Shallow Grave (2 page)

But it doesn't make me any less pissed off.

Chapter Three

The faded red boathouse looms up in front of us, eerie in the dying daylight. A padlock hangs from the ring on the door.

Low-grade anger simmers in my gut as my cold fingers fumble with the keys. Mr. Harrison handed them to me with a little sneer when I reported to the office after school today.

“Let's see if you're as good at cleaning as you are at messing with private property, Owens.”

I didn't trust myself to try and explain it to him. Again.

I just took the keys, looked him in the eye and gave him a nod. Let him figure out in time how mistaken he's been.

I select a key that looks like it'll fit the big padlock. But before I can slide it in, the shackle swings open. Not even locked.

I pocket the key and pull the door open.

That old-wooden-building smell hits me.

“Watch your step,” I say over my shoulder. The boathouse is raised on concrete blocks. I point to the space separating the floor from the ground so Shannon doesn't trip on her way in. I don't want to have to carry her out of here if she falls and breaks something.

“Lights?” Shannon asks. She's standing beside me in the doorway.

I fumble around for a switch. “I don't think there are any,” I say.

“That's weird,” she says. Our eyes adjust to the darkness. “It's creepy in here.”

“Nah,” I say. But I don't mean it. I just want to disagree with her, even though she's right. The place is creepy as hell.

What's left of the daylight streams in through a high window. I set the heavy padlock down on a shelf. Something scuttles across the roof. Our heads turn toward the sound.

“Squirrels?” Shannon asks.

“Maybe. Or rats.”

“Rats?” Her voice comes out small.

I nod. “They've probably made nests in the eaves.”

She shivers. I wouldn't have thought a punk like her could be nervous. She seems so sure of herself.

Maybe she's afraid of nature. Sometimes people like that are. It's easier to feel rebellious in the city. You can fool yourself into thinking you're strong when you're surrounded by concrete and skyscrapers.

I decide to ask her what I've been wondering. “What did Harrison do, anyway, that made you guys want to take off with his car?”

She shoots me a look. “He's a prick. You've seen that for yourself.”

That's the truth.

“And he muzzles free speech. It sucks.” Her voice is hard. “I get it all the time with the newspaper. The guy doesn't know how to have any fun.”

I nod. “He's having fun now, thinking about us cleaning out this dump on a Friday afternoon.”

Shannon laughs. The sound surprises a smile out of me. I look away.

My eyes make out a glint of glass at the rear of the boathouse. I head toward the back, where a series of glass hurricane lamps line a shelf.

Shannon follows behind. “Oh goody!” She claps her hands, still in their mittens.

“We can work by candlelight.”

Oh goody.

We feel around on the shelf beside the lanterns.

“Hah?” Shannon holds up a box of Redbird wooden matches. “Am I good or what?”

A dozen smart comebacks march through my mind, but I say nothing.

I pick up one of the lanterns and tip it. Kerosene splashes up the inside wall of the glass reservoir at the bottom. Lots of fuel. I take the chimney off the top and roll the wick down to wet it.

Shannon lights a match and holds it to the wick. She's wearing that weird nail polish that looks all smashed, like her nails have been hit with a hammer. Black, of course.

We light three more lanterns, placing them in different spots in the old building. As I place the last one, I catch sight of the overhead light. It's a naked bulb in the center of the ceiling. A thin cord of string hangs down a few inches. I missed it in the dark, thinking the switch would be on the wall. But, of course, the boathouse is old and so is the wiring.

I pull on the string. A dim light floods the interior.

Shannon looks up. “Ah!” she exclaims, then laughs again. “All that trouble!” Then she looks around at the kerosene lanterns. “But I kind of like the lamps too. Let's leave them burning.”

“Whatever turns your crank,” I say. Even with the light from the lanterns and overhead bulb, the place is dark.

“Will you write me a poem by the firelight, oh handsome one?” she teases. I guess she's forgotten to be angry with me for being a rule follower.

Or maybe it was only me who was angry.

