Torn (9 page)

The police grilled them for hours.

“Are you sure that's what you saw?”

“Was it like the monster in your song?”

“One kid died and your song got popular, right? Did you think your song would get even more popular if someone else died, too? Did you think it would be cool?”

Terms like “satan worship” and “cult sacrifice” were bandied about, making Devin fearful, frustrated, and ultimately angry. He worried that if they had dressed in trench coats or in Goth style they'd have been charged and convicted on the basis of fashion. He realized grimly that misunderstanding and suspicion were just as much part of
the long-standing legend of rock as the fame and the money.

He wished Cody were here. Cody would love to see how much the police were freaking out, how desperate they were to find anything that would give the slaughter some kind of sense, some kind of order. He imagined Cody laughing at them, making up stories just for fun.

Yes, officer, we worship a fish god who lives in a giant lair beneath the sea. Your so-called goldfish-bowl castles are a mere echo of our god's home. It does crave human blood at times….

Or the more familiar:
The music made me do it. Voices in the song told me to kill our lead guitarist, so I figured, hey, what the hell. I mean, wouldn't you?

It would be so simple to get them to believe anything. Anything except the truth. But that, Devin had to admit, sounded, even to him, even now, in the cold light of the small room they kept him in, the strangest of all.

One Word Ben was the first to be released, either because he was the only one who didn't claim to see a monster, or because his one-word answers made things go faster. Cheryl was second.
She was hysterical, and she'd only caught a glimpse of the thing in the men's room, so her description was easily dismissed, both by the police and by her.

But Devin—Devin was the only witness to the actual murder. The only witness to both murders, and the only one who insisted on what he saw, who described it in unbelievable detail.

So they tested him for drugs, but since the results would take days, they grilled him for hours more, then tested him again in case they would be unhappy with the results from the first tests. Then they had a psychiatrist speak to him. Then they grilled him some more.

They wanted very badly to press charges, but when the crime scene photos and forensics came back, showing the hole in the bathroom ceiling, the shattered guitar, the thick scratch marks on the floor and walls, and the sheer strength needed to rip Cody's leg off, they corroborated his story. And when Devin's father, looking older and smaller than he'd ever seemed before, bellowed and threatened to sue, the detectives finally conceded that “something like” what Devin described might actually have occurred.

But on the way out, as if Devin couldn't hear, they advised his father of their various theories: that the killer had threatened Devin in some way so that he was unwilling to give honest testimony, or that he was on drugs, or that he was crazy. When his father pushed, though, they admitted they couldn't prove any of that. So, yes, they'd let him go, for now, but they wanted to know his whereabouts 24/7.

The car ride home was shorter but more grueling than his time at the station. His dad babbled about Columbine and asked him over and over about drugs, about gangs, about guns. The sharp, steady man had never seemed so clueless before, never felt so far away.

As they drove, the morning light seeping between the trees felt as brittle as Devin's tired head. His sinuses were on fire. He had some sort of cold, maybe a fever.

It was only when his mother hugged him, warm and soft in a housecoat she'd worn since he was a child, that Devin realized how cold and stiff he felt. She looked at him, brushed his hair out of his face, and then quickly made an excuse to vanish into the kitchen to get him something hot to
eat. They would talk later, after he'd rested. After she'd had a nervous breakdown or two.

Devin plodded up the stairs, entered the hallway bathroom, stripped off his clothes, and tossed them on the floor. Seeing the blotches of dried blood on the pants and shirt made him dizzy, but he managed to stumble into the shower. The burst of warm water soothed his skin and forced his shoulder muscles to relax; yet even though he stood there for a long time, something in him still stayed cold.

Cody was dead. Karston had been a blow, but Cody was different. He was more like a force of nature, and forces of nature shouldn't die.

Until that moment, when Devin felt as if a part of himself was missing, he never realized how much he both hated Cody and loved him, how much he thought he was a jerk, an asshole, yet shared Cody's opinion of himself, that he was some kind of god.

Devin stepped out of the shower. The sound of his parents arguing downstairs floated up through the heating vents. Their harsh whispers were short, angry, desperate. The details of the grudge match flew past him. He couldn't care less. He
went into his room and closed the door, silencing them.

He threw himself back on his bed and stared at the ceiling. Eventually, he looked out the large window, where he caught the tops of the trees shifting in a hard wind. The woods seemed to go on forever.

A greater truth had suddenly opened up for Devin. It sat there in front of him, thick and black, utterly unknown and waiting to swallow him whole: a monster.

