Unspeakable (20 page)

All the while, his grandfather had sat there with his mouth slightly open and the computer screen reflected on his glasses.

Collin had admitted that he didn't believe the police had found his mother's actual killers. He'd suggested the real murderers were still at large, watching him closely. He'd hoped his grandfather would understand how these killers—or at least, one of them—might have been behind yesterday's break-in at the Pelhams' house, as well as Fernando's disappearance.

Collin's back ached from hovering behind his grandfather at the computer for the last forty minutes.

Old Andy slipped his glasses in his shirt pocket and sighed. “Well, first off, I think you're wrong about your mother's killers. I think it was this lowlife drug gang who got shot themselves. And I say good riddance to bad rubbish. The police already went over all the evidence with us, Collin.” He shrugged. “And I don't know what any of that has to do with this Wade character who's been dead for half a century. Are you saying you think you're reincarnated from this dead hooligan—like a Shirley MacLaine kind of thing? If that's the case, then I'm sorry, but it sounds pretty crazy.”

Collin sat down on his bed. “I'm not sure what it is,” he said wearily. “I wish I knew. I'd never heard of the guy until Saturday night. But that lady in Leavenworth recognized me from 1962. And you saw how I acted in those videos.”

“Your friends could have egged you on earlier,” his grandfather said. “And—and you told me, you'd just been watching a movie from around that same year. You know, Collin, even when you were a little boy, you took to any kind of suggestion. I'd tell you to be a tiger, and you'd growl and roar and claw at the air. It's what made you such a good actor. I think your friends were playing a joke on you. I'll bet Gail—God rest her soul—I'll bet she read about this World's Fair killer somewhere—and she made some sort of hypnotic suggestion to you, only you didn't get to see it in the video. They could have stopped filming during that part or edited it out or whatever. Have you thought about that? What is it you kids say, ‘You just got dunked'?”

“
Punked,
” Collin corrected him. “I already considered that, Grandpa. Gail and Fernando thought I was pulling a joke on them. And they weren't happy with me about it. In fact, Gail was really pissed off at me for the way I acted in the car Sunday while I was hypnotized. I don't remember any of it—except for what I saw in the video. . . .”

His grandfather looked so confused and lost. Collin knew exactly how he felt. He sighed. “Not being able to remember is one of the scariest things about this. Last night, I think Wade took over while I was sleeping. I think he snuck out and started the fire at the Pelhams'.”

His grandfather squinted at him. “So you're saying you drove over there and set fire to the house—and all the while, you were
asleep
?”

“I'm saying I think
Wade
did it. You saw how it was in the videos. This other personality just sort of took over. All I remember from last night is waking up from a bad dream, and I was all sweaty. My clothes weren't where I left them. There was mud on my shoes—and my pants and jacket smelled like gasoline. Then today at breakfast, you told me about hearing the car engine at three-thirty in the morning, and I wasn't in bed. The lady I talked to outside the Pelhams' said the fire started around four.”

“Why in the world would you want to kill the Pelhams?” his grandfather asked, frowning. “Gail was your friend—”

“That's the point, Grandpa. It's not me, it's
Wade
. I don't know why he'd kill them. I don't know why he murdered all those people back in 1962 either, but I'm pretty sure he did.”

His grandfather stared at him. “So,” he said finally. “Where are these shoes with the mud on them—and the pants that smell like gasoline?”

“The shoes are in my closet, and the jeans are in the bathroom hamper.”

His grandfather stood up and headed to the closet. He opened the door and picked up the muddied Converse All Stars. “Are these them? They don't look so bad.”

“They didn't look that way when I took them off last night before going to bed.”

His grandfather took the shoes in the bathroom, and then opened the hamper. Collin followed him in there. His grandfather fished the jeans out of the bin. “I can barely smell the gasoline,” he muttered. Before Collin could say anything, his grandfather tossed the jeans and sneakers into the tub. Then he turned on the shower.

“Grandpa, what are you doing?”

He reached for the shampoo bottle and squeezed some over the shoes and jeans. “I don't believe for one minute that you'd ever intentionally hurt somebody,” he said resolutely. “I know you better than you know yourself. And no one could even
make
you hurt another living soul. But if you're crazy enough to think you might have burned down that house—with your friend and her family in it—than there's probably someone out there crazy enough to agree with you. Why give them any ammunition to go after you when you're perfectly innocent?”

