The Death Catchers (12 page)

 

Personification

When considering which of my parents I'm most like, or which of their characteristics I most personify, I used to believe I'd grow up to be just like Dad. Mom is all that is warm, messy, and sentimental. I don't mean that in a bad way. I realize she's also the rubber band that keeps everything together. It's just that everything brews right beneath the surface with Mom. It's never hard to tell where you stand in her eyes at any given moment—which is a very good thing most of the time.

Dad, on the other hand is calm, calculating, and introspective. When he gets somewhere, not only does he arrive on time, he is totally prepared. I relate to this side of him. I don't like surprises. Mom always says that I'm “levelheaded” like Dad is, but I've recently realized that I'm not an exact replica of either of my parents.

Seeing Dad fret over Bizzy underscored all this. For the first time, he seemed a little unhinged, like he couldn't possibly be ready for whatever might happen next with her. He was so calm most of the time, I think, because he was usually prepared. Bizzy wasn't exactly the kind of person you could anticipate, though.

When I got home from Mickey's, Dad let me go with him to the hospital to pick up Bizzy. He wheeled her out the automatic sliding doors in her spanking new wheelchair. She had a bright blue cast that went all the way up to her midthigh. Her broken leg stuck straight out in front of her, parallel to the ground. After she'd cleared the hospital, Bizzy lifted up her hospital gown, peeled back a bandage, and showed me the new stitches across her abdomen.

“Makes me look pretty tough, eh?” she said, smiling. Her wild white hair hadn't been brushed this morning and she looked a bit like Medusa's jovial grandma.

“Mother, please,” Dad said, partly shocked by Bizzy's behavior, partly amused.

It took a lot of fancy maneuvering to get Bizzy into Dad's Volvo. Every time Dad made a turn, he checked his rearview mirror to make sure Bizzy was doing okay. We were silent until we got to the corner of Delores and Ocean, the scene of the accident. I could see Miss Mora through the large pane window, waiting on a customer. Jodi must've been upstairs, probably listening to
Remain in Light
or some of her mom's ska albums as she began her “Drake research.”

“Can't wait to use Dixie again. Bet she misses me,” Bizzy said, looking out the window wistfully.

“I'm not so sure
that's
a good idea,” Dad said, raising his eyes to the rearview mirror once again.

“Good idea?” Bizzy replied.

“Your doctor thinks that if you keep carrying on like you have been, you'll become a danger to yourself and others.”

Bizzy adjusted her position in the back, sitting up straight.

“Me? Carryin' on? You're gonna wear me to a frazzle, Phillip.” Bizzy tapped her cast angrily with two of her fingers. “Tell you one thing, sonny, I haven't made it seventy-four years on this earth by accident.”

Once we were home, Dad fussed over Bizzy, making sure that she had everything she could possibly need. Fortunately, Bizzy's room was on the first floor—she wouldn't be climbing stairs for some time. The walls of her room looked like one large bulletin board. Pictures, articles, cartoons, random cards, and thank-you notes covered every inch of blank wall space—a mosaic dedicated to memories. Mostly, Bizzy used duct tape to attach things. Mom had groused about Bizzy's odd mode of interior decorating initially, but finally realized it was a losing battle.

Bizzy was crankier than usual.

“Okay, then,” Dad said, putting his hands on his hips and looking around Bizzy's room. “Lizzy,” he said, turning toward me, “I'm heading back to work. If your grandma has any trouble with anything, call me immediately.”

“I will,” I said. Dad took one last look at Bizzy and me and turned to leave.

Bizzy didn't say a word until she was sure that Dad's car had pulled away.

“I thought he'd never skedaddle!” she said, slowly wheeling herself away from the kitchen window. “How I raised a naggin' worrywart sure does confound me.”

“Dad doesn't want you to hurt yourself again.”

Since she didn't yet have the mobility to get pants over her bulky cast, Bizzy had changed into her favorite old purple nightgown. She'd found a wool hat with a large orange pom-pom on the top and pulled it over her ears.

Of course, she still managed to put on her pearls so the end of her palm was covered with her customary bracelet.

