Jeff Abbott - Only Good Yankee

Chemistry. Interesting major. You could blow up a lab if you’re not careful. I shook my head, chastising myself for chasing at shadows.

“What about Becca Johnson?” Mark shrugged. “She’s real pretty, usually nice. She can be a little stuck-up.” I bit my lip. “You ever see either of them with Jenny Loudermilk?” It might make sense; she was the only other teenager in the stew. “Oh, yeah. She and Jenny Loudermilk are best friends. They’re always hanging out together.” I rolled over and reached for the phone. I drummed my fingers against my cheek and then decided. I dialed the Johnsons’ number. It barely rang before it was answered. A young man’s voice, slightly nasal: “Becca?

Is she okay?” I was taken aback. “Um, no, this isn’t Becca. I take it she’s not there.” “No, she’s not.” The boy hesitated. “Who’s calling?”

“Um, Brice?” “Yeah?” “This is Jordy Poteet. I was calling for Becca because I’m a friend of Jenny Loudermilk’s and-” “They’re all at the hospital. I’m manning the phone here in case folks call.” “The hospital?” “Yeah. Hey, sorry to be the one to tell you. Jenny took an overdose-they think it’s Valium and booze. She’s in the hospital.”

“Oh, my God! Is she okay?” I gripped the phone harder. Mark stared at me, his dark eyes wide. “I don’t know. I don’t know if she’s going to make it or not. Becca’s down there now.” “Thanks, Brice. Thanks very much.” I hung up without further ado. In the middle of this sweltering evening, I felt cold down to my bones.

The crowd to watch over Jenny Loudermilk’s life had gathered in front of the malfunctioning television in Mirabeau Hospital’s second-floor waiting room. Mostly teenagers, with a scattering of parents, sat watching the distorted colors on the screen. You could see the shameful thought in the adults’ faces: Thank God it’s not my child. The kids themselves looked numbed, as though shocked at the thought of their own mortality. Parker and Dee were not there. I wavered in the doorway that led into the waiting room, hesitant to intrude on their grief. I felt terrible. That girl-her drinking, her attitude, it was all a cry for attention, a cry for help. I could have tried harder to talk to her. Instead, I taunted her, watched her mother slap her, and left. I didn’t know a soul in the room; believe it or not, I don’t know every person in Mirabeau.

Gingerly, I approached one of the parents, a portly woman who kept wringing her hands, as if wanting to rub the flesh off her fingers.

She watched me walk toward her; no doubt I looked a sight with my slinged arm and my black eye. “Excuse me, is there any news on Jenny?”

I asked softly. The woman shook her head, the corners of her lips tugging downward. “I’m afraid not. Dee is in with the doctor now.

We’re just hoping that Dee found her in time.” “Could you tell me which of the girls is Becca Johnson?” She nodded and pointed at a girl sitting on the dingy plaid sofa, a People magazine open and unread in her lap. The girl rested her chin on her hand, staring off into space, ignoring the other kids around her. She was strikingly pretty, with a thick mane of black hair and wideset green eyes that penetrated like light shining through an emerald. Her skin was flawless, the kind that most teenagers only dream of, and her lips were full without being comic. She was already beautiful and had the promise of even greater, deeper loveliness as she aged. I could almost wish to be sixteen again, looking at her. I thanked the woman and knelt by Becca. She nearly jerked, startled out of her reverie by me, who looked more like a patient than a visitor. On closer inspection, I saw she looked exhausted. “Becca? My name is Jordan Poteet. I wondered if I could talk to you privately for a minute. It’s about Jenny.” “You’re not a doctor, are you?” she asked. “No, I’m not. But I need to speak with you about Jenny. Please, it’s important.” She watched me with those spectacular eyes. I guess I wasn’t found wanting; she tossed the magazine to one side and got up, telling one of the other girls that she’d be back in a few minutes. We went silently to the cafeteria, where I offered her a cup of coffee. She opted for a Diet Pepsi instead and we sat down at a glaringly orange plastic table. I don’t know why hospitals, filled with the injured and the worried, buy furniture in colors designed to shock and nauseate. Becca sat across from me. Folding her hands rather primly, she left her soda untasted and watched me. There wasn’t just beauty there; a keen intelligence gleamed from her. There would be no kidding around with this girl. “I understand that you’re Jenny’s best friend,” I said. “Yeah. We’ve been close since the second grade.” “Good. Then I’m sure you’re very concerned about her.” “Yeah. So what did you want to talk about, Mr.

Poteet?” I plunged ahead, telling her in detail my adventures at the Loudermilks. At no point did she interrupt or ask for clarification; but I could see that she was shocked. When I finished, she tapped a fingernail against the garish tabletop before answering. “Wow, Mr.

Loudermilk gave you the shiner? He’s-he’s got a temper.” “I believe Parker’s got a violent temper.” “And you think Jenny was hiding something about him?” Becca watched her polished fingernails instead of my face. “I don’t think. I know. And I think you know, too.” Green ice looked into my face. “What do you mean?” “I was there right after Greg Callahan’s body was found at the Mirabeau B. Your phone number was written on the notepad by his phone. I’ve also heard tell that Greg might have been romancing both Jenny and her mother. That could have given Parker or Dee a potent motive to kill Greg.” I wasn’t about to suggest to Jenny’s best pal that Jenny might be a murderer as well.

“Now Jenny’s turned to drinking and taking Valium. There are some connections here, Becca, and I want to know what they are.” She didn’t look at me. “Haven’t the police already talked to you? They must’ve contacted your family.” She kept her eyes glued to the table. “I told them I didn’t know any reason why Greg Callahan would have our number.” “There is a reason. Now, for Jenny’s sake, can’t you tell me?” Becca Johnson slid back into the hard orange plastic of the cafeteria chair. She popped the top on her warming can of soda and sipped, taking her time to answer me. Finally she said: “I don’t want Jenny to get into trouble.” “Hon, Jenny’s already in trouble. Big trouble. I think you know that. If you’re a friend, you’ll help her get out of this mess.” “Why should I tell you anything, Mr. Poteet?”

Her right eyebrow arched. “Because the truth has to come out now, Becca.” I softened my voice. “Jenny said to her mother she couldn’t keep protecting him-whoever him is, and I think it’s her father. I’m going to wager the pressure of that secret is why she poured those Valiums into her palm and washed them down with a bottle of gin. If the secret’s out, the pressure’s gone. There’s nothing to hide.”

“Nothing to hide,” Becca echoed. She ran a finger up and down the condensation of the can, in eerie imitation of Jenny and her glass of gin earlier in the day. “Well?” I asked. Her tongue covered her top lip for a moment, and she glanced around quickly to assure herself no one could hear us. The only other people in the cafeteria were two older black ladies, laughing quietly in conversation by the cash register. The words came slowly, like paste squeezed out of a tube.

“Greg was seeing Jenny. He had been since he got here. They met when he came out to talk to Mrs. Loudermilk. Jenny’s impulsive about men.