Follow Me Down Page 12

  She tried for small talk as she ordered a coffee, but I was not in the frame of mind to offer more than one-word responses on the current heat wave. Thankfully, she gave up. All business, she slid her phone out into the middle of the table. “I am going to record this. Is that OK?

  “That’s fine, but first, I want to know why I should talk to you. When you said you wanted to take a ‘contrarian’ stance on this, what exactly does that mean for my brother?”

  “I want to write an against-the-grain article. That means I want to explore other possibilities. That someone else murdered Joanna.”

  “Why?” A rush of optimism, heavily spiked with caution. I had to be sure I wasn’t being duped here into giving an exclusive, that my words weren’t going to get twisted.

  “I’ll be blunt. It will draw more attention than if I write the same articles as everyone else. A few years ago, someone from my graduating class, and I won’t give any names, won a Pulitzer for an against-the-grain series that exposed shoddy police work in a small town much like Wayoata. I see that there’s potential here to write something similar.”

  Good. It made sense to me if Vanessa was getting something out of this. I sat up, told her about my mother’s accident. Her head injury. Pruden’s ineptness. The black glove. I told it the way Lucas would have told it. “Someone set it up to look like an accident.”

  “A black glove—how very OJ.” She nodded, but I think mention of the glove stretched my credibility. It was too pat. “But your mom, she’s OK. She’s still alive?”

  “She’s alive but suffered extensive brain damage. She lives in a care home.” Vanessa’s shoulders drooped. I fidgeted with a sugar packet.

  “So you’ve already had issues with the Wayoata Police Department.”

  “Even if I hadn’t, the Wayoata police have focused on my brother solely based on rumors that’ve been flying around.”

  “Well, that, and he did take off, and there’s the text message exchange about a romantic weekend getaway.” Vanessa tapped a heavy-looking engagement ring against her yellow stoneware mug, a tic likely to make sure people noticed it.

  I flinched. “Did you read the text exchange?”

  “Sorry, didn’t mean to do a one-eighty on you. See? Always the contrarian. No, the police haven’t released anything. I just heard about it. So you’re right. Hearsay and rumor based on students’ claims of having spotted Lucas and Joanna together when they shouldn’t have been, as well as Lucas’s sudden departure, are all the police seem to be operating on. The body was submerged for three weeks, which can make finding viable DNA difficult, and once the police did discover Joanna’s body, sources tell me the crime scene wasn’t properly secured, so any DNA they did find won’t hold up.” My stomach twisted. DNA. That magic bullet, aimed and whizzing toward me. I hoped her source was someone more credible than the kid who found Joanna. Vanessa pressed Record. “But tell me first about Lucas. What’s he like?”

  I said everything I could to elevate Lucas to saint status. “He cares for our mother; he’s so gentle. He loves sports, loves teaching, loves kids, or well not love love—did I say how he cares for our poor mother? He would never, ever hurt anyone. He wasn’t even that put-you-in-a-headlock-till-you-cry-uncle sort of brother. He really made it a point in his life to get along with everyone.”

  “So why do you think he ran?”

  “What other choice did he have? He was being harassed by the police and threatened by people here who think he’s guilty because of a few rumors. His truck was completely trashed. He left because he feared for his life. What else could he do?” I was surprised by the conviction in my voice, because I didn’t really believe it. I couldn’t see Lucas leaving because he felt threatened. He’d stay and set things straight in spite of a slanted investigation, in spite of everyone already thinking he did it. If anything, it would drive him on.

  “Good. That’s a good quote. Why do you think he hasn’t contacted you, then?”

  That was the crucial question, wasn’t it? The question that wrecked me every time I looked at my phone—Why hasn’t he called me? I couldn’t say “no comment.” That was what people said when they didn’t want to lie. And here again the ugly, dark unthinkable came at me in a gust of panic that Lucas never left at all, but was inside some deep freeze next to hunted meat, in a gloomy paneled basement. I shook it off. “I’m sure he has his reasons. He probably doesn’t want to get me into any trouble.” I lost control of my voice; it rose at the end like I was just rolling out excuses to see what worked.

