The Less-Dead (13 page)

I shut off the engine and bolt out of the van. “Hey! Quindlan! Wait up!”

He turns, sees me, and continues walking.

“I said
wait!”
I run after him. When I catch up, I say, “I want to know what’s going on. Who
are
you?”

He glances around nervously. “Don’t draw any attention, just follow me.”

He leads me down a path into the woods. After a quarter mile or so, he stops, turns around, and whispers, “The best thing to do is pretend you never met me.”

“What? No. I won’t do that. Besides, I think I figured it out. You’re an undercover detective, aren’t you? In fact, you’re the one who had Will wear the wire. You’re the one who
used
him. Took what you wanted and tossed him aside. You knew he was in danger, you knew he was a target, but you did nothing to protect him. And now he’s
dead.”

“Noah, please, there are a lot of things you don’t understand.”

“Oh, I understand. Everything you told me was a lie. You should have been there for Will, protecting him. I thought you were his friend, but it turns out—”

“Look, Noah, you’re not the only person who lost a friend today. Now, what you said is true. I take full responsibility for what happened. I thought Will was safe. I even helped him find a new home. He was happy there. Supposedly the killer was in jail. It was my mistake, my blunder.
And now I have to live with it. In fact, right now I have to go back to the Drag and break the news to Doomsday.”

“And who
is
Doomsday?”

“Exactly who you think he is. A homeless man with a tragic story. And he’s a friend of mine too. In my line of work, it’s hard not to get close to the people you infiltrate.”

“Infiltrate?”

“Yeah, I know it’s a cold word, but it’s the truth.”

“What about Will’s friend Hawk? Do you know him too?”

He nods slowly. “I do. I know he helped Will out from time to time, but I don’t trust him. He’s bad news, Noah. Trouble. Keep your distance.”

I think about Hawk’s gun. The way he protected Will out in the woods. Sure, maybe that was illegal, but it’s more than Quindlan did. Certainly more than I did.

“Okay, I’ve got one more question. All that stuff you told me about your father being a hard-core evangelical, working with gang members in the South Bronx—was that true, or were you just
infiltrating
?”

He sighs. “I wish it wasn’t true, but it is. I left home after my brother committed suicide. Put myself through school and became a detective. I lost my brother, and now I’ve lost Will. So, yeah, I do understand how you feel, Noah. More than you realize. But now do yourself a favor. Go home. Try to make things right with your dad. Try your best to forget …” Tears well up in his eyes. He looks away. “Everything.”

“But I can’t forget. I screwed up too. Last time I saw Will I was an ass to him. I wanted to apologize, and I never got to.”

“Noah, look, I understand, but that’s water under the bridge now. You need to let it go.”

“Will there be a funeral? After the autopsy?”

“A funeral?” Quindlan shakes his head. “No. I expect the media will cover the story closely, which is a good thing. These hate crimes need to be exposed, and we need to find the killer, but as for a funeral, who would come? Who would pay for it? Who would even
care?
Will had no family. He dealt drugs. Got arrested. In the end, he was murdered because he was easy prey—a gay foster kid. When the media moves on to their next story, Will won’t even be dead. He’ll just be one of the less-dead.”

“The less-dead?”

“It’s a term we use. Think about it, Noah. If someone like, say,
you
were murdered, it would be this big huge deal, because you have a family and there are tons of people who care about you. But if you’re someone like Kyle, Paul, or Will—homeless, no family, in trouble with the law—well, when you’re dead, you’re really less-dead. Do you understand?”

“Yeah, I do.”

Quindlan reaches into his pocket and takes out a pen and paper. He scribbles something down and hands it to me. “I need to keep my cover. I’m in the middle of a narcotics investigation, and I shouldn’t be doing this, but I figure I can trust you. Just remember, Noah: I’m a homeless guy who hangs out on the Drag with a crazy street evangelist. Nothing more.”

MY ROOM
smells like Limburger cheese. At least, that’s what Melanie tells me every time she walks in. Mainly it’s because I haven’t showered in four days, but there’s also that half-eaten gyro I shoved under my bed a couple of nights ago, along with a slice of pizza and a carton of moo shu pork. Carson’s been bringing all my favorite foods, but I have no appetite.

Atop my desk, the TV is droning. I’ve been watching local news round the clock. Right now a man from the Austin GLBT group is being interviewed. “Yes, we’re very concerned,” he says. “For years Austin has been a safe haven for gays and lesbians in the state of Texas, and now we’re living in fear… .”

Newspapers are stacked on my dresser. Articles about each murder. Questions about Warren Banks and the Westboro church. Is one person responsible for the killings or is there a hate group involved? The police claim they have
things under control. The FBI is continuing a thorough investigation. It’s just a matter of time before they make another arrest.

There’s a knock at my door. “Noah? Can I come in?” It’s Melanie. She just got home from school—a place I haven’t been in a while.

I roll from my stomach to my back. “Yeah, whatever, come on in, Mel.”

She sits on my bed and crinkles her nose. “Noah, there’s an oil slick on your pillow. That’s
gross.”

“Yeah? Maybe I like oil slicks. Maybe I like gross. Maybe I like Limburger cheese, too.”

“Come on, this isn’t funny! You need to get out of bed!”

That’s what my parents have been telling me for the past few days. My mother even begged me to see this shrink who goes to our church—supposedly he uses biblical principals when he psychoanalyzes you—but I flat-out refused. Screw talking. Especially to a church member. I just want to be left alone.

