Beyond Reach (14 page)

“Even so, I just want to be careful, Ebony. I remember that story about the girl in Acts. She had a gift of divination, and it got her into trouble.”

“I know just the story you're talking about. It's in Acts 16, and I looked it up this week because I was thinking about you and your situation. But I discovered that girl was
nothing like you, Samantha. Yes, she had a gift of divining, but she was a slave and was forced to use her gift for the profit of her owners—pretty much like psychics or mediums nowadays, except for the slave part. Anyway, when she met the disciples, she discerned that they were from God and went around yelling it out and disrupting their meetings and making big scenes. They finally got fed up and rebuked her in Jesus’ name, and her gift of divination went away. Of course, this ticked off her owners, and they arranged to have the disciples responsible arrested.”

“Wow, I wonder what happened to the slave girl after that. Do you think they let her go free?”

Ebony laughs. “See, that's why you'd make a great detective—you're always asking the right questions.”

“Because if losing her gift allowed her to go free, she might've been happier anyway. Then she could've served Jesus.” I smile. “And maybe God gave her a real gift then.”

Ebony nods. “I like your thinking.”

“Well, I'd like to think about your offer some more,” I tell her. “And I'd like to talk to my pastor about it. I've never told him what's up with all this. But he's a godly man, and I know I can trust him.”

“That sounds like a wise choice.”

“By the way, something occurred to me today, something that helps to convince me that Peter really wasn't the guy in my visions.”

“What's that?”

“Remember the first vision I had, the jumper on the bridge?”

“Yes.”

“It was totally the wrong season in my vision. The river was raging and brown, and the sky was dark and foggy.” “Not June-like weather.” “Not even close.”

Ebony shakes her head. “Don't know how I missed that.” “I missed it too.”

A
fter coffee, Ebony drives us to the Clark house. As she drives, I read over the notes about my dreams last night, just to refresh my memory. And I silently pray. I ask God to use Ebony and me—to help us help Cody.

Once again, the Clark house looks tired and worn out, sort of like someone forgot about it. And Cody looks nervous as he sits on the couch, his fingers fidgeting like he'd rather be anywhere but here. I sit with him while Ebony goes over some details with his mother. I think Mrs. Clark needs to sign a release form, and Ebony said she has the right to sit in on the interview, but she already told Ebony she'd rather not. This is hard on her.

As the two of them are quietly talking in the kitchen, I try to get Cody to open up to me a little. “You're really into video games, aren't you?”

He mumbles, “Uh-huh.”

“Which is your favorite? I know you were playing
Killer7
the other day, but what other ones do you like?”

“I kinda like the
Final Fantasy
series,” he says in a flat voice.

“My best friend, Olivia, likes those too,” I say brightly, glad that he mentioned a game I actually recognize.

“I've only played them a few times, mostly because I'm not very good and Olivia usually cleans my clock, but the graphics on
Final Fantasy
are pretty cool.”

He perks up just a little. “Does your friend have
Final Fantasy VII?”

“I don't know. I'll have to ask her.”

He picks at a hole in the knee of his jeans. “I wanna get it someday.,.”

“Well, if Olivia has it, maybe I can get her to loan it to you.”

“Really?” He glances at me with a smidgen of interest.

“Sure. She's a really generous girl.”

Now Ebony joins us. “How's it going, Cody?”

“Okay.” He's back to the flat voice again and looks at hersuspiciously.

“Did your mom tell you that we want to talk to you about Peter?”

He nods then looks down and starts picking at the hole again.

“I know it's been a long time since he died, Cody, but I want you to try to remember that day, okay?”

He nods very slightly, still focused on the hole in his jeans.

“According to our records you said you weren't home that day,” she continues. “But we have reason to believe that might not be the truth.”

He looks up with a disturbed expression. I can tell he doesn't trust us, doesn't want to have this conversation, and would probably like to bolt right now.

So I decide to jump in, hoping to reassure him. “We know there could be a reason that you didn't tell the truth,” I say quietly, “I mean, I can totally understand how it feels to get really scared when someone you love is hurt like that.” Then I decide to tell him a little about my dad's murder and how I actually felt somewhat responsible for his death. “It sounds sort of lame now, but at the time it seemed very real to me. I thought I was partly to blame.”

Cody studies me with a creased brow. “Really? You thought it was your fault?
Why?”

“Mostly because I was a kid. And kids usually think things are their fault. But also because I'd had this really strong feeling that something bad was going to happen to my dad, and I didn't warn him in time.”

Cody nods with wide eyes, like maybe he gets this. Even so, he doesn't say anything.

“So we really need you to help us,” says Ebony. “We have reason to believe that Peter didn't really kill himself that day. And we have reason to believe that you might've been home when he died. You need to tell us the truth, Cody. It's very important.”

His eyes dart back and forth between Ebony and me, reminding me of a trapped animal. I don't know when I've seen such desperate fear in someone's eyes. Oh, yes, I do. It was in my dream last night, right before Cody put the revolver to his head.

“You can't make me tell you anything,” he says defiantly. “Not without my lawyer present.”

I sort of smile. “You have a lawyer?”

“I can get one.”

Ebony nods. “Well, we don't want to arrest you, Cody. But if you refuse to tell us the truth, that could happen. And then you would need a lawyer.”

His brows go up. “Really?”

“Really. But we don't think what happened to Peter was your fault—you need to understand that. We're not blaming you, and you're not a suspect.”

“We just think you know something that you're not telling,” I add.

“Are you afraid that something bad will happen if you tell?” asks Ebony.

Cody just looks down at his lap again. His lips are pressed tightly together, and I don't think he's going to talk.