As soon as she had put the pearls on her wrist, she looked at me.

“We're gonna have to do somethin' about coverin' your wrist—if someone sees it, they'll ask all sorts a' questions you don't wanna answer.” Bizzy wheeled over to her dresser and began tossing garments all over the room. I didn't want to tell her that it was too late for that.

“Aha! Here it is!” Bizzy rolled back to me and grabbed my wrist.

She slid a purple sweatband over my hand.

“It's a lot lighter than it was at school today,” I said, staring at Drake's name. At school, it looked like a dark tattoo. Now, it was faint enough to almost blend in with my skin.

“The closer you are to the person whose name is on your hand, Sweet Pea, the darker it gets.”

“Really?”

“For better or worse, you're bound to whomever you have a specter 'bout.”

I blushed at the thought of being bound to Drake in any capacity. Bizzy adjusted the purple sweatband so it covered the bottom of my hand.

“There!”

I looked at it. It was from a different time and place, clearly. It smelled musty and had JAZZERCIZE in large white letters on the top.

“Won't this just call more attention to my wrist?”

“Maybe. But no one'll bother lookin' underneath.”

“Okay,” I said, planning to wear it until I found the right kind of watch.

“Now quick, quick!” Bizzy said, growing excited, clapping her hands once. “Wheel Dixie over here where I can reach her!”

Dixie sat in the corner, in front of a collage of pictures of Mom, Dad, and me.

“Push a little closer,” Bizzy beckoned. She reached around the back of her neck and unwrapped a chain. Fumbling with it, she reached its end and held it in her hand.

“ 'Fraid with all these bandages, I can't seem to bend low enough. You mind doin' the honors?” Bizzy asked me.

She held a key in her hand and motioned at the bottom of Dixie. I looked down and saw the box that rested on the bottom racks was locked. Taking the key from Bizzy, I thrust it into the keyhole. It was an exact fit. “This is for you,” Bizzy said, reaching into the box herself and pulling out a pocket-sized mirror. “In case you have any surprise encounters with a banshee.”

I shuddered at the thought of such an occurrence.

“So what do we do now?” I asked, feeling overwhelmed.

Bizzy seemed to be gaining strength just as I was losing it. The soft wrinkled flesh below her chin was now stretched tightly as she reviewed our situation. “We know Drake Westfall is set to pass on Tuesday the fifteenth of December. We know that authorities will immediately suspect foul play and we know that his body'll be burned and found among the ruins of a fire at the cannery. Don't know much else, do we?”

I told Bizzy what I'd learned about Drake that afternoon.

“That's a great start!” Bizzy said, adjusting her purple nightgown so that it covered the gauze and medical tape underneath her collarbone. “The Miss Mora specter was open-and-shut so quickly. But this one's a lot more complicated. We're gonna have to throw everything we've got at this thing. I got another pearl for ya—brains in the head saves blisters on the feet. We need to know everythin' about him. For instance, what does Drake eat for supper? What gets him goin'? Where's he spend his time? Who's he tell his secrets to? Who tells their secrets to him? Most importantly, who in the world would want him dead?”

A frown formed on my face. Though I knew more than I had yesterday, the details of Drake's life were a mystery to me.

“We've got ourselves plenty of ways to find everythin' we need to know about Drake Westfall.”

“Like spying on him?” I stopped short of telling Bizzy that if she wanted to spy on Drake, she was going to have some company in Jodi Sanchez.

“That's only the half of it. We'll come up with a plan afore you know it, Sweet Pea.”

“What kind of plan?”

“I think a little visit to the scene is our best first step,” Bizzy said.

“The cannery?”

“You betcha!” Bizzy cried. “Hopefully, seein' the place'll open things right up for us. Near as I can tell, we'll need a lucky break or two. After all, we're fightin' the most terrible enemy of 'em all.”

“Who's that?” I asked.

My grandma looked at me as she wheeled inches closer to me.

“Fate,” she said, clenching her jaw shut.

 

Aphorisms—Bizzy's Best Pearls

Bizzy's habit of dropping unsolicited pearls of wisdom is very annoying to most people, especially Mom.

