Stones and Spark Page 17

  In sickness and in health, for richer, for poorer, 'til death do they part, my parents slow-dance on Monday nights. My dad claims it puts the rest of the week in perspective. But as I stand in the parlor's doorway, panting from racing out of Teddy's van to the front door, I feel totally out of sync.

  My mom's eyes are closed and she leans into him, melting into his chest. His eyes are open, staring at me over the top of her head with an expression that repeats what he told me in the cellar Friday night: the situation is serious but not hopeless.

  He speaks into her hair. "Somebody's watching us."

  She pulls back, startled, but laughs when she sees me. Not a happy laugh. More like relief.

  "Sorry," I say. "Mr. Chastain got caught in traffic."

  My dad doesn't want me calling Teddy by his first name. And Teddy hates hearing Mr. Chastain. So when in Rome . . .

  My dad takes her hand, kisses it and says, "We'll be right in for dinner. Give me one minute with Raleigh."

  When she passes me in the doorway, she hesitates. One moment. Two. I count them, sensing a clicking mechanism inside her head, the thing shifting like a tumbler in a revolver, searching for the chamber that holds the bullet.

  I lift everything inside of me, and smile.

  She walks down the hall.

  When her steps fade into the kitchen, he asks, "Why didn't you tell me?"

  "Mr. Chastain said he told you…I was working. In the lab."

  "Not that." He opens the big wooden armoire by the front door, rummaging in his coat. He pulls out a newspaper, folded tightly to show only one headline.

  MISSING GIRL. I see Drew's name below it.

  "I did tell you!"

  "Keep your voice down," he says.

  "In the cellar," I whisper. "Friday night? I told you Drew was missing, you just didn't listen."

  He hands it to me. "Read it."

  I read it all right, but after the first paragraph it's like I'm looking through the wrong end of a pair of binoculars. The words shrink. I can see her name there, our school, a quote from Detective Holmgren asking for any information. But no mention of her shoe at the quarry. That means the cops are probably withholding that detail. For later. For when they catch somebody. But just as I'm coming back to normal, I see a small gray box to the right of the story. It shows a timeline for last Friday, the day "the missing girl, Drew Levinson," didn't show up for her regular weekly dinner with her best friend—at Big Man's Burgers.

  Even though I'm done reading the story, I continue to stare at the newspaper. My heart can't hold any more dread right now, but here it comes, stomping toward me like a black-booted mercenary, kicking down all that righteous anger I just flung at my father.

  He listened.

  He's a judge. My dad listens to everything.

  I hand him the paper.

  "Because you wouldn't let me go."

  "So you decided to lie?" he asks.

  There is nothing to say. He pushes the paper back into his coat. Then takes several deep breaths, calming himself.

  "How long?" he asks.

  "How long . . . have we been going there?"

  We both know that's the question. And we both know I'm stalling.

  "For a while," I finally say.

  "Raleigh . . . "

  "Opening Day."

  "You've been lying to me since Opening—that's—April?"

  I don't move. I don't even blink.

  "Two girls hanging around Scott's Addition? It's one of the most dangerous neighborhoods in the city. Raleigh, you were not raised to be this naive."

  "I'm not naive."

  "Oh no? Look what happened. Drew's disappeared."

  My battered heart gives a sudden kick. And it sends out that mean little lawyer who lives inside me. She mounts a stubborn pony, rides to my rescue, waving her point.

  “So you were wrong," I say.

  "Pardon?"

  "You were wrong. You said Drew ran away. That's what you said, on Friday. So you were wrong."

  "Yes," he says. "I was wrong. Because you lied."

  That last word hangs in the silence. It should shut me up. But that tiny attorney is still riding fast.

  "How can you accuse me?" I protest. "It's not any different from the stuff you tell Mom."

  "Do not attempt that comparison, young lady."

  "The point is—"

  "The point is you're grounded."

  "What!?"

  "Quiet," he says. "Grounded. For two weeks."

