Jex Malone (28 page)

“You come for a few days around Christmas. A few days in the summer. A weekend here and there. And now I have to come out here and call you Daddy because of a court order?” I shout at him.

“I don't think so!” I finish it.

He is taken aback and goes scary silent. But the mountain of him doesn't move as he takes a side at one end of the small kitchen table. Neither do I as I stand my ground at the other side of the table staring up into his narrowed eyes.

“I don't have to listen to you!” I rant. “My mother who hides from life under beds tells me what to do. I listen to her because at least she is a parent!”

The room takes on a dangerous silence.

Det. Malone is furious again, but speaks in a voice that's so calm and controlled that I'm getting goose bumps with each word.

“Listen, young lady. You will listen to me whether you think I'm a lousy excuse for a father or not. And for starters, you will listen to this: You're grounded. You're grounded for a week. You will not leave this house at all. Got it?

“Let me explain it to you again,” Det. Malone says in his quiet but lethal voice. “Don't leave the house means you don't put your little toe outside the front door, the patio door, or any other door, like the garage door. You don't have those friends over either. You just sit in this house and think about the fact that sometimes a responsible adult who incidentally loves you and has always loved you knows what's in your best interest whether you respect him or not!

“You are grounded!” Det. Malone repeats loudly.

“Fine!” I scream and then start to move so quickly that the envelope of pictures from the girls slips down my jeans several inches. I have no choice but to grab the front of my stomach to keep the pictures in place.

Det. Malone completely misunderstands.

“Are you sick?” he says in a softer, nervous voice.

Yes, your little tirade has made me ill, but not in the way you think.

“As if you'd care if I was sick!” I rant. “When I get sick, my mother the lunatic worrier takes care of it! You never even know about it! You're always too busy being a cop and having hot girlfriends and trying to find missing girls, although you never found one from right around your own corner!”

This time Det. Malone's eyes go wide.

“But I'm grounded!” I scream. “So I'll just go into the den and not leave my room if you can even call it a room! Let me explain it to you. Don't talk to me when I'm in my room! Don't bug me. Don't walk through my door. In three weeks, I'm outta here anyways! See ya next summer—but not if I can help it! I don't care what a stupid judge says—I won't be here!”

With that I put one hand on my stomach to make sure the envelope stays in place, and then run at top speed to the den, which takes all of about six strides. Quickly, I slam the door as hard as possible. Luckily, this is before I burst into sobbing, hot tears that gush down my cheeks. He can take what he calls the L-word and shove it.

The dog is immediately standing at attention in front of me, desperately trying to give me her paw to make it better. Maybe I can kidnap her and bring her back to New Jersey. I'm sure he wouldn't even notice. She is, afterall, a living, loving creature.

An hour later, I hear my father plod off to his room to go to sleep, so I grab my cell phone and call Deva.

“Are you okay? Your father was really in the red zone,” Deva says in an anxious tone. The three of them are staging an uneasy sleepover with Nat and Deva basically calming Cissy down. I imagine them putting cold compresses on her head.

Deva is still in a state of shock from breaking into Mr. Foster's house.

“Yeah, I'm okay, but grounded for a week,” I whisper. “But we can still talk on the phone. And tonight, I'm going to look through that envelope.”

“Wait, you can't be grounded Jex,” whispers Nat, who has obviously just grabbed Deva's phone.

“Why are you whispering?” I ask her.

“Oh, yeah. I don't have to whisper,” Nat stammers in a nervous voice.
If Nat is nervous, then all of us are really in trouble here.

I slip open the back of the first manila envelope and slide out a single piece of white paper sketched with a pencil. The artist was detailed. He or she drew a girl with long dark braids, a sun hat loped down on her face, and no other features peeking out behind the fabric. I shrug and put the paper back in the envelope so it won't get wrinkled.

The next envelope also contains a single sheet of paper with a penciled scene. This one I recognize immediately; someone has sketched the famous Hollywood sign and the adjacent rocky hills covered by small trees. The artist even drew in the radio tower I remember seeing in so many pictures and television shots.

Weird.
Underneath one of the trees in the smallest of details is a rough sketch of a girl with no facial features, but just a mop of dark hair and a round face. I involuntarily shiver, wondering if I'm coming down with something from all of this stress.

The third envelope again contains a single drawing, but this one is in colored pencil. It's a beautiful white dome-like building on the top of a mountain surrounded by the black of night and a sky filled with about a million stars. Again, there's a faceless girl on the side of the building just staring up into the heavens.

“This artist really doesn't like to draw faces,” I murmur, scanning the picture again.

A fourth envelope contains two sketches. The first is a street, or maybe it's a sidewalk, with big gold stars on it. The other is a sketch of a beautiful white castle like the one in the fairy tale “Cinderella,” but a little bit more modern. This sketch was obviously done quickly because it doesn't offer the same detail as the others. Odd, it's as if whoever drew it was in a huge hurry and didn't have time to study what they were seeing. One of the castle windows features the same girl with the braids, but you can't see her face again. She's standing with her back to the circular window.

Pulling out all five pictures, I look at them side by side.

I study the images even harder and feel a tremor against my leg. Jumping, I realize it's only my cell phone set on vibrate so I don't wake my jailer in the other room.

I flip open the phone; it's Nat. Before Nat can say anything, I jump in.

