0.5-Stone and Spark Page 19

"You should look at the soil in her bike tire because—"

  "I knew it!" The detective throws his arms in the air. "You two are playing a game. Real funny, huh? Got us running all over. Did you pay that Williams guy to be part of it?"

  I know my mom's crazy, but so's this guy.

  "I'm not playing a game. And if you would listen to me you might find her." I explain how the Petersburg Batholith is only exposed in four places around Richmond, and how three of those places Drew wouldn't go to on her bike because she is lazy. I explain how I narrowed down the purple spot on the US Geological Society map, how it's in the library archives, and even as I'm saying all this, my mind is dividing in half. One side says I'm smart—ahead of the cops! But the other half says things that are making my armpits damp and my mouth dry. I can see the detective is listening closely but he doesn't look grateful, at all, to know this information. He looks angry.

  And when he finally speaks, his voice sounds as flat as this stainless steel table.

  "I'm curious about Titus Williams," he says. "You're saying all this . . . dirt . . . proves your little friend and him were at baseball field."

  "He says he didn't see her."

  "Course he does. And you're defending him."

  "I'm telling you what he said."

  "But you yourself said—what'd you call it?—forensic evidence. It's even better than circumstantial evidence. Isn't that what you said?"

  On the advice of my inner attorney, I keep my mouth shut.

  "Don't you think it's odd he went to that field, too? Same day. Same time. Huh?"

  "Yes. It's odd."

  The detective gives me a hard look. "So why are you holding back?"

  I glance at my hands. My fingers are shaking, like they do when my mom hears those voices in her head. All my life I've prayed God would never let me hear voices, but the little lawyer inside is very loud. Things are not always black and white, she says. Things are sometimes gray. Very, very gray.

  "Come on, tell us," the detective says. "We just want the truth. You can tell us."

  I look up at him. I want the truth. That's all I want.

  And that's when I turn away from him and look at Officer Lande and say something I've probably never said in my entire life: "I'd like to go home now."

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  In the morning, bleary-eyed from three hours of sleep, I stumble into the kitchen and discover bacon.

  Smoked, salted.

  Maple-cured in Virginia.

  Real bacon.

  Which explains why our patio door is wide open and my dad is at the stove, not my mom. The autumn breeze sweeps into the room, brushes the smoke rising from the pan so thick even the industrial fan can't catch it all, then whisks it outside where she won't smell it.

  My dad looks at me. His face is ragged with exhaustion. But he smiles, and whispers, "I smuggled in the good stuff."

  Another pan holds scrambled eggs. I know how he makes them—with cream, cooked in butter.

  My mouth waters. "Where's Mom?"

  "She had a rough night."

  On the table, a can of Coke waits for me. "What happened?"

  "I don't know but she paced the house until four."

  I got home at three.

  "Did she say anything?"

  He tongs the bacon. "How do you mean?"

  I mean, did she say she saw a police cruiser come down the alley behind the house and let out the girl who claims she's Raleigh but who is sneaking out in the middle of the night, conspiring with the cops.

  "I don't know . . . anything?"

  "Not anything that made sense." He stirs the eggs. "I called Dr. Simpson. Maybe he can adjust her medication."

  The real answer to my question is this perfect breakfast, complete with a can of Coke. It tells me why she was up all night and why she's not here and why Helen has to come home for a visit. Because of me.

  I stare at my dad's back. His normally strong shoulders are bent forward, as if weighted with worry. I feel such a deep stab of guilt, I want to confess everything, release the mad rush of words—but would it help, really? All I'd be doing is giving him a second person to worry about. And he's already grounded me for three weeks; it's not like he thinks I'm totally innocent.

  I sit at the table, pick up the can of Coke, and close my eyes. The condensation on the cold can weeps under my fingers. My silent grace goes out for Drew, wherever she is. And for my mom, wherever her mind is. And for my dad, my most amazing dad, who should already be heading to the courthouse but who probably went to the store when she finally went to bed, buying bacon and eggs and Coke to give me the kind of breakfast that says, I'm sorry your mom doesn't trust you, and I can't change that.

