The one good thing about a crappy day—you can tell yourself that things can’t get any worse, and ninety-eight times out of a hundred, you’re right. The other two times out of a hundred? Well, here’s how my crappy day unfolded:
After paying a visit to Mr. Genovese, I went to school, where nobody except teachers would look at me, much less talk to me. And the whole time I was there, I couldn’t stop thinking about all those people who had left posts on that website; people who didn’t even know me but who thought I was the lowest form of life on the planet—a coward who refused to avenge her friends’ deaths. After home form, I found myself walking around with my head down. What was the point of looking at people who were only going to look away from me? I stared at my toes, I stared at the floor, I stared at my desk, I stared at my textbooks and notebooks. I was focused on the interlocking cement blocks that made up the broad walkway in front of school when two mirror-shiny shoes appeared right in front of me.
“Tegan?”
This is where my day pulled a two-percenter—it took a turn for the crappier.
It was Mr. Deacon. His smile came across like a muscle spasm, like he hadn’t planned it, like it had happened involuntarily. There was no real feeling behind it that I could see.
“I’d like to buy you a soda,” he said, his voice as smooth as a freshly paved road, easing the way for me to say yes. Did he think I was brain-dead? The last time I’d seen him, he had practically accused me of being in league with the killer.
“No, thanks.” I didn’t even try to sound polite. Why should I? I tried to circle around him, but he blocked my way.
“Please? There’s a little place just over there.” He pointed to a café across the street from school.
“I hate that place,” I said. At least, I did now. Martin liked the lattes over there. He always ordered a huge bowl. Lately I’d been going with him. But remembering Martin wasn’t the only thing that made me never want to go there again. The café was also a place where kids from my school hung out.
“Name the place then,” Mr. Deacon said. “It’s important, Tegan. We need to talk.”
“About what?”
“I thought you might like an update on what’s been happening.”
An update?
I glanced around.
“How about over there?” I nodded at a tiny greasy spoon with grimy windows. There was no chance I’d run into anyone from my school there.
He stared at the place. I was sure he was going to reject it, and then we’d have to negotiate. I wanted to hear whatever news he had, but I didn’t want to spend any more time with him than I had to. Besides, if there was news, I could always get it from Detective Zorbas.
But he didn’t reject my suggestion. He nodded, and we set off across the street. He had his phone out by the time we got to the door.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I have to take this. I’ll be right in.”
I hadn’t heard his phone ring, so I guessed he had it on vibrate. I pushed the door open and stepped onto worn, cracked linoleum. The place didn’t look like much— tables without tablecloths, mismatched chairs, the menu items displayed in faded artwork over the counter on a back-lit sheet of plastic. The only customers were a couple of old men at the back of the place hunched over bottles of beer. I grabbed a table as far as possible from both the window and the beer drinkers and waited for Mr. Deacon.
He came through the door a moment later and looked around with the curiosity of an anthropologist. I ordered tea. He followed my lead, and we sat in silence until it was delivered in little metal teapots that leaked when you tried to pour them.
“So?” I said when he still hadn’t said anything.
The door to the restaurant opened and he turned. A man and a woman came in. They both stopped and gazed around, open-mouthed, until they located Mr. Deacon. The woman’s nose wrinkled in disapproval.
“No way,” I said, standing up.
Mr. Deacon grabbed my wrist and held me.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “But I didn’t think you’d agree to talk if you knew they were going to be here.”
“You were right.” I tried to pull free, but his grip was too strong.
“You owe it to them to talk to them, Tegan.”
Mrs. Carson slipped her hand through her husband’s arm and he led her to our table. He pulled out a chair for her and dusted it with a handkerchief he produced from his pants pocket. She sat gingerly on the edge. A waitress appeared, but Mrs. Carson waved her away without a word. No way was she going to touch anything in this place.
Mr. Carson fixed me with piercing gray eyes that were just like Clark’s.
“I’m going to come right to the point,” he said. “I’m not here to offer a reward. Maybe some believe in bribes to get people to do what they should be doing in the first place, but I don’t. I’m here to put it to you plainly. You witnessed my son’s murder. For whatever reason, you are insisting that, although you couldn’t have been more than a couple of feet away from the killer, you saw nothing. If it were up to me, you would be charged with obstruction of justice, but apparently that isn’t an option. So I’m just going to put the facts to you. Fact one, my son did not do drugs.”
I opened my mouth to say something, but he cut me off.
“Yes, I am aware that there was one time when he came home under the influence,” he said. “He experimented. All young people experiment. But that was that. It never happened again.”
The way Clark had told it, his parents had screamed at him for a solid hour because of what had happened to his brother Scott. Scott had experimented with drugs too. But the experiment had turned into a more-or-less permanent state, which, coupled with an expensive car, had led to a crash and a spinal-cord injury. Scott was never going to walk again. He didn’t talk very well either.
