You'll Miss Me When I'm Gone (12 page)

He dug the phone out of his pocket and switched it on. The tiny, dim screen carried a message:
LOW BATTERY.
On the keypad, he pulled up Tanya's phone number. He figured she'd get ahold of Dunmore or someone else at the school, and they'd get him out of here.

Damon kept waiting to hear the dial tone. But then a message came up on the little screen:
NO SERVICE AVAILABLE.
The light was fading.

“Oh God, no,” he whimpered.

He knew this theater. He'd sat in the auditorium many a late afternoon, waiting for Tanya in rehearsals for one play or another—always some minuscule part. But to hear her tell it, she had the lead. They didn't have any after-school rehearsals today. As far as Damon knew, no one would be using the auditorium for the entire weekend.

He imagined being trapped in here for the next two days. His parents would have no idea where he was.

He felt doomed. He frantically kicked at the door again. “Help me, please!” he yelled, his voice cracking. “Is anyone there? Can you hear me?”

Damon's neck and shoulders ached from staying hunched inside the cubbyhole. He was convinced he'd suffocate, starve, or go insane before someone found him in there. He kept screaming until his voice was hoarse. He repeatedly tried to push, kick, and pry the small door open—all to no avail.

After a while, the phone light wouldn't go on. He couldn't read the dial on his wristwatch. He had no idea how long he'd been in there.

Were Reed and Ron coming back for him?

Eventually, a custodian heard him banging on the door and crying. A chair had been wedged against the storage area door. Damon had missed two classes. He figured he'd been a prisoner in the tiny space for nearly three hours.

The “family” meeting with Dunmore regarding this incident included Reed, Ron, and their parents. Damon's two tormentors admitted they'd gone looking for him in the theater. “We just wanted to see where he went to eat lunch,” Ron said, shrugging. “He's always disappearing around lunch hour.”

They said they'd peeked into the auditorium and called out his name, but hadn't actually come inside the theater. Everyone knew they were lying. But Reed and Ron stuck to their story—and their obnoxious parents backed them all the way. It was so close to the end of the school year that Dunmore decided to let Reed and Ron go with just a warning.

A lot of good it had done. In fact, the meeting last May had just made matters worse for Damon when school started again this September. Reed and Ron didn't stop harassing him. They'd just gotten sneakier about it.

Neither of them had so much as uttered a word to him since school had started again. But Damon often caught them scowling at him and whispering to their pals. On occasion, when he dared to make eye contact with Reed or Ron in the hallway, they'd smirk at him. Along with his smug grin, Ron sometimes pointed at him and then drew a line across his own neck. The slit-throat gesture wasn't lost on Damon.

He knew he was as good as dead.

He knew the insults hurled at him and the slurs scribbled on his locker or on bathroom mirrors were just a prelude to something horrible. While biding their time, Ron and Reed had recruited others to do their dirty work. That included the anonymous asshole who had just thrown bong water in his face.

Damon wished like hell he'd gotten a good look at the guy.

Standing over the sink, he wiped off his chest and stomach with a wet paper towel and a little soap. Then he wrung out his shirt. Past the cheap soap scent, it still smelled like bong water.

As Damon stuffed the wet, soiled shirt into the plastic bag, he listened to a steady
drip, drip, drip
in one of the sinks.

He froze. Something was wrong. He didn't hear anyone in the hallway. There wasn't even the faintest sound of people laughing or talking.

Above him, the light flickered again.

“Shush,” someone whispered—just outside the bathroom door.

Damon felt his bare skin crawl. He took a step back and bumped into the paper towel dispenser.

All at once, the restroom door swung open. Three guys in black ski masks burst through the doorway and charged toward him. The sudden din sounded like a stampede. The noise reverberated against the tiled walls.

Damon cried out, but before he could do anything, two of the thugs were practically on top of him. They grabbed hold of his arms.

“Guard the door!” one of them grunted.

The third creep pulled back a little, blocking the bathroom door.

Damon tried to scream out again, but one of his attackers slapped a hand over his mouth.

