The Guardians (36 page)

    "There's
always a choice."

    "I
just want to pass along what I know."

    "And
what's that?"

    "That
Tracey's boyfriend stopped to look at the house where I thought I saw
suspicious activity."

    "Suspicious
activity? C'mon, Trev," Randy says. "They already looked in
there."

    "Okay.
So what should I do?"

    "You
should do what we're going to do," Carl says. "Get the fuck out of
Dodge."

    "There's
a train at a quarter after five," Randy says. "You ought to come with
us."

    Carl
places his hand on my arm. I can't tell if it's meant as reassurance or to stop
it from shaking. "There's nothing here, Trev. There never really
was."

    "You
think I
like
it here? Everything is telling me to go, just the same as
it's telling you. But there's something else that knows we're meant to
stay."

    "Why?
Why are we 'meant to stay'?" Randy asks.

    "Ben
was the guardian of this town, whether the town knew it or not. We owe it to
him."

    "Oh
Christ."

    "Think
about it. He kept an eye on that house for twenty years. And then, after he
can't handle it anymore, Todd's daughter goes missing."

    "You
need to see someone. Seriously."

    "If
we walk away, we're putting some other Tracey or Heather or Elizabeth at risk
sometime down the line. We've already got a lot we're trying to live with. You
want more?"

    Randy
rubs the freckles at his temples as though at the onset of sudden headache.
"Okay, you crazy, shaky arsehole," he says. "I'll stay until
tomorrow."

    "You
believe
this?" Carl asks.

    "I
don't have to believe it. I'm staying because Trev asked us to."

    I'm
prevented from walking around the table and putting my arms around Randy by my
cell phone, which comes alive in my jacket pocket, screaming its Beastie Boys
ringtone. By the time my hand reaches in and grabs it, it's already switched
over to my voice mail. I check the caller ID.

    "It
was Barry Tate."

    "What
are you going to do?" Carl asks.

    "Call
him back."

    Then
I'm up and wobbling for the doors.

    Outside
on Ontario Street I curse my hands. Fluttery as moths, the fingers swimming
over the dial pad of my phone. Some hitting the right numbers, others forcing
me to start all over again.

    After
I manage to record a message, I catch myself reflected in the glass of the
Queen's picture window. With the spotted brick of the Edwardian storefronts
behind me, I appear to be not holding a cell phone but nursing a small animal
cupped in my hands.

    And
then it comes alive. The Beastie Boys hollering "Sabotage" into my
palm.

    "Hello?"

    "Trevor?
How you doing?"

    "Thanks
for calling back."

    "My
job."

    It's
immediately clear that Barry Tate is not prepared to be as patient with me as
he was the first time around.

    "I
saw something this morning," I start. "Oh?"

    "Gary
Pullinger."

    "What
about him?"

    "He
was outside the Thurman place."

    "What
time was this?"

    "I'm
not sure. Maybe six, six thirty."

    "Was
he attempting to enter the property?"

    "He
wasn't on the property, just the sidewalk."

    
"Walking
on the sidewalk?"

    "Standing."

    "So
you want me to arrest him for loitering?"

    "I'm
not telling you to do anything, Barry. I just thought it was worth reporting.
Given he's a suspect in the Tracey Flanagan business."

    "Who
said that?"

    "It's
what I heard."

    "Oh
yeah? Well, you know what my supervisor heard yesterday? That me and my partner
searched private property without a warrant. It wasn't a pleasant meeting, I
can tell you."

    "Sorry
to hear that."

    "And
I'm sorry to hear you're calling me with more of this 'I saw something' news.
What
did
you see? A kid walking along looking at houses?"

    "He
wasn't walking. And it wasn't any house, it was—"

    "Your
dad ever tell you about that kid who cried wolf?"

    "Listen,
Barry, you can be pissed off at me all you want. But I've got a feeling that
Tracey Flanagan was in that place at some point, or maybe she—"

    "You
know something? You seem to have a lot of
feelings
about that girl. Now
that could be an avenue I'd be willing to explore if you have something you
want to get off your chest."

    "This
doesn't have anything to do with me."

    "So
let's not make it have something to do with you. Sound good?"

    "Sure."

    "Thanks
for the call."

    "And
sorry about—" I start, but Hairy Barry is already gone.

    By
the time I'm back inside, the breakfast table is unoccupied and the waitress is
clearing the plates. I call up to each of their rooms, but either they have
agreed to ignore my call or they aren't up there. I leave a note for Randy at
the front desk with my cell phone number and make my way outside once more.

