. “What is it, about a mile from here to there?”
“I guess. Never measured it.”
“So. If you snuck out a few minutes after eleven, you probably got to the church about a quarter after.” He flipped a few pages back in his notebook. “Mr. Copeland said he found you at the church before 11:30.” The detective chewed on the end of his pen. “Doesn’t leave a lot of time for nefarious deeds, does it?”
"That would explain, I guess, why Tommy wasn't as excited about the evening as I'd expected he might be. He had plans, and his old mom was cramping his style," said Anne, slowly, enunciating as she went. To hear the hurt in her voice, one would have had to be a member of her immediate family. Both Thomas and Zack winced, and Zack gave his younger brother a look of disgust.
Detective Madison looked at Anne. “Is everything I’m hearing true to the best of your knowledge? Going to the movies, what time you got home, what time the boys went to bed?”
“Yes. There’s been more going on here than I knew about, but that was all true.”
“Well, don’t be too hard on yourself. I think that’s true of most houses with teenagers in them.” He flipped the notebook shut, then slipped it back in his jacket pocket. He sipped his coffee, looked at Thomas, then nodded once. “I might have a few questions for you later, but for now, I think that’s everything I need. Thanks again for the coffee, ma’am.”
“Please do call me Anne. And you’re welcome. Let us know if there’s anything else we can do to help.”
The detective took one step away from the table, then paused to lock eyes with Thomas. “Anything else I need to know, Tommy?”
Whoa. This guy’s good. If I was fifteen, I would have spilled whatever I knew. I would have implicated Michael Hollister, and that would have opened more lines of questioning than I would have answers for. “No, sir.”