He’d fallen asleep—no, that wasn’t the word for it, in sleep you got rest—sitting in a stiff chair in his old bedroom. He awoke to the sound of his phone ringing. His back hurt and his neck hurt and his nose was filled with the smell of clay, blood, decay.
“Joel,” Clark said when he answered the phone. “They’ve arrested Jamal.”
Joel struggled to his feet. His body was weak, his mind sluggish. “What? How?”
“Reynolds’s Explorer has had alternator trouble. It’s been in the shop since Monday. Early this morning one of the mechanics started to clean it as a courtesy for keeping the car so long and they found a bloody sock wedged in the fold of the back seat.” Clark hesitated. “It had your brother’s initials.”
Clark had told him last night that Dylan’s body had been found without a shirt or socks. It didn’t matter. Joel tasted bullshit.
“One sock? It’s just been sitting there this entire time?”
“Exactly. They were in such a rush to arrest the kid they didn’t even bother to log the evidence at the station before they cuffed him. They’re only now typing the arrest warrant. It’s fucked, Joel. It’s fucked.”
Joel fumbled with his bottle of Adderall, fished out a pill and chewed it. He’d never taken one this early but he knew a cup of coffee could do nothing to fight the fog that still floated in his head. After a second’s hesitation he chewed another.
“A wound like Dylan’s must have drained blood for ages, right?” Joel said. “If Jamal transported the body in the back of his car, would he even be able to clean it all up?”
“That much blood would have got into the carpet’s padding. A car in a hot mechanic’s bay would have started to stink something awful. They’d have noticed it days ago.”
“And why the hell would he take off a dead person’s socks? It’s the perfect piece of evidence to incriminate you.”
Clark whistled. “Exactly. Portable. Blood soaked. Easily identifiable. Whoever was smart enough to unlock Dylan’s phone with his thumb on the night of the murder planning to contact you the next day...is it a stretch to think that same person would have taken the bloody socks off the boy’s corpse in the hopes of pinning the murder on someone?”
Joel paced his room. “I take it this hasn’t been a topic of conversation at the station.”
Clark hesitated. “Mayfield says Jamal must have been in a hurry, panicked and realized he had the sock still in his possession after he dumped the body so he stuffed it in the seat and forgot it. But shit, Joel—why would he even leave it in his car at all? Why not burn the fucking thing?”
Joel wished the Adderall would hurry up and kick in. “Who’s this mechanic?”
“Alan Sparks owns the place, he’s alright. But the kid who found the sock is named Waley Cabe—he’s got a sheet of priors as long as my arm. He just got let out for assault a few months back.”
“Maybe I should pay him a visit.”
“I wouldn’t recommend it. If Cabe’s doing somebody’s dirty work you might just make more trouble for yourself. And it gets worse.” Clark sighed. “Bethany Tanner came running to stop us this morning, screaming her story for the whole school to hear, not that the men paid her any mind. I just spoke with her father about it and he told me she’s delusional or else covering up for her friend Jamal. When I asked him about the cameras on his property he said the security footage is only saved for three days because he don’t want to pay extra. He’s just trying to keep her nose out of things, I’m sure of it.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Joel said, his fingers tapping on his knee. “And even if he doesn’t have it, is it possible the security company keeps it on their servers for a few weeks?”
“I was thinking the same thing. Maybe I can get Mr. Boone to subpoena them. If we can place Jamal at the house all weekend...” She broke off, sounding dubious. “I’m going to put out a new APB on KT Staler’s Tacoma. I might add a few shades of green to the description and see what happens.”
“Can you talk to Jamal yourself? Privately? Maybe he knows something about KT and Dylan that he wanted to keep quiet before. I doubt Jamal would be willing to cover up dirt for KT much longer now that the kid’s story’s gotten him arrested.”
There was a long silence. When Clark came back on her voice was lower. “Sorry, I thought someone was coming in the women’s toilet. I’ll work on Jamal as long as they don’t make the kid confess. What about you?”
Joel chewed his lip. He struggled to recall what he’d been thinking about last night before he fell asleep. The Adderall had gone from not working to suddenly working too well—he never could find a balance in life.
“Jason Ovelle,” he finally said. “He feels like a missing link here. Wasn’t he arrested years ago with Savannah Staler, KT’s older sister?”
“A week apart actually, but yes. Meth on both counts. Jason and Savannah, they were dating at the same time they were dealing. The rumor’s always been that she turned state’s witness to rat Jason out but she’s been such a bad apple down in lockup they keep denying her parole.”
“Well, maybe Jason doesn’t know that. Maybe he met KT through Savannah and they’ve gone into business together. And Jason Ovelle was younger than Troy but they were on the Bison at the same time for a year—I remember that well enough. If Jason was doing business with Troy back then and dealing with KT now, then maybe by extension he was doing business with Dylan.”
“It’s a stretch.”
“I know. But if Jason can help us pin down what exactly Dylan and KT were up to when they said they were at the coast, it’d be a start.”
“Jones cut Jason loose on Friday night. He wasn’t even booked. Mayfield told me the other day Ovelle left town again and there’s APBs out on him but—still.”
“Mayfield’s said a lot of things.”
“Exactly. You think you can find Jason?”
Joel figured that if he kept burning through his Adderall at this rate he might be needing Ovelle’s services soon anyway. “I’ll certainly try.”
“Start at the Varsity Motel—it’s a little dump on the highway south of town. Jason used to stay there. Are you alright? You sound...”
“Never better.”
There was a knock on Joel’s door. He said goodbye to Clark, stumbled as he crossed the room. His drugged mind was racing but his body was heavy as a stone. Joel suspected he was pushing very close to the limits of absolute exhaustion.
It was Darren. His face was troubled. “You get run over last night?”
“I wish I knew.” Joel propped himself against the door frame. “Are you alright?”
Darren frowned. “Something you might want to see out front.”
Joel’s sleek black convertible was parked on the street. Standing on the house’s porch, he had no difficulty reading the words that had been etched into the paint.
GET OUT NOW FAG.
The last word had been repeated across the hood of the car. The cloth hood had been shredded down the middle and lay sunken inside, draped over the seats like a pair of wilted petals.
Joel regarded the car a long time. Regarded the street that must have seen something, heard something last night, just as it must have noticed something ten years ago when pictures were being slipped into papers all over town. No one had said anything then. They would say nothing now. If anything, Joel suspected the folks behind those closed curtains would wish the same thing as his car did: that he would leave, now, and never come back.
“There’s not a gun in the house, is there?” Joel said.
Darren shook his head no.
Joel said nothing more. He stepped into his brother’s room and shut the door. He pushed a hot tear from his eye. He pulled open a drawer of Dylan’s desk, removed what was inside.
A hunting knife. From tip to tip it ran just over half the length of Joel’s forearm. A strap attached to the sheath allowed the weapon, Joel assumed, to be carried over the ankle.
Joel slid the blade free, regarded the keen edge, balanced the knife in his hands. Saw the initials DW on the hilt.
If someone thought this fag would give up so easily, they were sorely mistaken.