So when Clark came home giggling like a fool and reeking of weed, Mr. Carson had forbidden him to associate with Martin. They had a huge fight over that. Then Mr. Carson brought out the big guns—he promised that he would disinherit Clark if he ever touched drugs again. Mr. Carson must have been quite a piece of work. He must have been one of those guys who never makes a threat he doesn’t intend to keep, because Clark caved. He said it wasn’t worth it to have to pass a sniff test every time he got home. In return, his father gave way on the issue of Martin. Neither of his parents liked Martin, but Clark never stopped being his friend. He did stop using drugs though—not that it killed his party life, because alcohol was a whole different story. Mr. Carson had nothing against alcohol. In fact, he figured that since kids are going to drink anyway, they might as well do it at home, on the theory that it would lead to responsible drinking. Clark’s parents scolded him when he got drunk, but it was nothing like the way they acted about weed. Not even close. The time he got totally wasted and drove his car into the stone wall around the property, his father actually said to him, “Well, that’s something you won’t ever do again.” Clark said his mother freaked out—what if he’d been killed or, worse, permanently disabled like his brother? What if he’d killed someone else? But did they refuse to buy him a new car? No. Did they restrict his right to drive? No. Did they cut off his supply of alcohol? Uh-uh. It was business as usual.
They also didn’t freak when Clark racked up speeding tickets, and once—it was amazing it was only once— a ticket for reckless driving when he kept weaving through traffic on the highway to get ahead, get ahead, get ahead. He always wanted to be out front, and he never cared who he cut off or freaked out while he did it. If someone flipped him the finger, he returned the gesture and left them in the dust. But that probably wouldn’t have mattered to Mr. Carson, if he had known about it. He probably would have said that Clark was just blowing off steam.
“Fact two,” Mr. Carson said, “my son did nothing to bring this on himself—except maybe exercise poor judgment in deciding, against the advice and wishes of both his mother and myself, to continue his association with Martin Genovese. Fact three, it was Martin Genovese’s involvement with the drug trade that led to my son’s death.”
Fact?
“I thought that was just a theory,” I said. “I thought the police weren’t sure.”
Mrs. Carson stared at me like I was a slug on one of her prize roses.
“It’s their only avenue of investigation,” Mr. Carson said. “You tell me what that means. Fact four, you were in that car. It is within your power to provide the police with some kind of investigative lead. As I say, there’s nothing the police can charge you with because, they tell me, there’s no solid evidence that you are engaging in obstruction. But I promise you this, young lady. If you don’t do something to assist the police in arresting my son’s killer, I can and will make your life very unpleasant. You know what I do, don’t you, Tegan?”
What he did?
“You mean, for a living?”
He nodded.
“I know you own some companies.” Everyone knew it.
“Do you know which ones?”
I shook my head. Clark had said something once about a holding company, which, when I asked, he said was a company that owned other companies. He’d mentioned a couple of names that I sort of recognized too, although I wasn’t sure what they did. Plus there was a bakery that Mrs. Carson had started up. It got a lot of press because all of the profits that didn’t get plowed back into the business were donated to charity.
“Well, among others, I own a company that controls the company where your mother works.”
Right then I knew what he was going to say next. He didn’t disappoint me.
“You know the economy is in a bit of a mess right now, don’t you?” he said. “A lot of places have been letting people go. It would be a shame if your mother were to lose her job.”
I couldn’t believe it. I glanced at Mrs. Carson, who all of a sudden didn’t look like a person who was interested in charity, and at Mr. Deacon.
“Are you threatening me, Mr. Carson?” I said.
“No, I’m not, as I’m sure Mrs. Carson and Mr. Deacon will be able to attest. Besides, I have no direct say over the day-to-day operations of the company.”
Right. But I bet he had plenty of indirect say.
“Think about it, Tegan,” he said. He stood up and reached out an arm to help his wife. Mr. Deacon threw some money onto the table to pay for the tea that neither of us had touched. They all walked out of the restaurant together.
I was shaking as I looked across the table at Detective Zorbas an hour later.
“I’ll talk to Mr. Carson when I get a chance, Tegan,” he said.
“But he can’t really do it, can he? He can’t get my mother fired—can he?”
“He shouldn’t have threatened to have her removed from her job because of you. But the economy is in a mess right now, and if other people are let go at the same time…He’s upset. But I will talk to him.”
I hesitated before I asked the next question.
“He said you’re pretty sure the shooting was drug-related.”
“I wouldn’t say that we’re sure of anything at the moment.” He ran down the facts for me. Maybe I’m stupid, but it had never occurred to me that the police wouldn’t be able to find whoever killed Clark and Martin. If it was TV or the movies, they’d come up with something. But Detective Zorbas seemed genuinely stumped. No shell casings. No fingerprints. No hairs. No fibers. No footwear impressions. No one saw anyone in the street. No one saw anyone running away from the scene. No one saw a car driving away from the scene. No one knew of anyone who had been in a fight or an argument with either Clark or Martin. No one knew anyone who had a grudge against either of them. The cops had absolutely zero leads.
“The one thing we do know is that Martin was involved with drugs,” Detective Zorbas said. “I thought he’d learned his lesson, but…”
Learned his lesson?
“What do you mean?”
Detective Zorbas looked evenly at me. “He didn’t tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
“About the time he was arrested. For drugs.”
