AS I ENTER THE TUNNEL, there’s a wave of hollow, disembodied screams and laughter from the chamber at the cave’s far end. The passageway is narrow, but high enough that I only have to crouch a little bit.
I turn sideways as a couple of sophomores scrape past me, squealing and chattering.
“I can’t believe this is where he died!” one of them says, before they scurry away in an obvious rush to get out.
I stop, debating whether I should go on. The light shifts and flickers, red and white and soft. Erratic tendrils of smoke waft past me, smelling like weed and tobacco and the acrid scent of burning driftwood and beach debris.
I could turn back now, step back into the fresh air of the clear summer night. I could follow those girls back to the parking lot, so I wouldn’t have to be alone on the beach. I could even take off my shoes, put my feet in the water, and take a minute to look up at the space between me and the stars. I could find a bottle, stuff Connor’s note inside it, and toss it into the sea. Let it become somebody else’s problem.
Instead, I keep going.
The tunnel spits out into a large, high-ceilinged chamber, and I’m struck by how huge the space is. At least half the size of our school gym, and in some places just as high. In the middle of the chamber, people are throwing driftwood on a bonfire. Although you’d expect a fire in an enclosed space like this to create huge amounts of smoke, that’s not the case. Like magic, it twists into a narrow rope and disappears into a hidden chamber in the ceiling.
Someone has set up a speaker in the corner and heavy bass reverberates through the space. It blends with a cacophony of human noise: laughter, shrieks, drunken arguments, and murmured conversations.
Underneath it all, filling in the background, is a hollow, rhythmic rumbling—a deep repetitive rush, in and out like a beating heart. The ocean, squeezing its way in and out of the low sea caves that maze their way beneath the cliffs. I don’t really want to look, but my eyes are drawn to the low hole in the wall at the back of the chamber. Not surprisingly, it’s been given a wide berth, and there’s nobody sitting or standing near it.
For a long while, I stand in the entrance to the chamber, just watching the scene in front of me. I’ve known most of these people my whole life, but I’ve never really felt comfortable with them. My anxiety hums. Nobody is even glancing at me, but I can’t shake the feeling that they’re watching me from the corners of their eyes, wondering why I’m here. Judging me.
If Connor were around, I wouldn’t be paranoid like this. Being around him always made me feel comfortable. His presence—at parties or in the busy hallways at school—calmed me down and made me feel like I was part of the group, a citizen of the world beyond Anderson Lane. I haven’t felt that way since he died.
If it weren’t for Connor, I wonder if a random group like ours ever would have ended up friends in the first place. When I think about how quickly the distance between us all has grown since he died, I seriously doubt it.
Connor knew everyone. Was friends with everyone. Garnet Fuller, who was on the debate team with Connor, is in the corner with his girlfriend, Meryl Brandt, whom Connor had had some kind of fling with between ninth and tenth grade. In fact, I realize as my eyes make their way around the room, Connor had flings with several of these girls, at one point or another.
I know he messed around on and off with Gina Kay, whom I spot tossing back a wine cooler in the corner.
Flossie McKenna is sitting cross-legged next to the fire, sharing a joint with Cliff Starling. She cheated on her boyfriend with Connor.
Then there’s Taryn Watts, tucked into a corner with Anna and a few other girls, gossiping earnestly. Taryn and Connor actually dated for a few months, about a year before he died. She was the closest he ever got to having a real girlfriend.
She was furious when he broke up with her—completely freaked out at him in public. But I remember her at the funeral. She was a mess.
Nobody makes an effort to greet me. If Connor were here, he would have pulled me into the conversation, made me feel like I belonged. He made everyone feel that way, like he was their best friend.
“Mac!” I turn around at the sound of my name, registering the figure who stumbles toward me.
Ben. He shoves past some people to get to me, then does a stupid little end-zone dance before tossing his head back and laughing. He leans forward and throws his arms around me in a bear hug. Some people nearby turn and glance at the scene, smirking, and I get self-conscious. He pulls back and holds me out in front of him with his hands tightly gripping my shoulders, as if he’s a long-lost uncle, giving me the once-over at a family wedding. He stinks of rum.
“Mac, Mac, Mac,” he croons. “I am so happy that you made it. I didn’t think you’d make it.”
“Ta-da,” I say, throwing my arms to the side and pulling away. He doesn’t get the hint, but instead moves to my side and drapes an arm around my shoulders, buddy-style. I haven’t been touched this much in my life, and it’s making my skin crawl. Jolly Drunken Ben is a very different person from Tragic Weeping Ben.
“This is my main man, Mac,” he tells the group of people sitting closest to us, some sophomores I don’t really know. “My oldest friend. One of them, anyway. Are you guys being nice to my buddy Mac? Gay Mac, the gayest guy I know. The bravest fucking guy I know.”
I cringe, and one of the guys snickers. His girlfriend punches him in the arm.
“I’m serious,” says Ben, narrowing his eyes. “You guys had better be nice to him, or I’ll kick your asses.”