The pearl Mom particularly dislikes is the one Bizzy says the most: “If the cat gets caught in the blender, best get yourself a new blender … and a new cat.” I think it's Bizzy's way of saying that you shouldn't cry over spilled milk. Anyhow, before your class, Mrs. Tweedy, I would've never known the fancy name for Bizzy's pearls of wisdom: aphorisms.

Bizzy loves aphorisms.

I bring up all this because as we were planning our expedition to the cannery, Bizzy spouted an aphorism I'll never forget. She was trying to convince me to drive us there, though I didn't even have my learner's permit yet.

“We'll take my car. I'll instruct ya the whole way. It'll take no more'n a few minutes,” Bizzy said.

“Sheriff Schmidt is already after you. If he sees me driving you around, he'll arrest us,” I countered.

“That ain't gonna happen. Even if it does, I can talk circles around that fella usin' only half my mouth,” Bizzy said, letting out a
parumph.

“I'm not so sure, Bizzy … it just seems like a bad ide—”

“Listen here, Sweet Pea. In this world, everybody's gotta make the same choice: it's either the lice or the hedgehog. That's one of Bizzy's pearls, free a' charge.”

“What?” I asked impatiently.

“I'm sayin' a person has to choose to be the hedgehog or the lice.”

“I'm not sure I under—”

“The hedgehog makes his own way in this here world. The lice on the hedgehog don't. Now, there ain't no shame in the lice choosin' to get a free ride on that hedgehog. But there ain't no guarantees that the lice gets a say in where it's goin'. Catch my drift?”

Honestly, I wasn't sure I did.

“If I drive us to the cannery, am I the hedgehog?”

“One step closer to choosin' your own way, that's for doggone sure.”

On the one hand, I did think I was
capable
of driving to the cannery. But on the other, if we were to get caught, I was sure I'd be grounded until I was Bizzy's age. Not to mention that Mom might try to ground Bizzy, too. And what was the use of deciding to be the hedgehog if you were confined to your room for the next five years?

“I'm not sure I can get you into the car by myself,” I said, trying to think of a bulletproof excuse.

“We ain't got time for you to wheel me and walk,” Bizzy insisted. “Drivin' is the only way. Whaddaya say?” Her algae eyes shone like laser beams that penetrated into my skull. I got the uncanny sense that she could tell what I was thinking. Bizzy's reasons for wanting to go to the cannery were selfless—to help Drake. She wanted to scope it out, gather information, and see if there was anything that jumped out at us.

“The cannery is only about three miles, right? What if I pull you along in your wheelchair behind my bike?” I asked, wondering whether I was being licelike or hedgehoglike. Bizzy reached up and slapped me on the shoulder. She beamed, like a child does when she gets her way. I couldn't help but smile back.

“Ain't you just as handy as a pocket in a shirt!” she exclaimed. Bizzy began wheeling herself toward the front door. “Gonna be a workout, for sure.”

“I can handle it,” I said. Other than the beginning, the ride was mostly flat.

First, I tied rope to both handles of Bizzy's wheelchair. I tied the other ends to the rack over the back wheel of my bike so that the rope formed a triangle around Bizzy, with my bike at the front tip.

I tested the contraption out in the driveway. I double-checked the knots, making certain they were tight enough. Though it was a beast to get going, once I had some momentum, towing Bizzy behind me wasn't all that difficult.

“You're going to wear the helmet,” I said, taking charge by removing Bizzy's snow hat and putting it on my own head. “Because you can't afford another injury.”

Bizzy held a stick in each hand—they were to act as makeshift emergency brakes in case we needed to stop in a hurry.

I nervously edged down the hill, braking every couple of feet, as I heard the wheels of Bizzy's chair rattle from the cracks in the sidewalk.

“Not so herky-jerky,” Bizzy said calmly, as I jutted out into the intersection toward Ocean Avenue. I released the brakes and looked back toward Bizzy. She gave me a thumbs-up and tapped the red bike helmet I'd put on her head.

We began to gather speed, barreling down the hill.

It was exhilarating.