“I'm an athlete,” I say. “Not one of your fairy-art friends.” The words come out harsher than I had meant. But whatever.

Shannon blinks.

God, let's just get this job over with.

Behind us, the door bangs against the frame. I jump, and Shannon lets out a little squeak. We look at each other. She laughs nervously.

I prop the door open with a big brick, and we look around.

It smells musty in here, like dust and old damp things. Rope. Mildew. Wooden things. Boatish things. Our eyes travel the room, taking in the surroundings. There's stuff everywhere—in piles, in boxes, on shelves, on the floor.

Shannon puts words to my thoughts.

“This is going to take us awhile.”

Chapter Four

“So what's the plan of attack?” Shannon slings her bag into a corner. Two hard-cover books slide out onto the floor. A science text and some big silver book. A tube of lip stuff clatters out and comes to rest against the spine of the silver book. Two metal bracelets roll away under a shelf. Shannon sighs but doesn't move to pick stuff up.

I turn my head a bit so I can read the writing on the silver book.
Wildwood
Composite 2011–2012
. The new yearbook.

I look up to see Shannon standing with her hands on her hips, all business like. I sigh. “We go through everything,” I say. “Keep the things that still work. Paddles,
PFD
s, spray-skirts. Toss stuff that's old or busted.”

“Like this?” Shannon holds up a broken plastic bucket.

“Like that.”

She chucks it toward the door. “We can make a garbage pile over there,” she says. “Then when we're done, we can shove it all into bags and carry it down to the Dumpsters.”

I move toward a rack of
PFD
s. “Nice to know you got it all worked out,” I say.

She misses my dart, responding with a cheery, “You're in good hands!”

I roll my eyes and shake out a plastic bag. I put the broken bucket inside it and set the bag down by the door. Then I get to work.

I count and organize the life jackets. Shannon sits on the floor behind me, rifling through a bin of maps, rope and colored pinnies.

“So do you paddle?” she asks, tossing a roll of tape onto a pile.

“No, I swim,” I say.

“I know you swim, Elliot,” she says. “You're on the national team.” I glance over at her. She throws me a sweet smile.

I study her for a moment, trying to decide whether she's making fun of me.

“I'd like to learn how,” she says.

“To swim?” I ask.

She laughs and shakes her head. “I know how to swim,” she says. “I mean it might be cool to learn how to paddle.”

This surprises me. “Yeah?” She doesn't exactly strike me as the outdoorsy type. I wonder what she looks like without all that makeup on.

She nods. “We used to do a lot of camping when I was little.”

I can't see it. But I don't say it.

Shannon sighs and holds up a section of rope. “This knot's going to take me all night,” she says.

I grunt and look down at the one I'm trying to undo. I wish she'd stop talking. I just want to get this job done. She's not exactly my pick of conversation partners.

“What would you be doing otherwise?” Shannon asks. “If you weren't cleaning up a boathouse?”

There's no way this girl can work quietly. She's a total motormouth. I'm going to have to talk.

“On a Friday night?” I say. “Probably playing Rock Band or watching movies at someone's house.”

“After you do the vacuuming and finish all your homework?”

“Not exactly,” I say. “We have a cleaning lady who comes in to do the vacuuming.”

I look up. Shannon's staring at me, her thoughts right there on her face. Spoiled rich kid. The world handed to him on a platter.

But that's just the way it seems to her. It's not how things really are.

No one's life is really what you think it is. Not from the outside.

As she stares, I feel my ears grow hot. “You got the homework part right though,” I say.

The tension eases a little.

I look back at the knot. “And I have to clean my room too. I'm actually not allowed out until it's done.”

Shannon laughs then. Glad, I guess, to think I have normal problems like other people. “At least then you get it out of the way,” she says.

I shrug. “I guess. I spend most of the weekend swimming, so I kind of have to. I'm way too tired by Sunday night.” I tug at the knot with my teeth. Damn, this thing's tight. “Your Friday nights?”

