“Oh, sure,” Sharla said. But Not Eddie . . . oil like a second skin on the man suggested something else, and Becca felt the hair on her arms stir.
“What about you?” Becca asked. “Did you have to wear at hazmat suit?”
Not Eddie not Eddie the sight and the smell eight days and then no no I won’t.
What did she mean? Becca asked herself. What couldn’t she bear to think about?
Ivar either couldn’t or wouldn’t help her. The subject of Eddie Beddoe was a sore one for him. All he would say was “F’r all I know, Becks, Eddie Beddoe was crazier’n a rabid raccoon long before there was any oil on the beach. And a helluva long time after, too.”
That was it until one day in the chicken coop, and at that point Becca had pretty much given up trying to sort out what was amiss with Eddie Beddoe. She was hard at work with more of the chicken coop’s contents, still doing her part to make sense of the place. Under a pile of what smelled like ancient blankets that had been used for horses, she came upon an old brass-bound trunk. It had no lock, so she pulled it into the center of the building where the light was better. It was covered with grime despite the blankets, and as it had no lock and she was curious, she opened it.
Right on the top was a pile of pictures, some in frames and some not. She took them out and slowly looked through them. Eddie Beddoe, she saw, and Sharla Mann. They were wedding pictures from a long time ago, but there was no mistaking Eddie Beddoe. He was as big as a member of the Bunyan clan and Sharla on his arm looked young and pretty. It was sad, Becca thought, how everything changed. She wondered if more than an oil spill had changed things.
So she looked. She knew it wasn’t entirely right to be going through Sharla Mann’s old belongings, but she did it anyway because Sharla’s whispers—such as they were—told her there was more to know. And having such knowledge could be important, she told herself. It could help her keep Eddie Beddoe from doing whatever he intended to do to harm people.
Halfway through old clothes, tablecloths, and towels, she found it. Three small pairs of OshKosh overalls, three small T-shirts, three pairs of socks, one pair of shoes. They were sized for a toddler. But Sharla, she recalled, had never had a child.
• • •
BECCA THOUGHT ABOUT this as she rode her bike back to her hiding place in the woods. She stowed the bike deep within the trees and began the hike to the clearing where the tree house waited. As she walked, she reviewed what she knew: about the oil spill, about Eddie Beddoe, about Sharla Mann and those small child’s clothes. She thought about Ivar Thorndyke, too. She wondered if he was one of the people who wasn’t revealing everything he knew.
All of this was on her mind when the clearing came into view ahead of her in the evening shadows. A figure was moving slowly across it. She quickly ducked out of sight behind the huge trunk of an old-growth hemlock. Her heart slamming in her throat, she waited. Carefully, she peered around the tree to see what was going on.
She knew the old man who was gazing at the ground. It was Seth’s grandfather, Ralph Darrow. She’d never met him but she’d seen him with Seth: once through the window where she’d stood outside in the darkness and watched Grandpa and Grandson play chess in front of the huge stone fireplace in Ralph Darrow’s living room and once alone and working in his garden. But she’d never seen him out this far into the woods, and she knew his presence meant trouble.
He was studying the area beneath the tree house. She knew what was there. Her footprints were all over the place. So were Seth’s. As she watched, he went to the bottom of the tree house stairs and looked up at the trap door in the balcony floor which, Becca thanked God, she’d closed when she left. She also thanked God that there was nothing visible on the balcony to betray her. That wasn’t the same for the galvanized bucket and the shovel and the rake hidden behind a tree not thirty feet from where Ralph Darrow stood. There was also a low pile of logs that Seth had filched from Ralph for her use in the woodstove, but they were hidden as well, so if he didn’t look, he wouldn’t see.
He put his hand on the tree house stairs, and Becca held her breath. If he climbed, if he went inside, she was totally finished. And there’d be hell for Seth to pay.