Without his shirt on, Damon felt so scrawny and defenseless. His assailants were practically twice his size. One of them was probably Ron, and the other two, friends of his. Their black ski masks reminded Damon of those cowardly butchers in the ISIS beheading photos. The way they gripped his arms cut off the circulation. They could have easily torn him in two if they wanted.

Still, Damon struggled. No matter how much it hurt, no matter how useless it seemed, he fought back. He tried to bite the big hand clasped over his mouth.

But just then, one of the attackers shifted behind him and took him in a choke hold. The guy squeezed his forearm against Damon's throat. Helpless, Damon couldn't move. His head tipped back and his jaw automatically clenched shut. His assailant started to lift him off the bathroom floor. Damon felt as if he were going to pass out. His feet frantically kicked in the air just inches above the floor tiles.

The second creep fumbled at the front of Damon's jeans, unzipping them and then shucking them down to his ankles.

Damon squirmed. He heard a snipping sound. He managed to focus on the origin of that strange noise. The masked thug in front of him held a pair of scissors, and he kept clicking the blades together as if the shears were a musical instrument.

“Cut off those panties of his,” whispered the one behind him. It sounded like Ron trying to disguise his voice. He squeezed tighter with his chokehold. “Don't you move, or he might slice off your pecker.”

The pressure against his throat obstructed Damon's windpipe. All the while, the second assailant tugged at the side of his underpants—like he was about to cut them off.

The one who had Damon by the throat loosened his grip for a second. “Did you see who hit you with the bong water?”

Damon gasped for air. “No, I swear, I didn't . . . please . . .”

He snapped Damon's head back. “See that big pipe up near the ceiling?”

Damon saw it—by the flickering fluorescent light, amid several smaller, cobweb-strewn pipes.

“We brought a rope along,” he whispered into Damon's ear. “Can you imagine what everyone will say? They'll find you stripped naked and hanging from that pipe. They'll call it a suicide—very kinky, a fitting end for the freak that you are . . .”

The more his masked stranger talked, the more certain Damon was about his identity. It had to be Ron Jarvis.

“None of this happened today,” Ron murmured. Damon felt his warm breath in his ear. “You didn't get dowsed with bong water, and nothing went on here in the bathroom. Isn't that right, freak?”

Damon tried to nod, but he couldn't move his neck. “Yes, I—I won't tell a soul,” he whimpered.

“No, you don't want to be strung up naked, do you, Damon?”

He heard the scissors snipping.

“No, I don't . . . please . . .”

He felt the grip against his throat slacken. “One word about this to anybody and you're dead. Got that?”

“Yes,” he gasped.

Damon had barely gotten the word out when Ron shoved him down onto the grimy tiled floor.

Dazed, he tried to catch his breath. He heard the three scurry out of the bathroom. One of them was snickering. It sounded like Reed.

Damon started to get to his feet, but the room was spinning. He felt cold—and sick to his stomach. He crumpled back down onto the dirty floor. He pulled his pants back up to his waist. Every muscle in his body ached.

Yet, he didn't shed a single tear.

He was telling the truth to those guys. He wouldn't mention a word about this to anyone. He wasn't going to tell Dunmore. He wouldn't say anything to his parents. Tanya would never hear any of the details. None of them could really help him. They were all useless.

He'd already done something to make it right.

Two nights later—on Friday, September 18—he wrote about the incident in his journal. That was his last weekend at his father's town house—before the girlfriend and her nephew moved in. There were certain things he didn't even tell his journal. It turned out to be a smart move on his part.

For several nights, Spencer What's-His-Name slept in the spare bedroom. He might have found the journal and read about the incident in the school restroom—as well as a lot of other personal things. But this houseguest—this intruder into Damon's second bedroom— had no idea what Damon had done to make everything right.

He'd gone online, established contact with a local dealer, paid with a money order, and received a delivery. It had come to his door in a brown box via USPS just days before the ambush in the school bathroom.

The timing of the delivery couldn't have been more perfect. Damon had been home alone. His mother had been out on an errand at the time.