  “That makes sense.” Vanessa looked like she had to stop herself from adding, I guess. I could tell that she was contemplating pushing the issue further, but the details that made Lucas look guilty didn’t help her article either, so she let it go. It didn’t make sense. Not at all. Lucas should have called, and I had no good answer why he hadn’t. “Do you think it’s possible that your brother might have taken his own life, and that’s why you haven’t heard from him?”

  “No! Never! He would never do that. He’s innocent.” I suddenly felt really tired and in danger of crying, so I gave her my best shiny-eyed smile, like the idea was so ludicrous it struck me as funny.

  “Do you think someone else might have hurt your brother? As you said, he was being threatened.” Vanessa tipped her chin into her chest and gave me a grave look that made me gnash my teeth.

  “I…” My voice went dry and creaky. “I’ve had those thoughts, yes.” I started nodding, yes, yes, yes. It really was the only thing that made sense as to why he hadn’t contacted me. My chest started to burn. I could feel blood pulsing in my neck.

  “Then again.” Vanessa’s chirpy voice snapped me back from the edge of panic. “I mean, the police would have probably found him by now. Vigilante murders are not usually covered up. The killer wants people to know justice has been done.”

  I looked at her. I felt like I was being tossed around inside a dryer. What was wrong with this woman? “I thought of that too.” I took a deep cleansing breath. Shook my head. What was I thinking? Lucas was fine. He was alive, just inexplicably unavailable.

  Plus, I’d know. Even if I haven’t had a single mystic belief in my entire life before now, I realized at some point I started to subconsciously trust that if Lucas was dead I’d get some shivery, goose-bumped reaction that would let me know. A kind of twin-telepathy. I’d be doing something and an icy-cold sensation would crawl into me, and I’d drop whatever was in my hands (and here I envisioned holding a teacup and saucer even if I didn’t drink tea, because it felt Victorian, when spiritualism was at the top of its game), my spine would go rigid to the point of shattering and I’d just know.

  And that hadn’t happened yet.

  Or maybe it was the old Haas active-denial (who thought something so damaging would come in so handy).

  When it was clear that I was not discomfited enough by the awkward silence Vanessa was forcing, to start filling it anything more on the Lucas-is-dead theory, she made a puckering noise with her mouth, and said with jarring pertness, “Onward. I’m assuming you’ve heard the name Dylan Yates?”

  “Just recently, from the school guidance counselor.” I could still smell Eric on my skin.

  “Not from the police?” Vanessa was shaking her head, like it was the most ridiculous thing she’d heard.

  “No. Well, eventually, but I asked the police about him. They told me he wasn’t a suspect. He has an alibi.”

  “One provided by his father and his father’s friends. Do you know that Dylan was arrested in February for breaking into the Wilkeses’ home after Joanna broke up with him?” Her voice turned conspiratorial. “He was found in her closet. It looked like he’d been there for hours. He’d been relieving himself in an empty pop bottle. Joanna filed for a restraining order. A week later, he was found in their garage, in the back of Joanna’s car, with a sleeping bag.”

  “I didn’t know that. The police aren’t telling me anything!” My arms dropped hard on the table. Now I was pi
ssed. Suddenly wired from this emotional whiplash. My legs jittered under the table. Yes. It’s always the boyfriend. Everyone knows that. (Here, I actively chose to ignore that technically the police were working from the angle that Lucas could have been her boyfriend too.)

  “Well, you have to wonder why the police aren’t leaning harder on Dylan Yates, given that he was stalking Joanna. I think it’s because his father, Greg Yates, the one who gave the alibi, was an informant during a six-year stay in state prison for grand theft auto and drug trafficking. You asked me what my angle is, and this is it. I have an appointment with Dylan Yates this afternoon.” She tapped her engagement ring, three times, quick, like an end-of-round boxing bell. “The police are under a lot of pressure to deliver, considering who the family is, and this can cause tunnel vision. They want to get someone behind bars as fast as possible.”

  We stood. Vanessa told me to call her anytime. She gave my arm a delicate squeeze in a show of solidarity, and I wanted to bear hug her back. My ally.

  When I left, I felt much better. I felt a sense of vindication. Joanna had a drug-dealing ex-boyfriend with an ex-con dad. Maybe Lucas had been threatened. Maybe I was telling the truth and that was why he left, but it still didn’t explain why he hadn’t called me.

