You'll Miss Me When I'm Gone (20 page)

“Where's your douche bag buddy?” Duncan asked with a sneer.

“Huh, I'd like to see you call him that to his face.”

“You know, you must be dumber than you look if you haven't caught on to him yet. The guy's a total psycho.”

“I'd like to see you call him that to his face, too.” Spencer waved him away. “Why don't you go bother someone else?”

But Duncan pulled up a chair and sat down beside him. “I used to be just like you. Garret and me were practically best friends last summer.”

“Yeah, right,” Spencer muttered. “Garrett would never have anything to do with you. You're the one who's a psycho.”

“We were here almost every day—this same spot,” Duncan said. “Then I started putting it together what a creep he is. That's why Garrett doesn't have any friends his own age. That's why he can't keep a girlfriend. Ever notice how the ones hanging around him are new or just passing through? They're like you—either new or too stupid to know the truth about him.”

Spencer rolled his eyes. “So what's this big, scary
truth
?”

“It's that he's crazy—I mean, like evil crazy,” Duncan said. He nudged Spencer in the arm. “Have you had him over to your house yet? Because if you have, I'll bet you'll find something's missing. The guy's a klepto—as well as a sadist. Back when we were hanging out together, he had this dog, this golden retriever, Rollo, and he was always beating the shit out of that thing. He
experimented
on it, even burnt off a big patch of its hair once. The poor dog finally croaked . . .”

Spencer thought about Garrett's German shepherd, Al, and how banged up he was. He quickly shook his head. “That's bullshit. He gets abused dogs from shelters. He rescues them. You don't know what you're talking about.”

“I hear he's been through, like, five dogs in the last few years. He picks them up at rescue shelters, all right—different rescue shelters in different counties. That way, they can't know he just got another dog like a few months back that's already dead, because he killed it. He acts like they've run away, but the Beales' gardener found one in their garbage, wrapped in a beach towel . . .”

“That's such a crock,” Spencer insisted. “You're making this up. Don't you think his parents would catch on?”

“They're a couple of stupid rich people. They're hardly ever at home, and they spoil the shit out of him. He gets away with murder—literally.”

Spencer refused to believe him. After all, he had to consider the source of this “truth.” The guy was a major loser, whom Garrett had humiliated. If they'd actually been friends once, he was probably pissed that Garrett had dumped him. But Spencer doubted they'd ever been friends at all. Plus Garrett had been over at the house twice now, and nothing had gone missing.

Spencer's parents had been invited to a dinner party the following evening. Ordinarily, his Aunt Dee would come over and they'd order pizza or go out for dinner someplace fun. But she'd had a date that night. So Spencer had asked if Garrett could sleep over. He was at that age when he was too old for them to hire a sitter, but being alone in a big new house for the evening could be pretty scary. His mother thought Garrett was a charmer, and since he was older, he could look after Spencer. His dad agreed—based on the fact that Garrett's father was a big shot at the country club.

Before taking off for their fancy dinner party, Spencer's parents gave him thirty dollars to order a pizza. His dad said he didn't want them going out or having anyone else over. Garrett was all smiles and very polite. But as they stood at the front window and watched the car backing out of the driveway, he turned to Spencer. “God, I didn't realize what Nazis your parents are. We're supposed to stay locked in the house all night? What—we're not supposed to have any fun? Fuck that . . .”

Spencer thought he had a pretty good point. But outside of skateboarding down the sloped driveway and around the block for a couple of hours, they didn't go anywhere. They finally ordered the pizza and decided to watch
Se7en
, which was available on demand. Spencer made the mistake of mentioning that even if the movie got really scary, they wouldn't have to worry, because he knew where his dad kept a gun.

“What type of gun is it?” Garrett asked, obviously fascinated. “Does it have bullets or a clip? Is it even loaded?” When not laughing or cheering during violent points in the movie, he'd ask again about the gun: “Okay, just tell me this much. Is the gun upstairs or somewhere here on this floor? It's upstairs, isn't it?”