He'd had no idea it would be so easy to purchase a semiautomatic.

Getting his hands on some dynamite would take a little more planning. But Damon was determined to make it happen. Almost a year of abuse from Reed, Ron, and their buddies had helped strengthen his resolve. What was that old saying?
Whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger.

The ones who had made him strong didn't have a clue what was in store for them.

CHAPTER TWELVE

 

A
ndrea impulsively pulled over in front of the cinderblock storefront. She'd been driving up Aurora Boulevard on her way to Costco when she spotted the ugly yellow sign with black lettering:

She knew there wasn't a snowball's chance in hell they'd have the silver frame—and the odds were even worse that her mother's photo would still be inside it. But Andrea parked her VW Beetle at the curb and stepped inside the store anyway. It smelled like a basement that had recently flooded—a sharp, dank odor. The oblong windows were high and offered no view outside except for some phone poles. But Andrea could still hear the traffic on Aurora—past a radio playing an evangelical talk show.

Under bright fluorescent lights, piles of junk were stacked on metal shelves. A bin of DVDs and CDs was against one wall. She was the only customer in the place. The clerk stood behind a counter, where the watches, coins, silverware, and jewelry were displayed. He was a paunchy, sixty-something man in a ratty orange cardigan. He glanced up from his book and eyed her suspiciously—as if she'd come in to shoplift.

Andrea worked up a smile for him. “Do you have any frames—silver frames?”

He squinted at her as if she were crazy. “What?” he barked.

“You know, picture frames?” she said—even drawing a square with her fingers. She didn't think it was such an unusual question.

He nodded toward a shelf to her right. “Try over there.”

“Thank you,” Andrea said. She found a dusty stack of frames—mostly wood or plastic—by some clunky bookends. There was also a vase with a cupid painted on the front. It looked sort of sweet—and pathetic.

A wave of sadness overwhelmed her, and tears welled in her eyes. It wasn't just this depressing, smelly place—or the fact that she was searching for a photograph of her mom that she'd never get back. She was thinking of seven years ago, when she'd hunted through various pawnshops in and around Washington, DC. She'd been looking for her mother's and sister's jewelry. She'd found her sister's scarab bracelet in a Buy & Sell store on Highway 495 in Annandale, Virginia. The police had recovered several other pieces in pawnshops in Falls Church and Arlington. But they'd never found her mother's cocktail ring.

It was just a piece of costume jewelry, maybe worth a hundred dollars at the most, but the slightly gaudy ring had been one of her and her older sister, Vivian's favorite pieces when they were kids playing dress-up with their mother's jewelry. Andrea called it the “fruit salad” ring, because there were five different colored stones in a silver leaf setting. She'd been a little jealous that Vivian ended up with it. Their father didn't try too hard to disguise the fact that Vivian was his favorite. So when their mother died—from an aneurysm at age sixty-eight—their dad gave practically all of her jewelry to Vivian. She also got the china and silverware. At the time, Andrea didn't care that much. She was too devastated by the death of her mother, who didn't seem to have a clear favorite. Andrea was finishing college. Two years older, Vivian was already married, going to a lot of business parties, and doing a lot of entertaining. It made sense that the bulk of their mother's valuables went to her.

But Andrea really wished she'd gotten that silly old ring—for sentimental reasons. Vivian used to joke that she'd leave it to her in her will. It was kind of sad and ironic that the “fruit salad” ring was the one piece never recovered after the murders.

At least she'd inherited a silver frame, in which she'd put a photo of her mother, looking chic at age thirty in a black sleeveless dress and pearls.

The frame wasn't there amid the junk on the pawn store shelf.

Of course it wasn't.

She thought about buying that pitiful cupid vase—just to give it a home. But her cell phone rang, startling her. She made a mental note to change the “Hello, Goodbye” ringtone, which had gotten pretty old. She fished the phone out of her purse, and glanced at the caller ID:
JILL LOGAN.
Andrea had no idea who that was, but Jill Logan lived in Seattle. Andrea clicked on the phone. “Hello?” she whispered.

