Solitary: A Novel (32 page)

"It's another unspoken thing. For the most part."

"Unspoken? Then how do you know enough to tell someone like me to stay away from her?"

"My parents told me the same thing. And someone told them."

"Why?"

Newt shrugs. "I don't know."

"You have to know."

"I don't. But the same thing happened with Stuart-the kid who disappeared-the one I showed you the article about. It was almost as if the very mention of his name was almost-well, like it was blasphemous. Before and after he disappeared."

"What? Why?"

"It's secrets. This town is full of them. Everywhere you go, every person you see, every corner-they're all full of secrets."

"What kind?"

"I don't know."

"You have to have some ideas."

"I have a lot of ideas, Chris. But the biggest idea is to keep quiet and to keep to myself. Just like my parents. Just like everybody else."

"But surely there has to be someone-some people who can do something."

"Who?"

"Your parents?"

Newt laughs. "No, no. My dad serves on several boards. He's Mr. Respected. And Mom is busy and-no. They're not going to say anything."

"But this kid-he just disappeared."

Jocelyn says he was murdered.

"People who have asked questions have disappeared too."

"Like who?"

"Rumors. That's all I know."

"Newt, listen to me. Jocelyn can't disappear."

"How are you going to stop it from happening?"

"How? I don't know. You gotta help me."

Newt looks around the room and fidgets. "I'm helping the best I can. The only way I can."

"But does this Ichor Staunch have something to do with these secrets-and that guy's disappearance?"

"Nobody will say that."

"I'm asking you."

"Yeah. Totally. But there's no way to know. No way to prove it."

"That guy lives right down the street from me."

"Then you need to be extra careful."

I laugh and let out a curse of disbelief. "What is going on here? I mean-where in the world is this place? Isn't this America? Things like this don't happen. Can't someone put out a rumor on the Web? Tweet about it?"

"This is a tiny town in the mountains of North Carolina. There aren't a lot of people around here. They're friendly, but they don't like outsiders. They all know each other, and they all keep their secrets to themselves. A lot of things can happen in a place where people live out lies."

"But why would someone-what does someone want with Jocelyn?"

Newt stares back at me.

"Tell me," I say.

But he doesn't. He can't. Or he won't.

He looks back at me, and I wonder if the scar on his face was there at birth.

I want to ask him, but I can't.

He's already helped me enough, and I don't want to pressure him anymore. To pressure him or to remind him of something that surely he doesn't want to be reminded of.

I sit on the floor and put my arms behind me and let out a sigh.

"One other thing you need to know," he says.

"What? What else can there be?"

"It's about Jocelyn."

I wait for him to tell me.

"That guy who's around her-the creepy guy who looks like he belongs in prison-Wade, is it?"

I nod. Newt continues speaking in his matter-of-fact way, no emotion clouding his face.

"Guys at school say that he does more than just hurts Jocelyn. That he does a lot more."

"That's a lie."

"I'm just telling you what I hear."

I curse, calling it vicious gossip.

"Maybe it is," Newt says. "Doesn't mean it doesn't happen."

"He's not going to touch her."

"You can't watch her all day long."

I leave his house feeling bewildered and confused and angry, but I should probably feel frightened.

There is a small area in the library at Harrington High that has a computer area attached to it. It's laughable compared to the computer lab back at my old high school. I'm on a computer a little older than my laptop searching for something on the Internet.

I'm doing it here because I don't trust my computer. Someone already seems to know my every move, including any type of communication done on my laptop. If I start doing searches on it, that someone might find out.

I start my list with the following words: missing people Solitary, North Carolina. I narrow the search and use other words, like students and children and disappeared. After spending most of the study hall searching random news blurbs and articles, I've come up with a list.

Suddenly I feel nervous. I glance behind me.

Big Brother watches and always will, Chris.

If they did watch, they certainly wouldn't be able to read my scribbles on the piece of paper. That I'm sure of.

I look at the list.

STUART ALGIERS (17)-MISSING DURING CNRISTMAS BREAK

LUCY PEMMER (13)-WENT MISSING DECEMBER 2q YEAR EARLIER

PARRY MARSHALL (16)-DISA'P'PEARED ON CHRISTMAS DAY TWO YEARS AGO

There are others, too, but none directly related to Solitary. At least not in bold letters. A guy who dies in a hunting accident. A man found frozen in his car after it broke down during a winter storm. An elderly woman shot by a burglar.