Collin glanced down at the jeans and the shoes—and the trail of mud that snaked toward the tub drain. “Grandpa, you can't . . .” he murmured. Yet a part of him was secretly relieved.

Leaving the shower on, his grandfather headed back to the bedroom. He stopped in front of Collin's desk and pointed at the computer screen. “I want you to erase or delete or whatever it is you do to get rid of those videos showing you acting so strange.”

Collin shook his head. “Grandpa, I need those.”

“You need them like you need a hole in your head,” he argued. “Those videos aren't helping you one bit. They're just filling your mind with crazy notions. The last thing you need is for someone else to see these. . . .” He sat down at the desk, his bony hands poised over the keyboard. “Where's the delete function on this thing?”

“I'll do it!” Collin rushed to his side. He didn't want his grandfather screwing up his computer. Hovering beside him, he brought up the video files and sent them into the recycle bin.

“This recycle thingy,” his grandfather said, “people can still go in there and pull stuff out, can't they? You need to get rid of it for good, Collin. Someone might look at that thing and—just like you—they'd come up with all sorts of nutty theories about you and that fire you had nothing to do with.”

With a sigh, Collin reluctantly moved the cursor, pushed the delete button, and emptied out the recycle bin.

“What's this doohickey?” his grandfather asked, pointing to the webcam attachment. “Is that like a video camera?”

Collin nodded. “I don't really use it for anything.”

“I want you to aim it at the bed and switch it on before you go to sleep tonight,” he said. “Record it. That way, if you get up and start walking in your sleep tonight, you'll know. . . .”

Collin wished he'd thought of that last night.

“If we find out you're sleepwalking,” his grandfather continued, “then we can talk to a doctor about it— a doctor, not a
hypnotist
. You don't need any more of that nonsense. And listen, do us both a favor, and don't tell your grandmother about any of this. In fact, don't talk about it with anyone. It's just going to get you into trouble. You haven't done anything. Right now, you've got troubles enough, kiddo. Don't make things any worse. Let's just forget about all of this hocus-pocus reincarnation stuff, and move on. Are we in agreement here?”

For a moment, Collin didn't say anything. He listened to the shower running. He thought about his screwed-up mom, and wondered if his grandfather had employed this same brand of blatant denial in his dealings with her. A lot of good it had done for her.

They could wash the gas and dirt off his clothes, and he could delete those videos. But Collin still remembered the horrified expression on Irene Pollack's face when she'd first seen him yesterday. He couldn't let this go. He figured if Fernando ever showed up, he'd get his friend to send him the videos again. He probably still had them in his phone.

Collin looked his grandfather in the eye. “All right, Grandpa. I'll drop the whole thing.” He could tell the old man believed him, too.

He was still a very good actor.

“I'm serious, you're pissing me off,” Maya told her boyfriend.

But Liam didn't pay any attention to her. He wasn't paying much attention to his driving either, because he was texting at the wheel. The two North Kitsap High seniors were driving along Silverdale Way, on their way home from a movie at the Kitsap Mall.

One of the things Maya really didn't like about Liam—and it was almost a deal-breaker—was his habit of texting while driving. She'd seen one too many grisly public service announcements on YouTube about the dangerous pastime. It was especially unnerving when her boyfriend texted while driving at night. He kept drifting over the double yellow lines.

“I'm counting to ten, Liam,” she announced. “If you don't put the phone away by the time I'm finished, I'm ripping it out of your hand and throwing it out of the window.”

“Jesus, who died and made you the texting narc?” He worked his thumb over the small keypad. “I can multitask. I'm texting Matt about tomorrow. . . .”

“You know how much I hate this. Like you can't wait ten minutes until we're parked . . .”

“I'm almost done. Give me a break.”

“One, two, three . . .” Maya flicked the switch to lower the passenger window. Her long brown hair started blowing in the breeze. “You're weaving, for God's sake, and there's a car in the other lane coming at us. . . .”