A monster had killed Karston and Cody. Not some wacky deformed homeless guy with a hatchet—a for-real, beyond-the-ken-of-mortal-understanding monster, or whatever you wanted to call something so strong you could shatter a solid body Les Paul against it without even slowing it down.

And it looked so damn familiar.

Even now he wanted to look under his bed, to make sure it wasn't there.

Could it really have come from the song like Cody said? How screwed up was that? Was it created by the song, or did the song “call” to it? What were the rules?
Were
there any rules? Did it only
take bad children? Was he safe? He didn't feel safe.

Was Cheryl safe? Was One Word Ben?

Cheryl. The last time he'd seen her was when her parents took her out of the station. Her beautiful smooth skin was totally white, and there were deep red circles under her eyes. He had called to her, but she'd been far down the hall, being pulled into one of the interrogation rooms.

He grabbed his cell and punched her number on the speed dial.

“Hey,” she said in a flash. She sounded tired, as if he'd woken her.

“Hey,” he said back. “How are you?”

“Horrible.”

“Me, too. Your parents ever going to let you out of the house again?”

“I hope not. Yours?”

“Downstairs fighting about something. I don't know who's going to win.”

“Did you talk to Cody's family?”

Devin was surprised by the question. “No. I just got back.”

“I want to call, but I'm scared. Like it would make it more real.” Her voice was cracking. After a silence, she asked, “Was it real?”

Devin thought about it a second and said, “Yes.”

“What are we going to do?”

“I don't know.”

There was a longer pause, but Devin didn't think of hanging up. The silence was fine. Just knowing she was on the other end, despite the space between them, felt good.

After a while, Cheryl broke the silence. “It's all over the chat rooms, you know. They're thinking of canceling school Monday. There's a radio station playing the song, creeping people out. There's a video clip Judy sent me from the club. It's got a great shot of…Cody…singing…and there's more of those dust dots flying around.”

More silence.

“Maybe you should see it,” Cheryl said. “I'll send it to you.”

Devin stood, walked to his laptop, and woke it. “I'll take a look,” he said. “What do you think they are?”

“I don't know. Maybe the angels from the song, the ones we're supposed to lie to. Maybe Cody didn't lie well enough,” she answered.

The e-mail was already in his in-box. With a click, the large video file started downloading.

He smiled a little. “You kidding? Cody was a great liar.”

“Yeah,” she said. Her voice cracked and trailed off. She started crying.

“It's okay,” he said. “I'd cry, too, but I'm too tired.”

“It's not…it's not just that he's dead,” she said.

“Then what?”

“I don't want to lie anymore either. There's something I have to tell you. I'm so sorry I didn't tell you before. You're so…good.”

He could feel her trying to pull herself together.

“What? What is it? Don't leave me hanging.”

Her voice was halting. “No. Not now. I have to do it in person.”

He felt himself getting angry. He didn't want to be angry—not now, not at her—but he felt it anyway. “No, just tell me. My brain is screwed up enough as it is.”

A pause, and then, “You'll hate me.”

What the hell is she talking about?

“I couldn't, Cheryl, not you.”

“You could. It's about me and Cody.”

Silence. Devin felt that abyss open up in front
of him again. The one that held the darker truths.

“We were together. After Karston died. Just once.”

Now it was Devin's turn to fall silent.

“Devin? Are you there?” Cheryl said. “I need to hear your voice right now. I'm so scared. I just felt like I was lying to you and…”

Lying to the angels…

“I've got to go,” Devin said flatly.

“No, please. I need to talk to you.”

A feeling like a million fire ants chewing at his gut rose up in him.

“Yeah, well, right now I need some time,” he said. He felt cruel. He didn't care. He pressed End and flung the phone into his bed, where it landed soundlessly against the folds of the bedspread.

It made sense, damn it. It made total sense. Cody was, well, Cody. Friendship or loyalty wouldn't hold him back. It was Cheryl who was looking different to him now.

Two crooks and a slut…

The sound of his parents' battle rose through the vents in his room. Shaking, Devin lay down on his bed, put his head in a pillow, and screamed. Once, twice, then when the third scream ripped
his throat raw, he stopped.

Through the pillow, he heard his ring tone. Cheryl was trying to call him back. He turned the phone off, and the little light showing Cheryl's number went dead. There was another beep from across the room, from his laptop. An image of Tunnel Vision filled the screen. Cody's voice came through the speakers, low, harsh, and pointed:

Karston had stolen money from him. Cody had been amoral at best. Now Cheryl had cheated on him. That much of the song was right, no one was pure. But did it mean they were all condemned? What rules did the monster follow?