Melanie shakes me. I pull the covers over my head and will her to disappear. Finally she stops. The room is quiet again. For some reason, my yeasty smell is comforting. Who knows, maybe if I lie here long enough, I’ll rise like a loaf of bread. Just as I’m about to doze off, I hear “Noah? Whose book is this?”

Suddenly I remember I left Will’s notebook of poems on my dresser. I lift off the covers and sit up. Melanie’s thumbing through the pages. I snatch it from her. “Mel. Get out of here. I’m trying to sleep.”

“I asked, whose book is it!”

“It’s mine, all right? Now get lost.”

“You think I’m stupid? It’s not
yours
. I know what your handwriting looks like. Besides, those poems are good.” She scrunches up her nose again. “Yours
suck.”

“Gee thanks.”

“Plus there are some weird things written in the margins. Things that don’t make sense.”

“What do you mean?”

She rolls her eyes. “I thought it was your book, Noah. Don’t you know what’s inside of it?”

The truth is I don’t. Every time I pick up Will’s book, I think about the one he gave to me. The one I tossed into the trash.

“It’s
his
book, isn’t it?” Melanie asks. “Will’s?”

The kid’s way too smart for her own good. And since I’m too tired to argue, I nod. “Yeah.”

“I can tell. The handwriting’s the same as on that note he left you, remember? The night we played baseball in the backyard?” She pauses. “You liked him a lot, didn’t you?”

“Yeah. I did.”

“Me too. He was nice. And I’m sorry, Noah. Your poems don’t suck. They’re good too. Really good.”

“Thanks, Mel.” I open Will’s book to make sure Quindlan’s note is still inside. It is. I read the words
Just in case
. Just in case what? Below that is Quindlan’s cell phone number. I don’t plan to call him, but the seven digits are already stored in my brain, whether I like it or not.

“Melanie? Listen, this is important. You can’t tell anyone about this book. Not Mom, not Dad. No one.”

“All right. But why?”

“Well … because Will didn’t give it to me. I sort of took it. When I found Will, you know, dead, in the woods, I saw the book lying in a pile of leaves. Before the police came, I stuffed it into my pocket.”

“Oh. You mean you weren’t supposed to do that?”

“Right. It’s sort of like stealing. Even though I know Will would have wanted me to have it. Anyway, I could get into
a lot
of trouble if anyone found out.”

Melanie’s eyes get all wide and teary. “You mean they could send you away, to the farm?”

I really hate doing this to Mel, but I don’t have much of a choice. “It’s a possibility.”

“I won’t tell anyone, Noah. I promise.”

Melanie and I play three games of Uno, and when she finally leaves to do her homework, I prop up my pillow, lie back, and open Will’s book. I’ve been avoiding it long enough; I figure it’s time. First I skim through the pages. On them is a collection of poems and songs—some original, some not—along with Will’s scattered thoughts. Interspersed are quotes from famous authors and musicians. Some of the entries are dated. The first one reads:

This is a side of Will I didn’t know. If he was depressed, he didn’t show it. I wish I had paid more attention. I wish I’d been a better friend.

I read the next few entries, and each one is more haunting than the one before. I’m about to put the book away, but then I think of something. The day Will and I met. Three Saturdays ago. I count on my fingers. October ninth. I find the page, and there it is. My Lead Belly song.

I stare at the words for a long time, remembering what Will said to me that day.
Man, someone must have seriously broken your heart
. How did he know? And why didn’t I realize what he was really saying? His heart was broken too. Sure, I couldn’t be with Will
that way
, but why did I have to let him down? I run my fingers over the words. A lump swells in my throat, and finally, for the first time since I saw Will dead in the woods, I begin to cry. And once I start, it’s hard to stop. After a while, I grab a wad of tissues and blow my nose. That’s when I notice something written in the margin, just like Melanie said. It’s a poem of sorts, followed by a Bible passage and a string of numbers in no particular order. She’s right. It doesn’t make sense. And the handwriting is different too. Shaky. Like when I broke my
right arm in sixth grade and had to learn to write with my left hand.

I grab my Bible from the shelf, blow off the dust, and look up John, chapter eight. Weird. It’s the story of the woman caught in adultery. I’ve heard it many times before. Basically it goes like this: The religious leaders brought a woman to Jesus and said, “We found her in bed with a man who’s not her husband. According to the Law of Moses, she should be stoned. What do
you
say?” But Jesus didn’t answer them. Instead, he knelt down and drew in the sand with his finger. When they continued to press him for an answer, he stood up and said, “If any of you is without sin, let him throw the first stone.”

While I sit there trying to make sense of it all, Carson knocks on my door. I slip Will’s book under the covers. “Dude, you’re reading your Bible! Are you having a change of heart?” Carson says.

“Please. Stop,” I say.

“All right, but look what I brought you this time.” Carson holds up a brown paper bag and pulls out a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia. He pops the lid and waves it under my nose. “Come on, you know you can’t resist.”

Surprisingly, my stomach begins to growl. He hands me the ice cream along with a spoon and takes a seat on my bed. I shovel a few spoonfuls into my mouth. The fat seeps into my veins. “Mmm, this is good. Thanks, man.”

He nods. “Anytime. Listen, Noah, I can’t stay long—the DPCP’s got me on a leash—but, well, here.” Carson reaches into his pocket and hands me a piece of paper. “I saw Hawk in school today and he gave me this note. All he said was ‘Make sure Noah sees it.’”