“Mel Gibson Syndrome. Get plastered and out comes the real you.”
She tells Logs about the birds following their mother across the two-lane. “He swerved right into them,” she says. “It was creepy. I looked at his face and he was . . . I don’t know, proud, or smug or something. Then when he saw how horrified I was he blurted out this stupid story about how he thought they were going to reverse direction, but Mr. Logs, they couldn’t have. They were full-speed ahead trying to get out of the way. I didn’t think it was so weird right then because I wanted to believe him, I guess.”
“And that was before he was drinking?”
“Only coffee,” she says. “We were on our way up.”
“That’s troubling.”
“On the way home we stop by to see Justin and some other kids and he goes way off, calling people—girls—horrible names and saying things . . . worse than earlier. He even started going after me. Justin took me home.” She breathes deep. “How in the world did we elect him student body president?”
Two sharp knocks. “Hey, man . . .” Paulie stops cold. “Hey, Hannah.”
“Hey, Paulie.”
Logs watches them lock eyes. Hannah blinks first. “Paulie, I’m sorry about the other day in The Rocket.”
“I shouldn’t have said that,” Paulie says. “You know me, when things start to go bad I gotta speed them up.”
Logs winces.
“I probably had it coming,” Hannah says.
Paulie studies her a moment. “Well, this is awkward,” he says finally. “I’ll leave you two to your sordid affair.”
“Actually we were finished with that,” Logs says. “Pull up a chair.” He holds up a slip of paper. “Got the numbers we needed. Thought I’d give Mr. Wells a little time to wake up.”
Hannah crinkles her nose. “What’s going on?”
“Mary Wells seems to be AWOL again,” Logs says. “We’re trying to find out if she’s with her family.”
“Doesn’t Mrs. Byers take care of that?”
Logs nods at Paulie as if to say, “Bring her up to speed,” while he punches Victor Wells’s cell number.
While Paulie shows her the text message on his own cell, Logs speaks into his.
“Mr. Wells? This is Bruce Logsdon . . . from the high school? I’m calling in reference to Mary’s attendance. Is your family out of town? . . . You and your wife are? Becca. Not Mary? . . . I’m afraid so . . . Two days; we’re a little worried. Paul Baum got a text from her, or a partial text. . . .”
He listens for what seems to Paulie like a long time, then, “I wouldn’t jump to conclusions . . . I know, she’s not my daughter . . . Yes, sir. This afternoon, then? Sure, I’ll stay ’til you get here. And I’ll call if she shows this morning . . . Please let us know if you hear from her. Yes, sir, thank you.”
“She’s not with him,” Logs says. “There was an emergency in Mrs. Wells’s family. Mary stayed home to catch up on some work. He didn’t know she hadn’t been to school.” He shakes his head. “My God, Wells is pissed at her for causing him more problems. I’d be worried out of my head. Hell, now I am worried out of my head.” He slaps his hand flat on his desktop. “Listen, I’m going over to the office to talk with Dr. Johannsen; I’ll catch up with you in P-8.” And he is out the door.
“I can’t believe her dad left her alone,” Hannah says. She hesitates. “You think she’s back on whatever she was on the night I almost ran her over?”
“Oxys,” Paulie says. “I don’t think so; that freaked her out pretty bad.” He shakes his head. “But like Logs says, bring in drugs and all bets are off.”
Hannah moves closer, sits on the edge of the desk next to Paulie’s chair. He aches to reach out to touch her. It almost seems she would let him.
“So this is more than just Mary Wells getting into drugs?” she asks.
He nods. “It sure seems like it.”
Hannah touches his hand.
“Hey,” he says in barely a whisper. “Truce?”
“Yeah,” Hannah says. “For now.”
“In case your day’s starting slow, Mary Wells is missing again.”
“My God,” Dr. Johannsen says, sitting back in her chair. “Where did you hear that? Her father again?”