Monster. Maybe it was
him
. Maybe all the years he'd spent “straddling the fence” as Cody called it had welled up and out of him as this weird id-thing. Or maybe at least one of all the police theories was right, maybe Devin was psychotic, killing Karston and Cody himself and not remembering.

Curious, he got up and stepped closer to the screen, watching Cody twist in an impassioned performance with the rest of them dutifully backing. Cheryl was right; the dots were there again. They were swirling around Cody, focusing on his head, twirling frantically as if trying to get his attention.

The camera zoomed in for a close-up of the lead singer. Cody's rough, handsome face filled the screen. The dots were still there, clearer now as they circled his mouth, his lips, the mike, the sources of the sound. There were ten, maybe fifteen, little transparent dots of light.

As he came to the end, they froze, and all at once flew away, as if it was too late and whatever it was they were trying to warn about would happen anyway.

Devin stopped the clip, backed it up, and played it again. Yeah, the specks were dancing around Cody, right until the end of the last verse. Then they took off, like little bats out of little hell.

First it had been him and Karston. Karston died. Now it was Cody and Cody died. What would the police make of this, he wondered? Dust. Same thing he would have before he'd seen the beast.

There were no dots dancing around him, though. None around One Word Ben. What about Cheryl? It was hard to say; she was furthest back in the shot, and there weren't many close-ups.

He froze the screen and clicked through a frame at a time. It was digital video, and from a good camera, too, so the image was pretty clean. He tried to find a clear frame with Cheryl in it. Once he did, he captured the screen and opened it in his image editor. Using the magnifier tool, he zoomed in. There they were, circling her mouth, her head, her ears, as if infesting her with death.

Cheryl. Karston. Cody. Cheryl.

He zoomed in tighter. The image pixelated, broke up into little squares of different color and shading, but the light and dark still conspired to create an image. It wasn't a clear picture exactly, more something that might be there or might not, like the face of the man in the moon.

Only this face didn't look like the man in the moon.

It looked like Karston.

Devin's parents couldn't understand why, now of all times, he was suddenly so desperate to see Namana. They tried to put him off, fearful it was another sign of some hidden mental problem, or that the frantic, traumatized teen would just upset the fragile old woman.

His mother and father fought twice over it, long and hard, finally agreeing to forbid him, but Devin kept insisting, repeatedly and uncharacteristically. He didn't whine about it like a child; he demanded it, in a tone of voice they'd never heard from him before.

So finally they relented, on the condition his father drive.

“You're too upset for one, and we're damned if we're going to leave you alone again for a while,” his dad explained. He phoned the police, as he'd been instructed, to tell them where they'd be the next morning.

They'd planned on leaving at nine
A.M
., but the police called to ask for more details and phone numbers, which delayed their departure until nine thirty. Finally, his dad, his face a mask, stiffly tossed a file stuffed with papers onto the floor of the SUV's passenger seat. He started the engine and wordlessly waited for Devin to climb in and put on his seat belt. They pulled out of the gated community, his father doing the speed limit, not a mile more or a mile less. Just the limit, as if every cop in the world were watching them.

In silence, they drove past the suburbs into the downtrodden industrial section of town, which was filled with old factories and rundown homes. It was only when they reached the interstate and the view of flat, square buildings surrendered to green, rounded hills that the invisible bond with Macy, and all its tensions and horrors, seemed to weaken just a bit.

His dad's face softened, but the muscle beneath
his right eye twitched. He blinked a few times too often, cleared his throat, and asked, with embarrassment, some pointless question about how comfortable Devin was in his seat, and if he'd managed to get any sleep.

Devin suddenly knew that what he had thought of as his father's anger was really a kind of helpless fear. He wanted to pat his father on the shoulder, tell him what a great job he'd done raising his son, that his son was all right, and that everything was going to be okay.

But everything wasn't going to be okay, so he couldn't.

Eventually, his father broke the silence again. “There are things we have to talk about.”

“Age before beauty,” Devin said. It was an old line between them. His father smiled, remembering.

“Two big things. First, I've decided to request a transfer to San Diego. We're going to put the house up. It'll mean some big changes, like a smaller house, but…”

Devin stared.

He should have seen that one coming. His mother had been begging to leave for years. She
had family in California. The schools were better there, she insisted, and there were more opportunities. His father had almost given in about a year and a half ago. Devin hadn't been doing so well in school, but then the band formed and both his parents were happy to see him so involved. His father had probably hoped the issue was buried forever. But now, no more Macy.
California, here we come.

His father kept talking, as if he had to explain why he'd given in.

