The Singing Bone (38 page)

Trina and Stover and Lee came through the front door. They were covered in something dark, mud. Alice thought of the reservoir. They were covered in night. Night and death. It was blood. Trina's clothes stuck to her. Her eyes were big. Alice saw the whites. Her carefully plaited hair was tangled and loose. “Lee made me kill the babies,” she yelled. Stover was doubled over, screaming. Lee laughed. “I didn't make you do anything,” he said.

“You killed the babies?” Molly said. She was halfway down the steps, her hand on the railing, just in front of Alice. “You killed the babies?” Molly turned to Alice. She was pale. “Trina killed the babies,” she said. “We have to tell someone the babies are dead.”

Alice looked at her. “Jesus, Molly,” she said. “I never knew you could act.”

And then Molly turned on the steps and began to run down. “We can't let the babies die!” she yelled, running out the front door. “I have to find someone.”

No one tried to stop her. Alice looked at them. It was like they were all performing in private plays.

“Fuck all,” Mr. Wyck said. “Genie!” he barked at her. “Go after her.”

“She's going to help the dead babies,” Alice said.

“Take care of it,” Mr. Wyck said.

“How?”

“You know what to do.”

Alice got up. She did know what to do. She ran past her friends and out into the woods. It was freezing. “Molly!” she yelled. “Molls!” But Molly didn't answer her. She thought she saw her in the distance. Her yellow hair was caught by the light of the moon. “Molly! Wait for me! I'll help you with the babies!” And then the shape that was Molly stopped moving. Alice caught Molly by the back of the shirt. “Molly. Let's help the babies.” But Molly wasn't making any sense. She was wandering towards the water, crying.

“I think this is what was supposed to happen,” Molly said. “I think—”

“It's okay, Molly,” Alice said. She lightly patted at her arm. They were standing on the bank of the reservoir. The moon was high. The night was clear and cold, but Alice didn't feel it. She picked up a large rock. One end was jagged. She liked the way it felt in her hands.

“We have to go to the police,” Molly said, turning to Alice, taking her hand. “We have to. We can't be a part of this.”

“We already are a part of this,” Alice said, and brought the rock down hard on Molly's head. Molly dug her fingers into the skin on Alice's arm. Alice pushed her and Molly reached again, this time for Alice's hair. Her fingers caught. For a moment they looked at each other and Alice read the confusion in Molly's eyes. Then Molly stepped back, slipping on the ice edging the reservoir, one foot breaking through. She looked around briefly and Alice brought the rock down again. Molly fell backwards, reaching for Alice again, clawing at her arm until Alice shook her off. Molly broke through the thin ice. Alice watched. Then she brought the rock to the edge of the water and, with both hands, threw it as far as she could. She watched as it hit water. Down it went.

Back at the house, everyone was in the van, waiting. Alice climbed in. She went to the very back and curled up on the seat. She couldn't keep track of everything. Was she in the water or was Molly? Mr. Wyck climbed back and made her sit up. He looked at her face. “Alice, where did you go?”

“I went to take care of it. To the reservoir,” she answered. “That part where there's a high bank.”

He let go of her and ran into the woods. She watched him for a moment through the window before curling into herself again.

“The babies are in a red sack,” Alice said to no one. “Baba Yaga has them.”

Stover turned in his seat. “The Smiths, Alice,” he said. “They're all dead.”

Alice looked at Trina and Lee for confirmation, but neither of them looked at her. They were sitting as still as two propped-up corpses. Alice looked out of the car window. “Do you know what my favorite part of a play is?” she asked. Stover put his face in his hands. “It's when all the dead people come back out onstage afterwards.”

Stu wasn't planning on going that night, but there was something—did he have a dream? He looked at the clock. It was past three. He got out of bed and began to dress. He put on two pairs of long underwear and the camping socks his dad had given him for Christmas. He found his ­Spider-Man balaclava in the dirty-clothes basket. His parka hung on a hook near the door. When he was layered and zipped, he took a flashlight from the kitchen drawer and shoved some Oreos into his jacket pockets. Then he was out and running. The wind didn't touch him.

