Footer Davis Probably Is Crazy (8 page)

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).

Angel took a lot of pictures, and when I downloaded them Sunday night, I found proof that maybe somebody was watching us. I attached the picture. It shows a shoe. I know you can't see if there's a leg in it, but it's pretty definitely a guy's shoe, and it had to get there some way. Captain Armstrong might have been wearing it. He's a veteran too, but he's not a police officer. I'm not turning him in or anything, because he's a really nice man, and he'd never murder anybody, but he does have shoes like that. Peavine and I checked the trail to the farm early this morning, and the shoe was gone. We didn't find any footprints, but we're not very good at looking for footprints.

We hope you will investigate this lead. Peavine wants to be a detective. I want to be a journalist. Never mind Angel, because she barely speaks normal English, and I think she wants to be an astronaut or a dragon rider, so she doesn't count. All three of us want to help, though.

Thank you very much,

Footer Davis

[email protected]

Sent from my iPhone

From the Notebook of Detective Peavine Jones

Interview of Regina Jones, Eleven Days After the Fire

Location: Television Room in Footer's House

Mom: Don't you think it's awfully close to bedtime to start a criminal interview?

Footer: We're interviewing suspects in the Abrams fire, not criminals.

Mom: Then this will be fast, because I was at a church potluck with my kids when that fire was set. About forty people saw us.

Footer: [Journalist frowns. She's still pretty, though.] You have a point. What's for dinner tomorrow? Dad said you were cooking for us.

Mom: I'll have to see what you've got here, but I'll go to the store first, so no worries. I'll make sure it doesn't have any flies in it, or snake guts. That a deal?

Footer: No walrus meat either.

Mom: [Suspect raises right hand.] Word
of honor. I was thinking more like baked chicken.

Footer: What do people do after they win the lottery?

Mom: Well, I didn't win a gigantic jackpot, so I just paid off our debt, set up some savings and investments, stopped working for the county, and took a part-time job doing the accounting for my church.

Footer: You never have problems like my mom, do you?

Mom: Everybody has problems, Footer. Remember when you first met Peavine, back when you two were in kindergarten—before he got strong enough to really use his forearm crutches?

Footer: Sort of.

Mom: That first day at school, he had so much trouble just walking up the front steps, and he cried, and you were the only one who didn't laugh at him. You were the only one who helped him. [Suspect looks
sad, and I wish she wouldn't talk about that stuff.] I was a mess all that day, to be honest. And that night, and all the next week. Every surgery Peavine's had to help him stand up straight and walk better, the day the doctor told me Angel might have some social and learning problems, the night I came home and found their father gone—no family is perfect, and I'm sure not, myself. Trust me, I've been a mess lots of times.

Footer: But you haven't had to go to that hospital in Memphis.

Mom: No, I haven't. [Suspect looks sad again. I really hate it when she looks sad.] You and your dad and mom have always been there for us, though. You've never let Peavine or Angel down, and your parents were right there with me when I've had to go through my big problems. So, if I ever did have to go
to that hospital in Memphis, I bet you and your dad would help Peavine and Angel while I was gone—and your mom would help, too, if she was feeling up to it.

Footer: Of course we would.

Mom: [Suspect hugs journalist.] Okay, now, seriously. It's time for bed, both of you. Peavine, find your sister and get your things.

Extra note: I bet older detectives do not have bedtimes or have to put up with people hugging their suspects and journalists.