“Woooooweeeee!” Bizzy yelled gleefully. “Brakin's for sissies!” Bizzy shouted at the top of her lungs. Trees whizzed by. The wind whipped through the strands of my hair which stuck out of Bizzy's snow hat. I laughed as I cut right through the grassy town square and headed for Mission Street.

“Ben-Hur ain't got nothin' on us, Sweet Pea!”

Bizzy and I were slicing through the thick, damp air like a knife.

I looked around, glad the streets of Crabapple were empty. I couldn't imagine what an random pedestrian would think.

Soon, the large square brick frame of the cannery was in sight. I braked slightly, preparing for our landing. I looked back as Bizzy began pressing the sticks to each wheel. She cackled as sparks flew off the wheels.

“Chariot of fire!” she yelled to me, laughing. We skidded to a stop, both of us breathless.

We examined the large abandoned building in front of us. Bizzy guessed that it had been vacant for at least a dozen years. On one side of the crumbling brick building, I could still make out the Del Monte emblem, and
THE CANNERY
in huge painted block letters underneath. The first-floor windows were boarded up and those above were either broken or missing completely. Brown weeds filled the spaces between the building and the wood-planked fence out back.

“Our best bet'll be goin' around back,” Bizzy said.

She was right. If we wanted to find a way in, we weren't going to have much luck with the front of the building. The entrance door had a large combination padlock on it and the boards on the front windows had dozens of nails in them.

Bizzy signaled for me to untie the ropes from her wheelchair. Still breathless, I undid the double knots and leaned my bike against the side of the fence. I pushed Bizzy through the gravelly side yard. Her chair shook. I tried to go slowly, concerned that the rattling must be hurting Bizzy's still-mending leg. Bizzy gripped both armrests of her wheelchair and urged me on.

The back of the cannery was in an even worse state of repair than the front. Abandoned tires, toilet seats, and burned-out couches were piled high in each corner of the back lot. Plastic bags and soda cans decorated the broken asphalt. I struggled to weave Bizzy through the piles of junk.

“There!” Bizzy said, raising her arm so that it was parallel with her broken leg. She pointed at a first-floor window on the left side of the building. The board covering it had been dislodged from the upper left corner and hung diagonally, revealing a person-sized hole at the bottom right side.

“See that wood crate?” Bizzy pointed. “If we push it up against the wall, you can climb right in.”

I eyeballed the window. It was eight feet off the ground. It was doable, depending on what waited for me on the other side, inside the cannery.

“What are you going to do?”

“I'll be your eyes and ears here on the ground,” Bizzy said, grinning.

The crate wobbled below me as I grabbed the ledge of the window with both hands. Bending my knees, I jumped off the crate. It tipped over. My feet dangled against the bricks of the building.

“Pull yourself up, Sweet Pea!” Bizzy yelled from the ground. “Pull! Pull! Pull!”

I pulled, pulled, pulled. Finally, I swung my legs up over the ledge. I grabbed the wood board partially covering the window and tugged on it. It didn't take much force to yank it completely off.

“Watch out!” I shouted at Bizzy, who was directly below the window. She wheeled over a couple of soda cans as the board clanged to the ground on her left.

I crouched on the ledge, my body half-in and half-out of the cannery. I caught a whiff of the air—it smelled a little like a porta potty.

“What do you see?” Bizzy yelled.

The inside of the cannery looked like a large, empty warehouse, about the size of a baseball field. Slices of white light beamed in from cracks in the bricks. A large gaping hole in the ceiling provided most of the light. Cobwebs as thick as phone wires hung from the rafters. In one corner, there was a hulking metal machine that had a huge cylinder in the middle and large rusted metal arms jutting out. Underneath it, there was a grate that was emitting sewerlike fumes. I moved quickly to cover my nose.

I jumped down, landing on a pile of empty cans and beer bottles. Cigarette butts littered the floor. My eyes were immediately drawn to a small structure in the far corner. To the left of it was a manhole that was uncovered. I peered down into the hole, but couldn't see where it ended.

“Anythin' of interest?” Bizzy shouted from outside.

“It looks like there's a tunnel or something that leads down beneath the cannery.”

