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After going through September without stepping foot outside Sam’s apartment, Michael finally returned to school and some semblance of a normal life. Well, as normal as he could with an old, severely disfigured man staying with them. Bruce spent his nights in a chair facing their apartment door, a gun in one hand and a glass of Scotch in the other. He hadn’t seen Frank since the botched arrest, but Sam said he was doing well, having regained some of his status at the FBI since he had been able to track down the monster and place him into custody. No one blamed Frank for not being able to keep him there, and with Wainwright having become Public Enemy Number One, Frank’s intimate knowledge of the killer was too valuable an asset to be ignored.
Officer Tagliamonte had required hospitalization, but so far, only his career had been hurt in the long run. His story about Wainwright grabbing his gun and turning it on him and Rollins raised serious questions that would, in the least, subject him to discipline and likely termination. But with him being the only witness to what had actually gone down, criminal prosecution seemed unlikely. Michael imagined that letting a killer like Wainwright escape was probably devastating enough on the mind of the poor officer. Sam was tight-lipped when it came to Tagliamonte, but Michael noticed his absence on the details that would be forever posted outside the school either until he graduated or Wainwright was caught or killed.
In his period of social distancing, Michael had ventured out with Sam only once, to visit Tessa at her new hospital in Bridgewater. After a couple of flat lines and several blood transfusions, her condition had slowly gone from critical to recuperating nicely. Her mind, too, seemed to be doing much better, excellent even—so much so that it looked like she’d be getting out soon, once they found a place for her. Whatever Dr. Horvat had done to her had been nothing short of miraculous, assuming she’d done more than just repress damaging memories. She seemed genuinely happy, except when he’d told her about Jimmy. Even then, her smile had fallen away only for a few minutes. Her thoughts had turned somewhere deep inside herself while her face had borne the marks of a dreadful, contagious sorrow before the smile reappeared, and she said, “That’s too bad. He seemed really nice.”
Michael hadn’t moved on from Jimmy’s death so easily. Nor could he move past his act of what Sam insisted had been self-defense. He wasn’t so sure. Samples taken from the body confirmed what Bruce had suspected—Dylan was the son of Jocelyn Beaudette. Even if he was after Michael or part of the so-called Indians—to which Sam had discovered no firm connections other than the familial relationship—he didn’t know what chance Dylan had had to be anything but what Wainwright had made him. Michael had deprived him of that chance as well, and in some sick way, given his own violent upbringing, he still felt he’d had more in common with Dylan than anyone else he’d met. He still considered Dylan a friend. And he had killed him.
He hung his head as Robbie, who’d known the day he was returning, and all his football friends clapped and cheered when Michael returned to school that morning. Though he’d been used to people gossiping and whispering as he passed in the halls, he couldn’t get used to the salutes and thumbs-up signs he got from complete strangers throughout the day. Apparently, the whole school thought him some kind of hero for killing a killer. Yet no one except Dylan, and perhaps Wainwright, knew the truth.
Walking into his English class immediately before the bell, he stopped just inside the door. It was comforting that so few inside seemed to notice his presence as they hurriedly set up their notebooks, writing utensils, and copies of Moby Dick, which the class was then finishing. Three empty seats remained in the room—in the far corner, his and Dylan’s, and one unclaimed near the entrance, right next to the girl with bifocals who no one seemed to talk to. He took the seat beside the girl. She glanced at him, swiped her bangs away from her eyes, then smiled sheepishly, averting her gaze.
Ms. Alvarez looked his way and offered a nod, which he took to mean his seat change had been approved. Catching the girl’s sidelong glance, he thought to say hi. But then he thought of Dylan, how they’d met in that very class, and how their friendship had turned out. Instead, he opened his copy of Moby Dick and pretended to read. He’d read it three times already, trying to figure out how he was like Starbuck, looking for answers everywhere but within himself.