“Andrea Boyle?” the woman asked.

“Yes?”

“This is Jill Stephenson Logan.”

Apparently that was supposed to mean something to her. “Yes?” she said again.

“I think you know who I am,” the woman hissed.

Andrea didn't know what to say. Just to be polite, she might have pretended the name rang a bell. But this woman sounded so agitated. Every sentence she uttered was almost a confrontation.

“I'm sorry,” Andrea said. “Have we met?”

“Don't try to pretend you don't know who my son is.”

“I give up,” Andrea sighed impatiently. “Who's your son? And who are you? I think you might have the wrong number—”

“I'm Reed Logan's mother, Ms. Boyle.”

It took Andrea a moment to remember that name. He was one of the bullies Damon Shuler had mentioned on his webcast before the car explosion. “I—I still don't understand why you're calling me,” she said.

“Oh, like you don't know!” the woman snapped. “I'm calling to tell you and your nephew to stop it. Do you hear me? No more! Don't think I'm too afraid to go to the police, because I'll go to them, I will. I'm warning you . . .”

Andrea clutched her phone tighter. “What are you talking about? Stop what?”

There was a click on the other end of the line.

 

 

“I swear, I have no idea what she's talking about,” Spencer said into his cell phone. He stood in the corridor outside the cafeteria. He'd been on his way to lunch when his aunt had called.

“Well, do you know this Reed?” Andrea asked. “I mean, this is the same kid who was picking on Damon. He isn't a friend of yours, is he?”

“Of course not,” Spencer sighed. “In fact—well, I didn't want to tell you, but he's been riding my ass lately—”

“What do you mean?”

“He's been—y'know—trying to push me around,” Spencer explained. “I told you I was getting some flak because I'm new.”

“And this Reed character is one of the guys picking on you? Spencer, you told me things were getting better.”

“Well, things got lousy again,” he admitted, leaning against the brick wall. He talked quietly, despite the din from the cafeteria next door. “I guess with Damon dead, they need a new whipping boy. Anyway, on Monday, I kind of screwed up. Reed said some—well, some nasty, offensive shit, and I just lost it. I pushed him against some lockers and told him to lay off.”

“Oh, honey, you've got to be careful,” she said. “You don't want to get into any kind of trouble. If just one incident gets reported to the police, they'll be all over you. It won't matter who's right or who's wrong—”

“I know,” he said, cutting her off. “All I did was shove him, Aunt Dee. Anyway, that was Monday, and since then, they've pretty much left me alone. Plus I've been avoiding them all week. So outside of shoving him—and he really had it coming—I haven't done a thing to Reed Logan. I don't know what his mother's talking about.”

There was a long pause on the other end. “Okay, well, just keep doing your best to avoid him and the others. We'll talk tonight . . .”

After he hung up with his aunt, Spencer wandered into the cafeteria. It was always a bit rowdier and louder on Fridays. It was pizza day, and what the school chef considered pizza was a travesty: leathery, tasteless pepperoni with bland, moist cheese and something close to ketchup bleeding through a soggy crust. Spencer had planned on having a salad and breadsticks instead. He'd also planned to avoid Reed and Ron and their tribe. He didn't need his aunt telling him that.

He noticed Bonnie Middleton was at the cool table once again. She'd never really left it. She was still part of that group.

She'd come back to school on Tuesday, and he'd seen her in chemistry class on Wednesday. She'd smiled at him and given him a little wave as he'd taken his seat. But he'd ignored her. Spencer hoped she'd caught the snub. She had it coming for telling Reed and probably half the school about his aunt and Luke. He hated that Tanya was right about her.

Bonnie was looking at him now—with a glum expression. Reed sat across from her. Reed's back was to him, but Spencer recognized him by the stupid backward Dodgers cap. Reed turned and glanced over his shoulder at him.

Spencer headed to the cafeteria line, skipping past the pizza and zeroing in on the breadsticks.

“Hey, Murray!” he heard someone yell. “Spencer Murray . . .”