“Actually I told him,” Logs says. “Paulie had been hanging out with her right before she disappeared, and got a strange text message, one that worried him. He and his dad drove over, found no one home, and because of all the recent uproar, he came to me. I caught up with Mr. Wells this morning. He’s out of town with his wife and younger daughter, but Mary was supposed to stay home to catch up on all the work she missed. He’s coming back this afternoon. I thought you and I could meet with him.”
“Goodness, yes,” Dr. Johannsen says. “Let’s head this one off and see if we can get this year over without my having to stand in front of one more camera.”
Rachel Randolph, the front office receptionist and secretary, rushes into the office.
“What is it, Rachel?”
Rachel’s face radiates alarm. “Come look.”
Logs and Dr. Johannsen step into the empty outer office and see the TV monitor mounted above the entrance door, tuned to the local news. Police tape surrounds a modest house, still smoldering from what must have been an intense fire. Police cars, lights flashing, sit at the edge of the lawn and firemen roll in their hoses.
Logs can’t place the house, but the neighborhood looks vaguely familiar. “What is this?”
“Kylie Clinton’s house,” Rachel says. “She’s one of our students.”
Logs’s stomach leaps into his throat. He didn’t see her after her meltdown in Period 8. She said she was okay. He leans forward on the counter. “What are they saying? Was anyone hurt?” The video is obviously from last night. A girl with her face intentionally blurred is helped into the back of an ambulance by paramedics and a woman who must be her mother. The woman gets in behind her.
“The fire chief says there’s a gasoline smell everywhere,” Rachel says. “He didn’t come out and say it was arson because they have to do a formal investigation, but . . .”
“She had her hands over her face,” Logs says. “Do you think they blurred it because she was burned?”
“I don’t think so,” Dr. Johannsen says. “She would have been on a stretcher. They blurred it because she’s a juvenile.”
Logs hits his forehead. “Duh!”
They watch the scenario play out repeatedly, but no new information comes to light. “I will be so glad when this school year is over,” Dr. Johannsen says. “I swear I feel responsible for everything that happens to these kids nine months out of the year, whether the school has anything to do with it or not.”
Logs stares at the screen. The images aren’t live. If Kylie isn’t burned, what’s she doing getting into an ambulance?
.15
Dr. Johannsen walks onto the stage in a stone-silent auditorium, the counselors and other administrators in folding chairs next to the podium. Justin and Tak sit between Paulie and Hannah near the front.
Dr. Johannsen taps the mike with her finger. “Good morning, people. For those of you who don’t know, the family of one of our students experienced a major house fire last night. A few minutes ago I got off the phone with someone from the city fire department, who says there is evidence of foul play, which I assume means arson. They’ve requested to come into the school today to ask questions of anyone who might be able to shed light on their investigation. Your teachers will bring you up to date on the details, and we’d like anyone who thinks they might have any useful information to excuse yourself to the office. Please do not use it as simply an excuse to get yourself out of class.”
Light laughter.
“Okay,” Dr. Johannsen says, “return to your first period and let’s see if we can do this in a fashion that doesn’t cause too much interruption in the day.”
The mass exodus begins.
“I saw on TV that a neighbor said Kylie was yell
ing it was her fault,” Justin says.
“Kylie or her mom,” Hannah says.
“Yeah, well,” Tak says, “what’s your bet? Remember her in P-8 the other day?”
The others don’t respond. They remember.
“Second news report said no one was injured,” Paulie says. “So what’s with the ambulance?”
Justin smiles. “Two kinds of hospital you go to in an ambulance,” he says.
Paulie and Hannah say it together: “Psych ward.”
“So,” Paulie says, gazing at Justin and Tak, “Sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. Where the hell is Mary Wells?”
“I guess that used to be a lot of money, huh?” Justin says.
Tak says, “Yeah, back when they made up the saying. Mr. Logs was probably younger than us.”
“I caught up with him on the way out of school,” Paulie says. “He’s still gonna meet up with her dad this afternoon. He said he’d call if he learns anything.”
“Lot of crazy shit happenin’ around here,” Justin says.
“A lot of crazy shit.” Tak agrees. He sips his hot chocolate. “What do you guys think about Kylie? House is on fire and she’s yellin’ it’s her fault?”
