The Less-Dead (16 page)

“No, that’s not what I meant.” He picks up the dumbbells and starts a new set of curls. “I need a workout buddy. I’ve only got a few weeks to get in shape. I want to look buff for Kat, you know, when I rise up out of the water. So what do you say?”

I stare at him in disbelief. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

“No. I’m serious. I was even thinking of untangling my
dreads for the occasion. It would be majorly painful, but I want my hair to look good when it’s wet.”

I’ve had about all I can take. “Are you planning to wear your Speedo, too?”

He stops curling. His eyes open wide. “Should I?”

It takes every ounce of my self-control for me to keep from throttling him. “All right, explain something to me. Are you getting baptized because you got born again, or are you hoping Kat won’t be able to resist your bod in a swimsuit?”

He sets down the weights. “All right, I guess I was getting carried away. But, Noah, I’m serious about this. Getting baptized means a lot to me. Like I told you before, I really have found God, and Jesus, and, well, it’s like I don’t even hate my father anymore. That’s
huge
. And what’s weird is that
he
hasn’t changed; it’s
me. I’ve
changed. And the people at youth group, they pray for me. No one’s ever done that before. It’s pretty cool.”

“Okay, okay. I get it. I’m glad you found God, Carson. Really. The thing you need to understand about me is that I never lost him.”

Carson smiles. “Yeah, I see what you mean. Anyway, how about we start our workout tomorrow? You can show me the baseball players’ routine in the weight room. And, as an added bonus, it’ll get your mind off that book.”

On the way home, I begin to think that maybe I
am
going crazy. Maybe I’ve imagined this whole thing. Maybe I
should burn the book. That would be the best way to get rid of it. But no, I couldn’t destroy Will’s poems. It wouldn’t be right. They’re all that’s left of him.

My mom’s in the kitchen cooking dinner when I return. My dad’s in the den, poring over some doorstop Bible commentary. Quietly, I pad up the stairs before either of them sees me. I pass Melanie’s room and hear her playing with a friend. I close my door, and before stashing Will’s book beneath my bed, I decide to check out one more thing. September ninth. The day Kyle Lester was murdered. Just a sanity check, I tell myself. I sit down and find the page.

There it is. A poem.

In the margin, written in lighter, shaky ink:

My head reels. It all goes together. The poem Will wrote about Kyle. The poem the killer wrote about Kyle. I shut the book and quickly shove it under my bed. It feels like I’ve touched something evil, something so dark it scares me. Could there really be someone messing with my head? As I sit there with my heart pounding, I hear my mother call, “John? Please come here. You need to see this.”

I run downstairs. My parents are in the family room. “Noah? When did you get home?” my mom asks.

“Just a little while ago.” I look at the TV. News 8 Austin is on, and Warren Banks’s mug shot is back up on the screen.

“A suicide watch has been placed on Warren Banks, suspect in the murder of Austin teenager Kyle Lester. Earlier today, Banks tried to hang himself in the shower with an electrical cord at the Travis County Jail. The police are still awaiting DNA results in the murder case, and if Banks is tried and convicted, he could face the death penalty.”

While the newscaster shows clips from the Westboro Baptist Church’s God Hates Fags march, I begin to realize what I need to do. “Dad?”

“Yes?” He looks startled. I’ve barely spoken to my father since the night Will had dinner with us, but now I need his help.

“I want to talk to Warren Banks. Face to face. I need to know if he was the caller, and if he’s the one who killed Kyle and Paul. It’s important. Please.”

“Noah,” my mom says, “you’ve been through enough. John? Please tell Noah that’s not an option.”

My father looks at me. He doesn’t say anything for a while. Finally he nods. “All right. Wait here. It’s best for me to look the part, so I’ll dig out my minister’s collar. We’ll go tonight.”

“LET ME
talk to the guards,” my dad says. “And remember, whatever I say, just play along.”

I’ve never been inside a prison before. The first thing I notice is the smell. Kind of like the inside of a Roach Motel. Bright lights bounce off the walls, causing my eyes to throb. Everything is stale, rectangular, generic. Ahead I see visitors lined up in cubicles, speaking into clunky black phones sprouting heavy metal cords. A thick sheet of Plexiglas separates us from the inmates. No touching allowed.

“Yes, that’s right,” my father says to one of the guards. “Warren Banks. We need to visit with him in a private room. Yes, I know he’s on suicide watch, and that’s why we’re here. He needs help. As you can see, I’m a minister.”

Besides being a Christian radio guru, my dad went to seminary and got one of those divinity degrees. So even though he’s not a pastor of a church, he’s still qualified to
perform weddings and funerals and get up close and personal with the criminally insane.

“All right,” the guard says. “But the boy has to wait here.” He looks me up and down, like I’m one of the roaches in his sleazy prison motel.

“No,” my father says. “My son comes with me.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but that’s not possi—”

“John Nordstrom? Is that you?” A man in uniform steps out of the main office. His badge reads LIEUTENANT JEFFREY JONES. I’m guessing he’s got more clout than the guard who’s big on enforcing the rules. He shakes hands with my dad and smiles. “What do you know? The Bible Answer Guy in the flesh. What brings you here this evening?”

This is the kind of stuff that happens all the time when I go places with my father. He’s a real celebrity in the Bible Belt.

The guard’s mouth falls open. “I’m … sorry, sir. I had no idea.”