She could only imagine how things would play out then. Ralph Darrow would discover her. He would say, “Who the heck are you?” first. Second he would ask, “Do your parents know where you are?” and then, if she answered that question with any degree of truth, his next one would be, “What’re you doing on the island, then?” And that would take them eventually to her mother, to San Diego, and to everything else.
In the clearing, Ralph Darrow put his foot on the bottom of the tree house stairs. He hesitated. Becca concentrated to catch his whispers. The only one she heard was blasted boy . . . up to now. Then he changed his mind about climbing up to see what the blasted boy had been up to. Instead, he turned away and headed in the direction of the main trail. It would take him away from Becca and back to his house.
For the moment, she was safe.
• • •
THE MOMENT DIDN’T last long. Becca waited for five minutes, shivering in the cold, after Ralph Darrow left the clearing. She listened hard for his return, but the only sound she heard was the rat-a-tatting of a pileated woodpecker on a dead alder nearby. She finally gathered up her courage and made a dash for the clearing, its two hemlocks, and the tree house. She scrambled up the stairs and across the balcony. She zipped inside the place and there she huddled, relatively safe. Or so she thought.
Not fifteen minutes later, she heard it. Someone was coming up the stairs. The movements were stealthy, but she was listening hard. She knew what had happened. He’d gone for a weapon.
Of course, she thought. He didn’t know who was inside the tree house, aside from the fact that someone was trespassing on his property. It could be a criminal on the run, a dope dealer, a smuggler, a terrorist, anyone. For all he knew, the person inside the tree house was armed. Naturally, he’d arm himself as well.
The trap door made a small squeak when it opened. Becca stifled a cry as furtive footsteps came toward the door. She saw the knob of it turn, and it began to open. She wondered if she had time to get by him, time to run for the stairs, time to flee altogether. She gathered her wits and her courage to make a run for it, drawing in a deep breath and—
It was Seth. He had an armload of wood. She hadn’t lit the lantern and the place was dark, so he didn’t see her. He jumped and yelped when she said, “Don’t light a fire.”
“You scared the holy crap out of me!”
“Your grandpa was here,” she told him.
“Here? Where? Inside the tree house?”
“Below. He saw my footprints everywhere. Yours too. He looked up the ladder but he didn’t climb up.”
“Cool. That means—”
“That means he’s gone to call the cops or he’s gone for a gun.”
“He doesn’t own a gun. Well, maybe he does, but I’ve never seen it.” He went to the stove and dropped the wood onto the floor. He began to mess around with the fire.
“Don’t!” she said.
“Chill,” he told her. “It’s okay. I’ll talk to him.”
“Talk? About what? Seth, you can’t.”
“Got to. If he’s seen our footprints, he knows something’s up. He’s going to ask me what. I need to tell him.”
“But he’ll make me leave. He’ll want to know . . . Seth, you can’t tell him anything!”
“He’s cool, Becca. It won’t be a problem. I should’ve said something a while back.”
“Seth, no! He’ll ask . . . I can’t tell . . . Please. Never mind. I have to leave.”
She began grabbing her belongings, shoving them into the duffel bag that Seth had provided her months ago. He said, “Hey. What’re you doing?”
“What’s it look like? I’m packing up to go.”
&
nbsp; He headed for the door at this. He said, “No way. Where’re you going to go to? For God’s sake, let me try to handle this before you go tearing out of here, okay? Have a little faith.”
“Where are you going?” she demanded.
“To tell him something. He knows I’m using the tree house, so I’ll let him—”
“Are you loaded or something?”
“Hey—”
“Really, I mean it. Because you have to be if you think your grandfather’s going to go for some girl on the run hiding out in his tree house.”
“Cripes, you must think I’m an idiot. I’m not telling him that.”
“What, then?”
“We’re hanging out here, you and me. It’s the place we come to . . . you know.”
“What? To have sex? You’re going to tell him we’re having sex up here? Oh that’s just great. He’s going to love that. Especially when you tell him I’m only fifteen.”