He'd been sneaking into the house the way the woman with the black hair had gotten him out—through the basement's storm door. After they'd all fallen asleep, Stuart would creep in and look around. He sat in the living room and petted one of the stray cats or made himself something to eat in the kitchen; sometimes he just sat in the basement and listened to their conversations.

But he hadn't been there this week—it was too cold. Now, when he was almost to Mr. Wyck's, he stopped. He heard voices. His sister's? What was she doing out in the woods? It was so late. Molly was talking about babies. Alice was following her, saying, “I know. We do. We have to do something,” and Molly looked like she was lost. He was going to go to them, to tell them he could help them, but then he saw Alice pick up a rock and hit his sister on the head with it. Stuart stared, his mouth open. He tried to say “No,” but nothing came out. And then she did it again. She hit Molly on the head again, and Molly tipped back and fell through the ice. Alice heaved the rock into the water and then walked up the embankment, through the trees.

Stuart shook all over—from the cold? He tried to find a stick that was long enough to pull Molly out, but she wasn't moving, and it didn't look like she could help him. He needed to save Molly. He thought he heard her—a soft call—was it Molly or something else? Was it Alice singing? Footsteps. Fast moving. Mr. Wyck appeared. The wind in the trees. The devil had a long stick. He pushed Molly with the stick. He pushed at her until she turned over in the water, bobbed facedown. It made Stuart's back hurt. That small fragile space. A stick. Ice. The cold wind. His sister's hair spanned out over the dark water. Her shirt billowed and then collapsed.

The devil took out a flashlight and looked around on the ground. Stuart closed his eyes and covered his mouth.
Don't let him see you
, he heard the woman with the black hair say.
Whatever you do, don't let him see you
.

And then Stuart ran. His legs were stretched and hot like two rubber bands. In through the back door and two steps up at a time, so when he threw open his mother and father's bedroom door the light was on. They were up. His father was holding a gun. “Stuart!” his mother cried, and then she turned to his father. “Put that gun back in the closet.”

His mother came towards him. “Were you outside? Where did you go? Stuart,” she said, shaking him. “You're scaring me.” But still he couldn't say.

“What is it, Stuart?” his father asked, holding Stuart's face between his hands. “What's happened?”

“Tell us what's happened, darling,” his mother said. Her voice quavered. He saw something in her eyes.

“Molly—” Stuart managed, his breath coming in quick gasps. ­“Molly's in the reservoir.” And his mother was already on the phone with the police. And then they were downstairs and the living room was full of police. The sun was up. “I need to see my baby,” his mother kept saying, and his father was ready, too—to go wherever they were going—and then Stuart was in a car with police officers. They were by the reservoir and there was an ambulance parked on Mr. Wyck's property, but it wasn't going anywhere, and all the lights in Mr. Wyck's house were on, but no one was there. The van was gone. The police stretched yellow tape around the house. They stretched yellow tape around trees. They came in and out of the woods. Serious men in dark coats arrived. Stuart fell asleep.

And then Stuart was in the police station. “Tell us what happened. What you saw.”

“I saw Jack Wyck push my sister under the water with a long stick.”

“Was anyone else with him?”

“No,” he said. He lied. “Just Jack Wyck.” And then he couldn't change it. How could he change it? They'd put him in jail for lying. Or juvie. He didn't say: I saw Alice Pearson hit my sister on the head with a rock. He couldn't say it. It was Alice Pearson. It was Lois Lane. But the police asked him, “Did you see him do anything other than push her under the water?” and then he had to lie again, because Stuart already said he saw the whole thing.

“He hit her on the head with a rock.”

“Did you see where he put the rock?”

“He threw it into the trees.”

They asked him the same questions several times. And then he believed his version, too, because he kept putting Mr. Wyck's face over Alice's in his memory and soon it was true: Mr. Wyck killed Molly.