Spencer had experienced some uncomfortable moments with Garrett before—usually when he thought his friend was going to get them in trouble. He was feeling that way now. He thought of Duncan's farfetched accusations the day before. He hadn't said anything to Garrett about it. He couldn't help wondering if there was a grain of truth in what Duncan had said.

“So, um, how's Al doing?” Spencer casually asked during one of the talky at-home scenes with Brad Pitt and Gwyneth Paltrow.

Garrett tossed a wedge of pizza crust into the empty delivery box in front of them, and then he leaned back on the sofa. “Beats me,” he sighed. “The son of a bitch ran away yesterday. I let him out to crap in the backyard and he ran off. Stupid-ass mutt . . .”

“Wow,” Spencer murmured.

“Yeah, it sucks.”

“You want to hear something weird?” Spencer said, trying to sound nonchalant. “That—uh, that Duncan guy came up and talked to me when I was at the pool yesterday . . .”

“Did he hit you or anything?” Garrett asked—very concerned. “Because if he did . . .”

“No, but he said something pretty screwy about you and your dogs,” Spencer replied. He wasn't sure he should even bring it up—especially after Garrett had been ready to stand up for him just a moment ago. “Duncan said—and I'm sure he's such a liar—he said you've owned several dogs and you killed them all. But that's only after you kicked them around for a while. And once they were dead, you always told people that they ran away . . .”

His brow furrowed, Garrett looked hurt. “How can you even repeat that to me—when Al just ran away last night? I mean, this is killing me. What a mound of horseshit! You should have punched his lights out for saying that. Did you believe him? Did you even believe it for a minute?”

Wide-eyed, Spencer quickly shook his head. “God, no . . .”

“I've had a total of three dogs in my life,” Garrett said solemnly, “First Ernie, then Rollo, and Al. I loved each one of them. Ernie got hit by a car, Rollo died of cancer, and Al ran away. Each time, it's been awful. You just don't know. I'm still hoping someone finds Al and returns him to us. I almost didn't come over here tonight. I didn't want to miss Al in case he comes back. When I think that he might be out there somewhere—frightened, lost, or hurt . . .”

“God, I'm so sorry,” Spencer murmured.

With a sigh, Garrett reached over and patted his shoulder.

Spencer looked at the TV screen for a few moments. He wondered if Garrett might start crying. He stole another glance at him.

The light from the TV flickered across Garrett's handsome face as he watched the movie. He was dry-eyed—and grinning.

Spencer didn't know what he was smiling about. He didn't have much time to think about it, because after a minute Garrett asked once again where his dad kept the gun.

He should have figured out right then that something awful was going to happen before the evening was over. He should have realized there was a lot of truth in what Green Trunks had said about Garrett Beale.

* * *

Sitting in the shadowy balcony of the school auditorium, Spencer kept thinking—if only he'd been alone that night, his parents would still be alive.

Tanya had been ensconced in a seat in the second row for the last twenty minutes while some guy on stage sang, “Hey there, you with the stars in your eyes.” Spencer realized he'd been practicing it earlier, during lunch hour, in the little music room next door to him.

It looked like Tanya got a phone call in the middle of his song.

Taking out her phone, she got to her feet and moved toward the far left aisle of the auditorium. It was obvious she didn't want anyone to hear what she had to discuss with the caller.

Grabbing his backpack, Spencer quickly got up and hurried across the row of seats to the balcony's left exit. He raced down the stairs, trying like hell not to make too much noise. He hoped to get as close as possible to Tanya so he could hear her end of this secret phone conversation. He pushed open the door to the lobby, ran down the corridor and tried a door into the left side of the theater's main level.

Tanya stood in the side aisle, about thirty feet away. She had the phone to her ear. She glanced toward him.

Spencer ducked back, but held the door open a crack so he could still spy on her. It didn't do much good. He had no idea what she was saying. He couldn't read her lips.