“Oh, no problem at all,” my dad says. “It’s good to see you, Jeffrey. This is my son, Noah. The two of us were about to visit one of your inmates, Warren Banks. You may have heard he’d been a member of our church a while back. We just found out about his suicide attempt. The whole thing is so unfortunate. Anyway”—he reaches over and pats me on the back—“Noah is seriously considering going into the ministry, and I thought talking with Banks would be a good experience for him.”

I’m so shocked I can’t speak. My father, proud upholder of the Ten Commandments, has just told a lie. A big one.

Lieutenant Jones is rather impressed. “Is that so? Following in your father’s footsteps, hey? Well, good for you, Noah. Henry, please show them in,” he says to the guard. “And don’t worry, we’ve got tight security in the visiting rooms—two-way mirrors, audio recorders, armed guards in the hallways. No reason for concern.”

Oh yeah? And what if you’ve got the wrong guy locked up? What if the real killer is still out on the streets?

My dad and I follow Henry past the row of cubicles. There’s a girl about Melanie’s age visiting one of the inmates. She’s sitting on a woman’s lap and has a phone pressed to her ear. She’s singing “Billy Boy” into the receiver. The man behind the Plexiglas watches the girl and smiles sadly. He lifts one hand and touches five fingers to the glass; the girl reaches up and matches him, finger for finger.

Henry’s huge wad of keys jingles loudly with each step he takes. He opens a door, leads us through, and locks it behind us. As we walk down the long, narrow hallway, I whisper to my father, “The ministry? Are you kidding me?”

He shrugs. “Your life is a ministry, Noah. Don’t you know that?”

We pass through several more doors, and each time, Henry leads us through one and locks it behind us. I feel like a rat in a maze. Finally he tells us to wait outside a room. He’s going to get Warren Banks.

After about ten minutes I’m feeling really claustrophobic. My palms are sweaty, I can barely breathe, and I have an intense desire to make a run for it. Suddenly the door opens. Inside the room, Warren Banks is sitting on a
metal chair, looking down at the floor. He’s wearing an orange jumpsuit, and there are several bandages taped to his neck. We walk in and take seats across from him. For some reason I’m expecting Banks to be handcuffed, but he’s not, which scares me a little. I try not to think about Hannibal Lecter—his mask, his sharp teeth.

Henry says, “I’ll be right outside, Mr. Nordstrom.” He exits the room but, thank goodness, leaves the door wide open.

“Hello, Warren,” my dad says.

Banks doesn’t answer. He doesn’t even look up.

“I hope you’re well.”

Hope you’re well? Come on, Dad. We live in Texas—the number one state for executions. It’s like asking a guy sitting in the electric chair if he’s comfortable with high voltage
.

My father clears his throat and continues. “I believe you’ve met my son, Noah, at King of Glory Christian Center. My daughter, Melanie, was in your Sunday school class. We heard you were in trouble, and thought you might like some company.”

Something like a snort escapes Banks’s throat. After that, a very long minute goes by. Slowly, he lifts his head. I can tell you right now, if you try to hang yourself and don’t succeed, it does a number on you. His face is dotted with a million purple bruises, and his eyes are swollen, veined, and red. I hate to think what’s under his bandages. “Company? Please, Mr. Nordstrom. Don’t patronize me.” He fixes his eyes on me. “Besides, I
know
why you’re here.”

My heart pounds. “You do?”

“Yeah. So, please, just get on with it. Say your piece and leave.”

I look at my father. He shrugs and motions for me to continue. Only, I have no clue what to say. “We heard about your … your accident, and—”

“You mean my suicide attempt. Call it what it is, all right?”

“Okay. We heard about your suicide attempt. And I was wondering … why, you know …”

“Why I did it?”

“Yes.”

He shakes his head. “Jeez, you guys are all the same. Unbelievable.” He looks at me defiantly. “Why do you
think
I did it?”

The question hangs in midair. The room is deathly quiet. I can hear my father’s nose whistling.

“I don’t know. Because you killed someone? Because you killed Kyle Lester? And maybe the other foster kid, Paul Mateo?”

His eyebrows shoot up. He starts to laugh. Only, it’s the kind of laugh that’s not amused at all. “Is that what you believe?”

“Listen, Warren,” my father interrupts. He sounds pretty pissed. “We didn’t come here for this. Noah’s been through a pretty rough ordeal. He’s the one who found the body of the third foster boy—Will Reed—the one killed in the woods along the greenbelt. And he had some questions, that’s all. If you don’t want to talk with us, we’ll leave right now.”

Banks blinks a few times. He looks stunned. “No … please, don’t go. Stay.” His voice is different now. Softer.
Almost desperate. “Noah? I’m sorry. I had no idea it was you who found the body. Is that really why you came here? To talk about the murders?”

“Yeah.”

“And no other reason?”

“No.”

“All right, then. Go ahead. Ask whatever you want.”

“Okay.” I take a deep breath and try to gather my thoughts. I have no idea where to begin. “Well, about a week before Kyle Lester was killed, there was this caller on my father’s show. Maybe you heard him. He spewed a lot of antigay stuff.”

“Yes. I remember the guy. How could I forget?” He pauses for a moment; then a look of understanding spreads across his face. “Oh, so you thought the caller was me?”

“I thought … well, yeah.”

He shrugs. “It’s all right. I don’t blame you. It makes sense. I mean, I’m sure you’ve heard about my involvement with the Westboro Baptist Church. It’s been all over the news, and it’s not something I’m proud of. Anyway, now that I think about it, when I found out Kyle was dead, and I heard about the cross carved on his chest and the note left with his body, I immediately thought of that caller. I thought he might have had something to do with it.”