"You girls want to give a statement?"
"Yes."
"Yes."
There was nervousness in both voices, as if they sensed they were breaking some code of ethics. I didn't exactly fault all the kids who ran. I was too numb to fault anyone yet, but I was slightly agog that even a pistol crack and someone falling wouldn't stop some of those people from their usual flight syndrome when the cops show up. I would think of that later. For now I was glad for these two.
Lutz gestured them to come with him to his office, a little farther down the hall, and he sounded grateful, if tense. "Great. There's two I won't have to round up. Kurt, wait out here. You girls can start filling out the statement form, and then I'll see you one at a time."
I watched him shut the door to the back offices, which were just cubicles in a big room. It wasn't big as police stations go.
Mystic, like most barrier islands, is pencil shaped and hugs the coast. It's seven miles long, but only the three-mile middle section is wide enough to be inhabitable. Even there, every ten years or so, a northeast storm at full moon will send the ocean to meet the bay in the middle of Central Avenue. Water will run like a river up Bay Drive and Ocean Drive, which is why most of the island houses are built with nothing but concrete garages and a rec room on the first floor. Nearly every house has a waterline stain around the outside of the garage.
Total inhabitants: three thousand in the winter, eighteen thousand in the summer.
Usually in July someone would bring some summer person around to hang with us. We were nice and all, but the person rarely came back, sensing, I think, that life was established around here. We knew one another, one another's families, and we knew the islanders who would qualify as family because we'd seen them regularly on the street since we were born.
I suspected Lutz would find out who was on the pier and round up all twenty or so of the Mystic Marvels who had been present. That's what we called our clan around school—the Mystic Marvels. Casey had actually dreamed up that term last year as a freshmen and it kind of went everywhere and stuck. There were maybe five kids who were freshmen and a dozen kids in each of the sophomore, junior, and senior classes who seemed to qualify as Mystic Marvels—not too bad, not too good, not too smart, not too dumb, not too rich, not too poor, just "marvy all around," as Casey loved to say. We had a bad reputation with the too-smarts and too-goods. We were loathed by the too-bads, but we figured some people are just jealous. Because the island only has one block of slum at the far south end, the too-poors are all but nonexistent, and the too-riches are usually summer people, who don't count as islanders.
We had our almost-riches, as my dad smilingly called them, which would include whatever types could make a decent living in an area that has no industry: doctors, lawyers, insurance salesmen, and because there was so much waterfront property, real estate agents. A lot of their kids were among my friends, but we melted in with some people like True, too, no questions asked. Her dad was the pastor of Mystic Baptist Church, and the family lived on church-basket collections. Casey and I are accepted, though my dad never ceased to remind me that midlist authors don't qualify as almost-riches. He says that because of his job, we're "novel" and can go anywhere. Hardy-har.
That's life around here. Because of it, Cecilly and True couldn't technically be accused of busting anyone if they gave names. The cops could drive up and down the streets, stopping at each house and asking to speak to so-and-so, like newspaper chuckers who have memorized a paper route.
I let myself spiral a little as the aloneness sent waves of panic into my gut. The minutes passing weighed on me, reminding me that it only takes four minutes to drown. This was not good, not good, and the thought drew a mouthful of spit I was forced to swallow. I jerked my head and fo cused on the end of the corridor. A presence filled the doorway. I all but bounced to my feet seeing Drew Aikerman.
It wasn't Casey, but my best friend was all right, and I did what I had never done before. I dropped my head into his shoulder and didn't make any bullshit joke when his arms went around me. His hair was still wet, and a layer of beach sand found its way into my eyes and teeth—another thing that spoke volumes. Drew was a lifeguard, too, which maybe made him useful to the coast guard. He'd searched the tide with them until he'd probably collapsed in the sand before making his way here.
"Went to your house first, since all your lights were on," he said. It was an apology for not getting here sooner.
"I kept telling Casey to turn off the lights," I muttered, backing up. "She's so ... airy." I felt a tinge of guilt, cutting on her right now, but it made everything seem a little more normal.
