How Not to Spend Your Senior Year (21 page)

“Try looking at this,” he said

There was a word embossed on the book's front. Memories, it read.
It's a scrap-book,
I thought. One I had never seen before.

“Where did this come from?” I asked.

“It belonged to your grandmother,” my father said. “Your mother's mother.”

I sat up a little straighter. “You mean Old Mrs. Calloway, don't you? We were living in her house, weren't we? I mean, before all this happened.”

My father nodded. “How did you know?” he asked.

“Something Elaine said. She told me we were living in Old Mrs. Calloway's house. I couldn't help but wonder. She kept a scrap-book about me?”

“Open it,” my father said.

I did, and felt the tears rush to fill my eyes.

“It's you and Mom,” I said.

The first few pages were all of my parents. Wedding pictures, followed by a whole series of my mom during which she
grew progressively more pregnant. These culminated in a copy of my very first baby picture, taken in the hospital.

Josephine Claire, age 24 hours,
a caption beneath the photo read.

For several more pages, the photographs continued to show me and either one or both of my parents. Then the photos of my mother stopped abruptly. The rest of the book was entirely comprised of photographs of me, carefully labeled according to year and place.

There I was in our living room in Bemidgi, in the apartment that, even at the age of ten, I'd known possessed the ugliest couch in the entire world. There was a picture of me in the kitchen when we'd lived in Vermont. I'd just finished decorating a batch of Christmas cookies. Proudly I held the tray out for inspection and photo documentation.

And then there were more recent ones from Oregon and Washington. My entire childhood contained within the pages of the scrapbook my grandmother had made. I wasn't a ghost. I had left a record. One created by the loving hands
of the grandmother I had never met.

“I wish I'd known her,” I whispered.

“We both wished that,” my father said. “But we agreed that trying to get to me through your grandmother was one of the first things the killer might try. But I did my best to let her see her granddaughter growing up.”

“I love you, Dad,” I said.

My father reached out and tousled my hair, just like he always had. “I love you, too, sweetheart,” he said.

We were silent for a moment, leafing through the scrapbook.

“What did Detective Mortensen want?” I asked.

“How did you know I was talking to Stan?” my father asked.

“Dad, please,” I said. “Who else do you talk to?”

“The trial starts Monday,” my father said.

My hands stilled on the scrapbook. “That's great, Dad,” I said. “You can get the bad guy, then things can go back to normal, right?”

“That's the plan,” Dad said. I heard him
suck in a breath. “There's something I have to tell you, Jo-Jo. Something I probably should have told you years ago, but I didn't know how. Who am I kidding? I still don't know how,” my father said. “Something to do with my testimony at the trial.”

Carefully I closed the scrapbook and set it aside. “What?” I asked.

My father scrubbed his hands across his face, just like he'd done the night I'd come home to discover we had to fake our own deaths.

“The murder I witnessed, the person who was killed. It was your mother, Jo.”

“The killer's name is Orville Patterson,” my father said.

“Wait a minute,” I blurted out. “You're telling me mom was run over by some guy with the same name as the person who invented microwave popcorn? I'm not sure I can take this, Dad.”

My father gave a surprised laugh. Then we just held onto one another for a moment, my head buried against his chest.

“Is his name really Orville?” I asked after a moment.

“It really is Orville,” my father said. “Believe it or not, Orville Patterson was once a highly successful bank robber.
His nickname was the Chameleon.”

“Don't tell me,” I interrupted as I lifted my head. “He had a different disguise for every heist.”

“Essentially that's correct,” my father said. He scooted back until his back rested on the headboard, legs stretched out beside mine. “One of the things that made Patterson so successful was that, even with the aid of security cameras, law enforcement could only make an educated guess as to what he looked like. Nobody had actually seen his face.”

“Is that why he . . . ” I began, then found I couldn't go on. I simply wasn't ready to say out loud how my mother had actually died. That her death had been deliberate, not accidental. But my father was already answering my unspoken question.

“Part of what happened to your mother really
was
an accident,” he said. “She was just plain in the wrong place at the wrong time. And because she was, she saw something she wasn't supposed to see.”

“Omigod,” I whispered. “The Chameleon. She saw what he really looked like.”

My father nodded. “She did,” he said.
“Some of the Chameleon's disguises were incredibly elaborate. This time he'd kept it simple: an oversized pair of sunglasses and a baseball cap. Apparently the cap was oversized too, because, as he came out of the bank, the wind blew it right off his head. When he didn't stop to pick it up, your mother retrieved it and ran after him. Naturally she had no idea who he was or what he'd just done. Neither of us did.”

“Where were you?” I asked.

“Getting coffee,” my father said. “I came out of the coffee shop, saw your mother retrieve the cap and hurry after this guy who was heading for the bank parking lot. I didn't really think anything of it. It was a small town, and she was friendly like that.”

My dad closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, then opened them.

“He stopped to chat with her for a moment,” he said. “To this day, I don't know why. Maybe he was getting some sort of cheap thrill out of the fact that she had no idea who she was talking to. He took the cap, tossed it in the backseat of his car. It was a big one, an old Lincoln.

“Your mom waved to me, then started
walking to the crosswalk on the corner. I remember he turned to see who she was waving to, then got into the car. He started the engine and pulled out into the street. Your mom was in the crosswalk by then.

“And that's when it happened,” my dad said. “The alarms at the bank went off. People came pouring out of the building, and one of them yelled and pointed at the car. Patterson hit the gas. That big old Lincoln shot through that intersection like it was jet-propelled. Your mother never stood a chance. He hit her full on. I was maybe ten feet away from her, and there was nothing I could do. But the impact sent his sunglasses flying.”

