The Less-Dead (18 page)

“What? Noah? Promise what?”

“It’s just … I don’t want you to think I’m crazy. Carson
already does, and half the time I think he’s right. Anyway, here.” I pull Will’s book from my pocket. “This was Will’s. He wrote poems and lyrics in it, some other stuff too. I found it near his body, tossed aside in a pile of leaves. I didn’t give it to the police as evidence. I lied, said I didn’t find anything.”

“Whoa. That’s not good.”

“No, but right now, that’s the least of my worries. You see, I found other things in this book—poems—but I don’t think Will wrote them. I think they’re clues.”

“Clues?”

“To the murders.”

Her eyes widen. “Show me.”

I scoot a little closer to Aubrey and open the book. After she reads “Potter’s Field,” I tell her about Hawk’s note, the John eight Bible passage, and the cemetery phone number. “And the freaky thing is,” I say, “it’s all written on the page from the day I met Will, the day I sang that Lead Belly song for him and he wrote it down.”

“Wow, that’s odd.”

“No kidding.”

Next I turn to the entry dated September ninth and show her the poem “For Kyle.” “Will wrote that poem right after Kyle died,” I say, “but look here, in the margin. There’s something else.”

Aubrey takes the book. I watch her lips move as she silently reads “One Small Act of Kindness.” She looks up. “Noah, this is scary.”

“So you believe me?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Okay, good. And you don’t think I’m crazy?”

“No, of course not. But tell me, is there anything else in here? Are there any other clues?”

“I don’t know. I was afraid to look.” I’d be embarrassed to admit this to any other girl. But not Aubrey.

She stares at me for a while, then lifts her feet from the water, scoots back, and sits cross-legged. Little puddles form on the rock in front of us. She starts flipping through the pages. “All right. Think back, Noah. Try to remember. What day did the police find Paul Mateo’s body?”

I don’t have to think at all. If I’d had the guts, that’s what I would have looked at next. But I didn’t. “It was a Monday,” I say. “October eleventh.”

Aubrey turns a few more pages. “Here it is. There’s a poem with no title.” She reads:

She looks up. “Noah, what is it? What’s wrong?”

“That’s … well, a poem Will wrote about me.
I’m
the boy on the steps, singing the song. It’s about the day Will and I met on the Drag. He wrote the poem on October eleventh, which is the same day the police found Paul’s body.”

“It’s a good poem,” Aubrey says, biting her lip.

“I know. But, Aubrey, is there anything else on that page?”

Slowly, she looks down and runs her finger along the margin. A few seconds later, her eyes meet mine. “There is.”

I lean over and take a look. I see another poem in the light, shaky handwriting.

“Noah? What does it mean?”

I read it over again. “Victim number two must be Paul Mateo. Will knew him when they were younger. He told me that Paul got teased a lot—kids called him faggot and queer. Will felt bad because he never stood up for Paul. Anyway, they lost touch, but Will found out that Paul had been hustling on the streets right before he was murdered.”

“That’s so sad,” Aubrey says. “I can’t believe kids, right here in Austin, live that way.” She glances down at the poem. “Noah, what about …”

“Number three? That must be Will. Gold.”

“The poem says to turn the page,” Aubrey says.

“Right. Go ahead.”

I follow along as Aubrey reads aloud.

“How weird. Number three, slain with a kiss? Do you think he’s referring to the way Judas Iscariot betrayed Jesus with a kiss?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. This guy is so twisted.” I think about everything Quindlan told me—about the less-dead, about the killer’s wanting to rid society of evil, and about how he preys on gay foster boys. “He must believe he’s on a mission from God. But
which
god, I don’t know.”

Aubrey reads the poem one more time. “Noah, what day did Will die?”

“October twenty-third.”

My heart drums as Aubrey flips through the pages. She reads silently for a moment. “This doesn’t make sense,” she says. “The last entry is dated November tenth. That’s ten days from now.”

I lean over and take a look.

“Will be
taught?
What does that mean?” I say.

“I don’t know,” Aubrey says. “This one’s more like a riddle. Maybe it means you’ll get more clues.”

“So it’s not over yet. And if everything ties together, it means there could be another murder on November tenth. Oh, God. Aubrey, I’m really starting to think I should show this book to the police.”

Aubrey looks at me. “I’m scared, Noah. What will they do when they find out you lied?”

“Arrest me, I guess.”

“Is there any other way?”

“I don’t know. I still have some time. It could be risky, but there might be someone I can talk to.”

I FIND
Hawk at school the next day. He’s in the boys’ locker room, talking to one of the jocks I recognize from McCallum—the one who got expelled for selling his prescription meds for ADD. “I need to talk to you,” I say. “It’s important.”

Hawk nods, motions for the jock to leave, then leads me to an empty row of lockers. “Noah, hey, what’s going on?”

“I need to show you something.” I know this is a risk, but if Will trusted Hawk, then maybe I can too. Maybe Quindlan is wrong. I reach into my pocket and pull out Will’s book.

“Oh my God. Where did you get that?”

