The Leaving(23)

Headspins:


BLOODY BACKPACK GUN CAROUSEL.


Lucas worked to still his mind, then tried to imagine his brother—younger, bored, miserable, picked on, grieving, everything—then half smiled. “Thought you weren’t much of a talker.”

Ryan gave him the finger, shook his head, sort of smiled, too.

“I didn’t know,” Lucas said. “I’m sorry you went through that.”

“You were there, too. There was like an open house for families who were starting kindergarten the next year.”

“I don’t remember.”

“Shocker.” Another half smile.

“Did they at least catch the shooter?” Because justice helped. It had to, right?

“Killed himself. Dad said that it was a good thing because Dad would have done it if he hadn’t.”

Lucas sat quietly with that thought, rolled it around, trying it on for size, liking it.

Justice.

Or something else.

Revenge?

Yes, that.

Lucas said, “I want to kill whoever did this to me,” and the spins started up again.


REINS. SADDLE.

FUN-HOUSE REFLECTIONS WRAPPED AROUND

GOLD POLES STABBING HORSES.





Ryan waved a hand dismissively. “You’ll get over it.”

“Why should I?” Lucas put his hands to his head, like he might somehow physically steady it.

“You want to go to jail?” Ryan said. “Right after you got back?”

“It’d be worth it.”

“Well, if and when you find him—or her, or them—you let me know.”

“So you can stop me?” Maybe he needed medication for this thing in his head? “No, thank you.”

Ryan went down the hall to the sleeping area, and there was some slamming of cabinets and then he was back, carrying a wooden box.

He took a key off a hook on the inside of a kitchen cabinet—a pineapple keychain with a smiley face on it. Returning to the table, he opened the box, then spun it around and pushed it toward Lucas.

At the sight of the gun, Lucas stood, wanting to flee, wanting to tell Ryan to close the box, lock it, get rid of it.

But . . .

Then . . .


ONE RIGHT TWO LEFT HISS CLICK

SNAP UP DONE





Everything stilled.

Lucas took the pistol in his right hand—the magazine in his left—and loaded up.

Like he’d done it a thousand times before.





AVERY



Back at home around dinnertime, there were no signs of dinner. Mom was in bed, surrounded by still more tissues. The woman had become a movable flowering tissue tree, dropping fruit wherever she went.

“Have you eaten anything today?” Avery started collecting some of the tissues and put them in the small trash can in the master bath. “Where’s Dad?”

“No appetite. Where else.”

Avery breathed out hard. “I’ll make you something.” She muttered, “Guess I’ll make myself something while I’m at it.”

Her mother rolled onto her side, away from Avery. “Don’t you want to know what’s wrong?”

Avery wanted to scream.

“What’s wrong, Mom?” Her arms stiffened at her side.

She held out a piece of paper to Avery. “This was in the mailbox.” Avery took it, mildly impressed that her mother had made it all the way to the pelican by the street.

It was a handwritten note on white paper:


I’M CLOSE. I’M TRYING TO GET AWAY LIKE THE OTHERS. HELP !

—MAX



Avery’s hand started to shake.

Really happening.

Lowering the note, she said, “Did you call the police?”

Her mom yanked another tissue from a box. “They’re useless.”

Avery went downstairs and thought about calling Lucas, but that didn’t make sense; she didn’t even have his number, if he even had a phone. She hunted around and found the card the detective who’d come by yesterday— No, not yesterday.

It had been that morning.

Today.

This is what tragedy did; it slowed time to a freaking crawl.

School would never start up again, not at this pace.

She’d never have another birthday, never celebrate another Christmas.

From that morning on—that phone call on—life was dog years.

The card was stuck to the fridge with a magnet from a random cousin’s wedding. She dialed Mick Chambers. He picked up.

“It’s Avery Godard.”

She waited.

“How can I help you?”

It sounded like he had no idea who she was.

“I’m Max’s sister.”

“Of course.”

“We got a note from him.” The ink was black ballpoint; the writing all caps.

“A note?” Chambers said.

“Yes.” Avery looked out the kitchen window, where a bee was bobbing near the rhododendrons. The setting sun was reflecting off the neighbor’s window, like a ball of fire.

Some shuffling and then, “Okay, what does it say?”

“‘I’m close. I’m trying to get away like the others. Help! Max.’”