  "I can't stay in this house for—"

  "Alright, three weeks."

  "That's not fair!"

  "How about a month?"

  I clench my teeth, restraining that galloping attorney. But she kicks, demands to make one last point.

  "If you ground me," I say, "how am I supposed to find Drew?"

  "Find her?" He glances down the hall, making sure Mom’s still in the kitchen. "You're not supposed to find her. The police are." He reaches into his coat again, and pulls out a small black rectangle. "And from now on, you're carrying this with you at all times."

  He hands it to me. A cell phone.

  "If you don't know how to use it, Helen can show you. She's coming home this week."

  "What?!"

  "Keep your voice down," he says, not even correcting me with pardon. "Your mother. She needs to see Helen."

  In my hand, the phone feels like a cold stone. My mother needs to see Helen, because I'm not measuring up to her insane standard. With one finger, I jab the phone, releasing the sharp electronic sound that makes me hand it back to him.

  "Forget it. I'm not using that thing. I don't even like ordinary phones."

  "This is non-negotiable, Raleigh."

  "Why?"

  "And since your mother isn't ready to hear about wireless communication," he says, ignoring my question, "keep the ring on vibrate instead of sound. I had the tech people put my number in there, at the courthouse, along with Helen's. But you can always dial 9-1-1 if—"

  "If paranoia is contagious."

  He glances down the hall again. It's a long moment before he turns toward me again.

  “Titus Williams has a record for statutory rape."

  "That's impossible."

  "You're naive, Raleigh."

  "I'm not!"

  "Keep your voice down," he says. "It was his niece, she was fourteen. Remind me, how old is Drew?"

  I can see the anger that flames his eyes. But something is splashing against it, dowsing the heat. He looks sad, almost apologetic.

  "Why wasn't that in the paper?" I ask.

  He doesn't reply.

  "Dad, what did you do?"

  "I did some checking."

  “Without talking to me first?”

  “Now we're even." His eyes glisten. "Terrible. Isn't it?"

  "People accuse other people of all kinds of things. That doesn't mean it happened. You've told me that a hundred times."

  "The girl's mother—his sister-in-law—got a restraining order. And he violated it. No minors were supposed to come into his restaurant."

  "Dad, he never came near us."

  But as the words leave my mouth, I see Titus. At the baseball field. The same field where Drew apparently stood, right before she disappeared. The anger comes suddenly. It's like a volcano of frustration and hurt and I don't even know what, but I want to hit something.

  "You're the reason he's in jail!" I yell.

  He doesn't even turn his head. Like some sixth sense, he seems to feel her coming down the hall. I glance past him, see her wiping her hands on another Susie Homemaker apron. It's yellow, a giant flashing traffic light. Caution: the Cook is Insane.

  I slide the cell phone up my sleeve.

  "Jail?" she says, in a high trembling voice. "What's this about jail?"

  My mom's got trigger words. When she was sixteen her mother threw her in jail for being crazy—"loose," which in rural North Carolina meant parents could punish however they wanted. My mother lit out for Vi
rginia as soon as the cell door opened. Helen was born the next year.

  But my dad isn't going to help me now. I've thrown out the trigger word; I can clean up the mess.

  "Dad said if I don't wear my bike helmet I could go to jail."

  He gives me a sharp look. But my statement is not a lie. Completely. He's lectured me on the helmet laws. Once. So long ago I can't remember.

  She keeps wiping her hands on the apron. When she speaks, her voice is that pitched tremolo. "Helen is coming home Thursday, her bus arrives at three-forty-five. See how the numbers align? Three. Four. Five. It's all lining up."

  Gently, he takes her arm and walks her to the kitchen. I stand there, feeling like I've been slapped, and watch them until they disappear into the kitchen.

  In the silence, I hear the old phonograph. The song is over, but the record is spinning, needle winding around and around until somebody makes it stop.

  ***

  Dinner is a lentil stew. It looks like tree barf.

  I choke it down then go upstairs and ignore my homework.