  I swallow the guilt that tells me there's no reason she should trust me now.

  I open my eyes. He offers me the plate. Bacon browned to a crisp, eggs covered with shredded cheddar cheese.

  "How's your sleeping?" He sits down across from me.

  "Fine."

  He opens his napkin. "Did she keep you up last night?"

  I shake my head, unable to speak. I feel so guilty-guilty-guilty.

  He clasps his hands, bowing his head. One fried egg on his plate, no cheese. No bacon. I hear his prayer, sort of, but so much junk is zinging through my head right now that I really only hear his voice. Broken, yet hard, like cracking rocks. He is even more tired than I am.

  I wait, wondering if he's going to open the newspaper. That's usually what he does. But he picks up his fork, glances at me.

  "Can I ask you something?" I ask.

  “Only until forever.”

  He smiles. It's not meant to look weary but it does. Maybe my smile looks weary too. "When someone's guilty, can you tell just by watching them?"

  "Hmm." He puts down his fork. "Sometimes. Why do you ask?"

  "You see a lot of people in your courtroom. Not everybody's telling the truth."

  "Sadly, most aren't." Another weary smile. "Fortunately, we can usually rely on evidence." He picks up the fork again, pressing it into the egg. "And in the case of forensics, there isn't a lot of wiggle room for lying."

  "But when people are lying, what do you see?"

  He puts down the fork, not taking the bite, and picks up his coffee cup, his elbow denting the paper. "Blame shifting, that's always a good clue. Liars tend to say everything is someone else's fault. Do you remember what I used to tell Helen?"

  My sister, even as a child, was a profoundly skilled liar. "You used to say, 'Helen, every time you point a finger at somebody else, notice three fingers are pointing back at you.'"

  "You remember." His smile is still weary, but his eyes glisten.

  I look down at my plate. Right now, his approval feels so very wrong.

  "Raleigh?"

  I look up.

  "Why do you want to know all this?" he asks.

  I look down at my food. "Just curious."

  "I see." He pauses. "Well, in addition to blame shifting, watch for people who can't look someone in the eye."

  I immediately look up. When I meet his gaze, he smiles.

  "This has to do with Drew's disappearance?"

  What—I'm going to lie?

  "Yes," I reply. "I want to know how to spot a liar."

  "It's not easy. Liars can be very charming people. They'll often ingratiate themselves—do nice things, favors for people—so no one suspects them of deceit." He pauses. "If you come back to my courtroom, you can study the attorneys. Most of them are expert liars."

  "No offense," I say. "But I've seen enough of lawyers to know it's like blame-shifting on steroids."

  He nods, takes one bite of his egg. Puts down the fork, picks up the coffee. The silence stretches out but he still doesn't open the newspaper. He watches me practically licking my plate. I don't know when I'll see food like this again in this house.

  "I'm sorry," he says suddenly.

  I look up.

  "I'm sorry about grounding you," he says. "But it's for your own go
od. You understand that, don't you?"

  I nod. Go back to eating.

  But I don't understand. I don't understand anything these days. I can't find Drew and people seem to think we're playing some game, and God refuses to answer my prayers, even though I don't think they're selfish. But what I really don't understand is: how can I know something is wrong, and still justify it? The whole idea makes this perfect breakfast start to curdle in my stomach. I put down my fork, look at my dad sipping his coffee and ask, "Can I ride my bike to school, even though I'm grounded?"

  "I'll drive you."

  "Thanks, I appreciate the offer. But I really wanted some fresh air. You know, since I can't go outside after school."

  The way he's smiling at me almost makes me puke in my own mouth.

  "You're such a wonderful daughter," he says. "Yes, you can ride your bike. Thank you for asking me."

  I nod, look down at my empty plate, and realize he's fully answered my question.

  I know exactly how liars behave.

  Because now I've turned into one.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  I ride my bike to school through golden sunshine, the air crisp and bright. My first class is P. E., and I lock my bike outside the gym. Drew's purple Schwinn is gone, taken by the police, I guess.