“He’s not going to ask how old you are. And I’m not going to tell him we’re having sex. Just that—”
“What? We’re smoking dope? He’s going to know I’m hiding out here.”
“Don’t be so paranoid. It’ll work out.” And to prove this to her, he left the tree house with the words, “I’ll be right back.”
• • •
BECCA’S DREAD OF the outcome increased while Seth was gone. At first, she thought about following him through the woods to Ralph Darrow’s house. She’d tell a version of the truth to the old man, she decided. And then she’d throw herself on his mercy. But what version of the truth would work? The one in which her mom dropped her off at the ferry dock and then just disappeared? The one in which she read her stepfather’s mind and ran with her mom from San Diego? The one in which she’d been hiding out on Ralph Darrow’s property because she was afraid for her life? What could she tell him that wouldn’t require one explanation on top of another explanation leading to the Big Explanation: I sort of read minds and it got me into trouble.
No. It seemed to her that, like it or not, she had to depend on Seth. She had to believe that he could cook up a story that Ralph Darrow would believe. And he needed to believe it as long as it took for her to find another place to live. For now that he knew there was someone using the tree house on his property—no matter what Seth told him the reason was—he’d be wary, aware, on guard, whatever. It stood to reason, too, that he’d be back to check on the place from time to time.
She peered out the window into the darkness. She willed Seth back. She double-willed him to tell his grandfather something that Ralph Darrow would accept. He needed to believe that no one was living in the tree house, that Seth and someone were using it only as the occasional hangout, a place to meet, to talk, to play music, to write music, to whatever, and then to depart. Anything else wasn’t going to work.
Come on, she thought. Come on. Come on.
An hour passed. Then another. During the first one, Becca packed her belongings. During the second, she grabbed her flashlight, left the tree house, and descended the ladder. She knew the route to Ralph Darrow’s house. It seemed to her that her only choice was to trace it.
It carved through the forest where the undergrowth was thick, even at this time of year. So one could leap behind a huge growth of salal just off the path if concealment was necessary. In the height of summer, with the brambles grown in and the stinging nettles flourishing, that would be impossible.
As she got closer to the clearing that held Ralph Darrow’s house and his spectacular garden of rhododendrons, Becca began to smell the woodsmoke. A few more minutes brought her to the edge of the forest, where she paused and peered around to see what was what. No one was outside, but lights were on in the house. Smoke issued from the large, stone chimney. Seth, she decided, would still be inside.
She crept forward. She’d never been in Ralph Darrow’s house, but she’d peered through the windows, which was what she did now. The fireplace, she knew, was in the living room. That would be where Seth was . . . if he was still within.
They were playing chess. Chess, of all things! There she’d been—out in the woods with what felt like her whole life in the balance—while Seth and his grandfather had been playing chess!
She fumed. She wanted to bang on the window. Had Seth actually managed to forget what he’d set out to do? Could she not even depend on him, her friend, her only friend . . . ? She wanted to stomp her feet and vent and yell.
He felt something because he looked up. His eyes met hers. He gave a nearly imperceptible shake of his head. He glanced at his grandfather, then back at her. She got the message and beat a retreat.
Not to the tree house, though. She couldn’t return there without knowing the worst. She went as far as the path back into the forest and there she waited. She did not wait long.
“Now that was a dumb move,” Seth said when he joined her ten minutes later.
“What the hell were you doing?” she demanded. “You said you were going to talk to him. Did you actually forget or something? I’m out there wondering and waiting and worrying, and you’re playing chess? What’s wrong with you?”
“Chill,” he told her. He cast a look at the house before he set off into the woods. He said over his shoulder, “I told you it would be cool and it was. It is. But what’d you expect me to do? Was I s’posed to burst into his house and just happen to tell him a story about the tree house thirty minutes after he just happened to be out there scouting around it?” He huffed along the trail. Becca was hard-pressed to keep up with him. His whispers told her how badly she’d offended him with her questions and her accusations. Thinks I’m . . . idiot would have . . . I am NOT dumb . . . pretty much said it all.
