Lisa Unger - Darkness My Old Friend

Mr. Vance was no longer her friend. Even though he was just as nice to her in class and complimented her on her essay, she knew that she was no longer invited to linger after the bell and talk about her thoughts on what they were reading. A Separate Peace by John Knowles. Seminal coming-of-age tale. Intense adolescent friendship gone awry. Having to face yourself because of your own ugly deeds. Did Gene bounce the branch on purpose? Of course he did. Whether he realized it or not. No one else in class wanted to believe it.

“It was an accident,” the pert and pretty Jenna said. She sounded almost desperate. “He couldn’t. He just wouldn’t. They were friends . Friends don’t hurt each other. Friends don’t lie. ”

Willow saw Mr. Vance looking at her, waiting for her to play the devil’s advocate, to say what she was thinking. But Willow didn’t say a word. She knew all about why people do bad things, why people lie. She knew all about that dark place inside, that angry storm cloud. Inside the storm you were capable of anything.

It wasn’t until the end of the day when she’d given up on seeing Cole that he appeared beside her locker.

“Hey,” he said. He had dark circles under his eyes. His shirt was wrinkled.

“Hey,” she said. She felt her heart start to do a little dance in her chest. “What’s up?”

“Just wondering if you wanted a ride home from school.” He leaned against the locker beside her and kept his eyes on her.

Oh, yes!! I would love, love, love a ride home!!!

“I can’t.” She looked away from him. There was a river of kids moving past them, shouting, laughing, horsing around. All the pent-up energy of the day was crackling in the air. “I’m grounded. My mom would kill me.”

He looked down at his feet. “That’s cool.” She liked that he didn’t push her, the way Jolie would have.

“You could come over later, if you want.” It just spilled out of her. It was so stupid and lame. What were they going to do, play Barbies ? “I mean-you probably don’t want to.”

When she could bring herself to look at him again, he was smiling a little. Was he laughing at her?

“Would it be okay?” he said. “I mean, with your mom?”

“Yeah,” she said quickly. “She said I could have people over, just not go out.” Bethany hadn’t in fact said that. She’d said they’d work something out if Cole called.

“I’m sorry about that,” said Cole. “About you getting in trouble.”

“It’s my fault,” she said. “I knew I should have gone right back.”

“My mom’s pretty strict, too,” he said. He wrapped his arms around his middle, rocked back and forth slightly. “So I’ll come by at four?”

She felt a rush of giddy excitement. She was embarrassed to feel heat rise to her cheeks. Was she blushing? Please, no.

“Do you know where I live?” she asked. She turned back to her locker to hide her face.

“Jolie told me,” he said.

“Oh,” Willow said. She closed the locker door. “Where is she today?”

“Dunno.”

And then he was gone, disappeared into the mob of students rushing out the doors to the buses. A moment later she drifted out, too. Floated, glided, danced. If her mom didn’t let him come over, she was going to totally die .

The Groves weren’t hillbillies. Bill Grove was a general contractor, had a thriving business building gigantic homes for the people moving to The Hollows from the city. But you wouldn’t know it by looking at his own house, the same place Bill’s parents and grandparents had lived. It had gotten bigger, was improved inside. He’d built other structures on the land-his office, a house for his son’s family. But as Jones came up the long drive, it still somehow just looked like the run-down old place that had sat there since he was kid.

As he brought the car to a stop, he saw Bill come out the front door. Today Bill was all smiles and outstretched hands. He was dressed in a pressed denim oxford and khakis, work boots. His belly was so big and protuberant that he might have been hiding a medicine ball under his shirt. He was the very picture of upper-middle-class comfort and success. But Jones had seen other versions of him, too. Jones had wrestled Bill, red-faced with rage and booze, from a drunken brawl at the Old Mill Bar. He’d watched the man collapse in wailing grief when he thought his youngest son had died after a fall down a well back in the woods. Jones had endured Bill’s powerful, weeping embrace of gratitude when Jones delivered his son from the hole, with a broken leg but alive and ultimately well.

“How are you, Cooper? Good to see you.”

“Good, man,” said Jones. “How’s that boy?”

“Keeping him out of trouble-best I can.” A hearty laugh.

“Glad to hear it.”

They exchanged the usual handshake and niceties, asking about the usual things-the family, work, plans for the holidays. How was Ricky doing at Georgetown? Did he still have that crazy ring in his nose? What was wrong with these kids today? They were like aliens sometimes, weren’t they?

Then right to business. “So what brings you out, Jones?”

Jones glanced around the property. Once upon a time, the place had been littered with all manner of rusted-out vehicles, dead appliances, a tilted, rusted old swing set-it had been a virtual junkyard. Now there was a row of three white Dodge pickups, the doors bearing the neatly printed business name: GROVE AND SON GENERAL CONTRACTING. Bill’s shiny new black Mercedes preened in the sun. Jones knew that particular vehicle cost about a hundred thousand dollars. He didn’t assign any special value or judgment to this. He just noticed these things. Every little detail told you something about a person.

“You remember Marla Holt?” said Jones.

Bill squinted. “I guess I do. Young woman ran out on her family about half a lifetime ago? Mack Holt died just recently, right?”

The sun was high in the sky. And Jones put a hand up against the glare as he told Bill about finding Michael Holt digging back by the Chapel, and the legend Holt had told Jones.

When Jones was done, Bill wore a deep frown.

“I want you to give the Hollows PD permission to dig where he was digging,” Jones said. “We want to know what’s back there.”

Bill rubbed his forehead. When he took his hand away, the frown was still there.

“You know I’m not crazy about that fellow from New York,” Bill said.

Chuck had referred to the Grove land as a “compound.” And the word had gotten back to Bill; he hadn’t appreciated it.

“Chuck’s all right, Bill. He’s a good cop.”

“In my book there’s no such thing.” Bill cleared his throat. “Present company excluded, of course.”

“Of course,” Jones said with a smile. “Besides, I’m not a cop anymore.”

Bill let go of a breath.

“Fact is,” Jones said, “I can’t keep them from getting a warrant and going back there anyway. I just wanted to pay you the respect of getting your permission. It would mean a lot to me, since this is my first consulting gig. You’re going to make me look real good if you say it’s okay.”

Jones was certain the other man was going to tell him no, to get on. But people were always full of surprises.

“How can I say no to you?” Bill said finally. “After what you did for my boy? But you tell them to watch their way, respect the land.”

Jones called Chuck as he backed out of the drive, asked him to keep it small, just a few men. He told him to ask the boys to tread carefully, to treat any watching landowners with courtesy and gratitude. Chuck agreed, but he didn’t sound as if he liked the advice. The idea of finesse was a bit lost on Chuck; that was city people for you. Before Jones got on his way, he made another call. He rang Dr. Dahl’s office and made himself an appointment for tomorrow afternoon.