“This is so freakin' weird,” I say. “There are drawings in the envelopes. All these places. One's got the Hollywood sign, one's this astronomy picture of stars and a dome, which looks like something out of an old movie I saw with my mom, but I can't remember which one. There's some sidewalk with stars on it.

“One's from God-knows where; it's just got this big castle,” I tell her.

Then it dawns on me. I do know where the dome and star picture is from because of my mother who loves old movies and makes me watch the classics with her. Since my dad insulted her, suddenly my mother can do no wrong.

“
Rebel Without a Cause
! James Dean,” I blurt to Nat. “He is what I call vintage hot.

“That second picture is some real life place in California where you go to look at stars—and not Tatum Ryan. Real stars,” I tell her. “It's a famous place. My mom wants us to go there someday. Griffith something.

“So either Mr. Foster's got a friend who's too cheap to send him post cards, or I don't know what,” I deduce.

“I know exactly what this is. I've heard about things like this on
American Justice
,” Nat replies. “These are markers.

“Serial killers do this all the time. When they kill someone, they take pictures or take little souvenirs. Some of them clip newspaper articles from their crimes and keep them; I think what Foster's done is draw a memento of where he has hidden the bodies. Of young girls. Ones he has killed.”

“No,” I gasp.

“Oh no, look it up. They all do this,” Nat goes on. “The cops always know to look for this stuff when they do searches of their homes. This is very typical serial-killer behavior. It's right after hurting cats and dogs. And you know how Foster feels about anything on his lawn.”

“Are you meaning to tell me this guy killed a slew of girls and then buried their bodies at these places, including around the Hollywood sign?” I toss back.

“Maybe not right under the Hollywood sign, but it's part of a small mountain range up there. Dirt. Mountains. Wildlife. Who knows what's hidden there. A jogger found a severed head there a year ago. I don't know what the castle means right now, but the other two places are both basically rugged terrain,” Nat analyzes in her best criminal-profiler voice.

“Think about it! The Hollywood sign. Griffith Park Observatory, which is the star place. I just looked it up. They're both in California,” Nat says. “The castle? I got a quick look at that picture in the shed. Looks to me like it's something around Disney or that new Wonderland princess park in California.

“Those are all landmarks right around Los Angeles. It's only a four-hour drive from here. Easy. Just zip across the desert in the middle of the night with a body in your trunk and you're there. Close. But far enough away where no one knows him and the local cops won't go looking.”

“The telltale things are the faceless girls in those pictures. They're not people to him. Just shells of girls who are now dead,” Nat whispers and up my spine races another major chill that has nothing to do with the fact that the air conditioning just kicked in.

Nat and I fall silent as the realization of what we have found sinks in.

Patty Matthews is dead and buried in California. There is only one more envelope, and I pull out the now slightly dirty, torn pieces of paper with the ripped fringe on the sides. It's the last few pages of Patty's notebook.

“Swear on the life of Tatum Ryan and the Drew-Ids who are your new family that you won't read it until the morning,” Nat begs.

“Swear,” I say, knowing that will be a tough one to keep, but my honor is on the line here. So I take the folded pages and put them back in the envelope.

Another zap of lightning creases the sky, but it never rains. I flip on the TV and get a local channel, which is focused on the weather. The forecasters insist tonight's just a tease. They remind everyone to keep an umbrella handy because the real storm will hit hard in the next few days.

“We've said it before,” says my favorite newswoman, Katt Kaetan, “but it bears repeating. Don't stray far from home during a monsoon, because you might not make it back. Just like poor Patty Matthews. On Saturday night, I will host a one-hour special, ‘Missing Girl, Missing Life.'”

“I nearly messed up the show. When I pulled that hand grenade I forgot to pull the safety pin.”

—Penny Parker

An hour later and I can't stand it any longer. I don't care that it's 1:30 in the morning because I know they're awake, which is why I call Nat, who answers on the first ring. “We need to read this thing now,” I tell her. “We have to finish it.”

I can hear Cissy and Deva breathing over her shoulder. “My thoughts exactly,” Nat says. “Let me put you on speaker and read it like you mean it. This really is the end.”

“I have a terrible feeling,” I say, snuggling under my covers as I pull out the first of the last eight pages. “Goodbye, Patty,” I mouth. “I'm so sorry.”

Dear Diary:

Hiding out in my room because Dad's temper is so short these days; the littlest thing sets him off. He gets so mad his face turns bright red, this big vein in his neck pulses, and he screams at the top of his lungs about nothing. I know the neighbors can hear him screaming. Last night, he picked up a chair and threw it against the wall and it broke into a million pieces.

Mom was screaming, Cooper was crying, and Dad was bellowing at the top of his lungs about dinner not being right. I kept waiting for the police to show up, but they never did. I think our neighbors are afraid of us! I can't blame them.

The only thing that I have to look forward to anymore is art class. Lillian says I am really progressing and I know I'm getting better. Well, I'll write more soon.

Dear Diary:

You are not going to believe this. Dad ripped up all my drawings from art class. He found all the work I had done on human forms in my room. He was looking for my birthday money for beer and found the whole stack.

Thank God he didn't find you. That's why I keep you so well hidden. He will never find you. I'll let you “slip” between the drawers of my dresser. No guy would ever know that's the best hiding spot of all. BTW, Dad's not letting me see Lillian anymore. He says she's a bad influence on me and that she's filling my head with bad things.

I hate this place. I hate him. I hate everyone (except Cooper, thank God he's too young to really know what's going on). So now I can't go to art class. This is the worst summer ever.