  I type into my computer's search engine: "geology baseball soil."

  Who knew?

  Its proper name is "ball field dirt," and there's actual science with it.

  When clays and silts get wet, they turn into mud with the consistency of melted plastic. But baseball fields need clay and silt because they keep the surface soft for running and sliding. To make the right kind of ball field dirt, geologists mix specific ratios, always adding sand because it helps keep the wet stuff from getting too sticky. But I don't see anything about those weird red icicles in the St. Christopher's soil until I do another search.

  It's a special product called vitrified clay. Vitrified basically means the clay is roasted at a super high temperature that drives out all the moisture. But it's an expensive process and most ball fields can't afford to use the stuff. But it works to keep all the other soils from getting clumpy, especially in heavy rain.

  I can actually see some donor paying for that stuff for the St. Christopher's field—maybe even DeMott's wealthy family. Richmond experiences heavy rain in spring, which must mess with baseball season. And now it makes sense that there were more red icicles around the pitching mound and batting area—where every person needs secure footing, not sticky mud.

  I copy all the information, and send a file to Teddy's home email.

  When I walk downstairs, it's just past nine p.m. and my parents are cuddled on the couch. An old black-and-white movie plays on the television. Which is also black-and-white. Sometimes I swear this whole house is stuck in 1950.

  But worse are my mother's eyes. They're glassy now. Like the meds have taken over. She doesn't even look at me.

  "Goodnight," I say.

  "Want to watch?" my dad asks.

  "Thanks, but I have to get up early.”

  I walk back up the stairs, telling myself that is not a lie.

  My alarm is already set. For 1 a.m.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  The night air is so cold that silver clouds bloom out of my mouth as I run down our alley. I cross Monument Avenue—the road is deserted—and hide behind Stuart Circle Hospital.

  Taking out my new cell phone, I punch in the number for Officer Lande. My fingers are cold, stiff. A shiver rattles down my back as I hold the phone to my ear, thinking about how much Drew hates being cold. Not just the temperature, but that it represents a lack of thermal energy.

  Please, wherever she is, keep her warm.

  "Officer Lande speaking."

  "It's Raleigh."

  The pause is long enough for me to guess what she's thinking. It's 1:16 a.m.—why are you calling me? So I answer.

  "I'm calling because I need to talk to you. Now."

  ***

  The black and white police cruiser swoops down West Avenue, creeping behind the hospital until she sees me jump out of the bushes. I yank open the back door, drop into the hard plastic seat, and feel the heat shroud me like an electric blanket.

  One last shiver creeps up my back.

  Officer Lande turns in her seat, studying me through the metal cage separating the front and back seats.

  "And your parents know you're out here, again?"

  "And you're going to law school?"

  "Law school?" She frowns. "No. Why do you say that?"

  "Because my dad says only lawyers ask questions they already know the answers to."

  She has the kind of skin my mom is deathly afraid of—freckled from too much sun—and when she smiles, the freckles rise like bubbles.

  "It's an honest question," she says. "I'd like an honest answer."

  "My mom isn't all . . . " I hunt for words, the words I've learned not to say. "My mom doesn't think I'm her real daughter, okay?"

  Another frown. "Who does she think you are?"

  "Some spy. An impostor. Is Titus Williams in jail?"

  "Now you're the lawyer." She turns around, facing the windshield.

  "I know he's in jail," I admit. "But I don't know why."

  "Titus Williams is a person of interest in the disappearance of Drew Levinson."

  "If I wanted an official statement, I could read the newspaper."

  She barely hears me. Her radio is crackling, bursting with the letters and numbers I used to hear in court when people read police transcripts. The Hundred Code, according to my dad. Officer Lande's radio is talking about a "possible four-one-five" in Jackson Ward. She seems to be listening to the report, so I glance out my window. I've been worried one of our neighbors will see me out here. Or see her cruiser—and me inside the cruiser. They're sure to ask my dad what's going on.