Liam looked up long enough to get back onto his side of the road and watch the car whoosh by. Then he glanced down at his iPhone again.

Maya went back to counting. The closer she got to ten, the more Liam started laughing. His texting thumb worked even faster now, and his eyes were riveted to his iPhone. Maya was certain they were going to have an accident.

“. . . eight, nine, and ten!” she announced. “That's it! Enough!” Maya reached over and snatched the phone from him. The car swerved. She was so angry that she hurled the iPhone out the window without hesitation.

“WHAT THE FUCK?” Liam bellowed. Veering over to the side of the road, he hit the brake. Gravel rattled against the underside of the car, and the tires screeched.

Maya braced a hand on the dash as they skidded. The car finally came to a diagonal halt—with the front of it sticking in the roadway.

After a few more choice expletives, Liam straightened the car on the shoulder of the road and stepped outside. He slammed his door shut and then stomped down a ditch into some bushes bordering a dark, wooded area. He turned toward the car again. “Well, are you going to help me find my phone or what?” he barked.

A car sped by. Maya had the window open. “I'm sorry, but I warned you,” she said. She reached into her purse and dug out her cell phone. “Relax. I'm calling you right now. We'll see the phone light up and hear the ring. It's back a few more yards, I think . . .”

Maya punched in his number and counted two rings before an automated recording came on. It wasn't his regular message:
“The wireless customer you're calling is unavailable. Please try your call again.”

“I think we're out of luck,” she announced.

“Well, you're the one who threw it out the goddamn window,” he yelled. “I could use some help! I have stuff on that phone I'd rather not have some stranger looking at.”

She stared at all the bushes and trees—and beyond, the shadowy, ominous woods. “I don't think you're ever going to find it, Liam. I'll chip in for a new phone. But you'll have to change some of your passwords. . . .”

“Those pictures I took of you naked are on that phone,” he said.

“Oh, shit,” she whispered, opening the car door. “All right, I'm coming!”

Maya got out of the car and teetered down the ditch at the roadside. Using the light on her cell phone as a makeshift flashlight, she nervously explored the brush. She could hear things shifting around in the woods. Maybe it was just the sound of tree branches rustling or raccoons. Whatever it was, it made her uncomfortable. Every once in a while, she lost track of where Liam was, and she'd panic. Then she'd realize, there was just a tree between them, or he'd stepped into the shadows. So—she kept talking to him and listened for him to grunt a response every minute or two.

They'd been searching for at least ten minutes when she snagged her new sweater on a thorny bush. Then she noticed her favorite Cole Haan casuals were caked with mud. A car sped by on Silverdale Way, the first one in a long while, and she wished she were in it.

“You know, at this point, Liam, I don't care who finds your phone and sees me naked,” she announced. “I say we give up the search. I'll buy you a new phone—a better phone, okay?”

No response.

“Liam?” she called. She felt a pang in her stomach. “Liam, where are you?”

Maya glanced around to make certain a tree or bush wasn't blocking her view of him. She didn't see him anywhere. It was as if she was all alone out there.

“Liam, if you're hiding to get even with me for the phone, it's not funny!” Her voice quivered, and she couldn't breathe right. “C'mon, please, enough already!”

Up ahead, Maya thought she saw something duck behind a tree. She stood there, frozen. She wasn't sure if she should move toward it or run away. Tears stung her eyes.

“Answer me, Liam! I've had enough of this! I mean it! I'm heading back to the car!”

She heard a twig snap behind her, and swiveled around. Maya didn't see anything, but she started to back away. Something caught her foot, and all at once, she fell. But Maya didn't hit the ground.

She landed on top of a slightly bloated corpse. Her hand hit the young man's cold, soft, clammy chest. He was naked. Someone had slashed him across the throat. The wound looked so deep, his head seemed barely attached to the rest of him.

Maya let out a horrified shriek.

It brought her boyfriend out of hiding. They were both so unnerved by their discovery, neither one recognized the sophomore from their high school who had been missing since the previous morning.

 

 

Later, the police discovered a cell phone about thirty feet away from Fernando Ryan's body. The phone belonged to Liam.

Eventually, they would come across Fernando's clothes and his backpack.

But they never found his phone.