“I had a dream about you last night, Cody,” I say, unsure of how much I should disclose, but somehow I want to get through to this kid.

Fortunately, this seems to get his attention, although he looks up at me with a pretty skeptical expression. “Yeah, right.”

“I really did. It was kind of weird, but in my dream you were trapped inside the
Killer7
game, and you didn't have anywhere to go.”

He looks a bit stunned now.
“Really?”

“It's the honest truth, Cody. I sometimes have strange dreams. Anyway, you seemed really scared and frantic, and I got worried that you were going to hurt yourself.”

He frowns but says nothing.

“And it made me feel frightened for you. You wouldn't try to hurt yourself, would you?”

He shrugs and looks back down at his lap.

“Do you want to talk to us?” Ebony asks in a soft voice. “Tell us what happened that day?”

He says nothing.

“We only want to help you,” I add.

“But we can't help you if you don't talk.”

He looks at Ebony with a hardened expression. “I'm not talking to no one.” Then he stands and backs away from us. “You can't make me.”

“The court can make you,” Ebony says in a firmer tone. “But we'd rather not do it like that.”

“You better talk to my lawyer first,” he says in a gruff voice, like he's really not just twelve years old. “I got nothing to say to nobody.”

Ebony nods. “I'm sorry about that, Cody.”

Then he turns and stomps out of the room. I look at Ebony, but she actually seems okay. However, this did not go the way I'd hoped. Now I feel even more concerned about this troubled boy. If he had problems before, he probably really feels like he's got them now. We talk briefly to Cody's mom. Ebony tells her to keep an eye on the boy, that Cody might be rattled by this conversation.

“Call me if he decides he wants to talk.” She hands Mrs. Clark a business card. “Or if anything new develops.”

Then we leave. But I feel so bad for Cody. I almost wish I hadn't come with Ebony.

“How is it going to help anything to have Cody so upset by this?” I ask once we're in the car.

“I know it's hard. But sometimes witnesses have to get rattled in order to talk. And I have no doubt now that I've seen his reaction. Cody does know something about his brother's death.”

“Why won't he talk?”

“He's obviously frightened.”

“Of what?” I ask, although I have my own suspicions.

“I figure it could be several possibilities. One, the most obvious is that Cody saw his brother shoot himself. If that's the case, we can close this thing down for good. But I don't think that's what happened. Two, and I don't think this is very likely either, but Cody might've been involved in the shooting. Maybe he got the gun from his father's drawer, and maybe it accidentally went off, hitting his brother in the head, and he stuck it in Peter's hand to look like a suicide. But that wouldn't explain the suicide note.”

The thought of this makes me feel sick. “That would be so awful. For Cody's sake I hope that theory's wrong. What a horrible load for a boy to carry.”

“Well, I don't really think that's what happened.”

“So what do you think did happen?”

“I think Cody witnessed his brother's murder. It was probably someone involved in the drugs. Maybe that so-called best friend, Brett Carnes. Or maybe even the girlfriend, Faith Mitchell, although that wouldn't explain her e-mail.”

“Unless she was feeling guilty,” I say, “and wanted Peter's mother to know that Peter didn't kill himself.”

“Yes, that's possible. But it still doesn't explain the suicide note.”

“Unless…” I suddenly remember something.

“Unless?”

“Unless the suicide note
wasn't
written by Peter. Remember how Olivia and I registered on the suicide website, using fake names? Isn't it possible that someone else, maybe even Brett or the girlfriend, could have registered on the site using Peter's name?”

“You could be on to something,” Ebony says as she turns down a street that's unfamiliar.

“Where are you going?”

“Didn't you want to pay a visit to your friend Garrett Pierson?”

“You mean go up to his house and knock on the door—straight out of the blue?”

“I suppose you could call first.”

Then she gives me the number and I call. But once again, no one answers. “Maybe we should go to his house. I can always pretend that I came to pick up the chemistry notes. I actually do need them if he's not going to be in school tomorrow. I can tell him that I assumed he was sick.”

“Sounds like a plan.” She pulls up in front of a house that reminds me of our house. Not fancy, but nice, and certainly not as run-down as the Clark house. “I'll wait here.”

“Thanks.” I feel nervous as I walk toward the house. I'm still constructing what I'll say to him as I ring the doorbell. That is if he answers, which I seriously doubt.
Even so, I feel determined to try. I want to establish that Garrett is really okay and that he hasn't taken his life. I ring the doorbell again. Then to my surprise the door opens, just a few inches.

“Samantha?”

“Garrett, you're home!”

“What do you want?”

“I've been trying to call you. I need to get the chemistry notes. Mr. Dynell got on my case today. And if you're sick, I'll really need them for tomorrow.”

The door opens a bit wider, just wide enough to see part of his face, but it's dimly lit in there and I can barely make out his features. “I'll e-mail them to you.”

“Oh, okay. Are you sick?”

“Yeah.”

“Sorry to bother you,” I say. “But I really did miss you in chemistry today.”

“Sorry.”

“Will you be gone tomorrow too?”

He clears his throat. “I don't know.”

“But you'll send me the notes?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, then, take care, Garrett. I hope you feel better soon.”

“Thanks.”

I hear the door click shut as I turn to walk back to the car, but I have a feeling he's watching me from inside. I hope he bought my story. I think it was pretty believable. And I hope he's really okay.

“How'd it go?” asks Ebony.

“All right, I guess. I mean, he was there. He hasn't killed himself or anything.”

She shakes her head. This gets a little depressing, doesn't it? We interview one family who is, after five years, still recovering from an alleged suicide, and on top of that you get to worry about your friend doing the same thing himself.”

“Yeah, it's kind of a bummer.”