“That neighbor wasn’t sure who was yelling,” Paulie says. “And you know the news guys, they’ll say anything to get some suspense going.”
“Maybe,” Justin says, “but she gets all freaky the other day in P-8. Might make sense she’s freaky when the ol’ home catches fire.”
Paulie rocks his chair back on two legs, staring at the screen on his cell. “I was gonna hit the water this afternoon, but I’m afraid I might miss something.”
Justin says, “I just want to hear what Wells is gonna say. Shit, man, his daughter is missing and he’s more pissed and embarrassed than freaked. What a sorry . . .”
Paulie enters Period 8 late the next day, sees an open seat next to Hannah and slips into it.
Logs says, “So, who wants to start?”
“How about you start, Mr. Logs,” Marley Waits says. “You know any more about Mary? And what about Kylie?”
“This is probably confidential,” he says, “but we keep it all in the room, right?”
“Yeah, man,” Justin says. “We keep it in the room.”
“They took Kylie to the psychiatric unit.”
Taylor Max says, “She start the fire?”
“No, Taylor, she didn’t start the fire. She got hysterical and they couldn’t calm her down. She’s there for a seventy-two-hour observation. That’s about all I can tell you.”
“Was the neighbor lady right?” Bobby Wright asks. “Was she yelling that it was her fault?”
“I have no idea,” Logs says, “and how about we keep the conjecture to a minimum. Maybe when all of this calms down she can tell us herself.”
“So what about Mary?” Marley asks.
“I don’t know a thing. I was supposed to meet with her father yesterday afternoon, but he didn’t show up. Either he didn’t get back or he decided not to keep us in the loop. I’m sure he’s contacted the police.”
“Jesus Christ,” Hannah says. “Your kid is missing and you take a couple of days to come home?”
“I got the feeling on the phone that Mr. Wells thinks Mary took off to cause trouble for him,” Logs says. “Since she disappeared that first time, he isn’t giving her much slack.”
“God,” Marley says. “Do we know her better than her own dad?”
“Doesn’t sound like that would be much of an achievement,” Tak says.
Arney bursts through the door. “Hey, everybody. Sorry I’m late. Student council meeting.”
“Emergency meeting to save the school?” Justin says.
Arney ignores the sarcasm. “Something like that.” He doesn’t make eye contact with Paulie or Hannah. Or Justin, for that matter. To the rest of the room he says, “We set up a plan to gather donations for the Clintons, and to send a card up to Kylie.” He looks directly at Logs. “Man, I missed that one. I thought she was okay after I talked with her the other day.”
Logs only nods.
Hannah leans over to Paulie. “Arney’s so full of shit. You should have heard him talking about her the other night.”
“Don’t tell me,” Paulie says. “Tell him.”
Hannah stares at Paulie a second, then looks over to Arney. “Why would you be involved in sending her a card after all those things you said about her the other night?”
Arney shakes his head, looks at his hands. “I meant to talk to you in private,” he says, “and to you guys, too, Jus. I was way out of line. I think I’m one of those guys who needs to stay clean and sober every minute. I talked to my dad this morning and he’s looking into getting me into a program.”
“Really,” Hannah says. “Which one?”
Arney doesn’t miss a beat. “Daybreak, probably,” he says. “Outpatient.”
Justin leans over to Paulie. “That fucker is slick.”
Hannah smiles. It’s always something you can’t check with Arney, she thinks. Daybreak is confidential. He can say anything he wants. I’ll bet anything he knows at least three kids’ names who go there, and he’ll drop them on us within the week. Swear to God if I didn’t know better I’d think he had something to do with Kylie going off. Mary, too.
Paulie leans toward her. “I wish you’d have let me talk,” he whispers, “about the thing with Mary.” He hesitates. “It wasn’t exactly what it looked like.”
Hannah grits her teeth, then slides down in her seat.
“You’re right,” he says, “It is what it is. But I like the truce. He reaches over, drums his fingers on her knee.
She covers his hand with hers.
“Keep the truce?”
She nods tentatively, glances over at Arney, who is watching, then away.