  In the locker room, I open my basket and pull out the blue t-shirt and shorts for P. E. In their place, I stuff my backpack. But at the last moment, I put the gym clothes back, slam the locker door, and hurry to the bathroom, just off the main room. The air is clanging with the rush and whine of twenty classmates.

  Norwood says, "I told him last week it was my time of the month."

  "Then you need another excuse," Tinsley tells her. "Even Galluci's not that stupid."

  I slip into the farthest stall, directly beside the ceramic tile wall.

  On my left, somebody flushes. That door bangs open and I yank my feet up on the seat, squatting like a frog with my clothes in my hand. I can hear Tinsley redirecting the subject, her voice rising above the clamor. She brags about DeMott, something he did. Apparently it was "just the sweetest, most wonderful—-"

  The bell rings. I don't have to listen to the rest.

  Lockers slam. Sneakers squeak. The whoosh of air tells me the outer door is open, everyone running for the track. Voices fade.

  I start counting. When I reach 89 . . . 90 . . . 91 . . . I hear the last locker. Martina Hunninger, I'm positive. She hates changing in front of anyone. And I know she will shuffle out so slowly it's like she'd heading to her dog's funeral. Galluci also knows her habits. He will be waiting for her.

  . . . 112 . . . 113 . . .

  I've never been a patient person; the counting is giving me a headache. Squeezing my eyes shut, I reach 250 and reach for the stall lock.

  I step out of the stall, look both ways. Everyone is gone. Dashing around the corner, I whip open the door to freedom.

  "Holy Mother of God!" John the janitor throws one hand on his chest, squeezing. "You—again!"

  "Sorry!"

  "I swear to God, you girls are gonna give me a heart attack. Who else is in there?"

  "Nobody. I'm really sorry. Really."

  I race around his cart and hurry outside. He must be glaring at my back because it's a long moment before I hear that loaded cart maneuvering through the door. Then I start running full speed. I tell myself not to look back. But telling yourself not to look is like ordering yourself to look.

  I glance up at the field.

  And there stands Tinsley.

  She looks gilded, the sunlight hitting her long blonde hair. Hands on her skinny hips, she watches as I grab my bike and take off.

  There's no going back now.

  I pump my bike pedals with so much blood rushing into my ears I feel deaf. Hauling down Grove Avenue, I tell myself—again—not to look. I resist until I'm crossing the Boulevard, where I expect to see Ellis in hot pursuit. But there's no black Volvo.

  I stand up, practically running on the pedals to pick up more speed. Each time I glance over my shoulder, my inner attorney accuses me, reminding me that I'm legally grounded.

  My lame retort?

  My dad didn't say I was grounded during school.

  When I walk into the Richmond library, I am sweating like an overheated pig. Nelson, the reference librarian, shows no surprise, just like when I showed up here on Saturday, dripping rain on the marble floor. He's reading another enormous tome, and when he looks up, taking in my school uniform damp with sweat, he pretends there's nothing wrong with me being here, at this hour, on a school day.

  "How may I help you, Raleigh?" he asks.

  "Need a copy," I pant, "of this morning's paper."

  "Your tunnel made the news?"

  "Not that I know of."

  "Ah," he nods. "Still expanding horizons?"

  "You could say that."

  "And I did." He lays the bookmark between the pages and once again puts the sick child to bed, his sigh full of regret.

  I wipe my brow and follow Nelson to the back of the library's main room. He stops at some staggered dowel rods against the wall. Newspapers hang on them like drying laundry, and a man sits beside the whole lot. He is reading a newspaper from London, wearing a winter coat that is so dirty it's difficult to tell if it's blue or black or gray.

  Nelson scans the rods, lifting the pages. He turns to the man in the chair.

  "Gordo," he says. "Where's the Times-Dispatch?"

  "How would I know?" The man replies.

  "Stand up."

  The man glares at Nelson, his eyes so cloudy he could be half-blind. "It's my paper," he says.

  "The papers belong to the library."

  "I was here first."

  "Please," Nelson says. "You can't possibly read all the newspapers at once."