“Your mother was right,” he said. “I just didn't see it. Macy's been dying for years. Now it's just gone to hell and it's sucking us down with it. They don't even have gang slayings like that in New York. I'm only sorry I let us stay here so long. That's my fault.”

“You don't have to…,” Devin started to say. He understood. Part of him hoped that whatever he'd unleashed wouldn't be able to travel that far.

“There's something else,” his father said. “It's a little harder to…to talk about.”

Devin's brow furrowed.
What?

The emotion began to drain from his father's face. The mask returned. He was bracing himself.

“After all that's happened, and hell, we don't
even know
what
happened, but your mother and I…well, maybe it would be best…maybe you should just…look inside the folder,” he said.

Devin reached down and lifted the straw-colored file. It was thick with paper. Inside were a series of color Web page printouts. Images sprinkled among the text showed happy teens engaged in sports and other wholesome activities as they played on lush green fields with new equipment beneath a perfect blue sky. Other images showed the teens accepting guidance from older, wiser adults. Everyone smiled. Everyone was pleasant. Everyone was healthy.

Devin flipped through the pages. There were about twenty. Some had the perfection of their layout marred by handwritten notes from his father, and certain sections were highlighted in yellow. It still took a moment for Devin to register what he was looking at. They were ads for the rich kids' version of drug rehab centers—behavior modification camps.

Devin stared, mouth open wide. His father exhaled and started talking again.

“It's something we need to think about. Some of them look pretty nice. You'd have Internet
access, a DVD player. We were thinking you could start maybe next week, avoid all the mess of moving, then meet us in San Diego later, start there with a clean slate.”

If Devin's father were expecting some kind of fight, he didn't get it. Instead Devin just laughed. It was a dismissive, derisive laugh that mushroomed uncontrollably into a ghoulish cackle. At the end of it, Devin just shook his head. “You know, Dad, I've never taken any drugs, but I sure as hell am thinking about it now.”

“Don't talk like that,” his father said.

So he didn't. He didn't say anything for the rest of the drive.

 

The Daybridge Senior Care Facility looked just like the bright and shiny institutions in the folder his dad had dutifully prepared. It all seemed so clean, until they walked into the well-lit, tastefully decorated lobby and the smells Devin associated with old people filled the air. Dried skin dying too quickly. Sweet food mashed up so that it was easy to chew. A whiff of some gross cleaning fluid that didn't mask the other smells.

Devin signed in at the counter. He turned to
give his father the pen, but his old man shook his head. “No, Devin. I can't see her. After you…after what happened yesterday, I'm just too drained. Half the time she doesn't recognize me anyway. I'll wait here.”

Devin looked at him, wondering if there'd ever be a time he wouldn't want to see his own parent because it was too draining. Then, realizing he already felt that way about both of his parents, he just nodded. It would be easier to talk to Namana alone.

To the right of the counter was a large white door with a little window in the center and a serious metal lock and plate on the side. As Devin was buzzed in, his father called to him. “Don't say anything to upset her.”

Devin pretended not to hear. If his father wanted to issue orders, he should have come along. Alone, Devin entered the white corridor and let the door click shut behind him. The old-people smell was stronger, but the view was more pleasant because the hall opened up into a wide, sunny space. As he walked forward, he saw an angled ceiling that was nearly all glass and filled the room with natural sunlight. There were plants on either side of every
lounge chair, more standing against the support columns, and even a few small trees, giving the area a natural, open feel.

A few of the residents occupied some of the chairs. Some played chess; others read. One tall bald man wore what looked like a hospital gown. He leaned against a pillar like he was one of the trees, a white birch. His eyes were vacant, and he moaned softly as mucous dripped in a long viscous strand from his nose, halfway down his chest.

Devin tried not to stare. Or inhale. He stepped slowly into the center of the room. Some of the women looked at him and whispered to one another. They giggled and tried to catch his eye. It was utterly gross to think they were flirting with him, so he forced himself to assume they were just being friendly. He scanned their faces. It'd been maybe three years since he'd seen Namana. He wasn't sure how much she might change in that time. Could one of these women even
be
her?

He was about to speak to one of the gigglers when a uniformed nurse appeared at the far end of the room, guiding a small, snow-white-haired resident with a walker. The last time he'd seen Namana, her hair had still been gray mixed with a
few strands of black, and she'd been heavier. This frail woman looked more like someone had started making a life-size Namana doll, but had run out of material. It was her, though.

He walked up and smiled as sincerely as he could, reminding himself of Cody on stage. “Hi, Namana, how are you?”