  I slide down in the seat.

  The radio goes quiet. She turns in her seat again.

  "It's very serious, Raleigh."

  "No kidding, that's why I'm out here in the freezing cold."

  "I mean about Titus."

  She waits for me to say something.

  "He always seemed like a nice guy."

  "Yeah, well, professional athletes think they're above the law."

  "I don't think he does."

  "Really?" The metal cage fractures her severe face. "Did he tell you two girls not to come into his restaurant?"

  "No. But he once kicked out a guy who cursed in front of us. And then he apologized to me and Drew that we had to hear it."

  "Great." Officer Lande's face doesn't change. "Did he ever approach you outside of his restaurant?"

  "No."

  "What about Drew?"

  I don't say anything. Before seeing Titus at that baseball field, I'd say no. But now . . . ?

  "Okay," she says. "Did he do anything that would keep you two coming back each week?"

  "Not really."

  "Raleigh. Tell me."

  "Free shakes. Whoever got there first got a free shake." My stomach knots at the thought.

  She nods. "Were you ever alone with him?"

  "No."

  "What about Drew?"

  An invisible rope tightens around my ribcage. I can barely breathe. "Drew always got there first.”

  "But this Friday she didn't show up at all?"

  "If there was something going on between her and Titus, I would see it."

  "Raleigh, don't be naive."

  That word. Again! But maybe she's right. Drew didn't tell me she was moving. She didn't tell me about that baseball field. Or the quarry. Or—

  "I'm going to tell you this," Officer Lande says carefully. "It's for your own protection. We haven't even released it to the media. But somebody tipped us off and we found the paper trail on Titus Williams. Raleigh, do you know what statutory rape is?"

  "When an adult has sex with a minor, even a consenting minor."

  "There was a restraining order against Titus Williams that said he couldn't be within a hundred yards of any minor. Do you know how far that is? An entire football field."

  "And he broke it by having us in his restaurant," I say, remembering what my dad told me.
/>
  "Except one thing," she says. "That restraining order ran out Friday. The very same day Drew goes missing."

  My ribs, it's like they're stabbing me. I suck in a breath. "So why wasn't there a court case?"

  "What?"

  "If he did rape somebody—why wasn't there a court case?"

  "How do you know there wasn't?"

  "Because a restraining order isn't the same thing as a court order."

  "How do you know all this?"

  "And since there's a minor involved, I'll bet the restraining order was sealed. And that's why the media doesn't know about it. Yet."

  She shakes her head. "I want to know where you learned this stuff."

  My dad. That's how I know all this. And my second bet would be that my dad tipped off the police to the paper trail on Titus Williams.

  The judge? He read every sealed word of that restraining order.

  That's what my new cell phone is all about.

  "Just so you know, I'm not naive."

  "You're young."

  "So?" My voice is too forceful. But I don't care. "Unlike everyone else, I refuse to jump to conclusions. You get a hypothesis, you test it. Even if that idea looks right at the start, you test it. And besides, there's something called the presumption of innocence, unless somebody suddenly abolished the fifth, sixth, and fourteenth amendments."

  "Wow," she says.

  "What?"

  "You should go to law school."

  "No way." All that time in my dad's courtroom has showed me what happens to a person who argues for a living.

  "Since you put it that way," she says, "let's go through a hypothesis. What time does Titus open for dinner on Friday?"

  "Four or four-thirty, I think."

  "And the last time someone saw Drew was what time?"

  "Three . . . " My voice trails off because Tinsley and Sandbag were the last people to see her, I think. "We should probably say three-ish."

  "Okay, three-ish. That means ninety minutes from when she was last seen to when he's opening his restaurant. What if she met him somewhere, like the quarry or—"

  I hate it. The whole idea—it's possible. I hate it.

  She keeps going.

  "Drew loves baseball, and Titus Williams played in the major leagues. What if Titus asked her to meet him somewhere? And he told her it was a surprise, maybe for you. Do you think she would tell you, honestly?"