“Martin was arrested?” No, that couldn’t be right. If Martin had been arrested, I would have heard about it. The whole school would have heard about it.
“It was six—no, seven months ago. He was arrested. I gather he called his buddy Clark, and Clark called his father, and some kind of deal was made. Charges were dropped on condition that Martin successfully complete a drug rehab program.”
“Rehab?” No way! “You make it sound like he was a junkie or a meth-head or something.”
“He was dealing drugs, Tegan.”
“He was getting stuff for his friends from time to time. That didn’t make him a drug dealer.”
“That’s splitting hairs, and I think you know it. He was getting drugs from a dealer and was reselling them to his friends. According to the law, that’s dealing. I know he went to the program. I know he quit drugs.”
Was that why Martin had turned serious all of a sudden? Was that why he never wanted to party anymore? Because he’d got caught and had made a deal?
“But apparently that didn’t stick. He smoked up the night he was killed.”
God, and it was probably because of me. I’d been after him—Come on, Martin, stop being such a bore. Let’s have some fun. Get some stuff. For me? Please? I’m tired from all that studying. It’s a party. We’re supposed to unwind. I’d seen that look on his face. I had the feeling he was going to say no, and it pissed me off. What was wrong with him?
Now I knew.
And that night—he’d handed the stuff to me. He’d said, “Here. A present.” And he’d looked deep into my eyes. He’d said, “I have to talk to you, Tegan.” And, stupid me, I thought he was going to tell me that he was interested in me, that we made a great couple, that we should be together. He’d seemed nervous, and guys are always nervous when they’re about to declare themselves. I mean, there’s always the chance of rejection, right? But maybe that wasn’t what he’d been nervous about, at least not according to Gina. Maybe he was going to drive a knife through my heart. Maybe he was going to tell me how he felt about Kelly. Maybe that’s why he was nervous. Jeez, it was probably why he’d finally said yes after months of being a total stick-in-the-mud.
It was probably why he’d finally caved and smoked a joint with me after telling me half the night that he wasn’t interested.
“The drug scene is changing, Tegan,” Detective Zorbas said. “Some of the players now, they’re not so nice, if you know what I mean. He knew that. We thought he understood—kids who get involved with drugs often end up knowing the wrong kind of people. People with guns. We’ve been working on trying to find out who Martin’s connection was, but so far we’ve come up empty.” He peered somberly at me. “Do you have any idea where he got the stuff?”
“I never asked. I guess I didn’t want to know.”
He crossed his arms over his chest and studied me for a few moments.
“The gangs that run drugs in this city aren’t stupid,” he said at last. “They’re criminals, but they’re sophisticated. They read the papers. They listen to the news. They’re on the Internet.”
I frowned. What was he getting at?
“We didn’t release your name, Tegan. That’s not something we do. But it’s all over the media. And the Net. You know what I’m saying?”
“You mean, they know who I am?”
“Whoever did it knows you haven’t told us anything. They know that so far they’ve gotten away with murder. We’re pretty good at what we do here, Tegan. But a lot of times, contrary to what you see on tv, we have to rely on ordinary people to help us. People like you. People who saw something or heard something or who know something—anything at all. People like that can give us the edge we need. When there are people like that around, we end up making an arrest. Then there are cases like this one—when it’s gang-related and people are too scared to come forward. I understand why people are afraid, Tegan. But unless someone is willing to stand up, we’ve got nothing. The killer goes free. The gangs continue. They know they can intimidate people, and that’s exactly what they do. It makes the city—your city, Tegan— a worse place to live in.”
“I didn’t see anything,” I said for what seemed like the millionth time. “Why doesn’t anyone believe me?”
“All I’m asking you to do is think it over. Think about the times Martin had drugs on him. Do you remember him saying where he might have got them? Did he mention a name? How did he find his connection? Did someone at school hook him up? Did he ever mention he had to go somewhere, maybe to get something? It might seem like it isn’t important, but it could make all the difference. Just think about it, okay, Tegan? Think about it and let me know if you come up with anything.”
I said that I would. But I felt like a fraud because I didn’t know anything.
I was pretty shook up when I left the police station. The killer knew who I was. He knew what school I went to. He knew what I looked like—my picture was on the What Tegan Saw website. He also knew that the police had been questioning me. What if he started to get nervous about what I had seen? What if he started to stalk me, waiting to get me alone? What if he decided to make sure that I never said anything? What if…?
I slammed awake in the middle of the night, my heart racing, a silent scream echoing in my head. I had just been face-to-face with Martin’s and Clark’s killer. He was in the shadows, so I hadn’t been able to make out much—just a long black smudge against the black of the shadow. I couldn’t see his face, but I heard his voice. He was laughing.
He was laughing because he had killed two people and had gotten away with it.
Because there had been someone else in the car when he’d pulled that trigger, and so far that person—me— hadn’t said a word to the police.
He was laughing at me because he had scared me into silence, and everyone knew it.
He was laughing at how terrified I was, because my terror guaranteed his freedom.
He was laughing at scared little me.