  7

  GREG’S GARAGE—HONEST 1ST RATE SERVICE (a claim that made you think the opposite) was sloppily painted over MARSH AND SON’S GARAGE. It was a dirty white building with two bays. One was open, one halfway shut, its roll-up door hanging crooked. The lot was full of rusted-out cars up on blocks, hoods left open, their parts picked out. There was a single gas pump that might or might not have been real—it looked so retro it could have been decoration. I parked. My head still had that fuzzy, hungover feeling. I was there because I wanted to see Dylan, as if I could pick up some kind of murderer vibe off him.

  There was a group of four guys standing next to an old Hyundai with an oversized fin. They stared at me as I stepped out of my car and walked inside. I could see one of them nodding toward my PT, and the others laughed. I waited for several minutes, breathing in gulps of pine-scented air freshener, before a man in grease-stained coveralls broke away from the Hyundai group and came in after me. He wiped his hands on a filthy rag, stood behind the glass counter, and nodded at me.

  “How can I help ya?” GREG was stitched into his coveralls. He was early forties, short and wiry, with damp-looking hair tucked behind his ears.

  “I’d like an oil change.”

  “Oh, yeah? How about a lube job too?” He leaned forward, elbows on the counter, looked me up and down all slitty-eyed. One of the guys who’d been by the Hyundai was now standing in front of the door like a bouncer. I was getting nervous.

  “No. Just the oil change.”

  “You want an oil change on a rental?”

  How did he know? I looked out the window at the PT, at the license plate frame advertising the rental company. Shit. “Well, I just want to bring it back in tip-top shape.” God, this was going south fast.

  “I know who you are. You’re the sister of that teacher, the murderer. What’re you really doing here?” He stood upright, leaning now on his fists.

  “I was hoping to talk to your son, Dylan.” I said this in my best assertive-but-still-pleasant voice that women spend years honing.

  “What do you want with my son?” Again that smile like everything was a dirty joke I wasn’t in on.

  “I just wanted to ask him about Joanna Wilkes. As you evidently know, my brother is being accused of something he didn’t do. The media is following up on this too.” I went with an assumed sales pitch, tried to sound like this was the acceptable truth or at least would be very soon. I nodded, as if demonstrating how to be agreeable. Greg’s leer just got bigger. Men like this loved to watch women squirm. He probably gave his son advice like, Women like to be controlled. It’s in their nature—look at those goddamn erotica books they read. It’s all about getting choked, so just choke a bitch when she needs to be reminded who’s boss. “In the meantime I’m trying to find out as much as I can about this, um, situation that the police have so royally botched.”

  “Botched? Huh. You think the police have done a botched job of this, Travis?”

  Travis was now standing inside. He lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, pretended to think about the question. “No way. For once I think the police have it right.” He blew smoke toward the ceiling.

  “Well, there you go. Travis here thinks the police are doing a fine job.” Greg crossed his arms. “So no need to talk to Dylan. I don’t really want no sister of a murderer talking to my son anyway. Too dangerous, I think, ’cuz things like that can be genetic, right, Travis? Pedophilia runs in families, don’t it?”

  “I think that’s incest.”

  Greg laughed, a loud churlish growl. Stepped out from behind the counter. “That’s right, Travis, that’s right.”

  I turned to leave, but Greg stepped out in front of me. Light-streaky fast, like he’d just appeared. Every inch of his sinewy body seemed to be twitching. I felt a moment of pure panic. Something bad was going to happen to me. I should’ve called someone before going there. Let them know. I flashed first to Garrett, but he would’ve just tried to stop me. Eric. I should have left a message on Eric’s phone. Greg could snap my neck right now, stuff me in one of those oil barrels, and have his parking lot posse roll me into some ditch off the highway, in the miles and miles of nowhere land that surrounded Wayoata.

  Greg leaned in close to my face, his nostrils flared, his lips curled back into a gruesome smile, his teeth coated in sickly yellow saliva, like he had a chunk of chaw tucked somewhere in the back of his mouth. “Don’t go anywhere near my son, you little bitch.” His voice dropped to a gravelly pitch. “I’ll only say that once.” Then he winked. “Now, you go have yourself a first-rate day.”

  I scurried out of the garage. Travis followed me to my car, a few paces behind. The other two guys in the lot were clustered around my PT. I expected something from them, menacing catcalls, or outright threats, something like that, but they just stared silently, which was somehow more unnerving.

