Winter and Night (9 page)

"What?"

"It's Wednesday. If Tory died Saturday night and was just lying there all this time…"

"You don't want to hear it."

"Yes, I do. Stuart Early can get all the facts, just like you gave me. I want a color piece. It's the only way I'll get a byline."

"This is someone you knew."

"And I'm just a kid?"

"Maybe something like that."

"Tell me."

Her eyes were brown, like mine, and steady, and I thought, who are you protecting, Smith, and why? If this kid's willing to go through this because she thinks it'll help her get something she really wants, who asked you to get in the way?

"Okay," I said, and I described the position of the body, the bloating that happens, and the flies. I told her about the snap as Sullivan pulled on latex gloves to run his hands between the body and the bedsheets, and the unexpected heaviness of a body, even a young girl's body, in a rubber body bag.

Stacie Phillips wrote and wrote, but she didn't look up.

After I was done we both drank coffee and for a while didn't speak. Then she took a breath, the reporter still, and asked, "Why did you go there? To the Wesleys'."

"My sister said Gary had dated Tory."

"He did?"

"I don't know. You tell me."

"Oh," she said. "This is the part where I tell you things?"

"I'm pretty much done. If you picked it up on a police scanner, you must've been there for the rest."

She nodded. "I guess I was." She put down her glitter-covered ballpoint, and I got the feeling she might have been relieved. "Okay. But if I think of questions later can I call you?"

"I might not answer them."

"If I don't call you, you definitely won't answer them."

"That's true." I gave her my card. She glanced at it, tucked it in the pocket of her jeans. She pulled out a card of her own and handed it across the table. Well, why not? I put it away.

"So: Was Gary Russell dating Tory Wesley?" I asked.

"I don't know, either. I'd be surprised."

"Why?"

"Well, Tory's not— wasn't, I mean, cool." Her fair skin flushed, but she recovered.

"Gary is?"

"Well, yeah. He's a jock."

"That makes him cool?"

"Around here? Are you serious?"

"I don't know much about here."

"Jocks rule," Stacie Phillips said. "Totally. Warrenstown, Home of the Warrenstown Warriors. You must have seen that on the way into town. Whichever road you came on. Even if you parachuted in. It's on the school roof, you know."

"It is?"

"Of course. Trust me, it's true. Their world; the rest of us just live in it."

"The rest of us, including you? You're not cool?"

"Me? No way. Come on, I write for the school paper."

"Why do you do that, if it's not cool?"

She gave me narrowed eyes, as if she thought I might be making fun of her. She must have decided I wasn't, because she drank more coffee and answered me. "I'm going to journalism school next year. Columbia, if I get in, or somewhere else. You know some of the kids here have never been to New York? All you have to do is get on a stupid bus." She shook her head. "This place is sick. It really is. There's no point in trying to be cool here if you're not a jock, it'll never happen. The only thing is to get out."

Unless, I thought, you're new. Then maybe the thing is to get in.

"So being a jock makes Gary Russell cool?" I said. "Even though he's new here?"

"Sure. I mean, not when he first got here, in like June or whenever, because no one knew him yet. If he dated Tory Wesley, it must have been then. And maybe he did, because he kind of hung out with Paul Niebuhr then, too— Paul's a senior, he's in my class, that's how I know."

"Those aren't things you do if you're cool?"

"Puhleeze. Paul's so freaky I even have trouble talking to him. And I try really hard to talk to everyone. You get better stories that way," she told me seriously.

"And Tory Wesley? Also freaky?" I wasn't sure what defined freaky, but I didn't want to ask right then.

Stacie Phillips shook her head. "The reason Tory wasn't cool was she wanted to be so much."

"That's bad?"

"Of course that's bad. They can smell it the way a dog smells when you're afraid. It only gets you in worse trouble."

We sat looking at each other in momentary silence. I was thinking about Tory Wesley, and trouble. I don't know what was on Stacie Phillips's mind, but she turned to the window, drank her sweet, light coffee.

"About Gary," I said, after the traffic light had changed a few times, cars stopping, starting, rolling by. "When did he get to be cool?"