  "I could too."

  "And," Nelson says, "you could find yourself evicted from these premises in an instant."

  "What for?"

  "We could begin with eating in the library."

  "I didn't."

  "Next time, brush the crumbs off your coat."

  The man named Gordo looks down. His cheeks are angry red, the skin flaking in patches. He pinches the dirty coat's lapels, giving them a shake. He throws a haughty expression at Nelson. The crumbs fall into his lap.

  "This is Raleigh," Nelson says, turning to indicate my presence. "She would like to read this morning's paper. Please give it to her."

  "She can't read the whole thing either."

  Nelson gazes up at the ceiling, speaking to the rafters. "Raleigh, is there something in particular you are seeking in the paper?"

  "It's in the B-section." That's the section my dad kept folded tight by his plate this morning.

  "Gordo, please. Be a gentleman."

  The man stands, sending the crumbs to the floor, and puts one hand into his coat, searching. The gray pages come out, smooshed and crumpled. He scans them, handing out pieces of the B-section as he discovers them. Nelson puts the pages in order, aligning the original centerfold down the middle, then offers the section to me. It smells bad.

  "Thank you," I tell him.

  He nods, nearly bowing, then straightens and pivots toward the man.

  "Gordo, winter is coming. The Farmer's Almanac says this year will be particularly frigid. Should you choose to exhibit any behavior other than your very best, you will feel the bite of cold this year."

  Gordo plops down in the chair. "Blah, blah, blah,” he says.

  Nelson watches him for a moment. "Raleigh, I expect you to notify me if any problems occur."

  He turns and walks back through the stacks.

  Since it's the only chair on this end of the building, I sit in the open chair beside Gordo. I feel his cloudy gaze, but after a moment, he leans to the dowel rods and snatches off The Washington Post. He tucks some pages into his coat then lifts the Want Ads, rattling them with as much noise as possible.

  I find the story at the bottom of B-1. Headline: Former At
lanta Brave Taken into Custody.

  First paragraph explains the headline, but the second paragraph details the restraining order. Which means somebody leaked it to the press, since I know the order was sealed because it involved a juvenile.

  The words are chilling: " . . . carnal knowledge with a child between the ages thirteen and fifteen." The order was filed by the mother of Titus's niece, his sister-in-law. But I read those first four paragraphs three times because whenever something appears in the newspaper, it automatically looks like fact. Even speculation looks like fact. That's why judges like my dad issue gag orders.

  Gordo leans over. He smells like vinegar and cigarettes. "You done yet?"

  "No, not yet."

  The story jumps to B-8, I flip through the pages, for once appreciating how the newspaper smells like White-out mixed with ink—much better than Gordo's stink. On B-8, I also find two photographs, each marked "Times-Dispatch File." I pull the paper close. In the first, Titus is holding up a white Atlanta Braves uniform, grinning like I've never seen before.

  "I want it back," Gordo says.

  I look over. His skin is like some living lesson in forensics, the way it flakes off his red cheeks, dusting the coat that is blue-or-black-or-gray.

  "I'll be done in just a minute," I tell him.

  "What's so important in there anyway?"

  "Nothing." My nose stings from his vinegary odor.

  Gordo leans toward me. My eyes water.

  "That guy?" he points at Titus's picture. "You reading about him?"

  I pull paper farther away from him but it only draws him closer.

  "I know him!" He points at the photo, stabbing the page. His fingernail is chipped and dirty. "I know that guy."

  I look up, searching the room for Nelson. But the shelves of books are blocking my view of the Reference desk.

  He stabs the paper again. "What'd he do?"

  "I don't know."

  "He poison somebody?"

  "What?"

  "He brings us burgers, stuff like that." Gordo lifts chin, giving that haughty look again. "I'm homeless, for your information."

  "Sorry."

  "Give me the paper."

  "I'm not done."

  We stare at each other, me blinking away the stink-tears in my eyes. His mouth twists angrily before he leans back in his own chair. Lifting the Post want ads, he shakes the pages again for effect.