“Have another one,” someone mutters, but Ben isn’t paying any attention. He’s turned back to me, and his eyes are wide, intense. I wonder if maybe he’s had something stronger than just rum.
“Come on, buddy,” he says, dragging me by the arm toward the low hole in the back of the chamber. When I realize where he’s taking me, I pull back.
“Hang on, Ben,” I say. “What’s going on?”
“Don’t you want to see?” he asks. “Have you even been here since it happened?”
“No,” I say, shocked. “I don’t want to see. What the hell is wrong with you?”
The jocularity in his face disappears, and he narrows his eyes at me. “You didn’t come here for this? Really? Why the hell else would you come? It’s not like you ever socialize.”
I barely have time to react before his expression becomes pained. “Oh man, Mac, I don’t know why I said that. I’m sorry. I’ve just been so messed up lately. I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me.”
“It’s okay,” I say, desperate to get out of here. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Will you please come with me?” he pleads. “I need to go in there and see it for myself.”
I recoil. “Absolutely not. Come on, Ben, you don’t need to do this.”
Ben gives me a look that I can’t read, then he turns and walks through the crowd and over to the opening of the hole. He crouches to sit, and then slips his legs through.
I realize that the noise has dropped off and that everyone in the chamber is staring at us. In the corner, I see Anna’s group of friends surrounding Taryn, who has started crying. She has her hands over her face, and they’re trying to comfort her.
“What the hell are you doing, Ben?” someone asks.
“Fuck you,” he replies, and then he disappears into the hole. I realize with an uncomfortable start that I have to go after him—Ben is in no state to be by himself right now, and I’m worried about what will happen to him if he’s down there alone.
I force myself to ignore the stares, then I crouch and follow him in, kicking feetfirst into the hole and sliding forward to shimmy down into the cavern. The ambient, flickering light from the main chamber only barely reveals the new space, but my eyes adjust, and I can soon make out enough to see the grotto.
In contrast to the massive main chamber, the sea caves are small and tight. I have to crouch to move around, and there’s not much space between the ledge I’m standing on and the water.
I see Ben right away. He’s sitting on the far end of the ledge, his feet hanging out over the tunnel that sucks water in and out of the chamber.
I walk over and join him. Across the grotto, shadows indicate entrances to other caves and tunnels. I lean forward a bit, running my gaze along the chamber opening. I can barely see the open water through the mouth, which is just wide and high enough to let a small boat in. I picture rowboats, back in the day, laden with wooden chests or rum barrels, navigating their way into the chamber. There’s no question; it would be a good spot to hide treasure or booze…or drugs.
Ben pulls a flask from his coat and offers it to me, but I shake my head. “I’m driving,” I say.
I want to talk to him, show him the note, but he’s not in any shape to be thinking about this stuff. I should have gone to see Doris. She would have at least had some advice, sarcastic or not.
“I’m sorry I freaked out at the time capsule,” he says. “It’s just a lot, you know?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Of course. Don’t worry about it.”
“Doris can be such a bitch sometimes,” he says. “I don’t understand it. I don’t know how she can be so cold about it all.”
“I guess we all just deal with things differently,” I say. I realize as I say it that I told her the exact same thing about him. Funny.
He looks at me, and his eyes are wild. “Murder, Mac. Think about it. Our best friend was murdered. Right here. Right on this ledge.”
I drop my eyes to the ledge and look around. In the dim light, all I can see is damp granite and corners crusted with grime. A few empty bottles have been shoved into niches, and the damp remains of a cigarette package sits pressed up against a wall.
Almost a year ago, this was a crime scene—the site of a struggle between Connor and his murderer. Blood spatter that turned out to be Connor’s; one of his drawing pencils, snapped in half; trace amounts of rat poison, the same stuff that had been used on the other three victims; a catalog picture of a teenage boy.
Connor’s body. Drowned. Retrieved from deep within the narrow passage that led from this grotto to the sea.
All of it pointed toward a terrible struggle, a failed attempt by Connor to fight back against the murderer who had lured him into this cave. But sitting here, at the scene of the crime with Connor’s note burning a hole in my pocket, something about this scene strikes me as odd.
“Have you ever wondered…” I begin, then stop. Ben turns to look at me.
“Wondered what?” he asks. His eyes are suddenly clear and focused.
“I don’t know,” I say. “It’s just…isn’t it weird that he was found here? In the caves? I mean, all the other victims were found at or near their homes. Why would the killer change up his routine? Why would he risk bringing Connor here to the caves, where things would be so much more uncertain?”
Ben shrugs. “It was a fucking serial killer. I have no idea how that kind of twisted, fucked-up mind works.”
I think about this, chewing on my lip. The killer might have been insane, but he was also methodical and followed a routine for the first three murders. It doesn’t make sense to me that he’d switch things up so dramatically and leave this much to chance.
The assumption has always been that Connor was lured to the caves and then killed during a struggle, before the killer had the chance to use the poison. But Connor had wanted my help with something that day—something secret. What if, in this case, the killer wasn’t the one setting the trap?
What if Connor had lured the killer, and not the other way around?