    It's
my legs—kicking and side-swinging worse than at any other point since my
arrival in Grimshaw—that seem to know I'm going to Sarah's before I do. I must
now appear, as one of my doctors said I would eventually, as a "top-heavy
drunk," leaving my shoe prints on dew-sodden lawns. You'd think, in my
condition, presenting myself before a woman I like would be a bad idea. But the
thing is, I don't have time to wait for good ideas anymore.

    An
hour after starting off from the Queen's I reach Sarah's place, thirsty and
tingled with sweat. Pass my fingers through my hair. Rub a finger over my
teeth.

    "Trevor,"
she announces when she opens the door, as if looking out at the day and
declaring "Rain" or "Snow."

    "Gosh,"
I say, moronically, for the third time today, "I wasn't really expecting
you to be here."

    "Why
wouldn't I be?"

    "Figured
you'd be at work."

    "It's
Saturday."

    "Of
course. Saturday."

    She
backs into the house, and I step inside and push the door closed behind me.
Blink against the muted indoor light until Sarah's details return.

    "You
don't look well," she says.

    "I'm
not."

    "Are
you sick?"

    "No
more than usual."

    "Then
what's going on?"

    "It's
not something I could explain."

    Sarah
turns away and settles on the sofa in the living room. I follow her inside and
sit next to her. I fight against leaning over and pulling her to me. Then I fight
against laying my head in her lap.

    
"Damn"
she says, suddenly shaking her head hard. "It's like old times, isn't
it?"

    "You
mean you and me?"

    "I
mean you thinking you can't trust me."

    "Sarah,
it's got nothing to do with trust. I just don't want you to get damaged."

    
"Damaged
?
Like china? A box you'd write 'Fragile' on on moving day?"

    "I
don't see you like that."

    "But
you don't see me being able to handle anything either."

    "It's
just what men do."

    "How's
that?"

    "We
protect.
Even if it means being alone."

    "This
conversation could have been one we had when we were sixteen."

    "Maybe
so."

    "It
makes me think that whatever was troubling you then is the same thing that's
troubling you now. Am I right?"

    "You're
not wrong."

    "So
if it's been around that long, it's time you took care of it."

    "Yes."

    "Because
you don't have a chance—and I'll tell you
this
, you don't have a chance
with
me
—if you've got this secret thing floating around for the rest of
your life."

    She
slides closer and kisses me. Then we kiss some more. When we finally pull
apart, Kieran is standing in the doorway.

    "I'm
hungry," he announces. And then, with a grin my way, "Hey,
Trevor."

    "Hey."

    "Want
to come up to my room and check out my PlayStation?"

    I
look to Sarah, who shrugs. "You guys like grilled cheese?" "And
bacon, please," Kieran says. "How about you, Trevor?"

    "I
think everything's better with bacon," I say, which happens to be the
truth.

    After
lunch, and after declining Sarah's offer (seconded by Kieran) to stay for
dinner, I ask if I can get a lift back to the McAuliffes'. But once the two of
them have driven off and left me looking up at Ben's attic window, the paint of
its frame scabby and puke- green in the midday light, I decide I can't go
inside. So I start walking again.
Working out the kinks
, I tell myself,
though the truth is, I'm nothing
but
kinks these days. If I didn't have
my body's spasms and jerks, I wouldn't be able to move at all.

    The
Beastie Boys scream.

    "Hello?"

    "Hey."

    "Randy?
Still here?"

    "Unfortunately,
yes."

    "What
about Carl?"

    "Gone."

    "So
it's just us."

    "The
gruesome twosome."

    In
the sky above, a passenger jet draws a line of smoke at thirty thousand feet. A
border that marks Grimshaw apart from the rest of the world.

    "What
are we going to do, Randy?"

    "I've
got an idea."

    "Yeah?"

    "Let's
just say I've done a little shopping."

    Randy
and I decide to meet for an early dinner at the Old London. He's already there
when I lurch in. Sitting at the same circular table we'd occupied only two
nights ago, a stretch of time that feels as distant now as the memory of summer
camp.

    "A
cocktail, sir?" the maître d’ asks as I take my seat.

    "What're
you having?" I ask Randy.

    "Soda
water. Got to keep the mind clear."

    "Right.
Orange juice, please. And coffee."

    "And
a couple of rare prime ribs."

    The
maître d’ slips away, leaving the two of us facing each other across the
ridiculous space of the table (I would have sat next to Randy, but that would
have been even weirder).

    "I
know that keeping us here one more night was my idea," I admit after my
drinks are delivered. "But maybe you could help me with something."

    "Hit
me."

    "What
the hell are we planning to do?"