He turned around and saw Reed Logan coming toward him.

“We've got to talk,” Reed said. Then he pointed toward the hallway. “Out there . . .”

Spencer wasn't sure if he was being set up for an ambush or if this had to do with whatever was going on between his aunt and Reed's mother. “What for?” he asked.

Reed sighed and adjusted his cap a bit. “Okay, fine, I'll ask you nicely. Would you mind stepping the fuck outside so we can talk for a minute?
Please
?”

As cool and tough as he was trying to act, Reed seemed desperate, too—maybe even a little scared.

“All right,” Spencer replied, still guarded. He headed toward a side door leading to the hallway.

If Reed wanted to talk in private, he was out of luck. Bonnie and a couple of others from the cool table had gotten to their feet and were starting to follow them. Ron wasn't among them. Spencer noticed Tanya—in an ugly denim jumper—emerging from another corner of the cafeteria. She was trying to catch up with them, too. She and the others must have expected to see another confrontation between Reed and him, maybe like the one on Monday afternoon.

“I want you to cut out the shit,” Reed muttered as they ducked into the corridor together. “You leave us alone, and I'll leave you alone, okay?”

“I have no idea what the hell you're talking about,” Spencer said. He couldn't believe the timing. “My aunt just called me and said your mother was on her case about something. Does this have anything to do with that?”

“So you're pretending you didn't break our living room window or key my mother's car . . .”

“What?” Spencer murmured.

“You haven't been calling my mother, saying shit, and hanging up?”

Wide-eyed, Spencer stared at him and shook his head.

“And you had nothing to do with that dead raccoon on our back porch?”

Spencer let out a stunned, little laugh.

“Yeah, it's pretty goddamn funny, isn't it?”

He shook his head again. “No, it's just that a lot of that stuff happened to my aunt and me.”

“Well, you can't prove that I had anything to do with it,” Reed shot back.

The two of them saw they had an audience in the hallway. Reed's voice dropped to a whisper. “That shit going down at your place in Ballard, I'm not responsible for any of it. You have no proof . . .”

Spencer blinked at him. “How did you know about it? I didn't tell anyone.”

Reed grabbed his arm and pulled him out the nearby exit. Spencer felt the chilly autumn air hit him. They were with the smokers and potheads in a courtyard area across from the auditorium building. It stunk of cigarette and marijuana smoke.

“You can't pin any of that shit on me,” Reed growled. “Don't even try, because it won't stick. I was just an errand boy for the Freakazoid's mother. I was only doing what she paid me to do . . .”

Spencer couldn't believe Reed was admitting all this. “She paid you?”

“That's not the point—”

“How did you break in? When you got in and rearranged the shoes on our stairs, how did you pull that off?”

“She had someone else do that,” Reed answered. “What about you? How'd you break into my house?”

“They got inside your house, too?”

Reed nodded. “They didn't steal anything. They just took a bunch of shit out of the refrigerator and left it on the kitchen counter. Or I should say
you
took that crap out of our refrigerator—”

“It wasn't me,” Spencer insisted, shaking his head. “I didn't have a thing to do with it.”

“Bullshit,” Reed retorted. “It's just the kind of thing somebody from a loony bin might do. And that's where you're from, isn't it?”

Spencer felt like he'd just been sucker-punched in the gut. For a few seconds, he couldn't breathe. He saw that Bonnie, Tanya, and a few others from the cafeteria had merged with the smoker crowd. They'd obviously heard what Reed had just said.

“Shut up,” he said quietly.

“You and the Freakazoid were a perfect pair,” Reed went on. He was playing to the audience now. “He was crazy, and you're crazy. They sprung you out of a loony bin in Virginia before you came here. Are you going to deny it?”

It was all Spencer could do to keep from punching Reed in the face. He knew if he did, the
reason
he belted him would be all over the school. He took a deep breath. “Leave me the hell alone,” he said finally. Then he turned away.

“That's what I'm telling you, asshole!” Reed yelled. “Leave me and my family alone!”