Drew just looked me in the eye. "I think she's holed up in the back bay. Let's face it. She's a good swimmer, fantastic diver. And it would be like her to, you know..."He left the sentence dangling, as if it might go against his normal politeness to say, "pull a fast one on us."
I didn't say anything, but the definition of "good swimmer, fantastic diver" gripped at me. You could fit a three-story house under the pilings at the end of the pier. And Casey had been wearing my new Naval Academy sweatshirt that, soaked in water, would have weighed her down if she'd hit the water wrong and injured herself. She'd have been blatantly stupid to dive off that pier and risk her neck—then risk trying to stay afloat in my sweatshirt.
Just two years ago Casey had broken her neck in a fluke accident on water skis. You'd think after being in a halo for two months that she would never take another dare, never risk a dangerous prank. I hadn't seen Casey "risk her neck" for a prank since then, but she had gone back to mountain climbing, ski jumping, and was already cocaptain of the diving team at school, in spite of my mom being ripped up about it. Casey's cracked vertebra healed completely, but Mom says it's her carelessness that puts her in danger, not her skeletal system. Casey, of course, says she's not careless, and besides, swimmers are a dime a dozen but divers are hard to find. The scholarship money is awesome.
If she isn't outright careless, Casey loves to test the limits. She had talked a blue streak last summer about wanting to take a dive off the end of that pier. She'd spent many a dune party telling us that the water was at least forty feet deep at high tide, and that someday she would do it. But there were things to consider, like the halo, the scholarships at risk, and surfers who say the thrust of the surf around the pilings is like the Perfect Storm. The shelled-out remains of the pier vibrate when the surf is up. It had been up tonight. You just have to believe my sister would not be that much of a lunatic.
I sat across from Drew, staring at the hallway tiles under our bare feet.
"It's not time to worry yet," he said.
I looked over his wet sandiness. "Thanks. For everything."
"Don't be stupid. Cops still won't let you down there?"
"No."
"How did I guess that?" Sarcasm bounced through his voice. His dad was chief of police, so Drew was the cop behavior expert. He sat in a chair beside me and leaned his elbows on his knees. He fidgeted about six times before saying,"Um ... I didn't see it happen."
"Me neither. I basically just heard it."
"I thought it was a firecracker."
"Me, too. I was talking it up with Billy Nast, of all people. How the hell did he get there?"
"Um..."Drew raised his hand guiltily. "I was trying to help us out. You know, with that thing we've been talking about."
"What, our boredom thing?"
He nodded. "I knew exactly what you were talking about the other night when you said you felt all hemmed in, and you were suddenly 'seeing most of our friends in black-and-white.' That was profound."
I shifted uncomfortably. Drew and I would get to shooting the bull, but half the time I couldn't remember having said the things he quoted back at me. It's weird, having your best friend find you profound half the time.
"In fact, I took that one to Madame School Teachaire," he said, which was his pet name for his mom, who teaches freshman English. "I said, 'Mom, Kurt and
I are seeing our friends in black-and-white. What's up with that?' She knew right away what I meant. She said that's normal. We're seniors. We're supposed to want to branch out, try a few new flavors. I saw Nast out on the fishing jetty this morning, just sitting there—without a fishing pole—like some dork. I dunno, it's like you said. Something sucked me toward him, and I just started talking to him. He wasn't that weird. To throw a Billy Nast type into a party, that isn't such a crime."
I sighed. "Tell that to the, um, ladies."
Drew bit on his lip and stared at the floor—enough time spent on small talk. "So ... you do know that was a real pistol. It wasn't a toy."
I nodded, swallowing. "Jeezus and Mary. This is the type of stuff you read about in a newspaper from, like, Omaha. Do me a favor. Don't tell me who was stupid enough to ... to own a real pistol, let alone bring it to a party. Sorry, I'm just not ready to be that angry yet."
"Okay."