She twisted her head slightly and looked at him, then moved her hand in a spastic twitching motion, as if waving him away. Her hand moved at the wrist, but her fingers dangled lifelessly. There was a blue bruise on the back of her left hand, from some IV needle or another.

She continued waving, but the smiling nurse helped her into a chair, laying her down like a blanket on top of the thick cushions. The nurse put the walker against the wall and said, with what seemed an inappropriate amount of energy, “There! All set!”

Devin came closer. Namana raised her head. Her blue eyes were hazy behind the thick glasses, but now at least they seemed to really focus on him. She scrunched her eyebrows a moment, as if trying to place Devin's face.

The nurse leaned down till she was right next
to his grandmother's ear and said loudly, “This is your grandson! Devin! He's come to see you!”

Namana bobbed her head slightly. She agreed.

The nurse turned to Devin with a wide smile. “Sometimes she forgets,” she said in a pleasant stage whisper. “I'll leave you two alone. Call me if you need anything. I'm Angie.”

“Thanks,” Devin said. Angie spun and walked away.

He looked at his grandmother, wondering if the whole trip had been a waste, if there were anything at all she'd be able to tell him. Surprisingly, her hand again dangling from her wrist, Namana waved him closer.

“What is it, Namana?” he said, putting his head nearer. He was still about a foot away, nervous. Even after everything he'd been through—maybe because of it—he was afraid of her because she was so old. She waved him closer still. He complied, by inches, until he was just close enough for her to grab him hard by the back of his head.

He was surprised by how strong she was. Her grasp made him feel like a child too weak in body and soul to resist as she pulled his face down to hers. They touched, nose to nose. Then, she didn't
so much kiss his cheek as make a soft
pup-pup
sound with her smacking lips near his skin.

“Devin,” she said softly, as if it were the answer to a test question that had been plaguing her.

“Namana,” he said, and hugged her gently. As he pulled back, he saw her eyes fill with tears. Guilt rushed up inside him for not seeing her for so long. There was a tissue box on a table next to the chair. He pulled out a sheet and patted her wet cheeks with it. She bristled, grabbed the tissue, and pushed her glasses up and out of the way so she could use it to dab her eyes.

“Sorry,” he said.

“I'll do it,” she croaked. “I'll do it. You're a baby. Shouldn't have to…”

Devin managed a bitter little smile. “Not exactly a baby anymore, Namana.”

She narrowed her gaze at him, trying to focus on his features. “No, you're not,” she said sadly. She leaned forward a little and added conspiratorially, “Neither am I.”

They both laughed. Devin felt grateful he could still recognize her.

Now came the hard part. The reason for the visit. He didn't want to “upset her,” as his father
said, but he had to find out what she might know about the creature.

“Namana, do you remember that song you used to sing me, to put me to sleep?” he said. “When I was a baby?”

A sweet smile spread on her lips. She started humming, then she closed her eyes and put her arms out in front of her, as if recalling what a child in her lap felt like.

As he listened, the years crumbled, and Devin remembered what it was like to sit with her, feeling warm and snug as she sang, holding something in his hands, some stuffed toy made of dark fur. A teddy bear?

He was surprised and embarrassed at how well he'd remembered the melody. He'd been thinking he'd made more of it up, but as she hummed, he realized he'd reproduced it note for note, word for word. Another illusion came crumbling down as he realized he was no musical genius, he'd stolen the song whole hog.

“
Lay still, still, still
,” she croaked. Her voice wasn't harsh at all, the way he remembered it; it was gentle, soothing. At least it was now.

If it wasn't his song, whose was it?

There was something compelling in the melody, something that made everyone who heard it speechless for a few moments. Maybe that was part of its magic, that the song would stay in your mind, and then force its way out again. Was that why he remembered it so precisely? It explained why he felt drawn to it, why his usual ambivalence had vanished when he'd sung it at the last show.

“Namana,” he said, but she kept singing. He said it a little louder, “Namana?”

“Eh?” The spell was broken. She was back in the room.

“The song. Where did it come from?”

She gave him a dreamy, demented smile. “From mommas and grandmommas singing to their babies.”

He shook his head. “No, I mean where did
you
learn it?”

“Oh. Well, when I was a girl, my great-grandmother used to sing it to me. No one liked her very much. She was good to those she loved. Not to those she didn't.”

“Was she a witch? Was your great-grandma magic?”

Namana shook her head. “No.” Then she thought
better of her answer. “Maybe. I don't really remember. I just remember she loved me. And that she was
very
old. Older than I am now. They didn't like her, though.”