“It’s good to get back into a pattern,” Logs says to Paulie. Hannah drives toward them, her scull mounted atop her car.
“And good to have her back,” Paulie says. “I’m glad she didn’t make us wait ’til she got her new boat.”
“Be patient, my friend,” Logs says in a low voice as Hannah gets out of the car.
They help Hannah get the scull into the water. “Thanks for coming,” Logs says. He looks out over the water, then at the sun low in the sky. “We don’t have a lot of light, so what say you guide us out a little over halfway, then we’ll hook on and you can pull us back. We’ll all get a quick workout, then come earlier next time and do some real work. We’re getting a little more light every day.”
They launch the boat off the end of the loading dock. Paulie and Logs slide into the water.
On the seat of his Beetle, Paulie’s iPhone vibrates with an incoming text.
Paulie and Logs speed toward the city police station in Logs’s pickup, Paulie staring at the text and Logs breaking nearly every traffic law that won’t get them killed, hoping to get pulled over for speeding, thereby picking up an escort.
When Paulie saw the text just after they shed their wetsuits, he panicked. He praises the gods that Logs was there—Logs, who seems to never panic. Hannah read the message and headed for Mary’s house, leaving the scull on the dock, dialing and re-dialing the number Logs gave her for Mr. Wells’s cell on the way.
“If he answers tell him or his wife to meet us at the station,” Logs had told her. “If he doesn’t and he’s not home, leave a note. Make him understand how urgent it is.”
“I’d have you call 911,” Logs says to Paulie now, “but I don’t know where to send them. Officer Rankin gave me his private cell and said to call any time if something related to Mary came up.” He spits out Rankin’s number from memory. “Don’t know how I can do that,” he says. “I can’t remember to get cat food. If he answers tell him to meet us at the station.”
Paulie is dialing as Logs says it; Rankin answers on the second ring. In as few words as possible Paulie relates the facts. “We’re on our way to the station now,” he says.
“I
’ll be there in fifteen,” Rankin says. “Meet me outside. I can set things in motion faster than you could starting your story from scratch with the desk.”
Logs floors the gas pedal of the old Datsun. They speed onto the off-ramp and onto city streets, running rapidly changing yellow lights at busy intersections and red lights at empty ones.
Officer Rankin waits as they pull into a no-parking zone in front of the station. “What have you got?”
Paulie punches “Messages” on his iPhone and turns the screen toward Rankin, and translates. telkylieto run wachout4arne myparents2 getsisandrundanger 4 any1hooreadsthis.
“Jesus,” Rankin says.
Logs says, “What do you think it means?”
“I don’t know. You’re going to have to let me keep your phone this time, son,” Rankin says. “I have a feeling this will be critical evidence.”
Paulie reluctantly hands over the iPhone.
“So what do we do now?” Logs asks.
“Go home,” Rankin says. “There’s nothing you can do. If we need anything else we’ll give a call.” He takes Logs’s numbers. “Again, don’t give anyone the specific content of this.” He holds up the phone. “And I mean no one.”
“Man,” Paulie says, sitting in the shotgun seat on the way back to the lake to retrieve his car and their gear. “Oh, man.”
“What in the world could Mary know about Kylie?” Logs says. “Any way you look at it, this is bad.” He accelerates onto the freeway. “After we pick your stuff up, I’m following you home.”
“Why?”
“To talk with your mom. We have no idea where Mary sent that text from, but it was dire. She said anyone who reads it is in danger and the message came to your phone.” Logs moves into the right lane and onto the off-ramp. “I hope Hannah got in touch with the Wellses. If not, I’m sure Rankin will.” He hands Paulie his cell. “Call her.”
Paulie punches in Hannah’s number while Logs takes a right onto the narrow two-lane that leads another mile and a half to the lake. Suddenly bright lights and an explosion of metal on metal rocket the pickup sideways and down the grassy incline. It rolls once before coming to a rest upright against a thick pine tree. Paulie and Logs sit stunned, steam and smoke pouring from under the hood, the horn blaring. Paulie’s head clears, he checks for injuries, struggles with his seat belt.