The Death Catchers (15 page)

 

Cacophony

Anyone who knows me will tell you that I'm never going to win an award based on my dazzling memory. Things like vocab quizzes and geography tests aren't, as Bizzy would say, my “strong suit.” Maybe you already know all this, Mrs. Tweedy. But one thing I really liked about this past semester is that you always gave examples for the words we were going to be tested on. It helped my memory lapses tremendously. That's why I'll always remember “cacophony.” You said that it was two sounds that didn't go together at all—like the
caw
of a crow and the
meow
of a cat.

After about five minutes at dinner with Drake and his family, the one word that came to mind was
cacophony
. That's what it was. Sheer and utter cacophony. None of the Westfalls seemed to go together. They were pieces to four different puzzles.

Dinner started out normally. Damon was to my left at the round table, then Mrs. Westfall, Mr. Westfall, and then Drake on my right. I would have chosen a chair that wasn't next to Drake, but only two chairs remained empty by the time we sat down.

Within minutes, everything turned nasty.

Mostly, it was my fault.

Maybe you've met Mr. Westfall at a parent-teacher night or something, Mrs. Tweedy. I'm sure you'd remember him if you did—he's tall and lanky like Drake. At six and a half feet tall, with his sandy blond hair cropped close to the scalp, Mark Westfall is hard to miss. He's unnaturally tan and his face is all angles and wrinkles. His chin looks like it is made of Legos. When I was at Drake's house as a kid, Mr. Westfall never paid much attention to me. For that I was grateful. He spoke gruffly to Drake, usually about something water polo related. Drake always replied, “Yes, sir.” Mr. Westfall would then march out of the room with a frown on his face. He never struck me as a particularly happy person. But he was certainly an involved father—he attended every one of Drake's water polo matches, as well as many of his practices.

The sour of Mr. Westfall was only matched by the sweetness of Mrs. Westfall.

She always concerned herself with the comfort of other people. As I piled mashed potatoes beside a large slab of meat loaf, Mrs. Westfall tried to draw me into the conversation.

“So, Lizzy, did you end up sticking with the flute? You had so much natural talent.” She gave me a warm look as she scooped some mashed potatoes onto her plate. She wore a collared shirt. Her hair hung in shiny loose brown curls around her face. Mrs. Westfall was very pretty, but it never looked like she was trying that hard.

“I'm taking orchestra zero period this year, but I'm not sure I'm going to do it next year,” I said.

“Oh, you should! I remember your solo in the spring recital a few years back … you were wonderful!” Mrs. Westfall exclaimed.

“Ma, if she doesn't want to be tormented, Lizzard-Breath is gonna have to ditch the dorkestra,” Damon said, shoveling potatoes in his mouth at a ferocious rate.

“Damon, please! Lizzy, I think it would be such a
shame
if you gave up on your extraordinary talent,” Mrs. Westfall said kindly.

“Oh, I'm not really talented … not like Drake is, anyway.” I was embarrassed the moment I said it.

“True, Drake is a very good water polo player,” she said, “but having a—”

“I'm not talking about water polo, Mrs. Westfall, I'm talking about Drake's art,” I blurted. “You should see some of the stuff he's done lately!”

All four Westfall jaws dropped simultaneously. Mr. Westfall's fork clanged to his plate. The color drained from Mrs. Westfall's face as she stole a glance at her husband. I focused on Mr. Westfall. His face had turned the color of cranberry sauce. He stopped cutting his meat loaf and squeezed his knife until his knuckles turned white.

“Drake,” he said, inhaling deeply as he looked down at his plate. He pursed his lips and gnashed his teeth. “Have you been wasting time with all that again?”

“No, sir,” Drake said.

“Because you know that state finals are coming in a few short weeks,” Mr. Westfall said, “and we've talked about how
foolish
it would be to spend
any
time—”

“Now, Mark,” Mrs. Westfall said, directing all her attention toward Mr. Westfall, “Drake said he wasn't, and I think it's best we take him at his word.”