  I fumbled with the keys; my hands were shaking too badly. Finally I started the PT and hit Reverse, jumping the curb as I sped out of the lot.

  * * *

  I pulled into a Perkins parking lot, and looked up the Yateses’ address on my phone (this took three tries because my nerve-jangled fingers were too uncoordinated to win the quick-draw with auto-correct, that turned “Wayoata” into “Wayne.” There were two Yateses listingsin Wayoata. One number was disconnected; the other rang indefinitely. An odd, eerie sound nowadays. At least I had an address. My way of thinking was, I knew Greg Yates was at work, so if I wanted to talk to Dylan, right now was the time to do it. I knew too that Greg could be on his way home that very second to make sure I heeded his warning. This was a very stupid, dangerous thing to do, but I had to get to his son before he did, before I lost the chance, however slim, to wrest something from Dylan that could make the police discount his alibi. I couldn’t count on Vanessa to do it. Her “angle” would change if something juicier came along, and she’d leave us twisting in the wind. It had to be me.

  The Yates house was a flaking stuccoed bungalow, same boxy style as the one I grew up in. I pulled up to it, my head screaming, TURN AROUND. I was not feeling like a brave person. I froze like a lawn ornament when threatened. I’d frozen when Sticky Ricky thrust his hard-on against me. I’d frozen at my mother’s hospital bedside, when Lucas asked me why I was acting so strange. I’d frozen two years ago, fresh out of rehab, when a tweaked-out man wobbled a gun at me and demanded Oxy. Moving into action only when I heard the click of the hammer. Lucas came down to Chicago that weekend to stay with me. We spent the afternoons in pubs, getting dozy drunk, playing rainy-day games like Uno and Scrabble. Lucas rebuffed a pretty bartender attired in a leather bustier so he could spend the night watching my comfort movies. If he were some budding murdering pervert, wouldn’t he hav
e gone home with her and engaged in some light erotic asphyxiation? She looked like she would have been into it.

  I had to do this. Felt a flash of anger at Lucas for making me do this.

  * * *

  I couldn’t decide if it was better to park a few houses down, so that if Greg did drive by, he wouldn’t see my car next to his house, or park closer in case Greg showed up and I had to make a run for it. I decided to park close.

  The driveway had three cars, each in a state of dismemberment. Heat shimmered off the metal in tiny waves. It was just past noon and already getting hot and humid under the unfettered prairie sun. My shirt was sticking to me.

  I knocked on the front door, rang the bell. No answer. Went around to the back. An empty dog run next to an air conditioner that hummed loud. The yard was an overgrown mess littered with scrap metal and engine parts. I picked up a rusted screwdriver, flung loose into the grass, and slid it into my waistband. There was a fire pit in the center of the yard, surrounded by a scattering of spare tires, overturned lawn chairs, beer cans with hordes of wasps swarming above them. What jumped out was a rusted girl’s bike with a pink flowery basket and handlebar streamers leaning against the back fence. The sight of it set my teeth on edge.

  I knocked on the door again. Nothing. I was about to leave when I heard a low whimper coming from inside. I knocked again, called out, “Dylan?” Stayed still, listened. Scanned the side of the house to make sure Greg wasn’t coming around the corner. Another mewl. I looked around the yard for something to boost myself up. I needed to see who was inside. I had a flash of a ticker-tape parade. Lucas and me atop a float, holding hands over our heads in a we-are-the-champions grip for setting free whoever was inside this house. For collaring Joanna’s real killer.

  The lawn chairs looked too threadbare to trust. I spotted a bucket with hardened cement in the bottom next to the shed. I dragged it over. When it hit the lumpy trail of sidewalk slabs by the front door, it made a loud gritty noise. I went rigid, ready to run if the back door started to open. My hand moved to the screwdriver, hovered on the handle. I took the crouching stance of an Old West quick-draw. Sweat trickled between my breasts. A vein in my temple started to thrum. Nothing moved, not even a shadowy flutter in the windows. I lifted the bucket in two hands, slow and quiet, and in a waddle, brought it up to the house. Tipped it over and looked into the window. It was the kitchen, overflowing with dishes and cardboard Hungry Man frozen dinner packages. A garbage bag sat out in the middle of the room.