Three missing students in three years.

All between the ages of thirteen and seventeen.

All disappearing around the Christmas holidays.

The list looks way too long to me. Way too long to be coincidental.

If I knew someone to go to, I would.

How about Mom?

I fold the sheet of paper up and put it in my jacket pocket. Maybe I'll tell her about it, but she'll probably just tell me to stay out of it and be careful and all that. Or she might go to the police and spill the beans and get us into even more hot water.

I'm trying to avoid the hot water.

I slip a note to Jocelyn on the way to lunch, though I don't sit with her:

WHAT DO YOU KNOW ABOUT LUCY PEMMER AND PARRY MARSHALL?

At the end of lunch, she hands me her response:

As our class together begins, I shoot Jocelyn a look and nod at her. I can see the paleness of her skin, the blankness in her eyes.

7bats fear, Chris. And its something you probably smack of too.

All throughout that class and the rest of the day, I try to figure out what to do.

Who to tell.

Where to go.

Something's wrong with all of this. And Jocelyn might be next.

It sounds absurd, but so do many things that happen every single day. They're absurd until they show up on your doorstep knocking.

What about telling Dad?

The voice comes out of nowhere, and I squelch it quickly. If I could punch whoever said it, I would. There's no way I'd ask my dad for anything. Mom could be going to a Turkish prison and I still wouldn't reach out for his help.

Well, maybe if it was Turkish I would, but only then.

After last-period PE, I'm changing my clothes in the locker room, absorbed in thoughts. I don't even hear the guys behind me until it's too late. One second I'm by my locker staring into it, and then the next I feel arms grab me at both sides and something go over my head, and for a second I think it's a plastic bag that someone's going to suffocate me with. The room goes dark.

My arms are pulled and my hands are tied behind my back. I wrangle and wrestle and thrash, but whoever is holding me down is too strong. My scream is stifled by someone's big hand.

Its Gus. Its gotta be Gus.

Then I hear something tear and realize it's tape. They're tying my legs together now.

I manage to break my mouth away from the hold and howl out, "Stop it! Somebody help me! Somebody!"

But then I cough and choke as the hand cups something else around my nose and mouth. I inhale something strong, bitter, gagging. I cough more and then suddenly feel light and groggy.

In seconds, I'm out.

"Wake up. Come on, boy. Wake up."

I open my eyes but feel like I'm still dreaming. My body feels like it's moving, my head swaying on the top of the surface of the ocean. Is it nighttime? Everything is still pitch black.

Then something hits the side of my face, and I open my eyes and know I still have something-a cloth of some kind-over my head.

"You there? You awake?"

I don't recognize this voice, but I know it doesn't belong to Gus.

"Yeah." My voice sounds scratchy and stuffy.

"Good. Very good."

I try to move my arms, but they're still behind me. My legs won't move either.

And I'm cold. I'm very cold.

"You're some kind of stupid, aren't you, boy? Don't you get it? Don't you even remotely care about things, boy?"

"What?"

"Now you shut your mouth, but make sure your ears are open and listenin', got it?"

I don't say anything, then feel a hand grab my head and shake it.

It's the equivalent of riding the roller coaster backward with the lights off after taking cough syrup.

"You got it, boy?"

"Yeah, yeah, got it."

The voice sounds older-Southern. No-nonsense. I'd want to say that it's an elderly voice, but the hand that just grabbed me felt like someone strong and big.

"You know what I hate, boy? It's headaches. I hate when they come on. I used to get them all the time. These brain-poppin' migraines. The kind that would make the lights go out. The kind that made you see ten thousand stars in yet head. You ever feel something like that?"

I shake my head, then utter "no" out of fear.

"And you know, that's what you're becomin'. A headache. A really annoying headache. But I'm not gonna let it get worse. It's not gonna be a migraine, I'll promise you that. You got that, boy?"

"Yeah."

He laughs and then mumbles a curse.

I hear shuffling. We're not the only people here, wherever here is.

The man's voice echoes the way it might in a small room. But it's cold. It's too cold to be inside.

"Eyes are on you a bit too much, and I gotta account for that. But sooner or later they won't be. And believe me, if you don't stop all this nonsense, you'll disappear like the rest of them. You got it?"

Yes.

A blinding block of pain bashes against the side of my head, sending me to the floor. I feel hands grab my arm and pull me back up. I'm still wincing, still woozy, still trying to understand what's going on, when I hear the voice again.