“I was only talking about a few sketches I saw in his notebook,” I said, hoping to ease the situation. “Just doodles, really.”

Mr. Westfall zeroed in on Drake, who was expressionless. He raised his knife and pointed it directly at his son.

“Are you goofing around in class, young man?” he questioned, jabbing the knife in the air with every word.

“No, sir,” Drake answered quietly.

“If there's one thing I've told you over and over, it's that now is the most critical time in your life. School and water polo. Water polo and school. That's all you should be thinking about. Focus, son. You must FOCUS,” Mr. Westfall continued, waving his hands wildly, growing more agitated. “You're competing with a thousand other athletes across the country. Athletes that are bigger than you! Faster than you. Working harder than you. Practicing harder than you. You want a scholarship? You want the glory that comes with being an elite athlete? Then you don't have time to MESS AROUND with a bunch of girls and crayons in ART class! We've worked
too
hard to get here. You'll be able to pick any school you choose if you stick with our plan. Do you hear me? Drake? You'll regret it for the rest of your life if you lose sight of the prize now! Are you even
listening
to me?”

Mr. Westfall was now the color of a stop sign.

“Mark, please,” Mrs. Westfall begged.

“Maybe I'll get an art scholarship instead,” Drake replied.

“Oh, you think this is all
funny
, do you?” Mr. Westfall was yelling now. “Do you want to become a complete loser like Damon here?”

“Mark!” Mrs. Westfall yelled. “Calm down!”

Damon, who had been delighting in the confrontation between his younger brother and his father, suddenly looked wounded. I always assumed Damon felt less-than because his father had divorced Damon's mom when he was very young. I'd never seen Mrs. Westfall treat him differently from Drake, but he had a chip on his shoulder about it. His pain transformed into anger.

“I don't have to put up with this,” Damon said, muttering expletives under his breath as he pushed back his chair and stormed away from the table.

“I'm not hungry anymore,” Mr. Westfall said, throwing his cloth napkin down onto his plate. He glowered at Drake, narrowing his eyes and tightening his square chin before plowing down the hallway. First Damon's upstairs bedroom door slammed, then the door of Mr. Westfall's study followed.

The three of us—Drake, Mrs. Westfall, and I—were left sitting at the table. Silence permeated the air. Drake refused to look up from his plate but I could tell he was fuming.

Mrs. Westfall adjusted the collar of her shirt. Without looking at either Drake or me, she picked up her fork and began moving the mashed potatoes in circles around her plate. I could see her chest heave as she breathed in deeply. She looked up. I couldn't tell if she was smiling or grimacing.

“Sorry for the commotion, Lizzy,” she said. “You know how families are.”

I did know how families were. They were full of buried resentments and confidences ready to boil over at any moment. I thought about Bizzy and my mother, at each other's throats last Thanksgiving after an argument over how much flour to put in the gravy.

The three of us finished our meat loaf and mashed potatoes in silence.

“Do you need any help cleaning up, Mom?” Drake asked. Even after his father had chewed him out, he still managed to be a considerate son.

“No, dear. I can manage. Lizzy, if I don't see you before you go, it was wonderful having you,” Mrs. Westfall said as she cleared off the table.

“Thank you very much for dinner,” I replied, hardly able to control my confusion.

“I'm going to walk Lizzy out, Mom,” Drake said as he headed toward the entryway of the Westfall house.

I followed him out into the hallway. Drake's face said it all. He wore an expression of absolute disgust. He had confided in me and I had betrayed him to the person he least wanted to know.

Drake opened the door.

“I forgot my backpack,” I said.

“I'll go get it,” Drake said, his voice devoid of emotion. “You can wait on the porch.” Drake was in a hurry to get me out of his house, not that I blamed him.

I opened the front door of the Westfall house and plunged into the cold night. I watched as a pair of headlights grew brighter from the south. The car pulled in front of Let the Good Chimes Roll, the house next door to the Westfalls'.

I squinted through the darkness and felt a strange familiarity overcome me as I eyed the black sedan. After a moment, I was sure I recognized it. The car was identical to the one that had tried to run down Jodi.