This time I was the one who closed my eyes. I could see the scene my father had described flickering like an old movie on the inside of my eyelids. See my mother hear the roar of the engine, turn her head toward the suddenly accelerating car.

What had she felt in those few moments? I wondered. Had she known she was about to die?

All of a sudden, my eyes flew open.

“The sunglasses,” I blurted out. “You
saw his face. You have a photographic memory. You can identify him.”

“That's right,” my father said. “I've spent my entire life making sure Orville Patterson comes to justice. That your mother didn't die for nothing.”

“
We've
spent our whole lives,” I said as the true reason for his earlier worry that I'd had a miserable childhood became crystal clear. My father was afraid he'd sacrificed my happiness for the pursuit of my mother's killer. “I had a great childhood, Dad. I wouldn't change a second of it.”

I threw my arms around him, giving him the biggest bear hug I could.

“I love you, Jo,” my father said. “I seem to be saying that a lot tonight.”

“It's not like it's a problem or anything,” I said. We sat in silence for a moment. “Dad, would you do something for me?” I asked.

“Sure,” my father said. “What did you have in mind?”

“Remember earlier when I sort of gave the impression I'd screwed something up? I think you can help me make it right,” I said.

First thing Monday morning during journalism class at Royer, I walked right up to Mark London's desk. None of the other students seemed to be freaked to see me, a thing I had to figure meant he hadn't spilled the beans. Yet. Most likely he was saving it for the tell-all article.

“If you've come to beg, forget it,” he said. He continued to perform the activity he'd been engaged in as I approached, jotting notes down on a yellow pad.

I slapped the morning edition of
The Seattle Times
down on top of it.

“There's a trial starting today you may want to follow.”

He brushed the paper to one side and continued writing. “Oh really. And why would I want to do that?”

“Because it's kind of unusual,” I said. “Specifically there are rumors of a surprise witness. One who could guarantee a conviction for the prosecution. The spokesperson for the defense is indicating his client isn't too worried as, just a few weeks ago, the witness was killed in a car crash.”

Mark's hand stilled.

“What's the witness's name?” he asked.

“Chase William O'Connor,” I said. “Sound familiar?”

Now, at last, Mark looked up, his dark eyes searching mine. “Let me make it easy for you,” I said. “Chase William O'Connor is Jo O'Connor's dad. What would you say if I told you I could get an exclusive. An
exclusive
exclusive.”

“I'd say I'd want to know the catch.”

“There are two,” I said. “One, you don't print your interview until after the trial is over. Two, you don't print
anything
about either O'Connor until you've interviewed Jo's dad. If you want to continue with the piece you're currently working on
after hearing his story, that's up to you.

“Do we have a deal?”

“We have a deal,” Mark said.

Justice from Beyond the Grave
Surprise Witness Shocks Defense

B
Y
M
ARK
L
ONDON
,

S
PECIAL TO THE
S
EATTLE
T
IMES

The defense in the trial of accused murderer Orville Patterson was shocked today by the appearance of a witness they believed would be unable to testify. Chase William O'Connor, husband of alleged victim Ellen Elizabeth O'Connor, appeared in court today and took the stand. This in spite of reports from several weeks ago indicating that O'Connor and his daughter, Josephine, had been killed in a fiery car crash.

“I did what was necessary to protect my family and see justice done,” O'Connor said. “My only regret is that it's taken so long.”

Nine years to be exact. That's
the amount of time it's taken for authorities to track down Patterson and bring him to trial. Both surviving O'Connors have indicated they will make further statements at the conclusion of the trial. . . .

The series of articles Mark wrote following his interviews with my father were something along the lines of a nine-day wonder. A thing which seemed only fitting, as it had taken nine years to convinct my mother's killer. Not only that, there were nine articles.

In them, my father told his story. He talked about the decisions he'd made in the years between the two events that had so shaped his life: the death and the trial. And he talked about what he hoped the future might hold in store for both of us.

As soon as the trial was over and Patterson convicted, we moved back into Old Mrs. Calloway's house. I didn't return to Beacon, though. Instead I graduated from Royer with my dad and Detective Mortensen sitting side by side in the very front row. That made the paper too. As did
the news of Detective Mortensen's promotion.

GHOST-GIRL GRADUATES
. Is that a disgusting headline or what?

Mark did
not
write that particular article. Instead, he was so busy fielding sudden offers from colleges across the country, I hardly saw him at all.

Naturally, after my own was over, I thought about whether or not I should attend the Beacon graduation. Though Elaine informed me that most of my former classmates had forgiven me for my deception, the thrill of being even peripherally involved in a situation that felt like the plot for a movie of the week apparently being enough to cancel out any residual anger my actions may have caused, in the end, I decided not to go. I was still something of a celebrity. The Beacon graduation should be about its participants, not about me.

I settled for helping Elaine get dressed, and sending Alex a goofy card to which he did not reply. Instead, one day not long after graduation, he showed up at the house.

The doorbell rang on a rainy Saturday
afternoon. I was in my room. My father answered the door. He'd been doing that a lot lately. A couple of times I'd actually seen him go to the door when nobody was there and just open it and look out for a moment.

I think it was because he was finally free. No more captivity. No more running.

So when the doorbell sounded I hardly paid attention until my father knocked on my bedroom door.

“There's somebody here to see you, Jo,” he said.

Alex was standing in the middle of the living room when I came out. Just for a minute, my heart stopped. Out of all the people who had the right to be absolutely furious with me, Alex had the very best cause. For weeks I'd been trying to think of the way to explain. To apologize. I still didn't know how.

“Hey, Alex,” I said.
Omigod, we're right back where we started,
I thought. Me saying incredibly lame things while Alex just stands there.