"Football tryouts," Stacie said. She turned back to me. "Early August. Gary blew everyone away. Every time a quarterback was looking for a receiver, Gary was open. Had more yards after catch than anyone else, even the seniors. By, like, double or better. Coach tried him out returning punts, he never dropped the ball. I even thought it was cool."

"You were there?"

"I covered it for the Gazette. Football tryouts in Warrenstown, now that's news."

"I think I'm hearing sarcasm here."

She shrugged. "It's a dumb story, but it gets me a byline. Colleges like to see that."

"So Gary's been cool since then?"

"Pretty much. Randy Macpherson, Mr. Big Deal, kind of adopted Gary." She dropped her voice, put on a superior, all-knowing frown. " 'The kid's not bad, but he's green. Someone needs to show him the ropes.' " Back to her regular voice: "What that really means is, Randy's afraid Gary might actually be better than he is."

"Randy Macpherson's a wide receiver, a senior?"

"Yeah. How'd you know that?"

"I'm a detective. So what's Randy trying to do, bask in Gary's upcoming reflected glory?"

She cocked her head. "Wow. Can I quote you?"

"I don't know about this sarcasm thing, in a reporter."

"Sorry." She grinned. "Anyhow, I'm not sure that's really it. It's more like, he wants to be able to say Gary learned everything he knows from him."

"What makes Randy Macpherson Mr. Big Deal?"

"He's a senior. He's a jock. He's actually been scouted by a couple of colleges. And he's rich. And his father's Mr. Extra Big Deal, all the way back from when he went to school here, too. He was a famous Warrior, a linebacker. I mean, we have a mayor and everything, but Randy's dad is really who runs this town."

"I guess that's enough. Randy's at Hamlin's camp now?"

"Boy, you do know some stuff, don't you?" she marveled.

"I hate to be scooped."

"You're laughing at me."

"Never laugh at a reporter," I said. "Next thing you know, you're misquoted into oblivion."

"I can do that," she agreed.

"This Camp Week thing," I said. "I never heard of anything like this. When I was in school, if a team went to an away game, or anyone went on any field trip, they just made up the work they missed."

"Ah, but this is Warrenstown. Here we start school in the middle of August so we can close down during Camp Week so that the Warrior seniors don't have to make up any work."

"That's the whole reason?"

"Could there be a better one?" she asked, eyes innocently wide.

"And in the fall?" I said. "At the end of the season?"

"No one else does it. It impresses the college scouts with the players' dedication, their willingness to go the extra mile, their desire, the fire in their bellies."

"Is that from an article you wrote?"

"Are you serious?" She sounded insulted. "It's from the Hamlin's brochure."

"Sorry. How does—?" I began, but the cell phone in my jacket started to ring. "Sorry," I said to Stacie, took the phone out. "Smith."

"Sullivan. Just finished with your sister. You can go over any time."

"Any news?"

"About Gary? No. But I talked to your brother-in-law."

"He's back?"

"No, he's got a cell phone with him. She called him."

"He having any luck?"

"No. And he doesn't seem to like you much."

"He doesn't."

"Any particular reason?"

"Probably."

Sullivan waited, but I had nothing more to say, so he asked, "How come you didn't tell me he went to New York?"

"Does it matter?"

"It might."

"It won't. He's flying blind; he won't find him."

"He might know something we don't."

"I don't think so. And if he did, it would be something he hasn't told you for the past three days, so there's no reason to think he'd tell you now. But it would also be something he hasn't acted on for the past three days, and that's not likely."

"Well, he said he didn't," Sullivan conceded. "He said he went to New York because Gary'd been seen there. By you. He started to say some interesting things about you. But I told him why I was in his living room talking to his wife, so he said them about me instead."

"He doesn't like you either?"

"The only thing he liked about me was that I threw you out of town. Then he decided he didn't even like that, because it robbed him of the chance to whup your ass when he gets back, for coming here at all."

"Life is tough. Did he say when he was coming back?"

"After he finds Gary," Sullivan said dryly. "Where are you?"

"The Galaxy Diner, having lunch. Have you found out for sure Gary was at that party?"

"I'm going to talk to Morgan Reed now. You go see your sister, and get out of town."

"As soon as I finish my coffee."

"Hey, I'm doing you a favor. You don't want to be here when your brother-in-law gets back."