“Don't go in there!”

“Wasn't planning on it,” I said.

“It's probably just a basement or somethin'. Anythin' else?”

“Maybe,” I said, creeping toward the corner, trying to avoid stepping on a nail or glass from a broken bottle.

Bizzy's voice drifted into the vacant building and echoed off the walls.

“Pay particular attention to any signs a' life. Or anythin' that might cause an explosion in the future—candles, exposed pipes, remnants of homemade fire.”

The sound of an aluminum can banging on a brick wall stopped me dead in my tracks. A small squirrel squeaked and darted across the warehouse floor, toward a dark hallway on one side. I took a deep breath.

When I was within twenty feet of the structure I'd spotted, I could see it was a tent made from wood beams with blankets draped over them. It looked like the blanket forts I made in my bedroom when I was little, with a baseball bat acting as the tent pole. I would crawl in and pretend I was no longer in my bedroom, but braving the elements in some faraway forest.

There were a couple of empty pizza boxes and some old water-damaged
Hot Wheels
magazines strewn around the makeshift tent. Pulling back the blanket flap, I found more blankets and a flashlight. I clicked it on and off. It didn't work.

Hesitating for a moment, I grabbed one of the magazines, shoving it under my arm. I had no idea what good it might do, but Bizzy had said any detail could be important.

An animal had chewed the edges of the blankets, and the inside of the tent smelled faintly of mildew. The cannery was probably a haven for rats and all sorts of other vermin.

Still, there were no candles or any dead-giveaway clues (personally, I was hoping I'd find a piece of paper with the name of the person who'd stayed there written on it). It was hard to tell if someone had been there yesterday or six months ago.

According to the specter, the cannery was supposed to be Drake's final resting place. My imagination began to work in fast-forward as bits and pieces of scenes flashed in front of my eyes:
Drake in the tent. A red-orange explosion. Drake's yells echoing off the burning walls. A dark figure running away from the cannery. Billows of smoke. The wail of sirens. Fire trucks and hoses of water. Drake, motionless, his face covered with soot. Drake being carried out on a stretcher in a black body bag.

Sadness overcame me. I retreated from the tent, shuddering, and made my way toward the machine on the opposite side of the cannery.

“What else do you see?” Bizzy's voice echoed.

“There are some blankets and a flashlight in one corner—someone stayed here, but it looks like it was a couple of months ago,” I said. It was impossible to determine the function of the machine, but there were all kinds of grooves and perforations in the arms. From a distance, it looked like a metallic monster. The shafts of light cast menacing shadows on the machine itself. On one side there was a hallway. I poked my head into it, as glass crunched under my feet. With no visible windows or cracks, the corridor was pitch-black.

“There's a hallway,” I said, my voice echoing, “but it's completely dark.”

“I think we got enough of an idea,” Bizzy said. “Come on out!”

I used a rickety crate to hop back onto the ledge of the window and swing my legs to the outside. I hung on the ledge as if I was about to perform a high-bar gymnastics routine, then let go and landed in the weeds with a thud.

“We may have to work a teensy bit on your breakin' and enterin' skills, but not bad for your first time,” Bizzy said, extending her arm.

“I took this from the tent. I thought we might be able to use it to figure out who stayed here,” I said, thrusting the issue of
Hot Wheels
into my grandma's hands.

Bizzy looked at it for a moment and shoved it in the pouch of her wheelchair. “Interesting. We best get on outta here before someone sees us snoopin',” she said, glancing around.

I hooked Bizzy's wheelchair to my bike once more. This time, already exhausted from my journey into the cannery, I did not look forward to the climb from Ocean Avenue to Beside the Point. We crossed from Mission Avenue to Ocean and I rode up onto the sidewalk as I heard the sound of a car approaching.

Turning to look, I saw the flashing red lights of a Crabapple patrol car. My head suddenly felt exposed, as I remembered that I was not wearing a helmet.

The sirens flashed as the horn sounded. I heard “Stop your vehicle” echo from a bullhorn. I hit the bicycle brakes and Bizzy and I jolted to an abrupt halt. Afraid to look back, I heard a car door open and close.