Dandi Mackall - The silence of murder

“Seriously, man,” T.J. calls up to the rearview mirror, “we appreciate the rescue. That was pretty crazy back there. I actually used to want to be a reporter. Not now. Huh-uh.” He elbows me again.

“Yeah. Thanks.” I settle into the seat and stare out the window again. Tiny drops of rain speckle the windshield, but Chase hasn’t turned on his wipers. A splat of rain trickles down the glass, shaking and splitting into streaks. The car smells like oranges, unless that’s the way Chase Wells smells.

“Not a problem,” Chase mumbles.

“So, now I guess we’re even,” T.J. says.

I frown over at him because I don’t understand.

“I told you how I convinced Coach to give Chase a shot pitching the Lodi game, didn’t I?” T.J. explains. He lets out his tin chuckle again. “If it hadn’t been for me, Chase would still be stuck on second base. Right, Chase?”

“Mmm-hmm,” Chase answers, without a glance in the mirror.

I want T.J. to stop talking. I’m still not sure why he pushed Coach into letting Chase pitch that game. It’s not like he and Chase are buddies or anything. I used to think it was because T.J. thought Chase might be his ticket to the “cool guys.” If that was it, it hasn’t worked out.

I tune in to the whir and whistle of the wheels on blacktop, the steady splatter and patter of rain picking up.

“Hope?” Chase says, breaking our silence with my name. “I’ve been wanting to tell you that I’m sorry for what you’re going through-you and Jeremy. Your family.”

He’s sorry? What am I supposed to do with that? I shrug.

“I know my dad-well, he’s not the most sensitive law enforcement officer in the world.”

I can think of a million comebacks. If it weren’t for Sheriff Wells, Jeremy might not be where he is right now, behind bars, on trial for murder. I’ll never forget the way the sheriff barged into our house and arrested my brother.

We turn onto a one-lane road I’ve never been on. The only sounds are the rain tapping gently on the roof, a rumble of thunder, and the hum of the windshield wipers starting up. We pass a dozen black-and-white cows huddled under a tree in spite of the threat of lightning.

Our silence has turned uncomfortable, awkward. I wish T.J. hadn’t asked Chase for a ride.

I sneak a glance at Chase in the rearview, and he catches me. Before I can look away, he grins.

“You don’t talk much, do you, Hope?” he says.

“More than Jeremy,” I answer before I can stop myself. I want the words back. It feels wrong to talk about my brother with the son of the enemy. Besides, people like Chase Wells don’t get Jeremy. They don’t get me either. Whenever we move somewhere, it’s almost funny how popular I am right off. From day one, guys try to sit by me in class. The cool girls invite me to eat with them. They think I’m like them because I look like them-blond hair, blue eyes, pimple-free heart-shaped face, and a figure that made me self-conscious in elementary school because I developed earlier than everyone else.

But I’m not one of them, and it only takes a couple of weeks for them to figure that out.

“So, Chase, bet you miss Boston, right?” T.J. asks, changing the subject with the grace of a hippopotamus.

“I don’t know. Maybe I miss Mom and Barry sometimes. But after three summers, Grain’s home too, I guess.”

“You play ball there too, don’t you?” T.J. says. “Must be where you learned that wicked curve. I wish you’d teach me that one.”

We come up over the crest of a long hill, and an Amish buggy appears in front of us. “Look out!” I scream. Chase slams his brakes, then swears and swerves to pass. I look back and see a mother and three little boys. “You can’t drive like that around here.” I keep staring out the back window to make sure they’re all right.

“Man.” He’s breathing heavy. “I know. I’m sorry.” He slows to about ten miles an hour.

“That’s the worst part of driving around here,” T.J. says.

“No kidding,” Chase agrees. “I love seeing the buggies, but I’m always scared I’m going to hit one, especially at night. Aren’t you guys?”

“Yep,” T.J. answers.

Taking his eyes off the road, Chase turns back to look at me. He’s waiting for me to answer.

“Hope doesn’t drive,” T.J. says.

“You mean she doesn’t drive at night?”

“Hope doesn’t drive, period,” T.J. explains.

“Why not?”

I answer for myself this time. “Rita doesn’t want to share the Ford.”

“Ah,” Chase says. “I get that. I thought it would be tough sharing the Stratus with Dad, but it’s worked out. He’s got the squad car. And in a pinch, he can borrow one of the impounded cars at the police lockup.”

“Cool,” T.J. mutters.

“The what?” I smooth my skirt and wish I were wearing jeans. Raymond picked out my court clothes-white shirt, gray skirt.

“Impounded,” T.J. explains. “You know. Cars they lock up from drug busts or three-strike drunk drivers.”

Chase continues, “The sheriff’s office really isn’t supposed to use the vehicles, but Dad’s deputy, Dave Rogers, took me for a spin in a silver BMW they found drugs in last summer. I don’t think my dad would take anything out for a joy ride, though. He’s not exactly into joy.”

“He looked pretty happy watching you pitch for the Panthers at that Lodi game,” T.J. says.

I’m not so sure I’d call it happy. Chase’s dad screamed at Coach and shouted to Chase for every play. I remember I didn’t know whether to be embarrassed for Chase or jealous. I played T-ball one summer, and Rita didn’t attend a single game. She’s never come to Panther games either, except for the big Wooster-Grain game. Everybody in both counties goes to that one. At least they used to… until this summer.

“Dad definitely gets into it,” Chase admits.

T.J. leans forward. “Man, can you imagine what he’d do if he watched you pitch the Wooster game? He played in that game ‘back in the day,’ right?”

“Yeah. Still, I don’t get why everybody around here makes such a big deal over that one game.”

“Are you kidding?” T.J. grips the seat in front of him. “Wooster and Grain have hated each other since, like, forever! It’s the biggest summer-league rivalry in the state. The Cleveland Plain Dealer covers the game. Even people who don’t like baseball come for the fireworks, and the picnics and tailgate parties. You know what I’m talking about. There’s nothing like the Wooster-Grain game. I was almost relieved when Coach said you’d be starting pitcher. Too much pressure for me. The whole state would have turned out for that game if-”

He stops short of saying “if Jeremy hadn’t knocked off Coach,” but the words are there, invisible, in the air of the car. We hear them.

In silence, we cross the railroad tracks, where I don’t think trains have passed in years, and enter Grain, population 1,947, give or take. Cornfields flank the blacktop on the left all the way to the Dairy Maid, a tiny white shack with a single serving window. BEAT WOOSTER! is still printed on the side window in big black letters. Half a dozen girls are eating ice cream cones while they sit on-not at-the wooden tables outside. As we pass, Bree Daniels looks up. Her gaze follows us, her expression unchanged.

“I think you may have some explaining to do,” T.J. says when we’re past.

Chase turns around to look behind us. There’s something about his jawline and the way it hits his chin. Boys from Grain don’t have faces like this. “Bree and I aren’t talking anymore. I just wish we’d broken up two days earlier than we did.”

“How come?” T.J. asks. This time I elbow him.

“Then I wouldn’t have this to remember her by.” He lifts the short sleeve of his shirt and leans forward to show us the back of his shoulder, tanned and muscled. I can see something tiny and green moving with his skin. I think it’s a four-leaf clover.