But from her slightly hunched-over stance and the way she was talking, Spencer could tell she didn't want anyone overhearing her conversation.

* * *

“It's not going to happen tonight,” said the person on the other end of the phone. “There's a cop car outside her place right now. And three minutes ago, I picked this up on the scanner. They're placing extra patrols on the block—with instructions to keep an eye on this house in particular. We can't hope to get to her for at least another couple of days. Right now, it's too risky.”

“Crap,” Tanya grumbled.

“It's okay. I have a better idea. It involves your new boyfriend.”

“What is it?”

“The less you know about it for now, the better. Anyway, I'm headed over to the town house to check up on him and his aunt.”

“Why don't you come here to the theater instead?” Tanya asked.

“You mean to see you?”

“I mean,” Tanya said, “if you're looking for Spencer, he's here. He's watching me right now.”

* * *

The connection to the Capitol Hill bus was in a dicey part of downtown. An emaciated thirty-something woman sitting on the bus bench was picking things out of her long, limp brown hair. Two seedy guys with backpacks were having a loud conversation in which every other word out of their mouths was
fuck
—or a derivative thereof. Someone with a shopping cart full of crap was asleep in the doorway behind him. Across the street, a crazy man in tattered clothes was screaming at everyone—and every car that passed him.

Spencer kept his hand over the wallet in his back pocket. He had to come back this way to get home. He wondered how much worse this spot would be in about ninety minutes—when the next shift of creeps took over, and there would be fewer actual bus passengers.

Andrea had called him while he'd been on the Queen Anne bus. She'd sounded weird. He'd asked if anything was wrong, if she and Luke were splitting up. “Not yet, thank God,” Andrea had said. “But he's working late again tonight, which is just as well, because I need to talk with you when you get back.”

“Talk to me about what?” he'd asked.

“Just—things,” she'd answered cryptically.

Spencer thought about the last time she'd sounded so weird on the phone. It had been yesterday afternoon, and he'd come home to find the police waiting to question him.

She'd made another pitch to pick him up at the therapist's office, and again, he'd said no thanks. He always liked some alone time after his sessions with Diane Leppert—to think about what they'd discussed and make some resolutions. It was the best part of his therapy session.

Now, Spencer wished he'd taken his aunt up on her offer.

Two women were arguing with each other just a few feet away from him. The altercation seemed on the brink of becoming violent. Spencer prayed that the bus would arrive soon—and that the two women wouldn't be boarding it.

Watching Tanya rehearse had been a waste of time. He didn't have a clue who had phoned her or what had been discussed. It could have been her mother for all he knew. She'd still been rehearsing when he'd left.

Spencer glanced at his wristwatch. His bus should have arrived five minutes ago. He stepped off the curb to look down the street for it. But there was no sign of the number 10.

Across the street, not far from the crazy guy, Spencer saw a black Toyota Corolla parked in the alley. The headlights had just gone off. But no one had climbed out of the car yet. Earlier, he'd spotted a black Corolla halfway down the block from the school bus stop. He probably wouldn't have noticed it, except the Corolla had pulled into a no-parking zone and switched off its lights. No one had emerged from that vehicle either. Could it be the same car—doing the exact same thing again? Was someone following him?

He couldn't help wondering if it was the police, keeping a tail on him. Or was he just paranoid? How many black Toyota Corollas were in this city anyway?

His phone rang. Spencer took his hand away from his wallet for a moment so he could check who was calling him:
MIDDLETON, B—
206-555-0829.

He clicked his phone on. “Hello?”

“Hi, Spencer, it's Bonnie,” she said. “Did I get you at an okay time?”

She was practically whispering, and he covered his free ear to block out the street traffic noise—along with the “Fucking This, Fucking That” backpack guys and the two women screaming at each other. “Yeah, I'm just downtown, waiting for a bus,” he said into the phone. “How are you? Did you talk to your parents? Did you call the police?”