 

Wordy

Last year, my language arts teacher told me that my “wordiness and run-ons gave her migraines more painful than the birth of Willie.” Willie is her second child, and that is a direct quote. I think I've made improvements on that front, using your “when in doubt, take it out” mantra, Mrs. Tweedy, but clearly wordiness had gotten the best of me at the Westfall dinner table. As I waited for Drake to get my backpack, I still couldn't believe I'd blurted out something about Drake's art.

I didn't hear Drake approach. He spun me around. His eyes were wide and he put his index finger to his mouth, signaling for me to remain quiet.

“Follow me,” he whispered.

He began to walk around the side of his house. He reached up and unlatched the wood-planked side gate. We passed through it to the backyard. December crispness ruled the air. Minus the chirping of a few crickets, it was quiet in the Westfalls' backyard. In the distance, I could hear the roar of the surf. Drake and I made our way around the pool. He opened the door to the pool house and then closed it behind us.

I was shivering from the cold night air. It was nearly dark but there was enough light coming in through the two square front windows of the pool house for me to make out the clutter inside. There were boxes piled high all around us with junk randomly thrown in corners. Drake moved quickly through the jumble of covered furniture and boxes. Soon he was in the far corner. I didn't move from my position near the door, afraid that if I did, I would stumble and fall.

“Drake?” I whispered. “Drake, what are we doing in here?”

Drake shifted items in the corner. Something scraped against the wall as Drake grunted under the weight of a large box. I heard Drake's lighter open and then clamp closed. Drake's face was now bright with orange flickering light. Holding a candle, he walked over to me, slipping between boxes. Once he was in front of me, he stared at me.

I gulped. My hands were shaking. I was more confused than ever before. What was Drake doing? Had he brought me here to yell at me?

He moved closer. I had to resist the urge to throw my arms around him in a heartfelt apology. My senses were at their sharpest. I was recording each detail in case this would be one of those moments I'd replay a thousand times in my mind.

“I'm so sorry that I said anything, Drake,” I stammered. “I didn't realize it was such a sore subject and I can't imagine why someone wouldn't be proud of how talented you are and—”

“Lizzy, it's okay. You didn't know how crazy my dad is. Now you do.”

The shimmering candle flame reflection danced in both of Drake's blue eyes. Our faces were inches from one another. As much as I wanted to linger in the moment, the scratched-in letters now throbbing on my wrist would not let me forget my task.

“Do you read the magazine
Hot Wheels
?” I blurted.

Drake gave me a strange look. “Um, no. Do you?”

“No … I was just wondering,” I said, trying not to look embarrassed. Bizzy had made fact collecting sound so easy. In truth, it involved so many awkward questions.

“I'm sorry you had to witness all that,” Drake said softly.

“It's okay. I'm sorry that I said anything … I really didn't know … I feel awful.”

“Can I ask you a favor?” Drake leaned in closer to me. I could feel the warmth of his breath on my nose.

“Okay,” I said, barely able to hear myself.

Drake turned away from me and edged toward the rear of the pool house. Not knowing what else to do, I followed him, carefully stepping around the boxes and abandoned electronics that littered the path. The candlelight cast winking shadows across the walls.

Drake walked down a hallway and entered a bathroom. As we crammed into the small room, Drake closed the lid of the toilet and set the candle down on it. The room reeked of mildew and another even less pleasant odor I couldn't identify.

“What is that smell?” I asked.

“I can't really smell anything anymore. To me, after spending years in the pool, everything smells like chlorine,” he replied. “It's probably just the paint.”

It was hard to see much in the dim candlelight, but I noticed a few oddities about the bathroom. The sink was covered in paint goops and splotches. On a chest opposite the toilet, there was a slab of glass with different globs of paint colors. Bottles of paint lined the baseboard. Drake turned toward the toilet and stared at the wall behind it.

“I started sneaking out here a few months ago in the early morning … and I just sort of painted this.”