They didn’t speak again till they were in the clearing, where Becca apologized to him. She said miserably, “Sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean . . . I don’t know what I’m saying sometimes.”
“That’s pretty clear,” was his reply.
“And I don’t think you’re dumb. I’m just . . . I’m scared and mixed-up and sometimes what I think’s going on isn’t what’s going on at all.”
“Got that right,” he said.
She shuffled her feet. She waited. She wasn’t sure of anything.
Then he said, “You’re one of my tutors for the GED. Applied Math. You’ve got a boyfriend who’s got a big jealousy problem so we meet out here. We tried the library. We tried South Whidbey Commons. We even tried a conference room at City Hall. But the dude kept finding us and interrupting so we decided to hide out here.”
“That’s what you told him?”
“Pretty good, I thought. I mean, it’s more or less true. All except the tutoring me part of it. He checks out the story, he gets a thumbs-up. I’ve met my tutor all these places. Only thing missing is her jealous boyfriend, but you’ve got that.”
“Well, I did.” She looked from the tree house back in the direction they’d come. “Did he believe you?”
“Sure he believed me. And the reason he believed me is that I didn’t jump onto his porch and make some completely stupid announcement out of the blue. I had to wait for him to bring the topic up. When you’re playing with the truth, that’s your only choice.”
Playing with the truth didn’t sound so good, though.
“I hope this doesn’t backfire on you,” Becca said.
“It won’t. I got everything handled,” Seth told her.
TWENTY-FOUR
If Courtney was like two people—a public Courtney available to her friends and a very private Courtney who texted him pictures—Derric couldn’t fault her. For he, too, was quickly becoming two people. He was the Derric who kept telling his mom to lay off the subject when she wanted to talk about what she always referred to as “the raging hormones of the adolescent male” because he and Courtney weren’t doing anything and they didn’t intend to do anything, all right, M
om? But he was also the Derric whose thinking appeared to be limited to one subject only these days and whose dreams left him damp and embarrassed and standing too long in the shower in the morning.
When he finally made the decision to go to Courtney’s Bible study group, it was for only one reason. She’d told him it was held in the daylight basement of her church. That meant that she would need to drive them there. Driving them there meant driving them home at the end of the meeting. That meant being alone. Being alone with Courtney was what he wanted. They needed to talk. She kept texting. She kept sending him pictures. He was turned every which way, and, worse in his own mind, he’d started sending pictures to her. He knew it was dumb but he couldn’t seem to stop. Something had to give. In some direction. Forward or backward. Something. So he’d say, “C’n we talk?” after the meeting and he’d suggest a spot on Goss Lake that was a swimming property where no one lived. No one would be there in the month of March, but there they could lay a blanket out on ground that the owners had groomed for picnics. There they could talk in the darkness and decide once and for all how things were going to be. Nothing was going to happen between them after a Bible study, he told himself.
Courtney’s face transformed when he asked her if she’d take him to the Bible group. His mother’s face, when he told her where he was going and with whom, transformed as well. But where Courtney’s altered to delight, Rhonda’s altered to deep suspicion. She said, “Ten o’clock,” and when he protested, she added, “School night, Derric. Don’t give me grief.”
He said fine and he found himself soon enough in a group of eleven kids along with a youth pastor from Courtney’s church. They sat in a circle of mismatched chairs and two sofas, Derric and Courtney having scored one of the sofas. She sat pressed to his side, wearing skinny jeans and a modest belted tunic, for which he was grateful. Otherwise, he’d not have been able to concentrate on anything, although, truth to tell, it was tough enough anyway because the Bible story Pastor Ken had chosen for discussion was called Susanna and the Elders. It was all about sex, although in the beginning it was just about some lady who wanted to take a bath in her garden. But two old guys spied on her from behind a tree, felt some serious lust at the sight of her naked body, and decided they wanted to do the deed with her.