The Storyteller (15 page)

“Jeez,” Mandy said. “Forgive me for being educated. What I was trying to say is that the yakuza commit their crimes when it's raining so that all the evidence is washed away.”

“Fiona disappeared when it was snowing,” I said.

“Rain, snow, it's all water,” Mandy said.

Phaedra Moreau was one of those girls listening in and she tapped me on the shoulder. “Aren't you happy?” she asked.

“What? Why?”

“No one will ever think your brother did this ever again,” she said. “Not now that they've caught the real guy. Your brother won't be a scary weirdo anymore. He'll be a harmless weirdo.”

Phaedra is the type of kid who will tell you that your shoes are out of fashion and act like she's doing you a favor by saying it.

I spun the dial on my locker to make sure the combination was scrambled up. “Why do people think they know anything?” I said. “Just because someone told a story? They're stories. People pick the stories they want to be true and they believe them. It doesn't make the stories true.”

Phaedra smirked and said, “Well, I'm only trying to put a positive spin on it and let you know that even if people keep saying that your brother—”

“They're stories,” I said again. Then I stormed out of there.

EVENING

A few minutes ago, I put on the walkie-talkie. Again, I'm not sure what I was hoping to hear. Dorian Loomis relaying inside information about the case, announcing conclusively that Milo Drake is indeed the monster we all think he is, that Fiona and Charlie will never come back, and that my brother can give up his weirdo talk for good? Did I expect to hear all the answers to everything tied up in some devastating, stereophonic bow?

Again, all I got was static.

We must have been lucky that one time we caught Dorian on the CB. Knowing Mandy, I'm sure she exaggerated how many times she's actually heard him. I tossed the headphones in the corner and went into the other room.

My parents were on the couch and they were hugging.

“What's the matter?” I asked.

“Animal bones,” my mom said, practically giggling. “They're all animal bones.”

 

S
ATURDAY
, 12/16/1989

AFTERNOON

Milo Drake is an insane person. It might not be a nice thing to say, but we all know this. We just don't know what type of insane person.

This morning, the sheriff held a press conference to discuss the case. Dad taped it, because he wants to keep a record of everything. Now I'm watching it for, like, the fifth time and writing down what the sheriff said.

Milo Drake is no longer considered a suspect. We have ruled him out in both the disappearances of Fiona Loomis and Charlie Dwyer. There is indisputable evidence that he could not have been involved in either occurrence. He was nowhere near the victims at the time periods in question. In addition, the bones recovered from his yard are animals' bones. Mostly deer and raccoons, though there are cats, foxes, and a few dogs as well. It appears that no crimes have been committed in relation to these bones, but we will continue our discussions with Mr. Drake. I will not be taking questions at this time, but should new information come to light, we will share it with the public. We encourage various news outlets to be judicious in their reporting. Thank you.

“Judicious in their reporting.” That means don't print every insane person's confession! That means you,
Sutton Bulletin
! My parents had canceled their subscription to you a while ago and only recently renewed so they could know what their neighbors were reading about the Loomises, the Dwyers, and us. I'm pretty sure they're regretting that decision. I know I am.

Last night's relief transformed into something new this morning. Fear. Heavy, heavy terror. I've been scared for weeks. For Fiona. For Charlie. For Alistair. For myself. I've been scared about the how and the what. How do we find them? What are we going to do to help Alistair … and me? But this morning was when I really started worrying about the why. Why so many lies? Why so many stories? I realized that I don't understand what motivates people. Somehow, that scares me the most.

“Why would a guy confess to something he didn't do?” I asked Mom as she drove me to the mall in Sutton to buy Christmas presents, which she had insisted on doing even though it's something I know she hates doing.

Mom paused when I asked her. I could almost hear her saying,
Isn't this a better question for your father?
But that's not what she said. Because I think we both knew why I asked her. I didn't want the professional answer. I wanted the mom answer.

“Well,” she said, “people feel guilty about a lot of things. Sometimes all they want is to be punished. So they confess, to almost anything.”

Is that what Milo Drake wanted? Is that what Kyle wanted? Is that what Alistair wanted?

“Why were there so many animals buried in his backyard?” I asked.

This pause was longer. She was either speculating or wondering if she should share the truth. I couldn't tell. “He wanted to give them a proper burial.”

“Because he killed them?”

“Because he found them,” she said. “They were roadkill.”

As Mom said this, I spied a dead squirrel on the side of the road. A coincidence, sure, but only a small one. Streets around here are covered in death. From deer all the way down to baby birds.

Baby birds. Baby birds.

At the stoplight next to the memorial tree, I was still staring out of the window, trying to conjure the image of the dead hummingbird from a couple of weeks ago, trying to make it seem real again, trying to reassure myself it was real.

“Everything okay?” Mom asked.

“What are coincidences?” I replied.

“Sorry? What do you mean?”

“I mean … if there are all these coincidences piling up in your life … where do they come from? What do they mean?”

Mom turned her eyes from the road for a second, which is a big no-no when driving, but I think she wanted to say this to me face-to-face. “I haven't the first damn clue.”

That's not what you expect from your mom. I wanted her to tell me that coincidences were signs that good things would happen. Or a sign that bad things would happen. Anything but what she said, which was basically,
Why don't you tell me, because I'd like to know myself.

Mom turned her eyes back to the road, loosened her grip on the steering wheel, and stretched the fingers on her right hand. It almost seemed like she was preparing to make a fist so she could punch the dashboard or the windshield.

But she didn't. She put the hand back on the wheel and she began to cry.

What do you do when your mom cries? Well, I know what you'd do, Stella. Something comforting, like hug her and tell her you're there for her, right? Well, I'm not you, Stella. I'm me. And what I did was this: I stared out the window some more, hoping that if I kept staring then when I finally turned back, her tears would be gone.