"Maybe he won't come back. Maybe he'll stay in New York, I'll run into him there, and he'll whup my ass. Think how lousy you'll feel then."

"I'll take my chances," said Sullivan.

I folded the phone, slipped it back in my pocket. "Sorry," I said again to Stacie Phillips. She had made no pretense of politely looking out the window, around the diner, down at her nails. Her shining eyes had been fastened on me the whole time.

"Detective Sullivan?" she said.

"You have a true reporter's nose."

She made a face, said, "Did he? Find out for sure Gary was there?"

"I told you, I'm not talking to you about Gary. You're talking to me about Gary."

"Oh? And who's whupping your ass?"

"No one, because they can't catch me. I have a few more questions, then I have to go."

"Or Jim Sullivan'll whup your ass?"

The waiter, who knew the drill by now, came by again, bringing the coffeepot and a full pitcher of milk.

"I'll take care of my ass," I said to Stacie.

She grinned. "You can't say that to me. I'm underage."

"I'm sure you know a lot worse words. I'm sure you know words I never heard of."

"You want me to teach them to you? It always helps to speak the language."

"Some other time," I said. I drank off some coffee. "Tell me about Warrenstown. Jocks are the only ones who're cool?"

Doing what she did with the milk and the sugar, Stacie nodded, said, "Totally."

"Who's not cool?"

"Everyone else. Some of us are less uncool than others, I guess. Freaks and stoners are the uncoolest. Then brainiacs and geeks, then the artsy crowd and tree-huggers— they're sort of the same— then cowboys, then jocks."

"Brainiacs are kids who get good grades?"

"And do Student Council and all that stuff. If they're like, Chess Club, they're geeks."

"Artsy, that would be you?"

She nodded. "And the drama kids, and the band, people like that."

"Cowboys?"

"They, like, drink and do dope and fight, and push everybody around. It's like being a jock, but without being on a team. So cowboys actually get detention or suspended or whatever, when they get caught."

"Jocks do all that, too?"

"Jocks do whatever they want."

"And don't get in trouble?"

She gave me the wide-eyed look. "Who would play on Friday night?"

"Uh-huh." I drank some coffee. "Are there girl jocks?"

"Not exactly. I mean, we have varsity teams and stuff— I play softball, I catch— but it doesn't make you cool. Nobody sort of notices." She shrugged.

"And freaks?" I asked. "Who are freaks?"

Stacie pursed her lips. "Kids who aren't anyone else. They hang out together but it doesn't mean they like each other. You just have to have someone to hang out with, I guess."

"Sullivan said half the kids in Warrenstown were probably at Tory Wesley's party," I said to Stacie. "Were you there?"

She shook her head, looked into her coffee.

"You knew about it, though, didn't you?"

She shrugged. "I knew her folks were going away."

"You mean, you didn't just hear about it afterwards, you knew before? That she was going to have a, what did Sullivan call it, a P double-A P?"

"I told you, she wanted to be cool. She didn't get invited to the jock parties. I'm sure she totally thought this would make her cool."

"If you knew it was going to happen, why didn't you tell someone?"

She looked at me. "Tell who? Tell them what? That some sophomore I don't even know is having a party Saturday night? So what?"

"According to Sullivan, those parties pretty much always end up like that. Shouldn't the police at least have been warned?"

"If they wanted to know," she said, "they'd know."

The waiter came to take away my plate and pour us more coffee. This time he brought a full sugar packet holder, which he traded for the decimated one on the table. I sat with Stacie Phillips for a while longer. She confirmed again what Sullivan had said: Chances were all the cool kids in Warrenstown had been at Tory Wesley's house Saturday night. She gave me some of their names, though I wasn't sure how I'd be able to make use of them, having been thrown out of town.

"If Gary Russell wasn't there," she said as the waiter put down the check, "it cut his chances of being cool way, way down. They'd have figured he was chicken. Especially," she added, "it was the night before the seniors went to Hamlin's. Randy would've been extra pumped, and it would've been a chance for him to show his protégé how it's done."

* * *

How it's done. I thought about that as I drove over to the high school. How much of your life you spend, especially when you're new, trying to figure out how it's done.