She thinks for a minute. “Probably cleaning up my mother's mess before I take off. I usually crash with friends on weekends.”

I look up. “You clean up your mom's mess? That's a switch. Don't most mothers complain that their kids make the messes?”

“I wouldn't know,” Shannon says. “Mine's a depressed alcoholic who spends her days lying on the sofa eating Chunky Monkey and watching reality
TV
.”

I lower the rope and look at her. “Wow.”

Her voice is light, but she keeps her eyes down. “Yeah. Well, sometimes she switches to Chubby Hubby, though, so it's not all bad.” She laughs.

“I'm sorry.”

“About the ice cream?” She sighs. “I know. It's a problem.”

“No, I mean, about…”

Shannon lifts a shoulder. “No biggie. It is what it is.”

But I'm sure she wishes it wasn't.

“Where's your dad?” I'm always curious about other people's parents, since one of mine pretty much up and disappeared.

“Saudi Arabia,” she says.

Oh. One of those families. I've heard things get messed up when your parents travel overseas for work. I think about what Shannon's home life must look like. I can't imagine my mother even lying on the sofa, let alone eating ice cream in front of the
TV
. I don't even think I've ever seen her lie down. She doesn't know how to stop moving.

“Ha!” Shannon holds up the length of nylon she's been working on. “Behold the knot-free rope!”

“Nice,” I say. I'm relieved to change the subject. It sounds like a depressing life. I hold the
PFD
out toward her. “Here. Try this one. I'm not having any luck.”

“Not a chance,” she says. “I've had enough knots for the time being.” She stands and stretches. “What about these bins here, on the shelves?”

“Check them all,” I say.

“Most of this stuff is in pretty good shape, actually,” she says, pulling back a couple of tops and peering inside. “It's just not very well organized. I think once we get it all into the right places, we'll be done.”

“Maybe it won't take us the whole night, after all,” I say. As I say the words, the knot in the cord finally loosens.

“Hey,” Shannon says. Her voice is muffled. “What's this?”

I look over. Shannon's leaning forward, her upper body buried deep inside a blue bin. She's standing on her tiptoes, reaching. She'd have nice legs if she didn't go around covering them up with that ugly fishnet crap.

That's a pretty short skirt. I wonder if she really might have a tattoo on her bum.

I lean forward a little to see if I can influence the view.

Suddenly she straightens and her skirt drops back down. I look down and get busy with pulling the final loops out of the cord. I feel a flush creeping up. I'm glad she can't tell.

“Check it out,” she says. I glance up as casually as I can. A silver chain dangles from her fingers. In the center hangs a little pendant.

“A necklace.”

“A necklace,” she agrees. “Well, half a necklace. Have you ever seen these before?” She comes closer and squats down to show me. “It's one of those friendship necklaces. This is one half.”

I look at the pendant resting on Shannon's fingers. It says BEST in fancy silver lettering.

“One friend gets the best and the other one gets the friends,” Shannon continues. “Sometimes they even fit together, like pieces of a puzzle.” She runs the chain through her fingers. I wonder if she's thinking about stealing it.

“I wonder who this belonged to,” she says. Her eyes are on the pendant.

“No clue,” I say. I finish untwisting the cord. “Anything else weird in that box?” I stand and hang the
PFD
with the others.

Shannon goes back to the box and bends over to peer inside.

Damn. Why'd I stand up?

“I don't think so,” she says, moving a few things around. “There's mostly just a bunch of rope.” She holds up a coil of medium rope, like you'd use for tying up canoes.

“Must've just fallen off whoever was wearing it.” I start stacking folded tarps on a low shelf.

“I bet the other friend was sad,” says Shannon.

“Or mad,” I offer.

Shannon grins. “Or secretly relieved.”

The door bangs shut, making me jump. “What the—?”

Shannon drops the necklace and screams.

Which scares the pants off me.

“Jesus!” I yell. “Don't freak out like that!”

Shannon's staring at the door, her eyes huge and her hands pressed against her chest.

“It's just the door,” I say. “Relax.”