I squinted at the wall behind the toilet. I stepped closer to it. The entire wall—or at least a four-feet-by-four-feet square of it—was covered with a large canvas painting. It was mostly blues, greens, and yellows. I peered at it more closely.

“It's the view from the Point,” I said, leaning in toward it. I could make out the cypress trees that lined the beach and the thick gray mist hovering over the jutting rocks of the cove. The crest of a wave was painted perfectly as it approached the cream-colored beach.

“Drake, it's beautiful,” I said. It was, even in the dimness of a single candle's light. I could imagine how stunning it would be in the brilliance of day. He shuffled aside so I could turn toward him.

“My parents haven't been out here in about a decade, so I figured it was a safe place to keep it.”

“Sure,” I said, looking back at the painting. I knew that if I told anyone at school that Drake Westfall snuck into his pool house in the early morning and painted, they would have laughed at me in disbelief.

“But with my dad obsessing about my painting again, I'm afraid he might stumble out here and find it,” Drake said earnestly. “If he does, he'll burn it.”

“There's no way he'd do that,” I responded.

“You haven't seen him when he really gets angry,” Drake said.

“Like tonight?”

“Tonight, he was in front of company,” Drake said, putting his hand on my shoulder so that he could scoot past me. “That was nothing.” He began unhooking the canvas from the wall. Taking one end in his hands, he rolled it up carefully, so that it was perfectly even. “I thought maybe you could keep it until I figure out a place to finish working on it,” Drake said.

“Of course,” I answered. “I'll put it in the storage closet out back. It's unlocked, so whenever you want it back, you can just go get it.”

He laid the roll in my arms like he was passing a newborn to me.

Crrrrreeeeeeaak.

Drake and I both heard it at once. We froze. Someone had entered the pool house. Drake leaned down and blew out the candle. There were no windows in the bathroom, and only a small amount of light from windows in the rest of the pool house filtered in.

I heard muffled voices. Drake pulled on my sleeve. He was so strong and did it with such force that I stumbled into him. My backpack crashed to the floor. Our knees knocked together. He nearly fell over backward. But he braced himself with one arm against the wall. I regained my balance. We crouched, in the dim light, like two frogs facing each other, balancing on an unsteady lily pad.

Voices carried into the bathroom. The first one I recognized was Damon's.

“We'll do it on Christmas Eve. People don't pay attention around the holidays,” Damon grunted.

“How much cash can we pull out of there?” a second voice asked.

“At least a couple grand apiece, I think … but I'm not sure how reliable our entrance and exit plan is,” Damon added.

“No need to freak out, man. We've got the blueprint. We've got the combo to the safe. We'll be in and out before anyone realizes we were even there. In and out in under ten minutes,” the second guy said.

“With enough cash to leave and never look back,” Damon said.

My legs cramped. Drake, who was quite a bit taller than I was, shifted positions slightly. But when he did, he moved his arm and bumped the toilet lid. The candle toppled over, rolling off the lid and thumping to the floor. It wasn't a large thump, but as soon as it hit, the voices stopped.

After a few seconds, I heard the second guy again.

“What was
that
?”

Feet shuffled toward us from the other room. The footsteps came closer. Then closer. Beams of light flashed down the hallway. Then closer still.

Drake put his hands around each one of my elbows. He leaned against the wall and pulled me so close to him that not even a piece of paper could fit between us. I could hear and feel his breathing.

In the murky light I could see that Drake had closed his eyes. As I was still trying to focus on him, my eyes wide, his face darted forward. His lips found mine like a missile. He pressed them against mine. I had to stop myself from pulling back. His lips were soft, and a little slippery, like rose petals. My whole body seized up and I could feel the warmth of his face and his body as we embraced. I didn't have time to think
Drake Westfall is kissing me in his pool house!
But I would think it many times after that. Instead, I closed my eyes, too.

I pressed back, not wanting the moment to end.

Soon, I felt intense light beaming through my eyelids. I opened them. Two bright flashlights were focused on Drake and me, huddled in the corner of the bathroom. Drake released me as we squinted in the light. Damon was there with another large guy. They both looked angry.