"For one thing, first I have to get over being pissed at myself. I had the thing in my hand."
"So did everybody."
"It looked like a goddamned toy, Drew."
"That was the bottom line ... the stupid pill. Mark Stern passed it to me, and he said, 'Check this out. It's not a toy.' I mean, if he had said, 'This is a toy,' wouldn't you have been, like, So?' We wanted to touch it because it wasn't a toy."
I thought of my hand going around that little thing. I could almost close my fist around it—that's how small it was. If it had been some giant Luger, I would have been shouting, "What the fuck, moron! Get that thing away from us!" I might have secretly busted the person to Drew's dad—but then, a big gun like that would not have ended up at a party with us. The size, the almost-toy factor made it look so ... holdable. I had thought about holding it the right way—putting my finger on the trigger. It really had been tempting. But some things you just don't do. At least not when you're stone-cold sober. Some airhead hadn't been able to resist temptation, obviously.
"I don't want to know who was holding that thing when it went off, Drew."
"Well, I don't know that, anyway. I've heard five or six versions of the trail of hands it passed through. I don't know what to believe. I only know who owned it."
"I don't want to know yet."
"Okay." He blew air into his cheeks, puffing them out while staring at the floor.
With him acting like Mount Vesuvius, I plopped down, gripped the bottom of the chair, shut my eyes tight, and braced myself."Oh, for god's sake ... Just tell me."
I'd actually been hoping it was Mark Stern and I could get him put away, at least for possession of a deadly weapon. Eighteen-year-olds have no business going out with fifteen-year-olds, especially when the fifteen-year-old is your sister. And he had become what I call a fringe dweller of the Mystic Marvels. In high school he'd been great—football and basketball starter, party comedian extraordinaire. But lately girls had started to call him sleazy, because he'd now had four girlfriends in our crowd. He hung with us every weekend like he was still in high school, and I was hearing drug rumors lately, too. Let's say he was on my nerves before he started in with my sister.
"Stacy Kearney owns it," Drew said.
I sat back, watching his eyes, wondering if he actually believed that, wondering if I should or I shouldn't.
"'Stacy Kearney.'" I repeated this morsel.
I watched Drew for a long time. Of course Stacy Kearney would stand as prime suspect if any tragedy actually happened on this island. What with feeling so restless lately, and like the Technicolor in my friends was fading slowly down to dusty gray, the suggestion left me a little defensive and insulted—like you might feel after guessing the end of a made-for-TV drama.
2
Stacy Kearney. I'm trying to think up a title that would fit a girl like this, though the best I can probably come up with is the Fallen Queen type. I had seen her "fall" and had never been sure I approved of what was happening to her or not. She was a year younger than me but so noticeable that I knew her name on the first day of school my sophomore year. She was too perfect. Too blond, too outgoing and fun, a little too sure of herself for anyone to mess with. She fell into our crowd like she had one foot on a banana peel—despite having just moved here from Connecticut, like, two days before school started.
It takes a special talent, penetrating a crowd that included girls who, if not exactly vicious, weren't looking to play Welcome Wagon. It also was probably interesting to some people that she had the name DeWinter in her family. Her mom's parents were DeWinters, and the DeWinters had owned almost all of Mystic, like, two generations back. Stacy's DeWinter grandparents still owned the last nine vacant lots on the island, and their house was in the dead center of town, taking up, like, half a block. If you know anything about beach houses, they're usually so smooshed in together, you can water your lawn just with a garden hose. I knew about how much money the DeWinters gave away to various causes, because my dad was a recipient: the DeWinter Grant for Artists with a Work-in-Progress. Ten thousand smackers, two years in a row. Dad would get those grants, and for at least a month I'd have cold cuts instead of peanut butter for lunch.
But I think most kids were drawn to Stacy for the more likely reasons. Pools, believe it or not, are a novelty to islanders. The DeWinters had a huge pool and a tennis court, and one of the few houses on the island that actually boasts a basement. The basement was finished and made for awesome parties, especially since the grandparents were getting too arthritic to come down the stairs.
