Living with the hawk (20 page)

I was staring at the foot of the bed, sheet and blankets in a turmoil, but there were no answers there. I lay down again.

The clock radio beside my bed, its numbers red as vulture eyes.

I needed to talk to my brother again. There was so much we had to straighten out.

T
EN

T
he wall behind her desk was all bookcase, thick oak shelves filled from floor to ceiling with rows of books, many of them bound in leather, and magazines, law journals I suppose they were, stacks of them piled on top of books, but I kept looking at the aquarium on the middle shelf. A mermaid sat on a rock, untarnished and fragile, her skin so white you knew she'd never seen the sun, bubbles rising from her mouth, disappearing in the green plants that floated above her head. Gliding slowly around her were tropical fish, half a dozen of them, their fins barely moving. Some of them looked like miniature sharks, waiting to attack.

My parents had picked me up from school that morning, pulled me out of class after the first period. As soon as the three of us sat down on the cushioned chairs before her desk, Ms. McKinnel said her piece.

“The reason I called you in,” she said, “is that Blake asked me to talk to you — so you'll understand the situation before this afternoon's hearing. I know you'll want to be in court, but we think this will make it easier.”

My father nodded his head but didn't speak.

“Can we take him home after that?” my mother asked. She sat with her hands hugging her shoulders as if she were cold.

“That will depend on whether the other boys decide to change their story.”

“What
is
their story?” My mother again, her fingers rubbing at her shoulders.

“They say that Blake drove up behind Vaughn Foster's car and boxed him in, that he's the one who beat the Big Sky girl.”

“That's hogwash,” said my father. “I don't believe it for a minute. He liked Anna Big Sky. Why would he beat her up?” He was asking Ms. McKinnel, but then he looked at me as if seeking confirmation.

Blake had said something odd when Ms. McKinnel and I had seen him at the police station, when she had told him Foster's story about how he'd blocked their car in. “The bastards, that must be how it was.”

If Blake hadn't known what happened, it meant he wasn't there, that someone else — suddenly, things were making better sense. God, and I'd put Blake through hell, my parents too. I nodded at my father. “I don't think he was even near the place,” I said. “It had to be the other guys — Jordan Phelps and Todd Branton.”

“Yes, probably both of them,” said Ms. McKinnel. “Your son was driving — ”

“Wait a minute,” said my father. “He didn't have the car.”

“Not the family car. It belonged to Ivan Buchko.”

“Then Ivan must have been there,” my mother said. “He can prove that Blake is innocent.”

“Please.” Ms. McKinnel held up her hand. “Young Buchko wasn't with him. If you'll just let me explain. Your son instructed me to tell you what he did that night.”

“Yes. Go ahead,” said my father.

“There was a football party. At Fentons' place, the parents were away. Blake said that he went there for a while, but he didn't feel like partying. How did he put it? ‘I didn't seem to fit in anymore — didn't want to fit in.'”

Good, I thought, good for him. He shouldn't want to hang with guys like that.

“As he was leaving, Ivan Buchko threw him his keys, told him to drive around till he was feeling better. On the way out, he bumped into Vaughn Foster. Or Vaughn bumped him, stumbled against him on the stairs — he'd been drinking, said something about having a hot date that night. Blake told him he'd better not be driving and left the house. He had the impression that Foster was looking for someone at the party. A few minutes later he was sitting outside in the car when he saw Foster drive off. No one else in the car. Your son decided to follow him.”

“Why would he do that?” my mother asked. “Was he going to stop him from driving drunk?”

Ms. McKinnel tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “No, I don't think that was it. I think he wanted to see who Foster's hot date was going to be. He was a bit embarrassed about this, but he had an idea as to who it might be. He'd seen the Foster boy chatting up a particular girl in the halls at school. So he followed along behind, saw him stop outside Mr. Sub and honk his horn. A girl came running out to Foster's car, and he knew her right away — Anna Big Sky. When they pulled away, your son followed them, stayed behind them to the edge of town. He figured they were probably going out to the Goring farm.”

“Why the Goring farm?” my father asked.

I knew why. “The Gorings move south as soon as they get the crops off.”

My father looked perplexed. I had to tell him all of it.

“They have this long driveway between two lines of poplars. It's where everybody goes to make out.”

My mother reached across my father and jabbed my thigh. “How do you know this?”

“Kids talk at school. Everybody knows it.” I wanted her attention back on Ms. McKinnel and turned to the lawyer. “Blake didn't follow them outside of town?”

Ms. McKinnel shook her head. “He said he was feeling like a dork — I believe that was the term he used — said it was none of his business what they did.”

Yes, I could hear him saying that.

My father was running his index finger over his right ear. “Exactly where is this leading?” he asked.

“Your son didn't feel like going back to the party yet. He drove around for quite a while, listening to music. For about an hour, he thinks.” Ms. McKinnel paused. I could see a Gourami in the fish tank behind her head. It looked as if it was about to take a slice out of her left ear. “He was driving north on Main Street, out toward the overpass when he saw a silver Camry coming into town. It was the Foster car, but young Foster wasn't driving. He was in the passenger seat. Jordan Phelps was behind the wheel. There was no sign of Anna Big Sky — but there was another car right behind it and when that car passed him he saw the driver's face. It was Todd Branton. No sign of Anna there either.”

“What did he do?” My father glanced at me when I spoke, but turned quickly back to Ms. McKinnel.

“He took a drive out to the Goring farm. There was one car way down at the end of the lane. A couple necking. He didn't recognize them.”

“Why didn't he go after the other guys?” I asked. “Ask them what the heck was going on?” I felt a crazy urgency — as if somehow things could change and he could still save her.