“The morning I found Will’s body, I found this, too, in a pile of leaves. I know it was a stupid thing to do, but I didn’t hand it over to the police. They asked if I’d found anything else. I said no. I kept it.”

Hawk stares at me. “Yeah, that
was
stupid. It’s called
tampering with evidence. You could have been arrested, Noah.”

“I know that.”

“Wait. Didn’t you tell me that Will accidentally left that book at the campsite, and went back to get it?”

“Yeah. That’s what Quindlan told me. It was the night me and Carson played at the Red Room. Supposedly Will went to find the book right before our show.”

“And he never came back,” Hawk says. “So the killer must have followed him there.” He thinks this over for a moment. “Anyway, why are you telling me this? And why are you showing
me
the book?”

“Because I wanted you to look at a few things written inside. Besides Quindlan and Doomsday, you’re the only person I know who was friends with Will. And this is going to sound really weird, but I found some poems in here—ones Will didn’t write—and I think they might be clues. To all three of the murders.”

“Are you serious?”

“I wish I wasn’t, but yeah. I thought maybe you could help me understand.”

Hawk glances around nervously. “The bell’s going to ring soon. Meet me after school in the parking lot. We’ll go for a drive. I’ll take a look.”

“Noah, why
didn’t
you turn this book in to the police? What was your reason?”

Hawk is flipping through Will’s book for the third time.
We’re sitting in his car—an old Mustang convertible—parked on an empty side street far from campus. When we first arrived, I told him everything, and he studied each clue in the book for a long time. He even took out a pen and paper and jotted things down.

“I don’t know. Part of me just wanted to keep it, and part of me was really angry. Will told me he wore a wire for the police after he got busted for dealing. The police used him. And when he needed their help, they weren’t there for him.”

“Whoa. Hold on. Will told you about wearing the wire?”

“Yeah.”

Hawk studies me. “Wearing that wire kept him out of jail. Will was seventeen when he got busted. He wouldn’t have gone to juvie. He would have gone to an adult prison.”

“Yeah, well, a lot of good that does him now,” I say. “Besides, I’m surprised
you
, of all people, are defending the police.”

Hawk shrugs. He looks tired; his Mohawk is limp and his nose bolt is red and infected. “I’m not defending them. Let’s just say I’ve been around the block a few times. I’ve had to do plenty of risky things. Anyway”—he taps the book—“I think you’ve got something here. But do you really believe the killer wrote the poems, the clues, for
you?
I mean, that’s pretty far out, Noah.”

I sigh. “I know it sounds insane, even paranoid, but think about it. The first clue was written on the page from the day I met Will, in the margin next to the Lead Belly song. The second clue was written on the page from the day Kyle was murdered, the third on the day Paul was killed, right beside the poem Will wrote about
me
. I guess it could
be a coincidence, but it doesn’t feel that way. It feels personal.”

“So if you’re right, the killer knows you. Kept his eye on you and Will when you were together.”

“Yeah. Exactly. It’s pretty creepy.”

“And if all of this is true, the killer would have written these clues in the book right after he strangled Will.”

“Right,” I say. “Which goes along with the autopsy report. Supposedly there were several hours between the time Will died and the time the cross was carved into his chest. He could have written in Will’s book during that time.”

Hawk gives me a strange look. “Wait a minute. How do you know about the autopsy report? It wasn’t released to the public.”

I swallow hard. “Oh, right, well …”

“Noah, who’ve you been talking to?”

“I can’t tell you that. I’m sorry.”

“Listen, just sit on this for a while. Don’t do anything. We have some time. I’m going to talk to some people I know. Get a few things straight.”

“Like who? Who would you talk to?”

“I can’t tell you that.” Hawk opens the book and jots down a few more things. “I’ve got all the information I need. I want you to promise me that you won’t go to the police. At this point, they could screw up everything. If what you say is true, then it really does look like there’s going to be another murder. And if your theory’s right, November tenth would be the day. I may have a way to prevent it. Trust me, okay?”

I look into his eyes, remembering Quindlan’s warning. I can only hope I’m doing the right thing.

“And if you hear anything else, or if someone contacts you, let me know. Here’s my number.” Hawk rips off a piece of paper, writes down his number, and hands it to me. “Come on. That’s enough for today. I’ll take you home.”

I say goodbye to Hawk and watch his Mustang disappear around the corner. A second later, Melanie runs outside. “Noah, I’m scared. It’s Daddy. He’s in the kitchen. He’s really upset. He’s been on the phone with the police.”

“The police?”

I run into the kitchen. My father is sitting at the table with his head in his hands. “Dad? What’s going on?”

He looks up. “Noah. Thank goodness you’re home. I was getting worried. He called today.”

“What do you mean? Who?”

“The
caller
. On my show. I recognized his voice right away. I phoned the police, but again they weren’t able to trace him.”

“What did he say?”

“Well, it was strange. It wasn’t his usual ranting about Austin’s gay community. Instead, he asked me a very unusual question. One I’d never heard on my show before. It was about the woman caught in adultery—you know, from the Gospel of John? He wanted to know what I thought Jesus wrote in the sand.”