Mom turned on the radio. A song crept into the car. The lyrics were all about how birds suddenly appear whenever the singer's boyfriend is around. It's a love song, but it didn't feel like one to me. It felt icky, eerie, wrong.

Mom started humming along, which I thought meant she wasn't crying anymore, so I turned back. She still had a few tears on her face, but she seemed almost content. I guess she likes the song. I've heard it before, but I never gave the lyrics much thought until that moment.

Seriously, why do birds suddenly appear?

Baby birds. Baby birds. Baby birds.

 

S
UNDAY
, 12/17/1989

MORNING

Another weekend almost over. Next week is a short week of classes and then we have Christmas break. Then Alistair is back at school.

Yesterday, Mom and I bought him some new shirts for Christmas. We want him to look nice when he returns. Better than he did before, so people might actually think he is better than before. In the past, Alistair would have opened a present like new shirts and he would have said,
Oh, these are … fine
. Because, really, what kid wants new shirts for Christmas when there are video games, bikes, model rockets, and all that fun stuff?

I don't know how he'll react this year. It's hard to know anything. I'll admit that the coincidences, and all the things my mind is struggling to believe, are starting to weigh me down. I know my parents try to put on their best faces for me and my brother, but I'm beginning to see all the weight on them too.

So at breakfast, I asked Dad if maybe we should go to church today. He didn't laugh, but I think he might have been tempted to. As I told you, we're a science family. Religion is barely mentioned around here, though Mom and Dad did tell me once, when I was about eight or nine, that I could start going to church if it was something I wanted to do. It was my choice. Which seemed great. Freedom! Glorious freedom!

Looking back on it, I see it wasn't really my choice at all. My parents didn't go to church. I didn't really know what church was like. So why would I choose to go, especially at eight or nine when I could watch cartoons instead or go mess around at Mandy's?

“Getting in the Christmas spirit, are we?” Dad asked me this morning when I started talking like a born-again.

“I want answers,” I said.

Alistair was at breakfast too (we all were, though Mom was loading the dishwasher). I could tell he was listening, but he wasn't offering any opinions.

“Well,” Dad said, “some people find answers there.” The
but certainly not the Clearys
was implied.

“I'm going,” I said, and I stood from the table.

“What? Where?” Mom asked as she finally pulled up a chair. We're usually done with breakfast by the time she sits, though she never complains about it.

“Church,” I said. “I'm going to church. What's a good one?”

“Hmmm,” Dad said. “That's an idea fraught with—”

“There's St. Mary's,” Mom said. “Sacred Heart. There's the Lutheran one. It's new, over by Prescott. If you're serious, you might want to try the Unitarian Universalist Church in Willomac.”

Mom went to church as a kid because that's what everyone did around here back then. She grew up in Thessaly, and even if she couldn't tell you the history of every building in town, she could definitely tell you a story that took place in each one.

“What's a Uni-whatever Church?” I asked her.

“It accepts all faiths,” Alistair said.

“Since when did you become an expert on churches?” I asked.

He tapped himself on the head, as if to show me how big his brain was.

“He's basically right,” Mom said. “They're Christians more or less, but they welcome anyone into their services.”

“This is something you want?” Dad asked in the same way someone double-checks whether you're really choosing fruit for dessert instead of chocolate cake.

“You don't have to go,” I said. “I'll go alone. Drop me off.”

The conversation turned at this point, from one with words to one where Mom and Dad used their eyes, which is always hilarious because they think we don't pick up on their signals.

Is this a good idea?
asked Dad's eyes.

What will it hurt?
said Mom's eyes.
Things are screwed up enough as it is. Maybe it's what she needs. There are worse things.

Shouldn't someone go with her?

It sounds like she might want to go alone. She's fourteen.

She won't become some weird religious person who's always quoting the Bible, will she?

So what if she does? You told her a few years ago that this was her choice. She's our daughter. We love her.

Of course we do. But how is this going to affect Alistair? He looks up to her, and if he sees her struggling to—

Okay. Maybe their eyes didn't say that much, but Dad's mouth eventually said, “I've got some shopping left to do. If you want to go, I'd be happy to drop you off.”

AFTERNOON

It was about a fifteen-minute drive to the church in Willomac, which is a town we sometimes visit if we want to go for a hike or have a picnic because it's thick with postcard-worthy lakes and creeks. I don't know anyone who lives in Willomac. Or at least I don't think I do. I didn't recognize anyone in the church.

It turns out going to church alone isn't all that weird. There are other people who come alone. And everyone is either super quiet or super friendly, even when they don't know who you are. Maybe
because
they don't know who you are. Since Alistair is a kid, they haven't shown his face in newspapers or on TV. All the people in Thessaly know what he looks like, and probably know what I look like too. Outside of our hometown, though, we're utter strangers.

Of course, Fiona, Charlie, and Milo did come up in the sermon. Not by name, but these days when you talk about missing kids, confessions, and heartbreak in a sermon, then we all know what that sermon is about. At least I think it was a sermon. It wasn't one of those speeches with fire and brimstone, there wasn't any singing, and the woman (a woman!) who was delivering it wasn't dressed in black with a white collar. She had on slacks and a blouse and she stood in front of us and talked like a teacher, but a teacher who's also a friend. I sat near the back, but not all the way in the back. I figured church is like a classroom or a school bus. Where you sit tells the world something.

Many of the people seemed happy to be there, and I don't know if they cared where they sat, but there were fidgety kids sliding off their seats like they were coated in butter and their parents kept pulling them up. I guarantee if there were a movie star or a monkey up on the stage, their butts would be glued to the wood.