“Be quiet, Blair.” My father put out his hand, looked as if he might place it over my mouth.

“You must remember this was Saturday night. No one knew the girl was dead. Your brother said he felt uneasy, but that was the extent of it.”

“Did he go out to the old McAuley place?”

“Blair!” This time his fingers did brush my lips.

“No, he didn't. He says he'd heard of it, but didn't know where it was.”

“I don't understand,” my mother said. “Our son hasn't done anything wrong. Why are the police holding him?”

She sounded dense, I know, but she was just worked up.

“How did he get involved?” my father asked, his words like heavy footsteps on the heels of my mother's question.

“When he heard of Anna's death, he had his suspicions, of course, but he didn't go to the police. He went to Vaughn Foster instead, tried to get him to say what had happened. The boy wouldn't tell him anything. Neither would the other two.” Ms. McKinnel had been leaning toward us, her hands flat on her desk, but now she sank back into her chair. A Black Molly was swimming just above her head, circling slowly, like something ominous, waiting. “I think, perhaps, your son has a misguided sense of loyalty to his friends. I understand they all played football together. Perhaps that's why he decided to give them a break, said he wasn't going to turn them in, it would be better for them if they went to the police themselves.”

Just like I told him, I thought. The same thing exactly. And look where it got him.

“He even gave them a deadline — Saturday at supper time — or he would do it for them. But then the police got a tip on Friday afternoon, and they didn't get the chance.”

I wondered if my parents were glaring at me, but I didn't look to see.

I was relieved when Ms. McKinnel kept talking. “Blake thinks — and I tend to agree with him — that that was when they decided to lay the blame on him. When the police were called in before Saturday.”

Lord, I thought, because I couldn't wait — wouldn't wait. I was so damned sure of myself I had to phone the tip line no matter how he argued. If only he had told me what was going on. If only I had figured — my mother was saying something.

“ — have to be some kind of evidence? They're not going to take the word of three boys, are they?”

“Certainly not. The police have photographed the scene where she was beaten, they have impressions of the footprints found there, of the tire tracks. They impounded the Foster car. I'm sure they'll be looking at the tires on the other cars — Buchko's and Branton's. They've been examining everything for any clues as to who might have been there. I don't think they're going to find any sign of your son, Mrs. Russell.”

“Then we can take him home after the hearing?” It was the question she had asked before, the words almost identical, and I wanted to hug her, tell her I was sorry, make it all disappear.

“I don't know about that. It will depend on what the boys say. One of them may change his story. They're not exactly hardened criminals — the Foster boy was fined once for having open liquor in a vehicle, but that's it. Perhaps, the pressure will get to them — I don't know. You can't count on it.”

My mother sat with her hands between her knees as if that might keep them warm, but now she raised them, her fingers falling together as they would in prayer. When she looked down and saw them wavering there before her face, she quickly dropped them to her lap. I looked away. “It doesn't seem fair,” she said, “that he should have to wait.”

“It's the law, I guess,” my father said. I couldn't bear to have them look at me. He laid his right hand on hers, gave it a quick pat. Seemed to recognize the uselessness of a pat. “Ms. McKinnel, do the police know what happened out there — at the McAuley place — who beat the girl?”

“That would be mere conjecture on my part.”

“Does anyone know why they did it?”

“Your son said he thought Foster liked the girl, but he'd heard racist comments from the other two. He couldn't say more than that.”

But I could.

All I had to do was close my eyes, and right now I would see Anna Big Sky striding toward Jordan Phelps, hear her calling him, “Asshole,” her fist slamming his shoulder, her knee catching him in the crotch, and then she was pulling Amber free and the two of them were running down the hall.

“It would help,” said Ms. McKinnel, “if we could establish some connection between the other boys and the Big Sky girl. Something more specific than racist comments.”

“I can help,” I said. “Jordan Phelps was mad as hell at her. She called him an asshole, kneed him in the — groin.”

“This is something you heard about?”

“I was there.”

“You're not just saying this? To help your brother?”

“No, I swear. I saw it happen.”

“Can anyone corroborate what you say?”

“Amber Saunders. She was there too.”

Ms. McKinnel wrote down the name. “This is vital information. I wish you'd told me sooner. Is there anything else that might be of help?”

There was nothing more I could tell her, except about the guys spouting racist comments in the shower. I wanted to talk to my brother.

The funeral for Anna Big Sky was held that afternoon in Assiniboia, there being no place in Wood Mountain big enough to hold the number of people expected to attend. Assiniboia was a hundred kilometres from Palliser, but the highway hotline reported that the roads were clear, there hadn't been much snow in the south. I pleaded with my parents to let me go, told them I could catch a ride with Ivan Buchko. My father wondered if I should be at my brother's remand hearing, but I argued that I had to go to Anna's funeral, that Blake would go himself if he only had the chance. My mother looked at me and tried to smile. “Under the circumstances,” she said, “I think he'll understand.”

There must have been half a dozen cars leaving the school at noon that day for the drive south on number two. Ivan had three girls from the student council riding with him, but he said there was lots of room for me. When I came out to the crescent in front of the school, the three girls, who were all in grade twelve, were clustered around his Ford, talking, but they shut up when they saw me coming. And stood looking at me as if I had an extra nostril in the middle of my forehead. At least I got to sit up front with Ivan. Still, I could feel them staring at me from behind. For a while, the back seat was filled with talk about how awful it was to die so young, how stupid those boys were to think they could get away with anything like this, but by the time the road began to rise into the hills south of town the conversation had petered out to the occasional brief comment about school or another nervous remark about funerals. I was afraid I knew what was coming next.