Then he was in his bed. It was still light outside. His aunt was there. She was brushing his hair away from his face. Wasn't it really a lie? Molly would come home again. Molly couldn't just vanish like that.

Downstairs, everyone had a red face. Stuart crawled back into bed with the
Superman
comic books Howie had left for him. He took his tape recorder. He lay on his side and listened to his sister's voice.

“I'll kill him myself when they catch him,” his father said, watching the news. He held a cigarette until it burned down. His mother took it from him. She stubbed it out in the ashtray and stood behind him watching the television, too. “They always have the same man on doing the news about Molly,” she said. “I wish they'd find someone different. I don't like him.” She wiped her nose on her hand and went upstairs.

The lights were out in his parents' room. The door was locked. Sometimes he heard his mother screaming. Stuart hadn't known his mother could make a noise like that.

And then the police found the Smiths. Stuart watched the news even though he wasn't supposed to. He hadn't known the Smith family. His aunt came over and turned the TV off, but it didn't matter. He'd already seen it. They showed a picture of the bodies being carried out—the black bags shiny in the cameras' light.

When the receptionist said that Alice Wood was on the phone, Stuart had no idea to whom she was referring. “Alice Wood?” he said, but then he remembered hearing that Alice had changed her name. “Put her through.”

“It's Alice,” she says. “Alice
Pearson
. I'm sorry to bother you at work. I couldn't find a home phone number for you.”

“Alice,” Stuart says. “It's been a long time.” He looks at himself in the black window of glass. It gets dark so early. He closes the blinds and turns his chair away from the computer screen.

“Yes. I should have used ‘Pearson' with the receptionist. I hope this isn't too much of an intrusion.”

Stuart doesn't say anything. Of course it is.

“It's just—” Alice begins again. “I'd like to talk to someone who was there. Someone who knows—” She stops. Who knows what? He wonders. Who knows what this is like? To have it dredged up? To always be looking over one's shoulder? Yes, all right then: he knows. “I can drive out to see you,” she says.

Alice wants to make the difficult thing easy, Stuart thinks. He taps his fingers on the chair's narrow arm. “We can do that,” he says. “Yes, all right.”

“There are some things—some questions—”

But he cuts her off by giving her directions to the lab. If he doesn't stop her, she'll ask right here on the phone, and he's not ready. He needs some time to think about what he'll tell her. He's sure she wants to know what happened that night—what he saw. She wants to know what he
really
saw.

Kate was the only one who ever knew about the lie. Stuart told her before they got married. He said, “There's something I think you should know about me before you marry me— in case it's ever an issue.” She froze and looked at him. “What?” she said. “What?” And he told her, “It wasn't Jack Wyck who killed my sister.”

“Who was it?” Kate was holding a laundry basket. She leaned on the doorframe and looked at him.

“Alice hit Molly on the head. Molly fell into the water. I don't know if she was already dead by the time Jack Wyck got to her.”

“Did he try to save her—pull her out?”

“No.”

“So Alice killed Molly?” She put down the laundry basket and then picked it up again, looking intently at him. “Why did you lie?”

“I don't—” Stuart tried. “I don't really remember. I had a crush on Alice. It made more sense?” He opens his hands as if he's weighing something in them. “I—” he tries again, and stops.

“But you know,” Kate said, putting the laundry basket down once more and coming to sit next to him. “Jack Wyck
did
kill your sister.”

“That's what I've always felt.”

“Did you ever talk about it with Alice?”

“Never. I never saw her again. Well, once,” he said. “When she came back to take care of her mother, I saw her in the supermarket. We both pretended we hadn't seen each other.”

Kate nodded. “I read about the case. We all did. We talked about it. Our parents talked to us about it. Jack Wyck was a warning for us. He was like the man with the hook.”

“The man with the hook?”

“Yes. You know. He kills couples when they're parked in their cars making out. Or the escaped lunatic. Something like that. The kind of stories you tell at slumber parties. Is that your biggest secret?”

“Yes.”

“And you don't want to tell anyone else about it?”