I guess you could say Stacy seemed like the type of person you'd love to hate—except for the fact that her house was so supercharged with problems. Everyone knew about Stacy's mom and dad, and that itself probably kept people's jealousy buttons from getting pushed. Mrs. Kearney was known as the island "fling," and she was also rumored to be addicted to pain medication. Kids said that Mr. Kearney looked, smelled, and talked sort of like a lawn mower. We said that probably because he had this little lawn service—he'd been cutting people's grass since he got out of high school. That was how the two of them met. Stacy's mom, the heir to the DeWinter fortune, took off to Connecticut with the guy who mowed their grass. It was a snicker-fest scandal that died way down about the time I was born. But it came back to life again with a vengeance when the Kearneys finally moved in with the DeWinters, when Stacy was fourteen. Due to all of this, I'd say it was hard for anyone to envy Stacy. I guess most people's parents are seen as embarrassing, but it's for acting goofy—not for being a sleaze bucket and a slob.
Stacy acted like neither of her parents existed, but you could tell if you knew her well enough that she could swelter in her own little hells. At least, I could see it. Maybe it was because of my dad, Mr. Insight, always prompting me: "The girl's probably confused about people and things she's got no control over. Be nice to her."
Being nice hadn't been too much of a problem. For two years she was one of those people you'd consider the life of the party.
Then this year a lot of girls in our crowd were suddenly bashing on her—or maybe bashing is the wrong word. They were rolling their eyes, rehashing this or that story about how mean Stacy had gotten. She still hung out with us, though it seemed like maybe half the time instead of all the time. Her best friend, Alisa Cox, still stuck up for her when any of these stories rolled her way. She would bat her eyelashes in the sarcastic way only Alisa Cox could do, and say, "Stacy's like your average rock star: First, the public needs to build her up. Then, they need to knock her down."
The girls in our crowd could be thoughtless for sure, but they weren't evil people. I guess the stories being told about Stacy didn't seem worth the reaction that was forming, if that makes sense. The charges from the girls were hazy, things like, "She's just too much of a bitch. I can't hack it anymore."
"Stacy Kearney," I repeated again, and Drew lowered his head, drumming on his legs with his fingers.
"Yeah, yeah. I know. You're thinking that's more, um ... bitch speculation."
"It's
awfully convenient." I squirmed under the concept of a made-for-TV ending. "These girls all decide they hate her, and suddenly she owns this pistol."
"Well, unfortunately, I heard she was the owner before it went off. Back when everybody still thought it was funny. You know how people are. They'd get it in their hands, and the first question would be, of course, 'Is it loaded?' Unfortunately, the answer was wrong. The second question would be, 'Whose is it?' When I asked it, Cecilly Holst answered: 'It's Stacy Kearney's.'"
I swallowed. Cecilly and Stacy were often pretty tense around each other, and they'd been dubbed by more insightful kids in our crowd as "too much alike." They were both highly opinionated, vocal, stubborn, never backing down from an argument. I always felt sorry for girls in one of the quieter crowds if they somehow earned the shared wrath of these two. People who didn't hang with us were under the mistaken idea that Stacy and Cecilly were best friends. It was only those of us closest to them who saw that Cecilly and True were really best friends, and that Stacy and Alisa were, too. True and Alisa were quieter, and Stacy and Cecilly could light up a room.
I'd seen Stacy and Cecilly go as much as a couple of weeks without speaking to each other. Then one day they'd be hugging each other, and saying they were sorry and how much they loved each other. It was hills and valleys with those two.
I looked down at my thumbnail, seeing past it. "Tell me something. Did Stacy ever get in your face?"
"No," Drew said, rubbing the back of his neck and yawning. "I saw her lay a few girls to waste. Glad I'm not a girl. Why? She ever rip into you?"
I smiled just a little, wondering if I should just take off my watch. The temptation to keep looking at it made it weigh a hundred pounds.