Damon's accomplice, a guy I recognized from the neighborhood named Randy Maroy, took two big strides toward Drake. Randy growled as he shoved his forearm into Drake's throat. The force of it slammed Drake against the wall. Before I could let out a cry of protest, Drake pushed Randy backward, smashing him into the opposite wall. Veins protruded from Drake's arms and neck. Randy raised his flashlight above him, and swung it hard downward, aiming for Drake's head. Drake grabbed Randy's shoulder with one hand and raised his other to block the blow of the metal flashlight, knocking it to the ground. Drake's quick reactions and timing were clearly giving him the upper hand.

“Whoa, calm down,” Damon said. “Let's not get carried away, bro.” Drake released Randy, whose look had changed from hostility to one bordering on fear. Drake moved toward me and put his hand protectively on my shoulder, squeezing it once as if to tell me things were going to be okay.

“What are you two doing in here?” Damon asked. I got a better look at Randy. He wore an oversized sweatshirt with the hood up and had mean eyes and greasy hair.

“Hey, I know her,” Randy said, stepping toward me. He turned to Damon. “This is the girl who was running toward me that morning I was casing—”

“Shut up,” Damon growled.

“What if they've been following us?” Randy inched forward. Drake stepped in front of me, glowering back at Randy, looking ready to tear into Randy at a moment's notice.

“You're being paranoid,” Damon said, pulling Randy back.

“What did you two hear?” Randy asked, glaring at Drake and me. I stood immobilized with fear. It was as spine chilling as when I was actually frozen by Vivienne le Mort.

“Hear?” Drake asked dumbly. “I didn't know you guys were even here. I don't know if you noticed, but I was kind of in the middle of something when you two came in and killed the mood.”

“You better not be lying, you—”

Drake lunged at Randy again, but this time Damon intercepted him and got between his younger brother and his friend.

“Lay off, man,” Damon said, pushing Randy back. “He didn't hear anything. He was too busy making out with his lame girlfriend.”

Randy Maroy stepped forward, and turned his flashlight upward at his own face. It shone up his nose and eyes, giving them a reddish, demonic quality.

“Just remember, ladies,” Randy said. He looked at Drake, and then me. “If you
did
hear something,” he said, before turning to me, “or
see
something, and you happen to tell anyone, we'll find you. And when we do …”

He clicked off his flashlight.

“It'll be lights out,” he finished, laughing.

“I'd like to see you try,” Drake snarled, unmoved by Randy's threat. “You want to finish this right now?”

“That's enough,” Damon said before turning to Randy. “Let's go.”

Damon and Randy walked back through the hallway to the door, pointedly kicking boxes out of their way. They didn't seem to care if they disturbed the whole neighborhood. Soon Drake and I were left standing on the cold tile of the bathroom, together in the dark. Drake got on his hands and knees and began combing the floor. With another flip, he used his lighter to relight the candle.

Drake held it to my face. He examined me. Reeling from what had just happened, I put my finger to my lips. I could still taste the kiss.

“Are you okay?” he asked, near a whisper.

“Are
you
?” I asked back. Drake's throat was red and puffy where Randy had first planted his elbow.

“I'm sorry for pretending we were … you know. I wanted to make it seem like we weren't listening.” I looked at Drake. I couldn't believe how quickly he'd gone from ferocious to shy.

“I didn't mind it,” I said.

Drake smiled. “Neither did I.”

We slumped against opposite walls of the pool house bathroom for a minute, silent.

“Does Damon's friend drive a black four-door car?” I blurted, unable to stop thinking about the black car parked out front the Westfall house.

“Randy? I think so … why?”

“What do you think they were planning?” I asked.

“They were just talking,” Drake said. He folded his arms across his chest. “Please don't worry about it, okay?” Drake used his most comforting tone. But I was worried about it. A lot. Drake must have known.

“Damon is messed up right now,” Drake continued. “He's not thinking straight, but he's not a bad person. I'll talk some sense into him. And as far as Randy Maroy is concerned, he's all bark, no bite.”