If this were true, then Connor might have known the killer personally. Or else there was another good reason to meet someone in the caves. I look at Ben. “Do you believe what they say about Junior Merlin? That he runs drugs through these caves?”
He shrugs. “I dunno. Probably. I mean, he’s the most notorious dealer in three counties, and he’s never been busted. He’s hustling his shit somehow, and his place is right down on the water. Everyone says he moves the drugs around by boat, and the cops have never found anything when they’ve raided him. It just makes sense, I guess.” He stops and narrows his eyes at me. “Why are you asking?”
“I’m not sure,” I say. “I just can’t stop wondering why Connor was here in the first place.”
Ben laughs. “Well, I can promise you he wasn’t here to meet Junior Merlin. Connor didn’t do drugs. Nothing hard, anyway. It wasn’t his style. Besides, Merlin’s got enough on his plate without somehow finding the time to turn into a serial killer.”
I nod, satisfied. I’m no closer to understanding why Connor ended up here that night, but at least one theory seems to be off the table.
“Anyway, Mac, if you want my advice, you’ll stay away from drugs too. Stick to rum, just like the pirates. Y’arrrrrr.” He stands up, waving his bottle, but then abruptly drops the charade, blowing out a frustrated breath. “This was stupid. I don’t know why I came here. Can you drive me home?”
“Yeah,” I say. “For sure. Now?”
“Yeah,” Ben says, and he steps back to the opening and climbs back into the chamber without waiting for me.
I stop for a moment before following him, turning around to take in this weird, awful place one last time. If I hadn’t missed Connor’s note, would I have been here with him that night? Would I have helped him catch a killer?
Would I have saved Connor’s life?
By the time I’ve clambered up, Ben is already leaving the cave, and I have to push through the crowd to catch up to him.
“Mac!” I turn to see Anna walking over to me, a worried expression on her face. “Are you okay?” she asks. “I knew this was a bad idea. What the hell is wrong with people?”
“I’ll be okay,” I say. “Everyone’s just a bit messed up, is all.”
She gives me a look of genuine sympathy, then reaches out to grab my arm.
“Text me if you want to hang out this summer,” she says. “Grab a coffee or something. We can make plans to hang out at Amherst!”
“Yeah,” I say, surprised at her offer. “I’ll do that. Thanks.”
I have to run to catch up to Ben, who is already halfway across the beach to the parking lot. We climb the steps in silence, and as we cross the lot, I sneak a glance at the police cruiser. Parnatsky is staring at us, expressionless, and I quickly look away.
In the car, Ben slumps into his seat and leans his head against the window. As I pull away from the beach parking lot, he lets out a long sigh. I’m having a hard time keeping up with his mood swings.
“Do you know that Connor could have been one of the best athletes this town has ever seen?” he asks, out of nowhere.
I look at him, surprised. “Connor didn’t play sports.”
“Not in high school he didn’t,” says Ben. “But when we were in middle school, he played on my soccer team and my softball team. He could run faster than anyone; made everything look easy. When he quit, his dad was pissed, and both coaches begged him to keep playing, but he just wasn’t interested. Said he had more important things to do.”
Ben shakes his head at the memory. Now that he’s mentioning it, I vaguely remember it myself—both of them heading off to practices and games together while I stayed home, just thankful my parents didn’t expect me to join any teams. Sports were the last thing on my mind; I guess it never occurred to me to wonder whether Connor was any good.
“I forgot all about that,” I say.
“He was a total natural at everything he did,” says Ben. “I would have killed to have his talent. And look how he ended up. Such a stupid, fucking waste.”
I pull up outside Ben’s new house, the one he shares with his mom and stepdad. He turns and glances out the window, but makes no move to get out of the car. “Man I hate this place,” he says. “I miss the old house. The old street. I miss being a kid there, don’t you?”
“Sure,” I say. “Everyone misses being a kid.”
He nods slowly, repeatedly, as if I’ve just said something incredibly profound.
“Do you think we could have stopped it?” he asks. “If we’d been paying attention?”
It’s the same thing I’ve been asking myself since I found the note. “I really don’t know.”
“Maybe if we’d paid more attention,” he says again. “Maybe we would have noticed something. I feel like we should have seen it coming.”
Ben doesn’t sound drunk anymore, just sad and helpless. I think again about the note, about how the only reason I came out tonight was to show it to him. I could show it to him now, let him know that he’s not the only one who feels guilty about what happened. But when I look him in the eye, he looks so pained and confused that I hesitate.
“Ben,” I say instead, “the entire town was on lockdown. Cops were everywhere. There’s no way in a million years we could have known he’d be next.”
“Yeah,” he says. “You’re right.” He opens the door and slides out, then bends down and sticks his head back in. He’s smiling again, a forced drunken grin, though his eyes still look miserable. “Thanks Mac. See you around, right?”
I wave and watch until he’s made it up the front walk and unlocked his door, then I pull away from the curb. When I stop at the end of the block, I glance back in my rearview mirror. He’s still standing there in the open doorway, watching me leave.