Aric Davis - The Fort

They dropped off Luke at the entrance to the trailer park without a word. He got out, looked like he wanted to say something, probably “Bye,” or “Thanks for the ride.” Instead he just shut the door and walked away.

Now the shit’s going to hit the fan , Tim thought to himself, and of course, he was right.

His folks were silent for the rest of the ride, but when his dad parked the car, his mom said, “Room. Now. Your father and I need to discuss some things. And don’t look at me like you want to say something. I don’t want to hear a word of it.”

“Tammy—”

“No, Stan. Not now. Go, Tim, I’m too mad to look at you right now. And when we come to talk to you, I highly suggest that you don’t have your nose in a book. I want you sitting at your desk, not doing anything. Is that clear?” Tim nodded, an impossibly huge lump in his throat. “Then go,” said his mom. “Just go.”

They came for him twenty minutes later. He was sitting at his desk, doing exactly what his mom had instructed, absolutely nothing. The minutes had dragged by like hours, every second a drop of water waiting to drop, pregnant for an impossibly long amount of time. It was almost a relief when he heard a firm knock at his door.

“Come to the kitchen table,” said his dad.

Tim stood, leaned back his head, and let out a deep breath. Will it just make things worse if I argue? He closed the door behind him gently and walked to the kitchen, to what felt like the hangman’s noose.

His mom was sitting at the table with an open bottle of wine and an empty glass sitting in front of her. His dad had a beer where he was sitting. Normally Tim or Becca might have cracked a joke at a sight like that—it was just early afternoon—but today was not the day for jokes.

I need to remember that I know what I saw, and that I’m not lying. Easier said than done. Tim sat in his chair, facing them and glad that he wasn’t crying or acting like a baby. The cops were wrong, but that wasn’t his fault.

“First things first,” said his dad. “Your mother and I are extremely disappointed that you were involved in whatever it was your friends cooked up. Lying to the police, especially about something so serious, is no laughing matter.”

“But I wasn—”

His mom slapped the table, making her wine bottle and glass do a dance, and causing his dad’s beer to foam over. “Let him finish,” she snapped, “then let me finish, and then we’ll listen to what you have to say. But only, and I mean this, only if you are going to tell the truth.” She shrugged. “Everything you say right now sounds like bullshit.” His mom lit a cigarette, something Tim hadn’t seen her do in years, and drew off of it, the smoke collecting around the hanging light in the kitchen. His dad gave her a look, a not very nice one, and then continued speaking.

“Like I was saying, this is serious business, Tim. The cops could have charged both you and us for what you boys did. I’m not going to ask why; you can tell me later, when you’re less indignant and give up on this notion that you can convince me that what you’re claiming is somehow true. I’m just—dumbfounded that you would be a part of this. This isn’t you.” He pushed out a sigh. “But I guess it is you, or who you’re trying to be, for God knows what reason. And we need to deal with it, now . Your summer is over, starting right now. You’re going to help me put in the patio, and when that’s done I’ll come up with something else.

“That’s one thing. Another is this: I’ve already spoken to Carl, and you and Scott are no longer friends for the rest of this summer, also starting right now. I’m talking no contact. And if it was possible to monitor your behavior at school to that degree, you can bet we’d say you’d never be friends, period . You’re sure as hell not going to be hanging out outside of school, I can tell you that. I couldn’t get ahold of Luke’s mom, but same thing there, and Carl agreed, by the way. From now till school starts, you three are no longer friends. I don’t want to hear a peep about it either.

“Carl and I also agreed that when his new schedule allows him some room to get time off, he and I are going to go out and tear that fort down. There’s no reason for it to be up there if you guys can’t use it. Do you have any questions?”

“No,” Tim said, barely holding back the emotions and the tears with a mantra: We didn’t do anything wrong, and someday they will see that, and they will hate themselves for this moment. And I will fucking hate them too.

27

Van Endel had expected the crime scene to have been horribly mishandled, but whatever unis had arrived first had done a good job of sealing it off. It was a small blessing. Tracy Vincent, the so-called whiz kid, as well as the youngest and most highly respected of the county coroners, was leaning against a tree, fastidiously eating an apple and reading a book. He was young, black, and brilliant, and how he’d moved up the ladder so quickly without making enemies was almost as amazing as his climbing it in the first place.

Van Endel and Dr. Martinez approached him. The three of them knew each other by name and by sight, but had yet to share an after-work cocktail. Tracy was known to be a bit of a loose cannon at the bar, as Van Endel had been before making detective, and he had a fear that they might get along too well. Tracy folded up the book, stuck it in the back pocket of his jeans, and walked to them, hand extended.

“Here to check out our crispy critter?” Tracy asked, a smile on his face. He shook Martinez’s and then Van Endel’s hand, then said, “Seriously, though, this one is going to be tough. I’ve got a body that’s been burned about as badly as one can be, a mouth on it full of busted-out teeth, and not a whole lot else.”

“Are you sure on the time of death?” Dr. Martinez asked. Van Endel could hear a hope in her voice—a hope that the boys were telling the truth after all—but that was a hope that he had left behind in the chief’s office.

“Come with me,” said Tracy, holding up the caution tape for them and then following after them. “Looking good, Doc. Keep hitting that gym. Just don’t get rid of all of that cushion, all right?”

“Seriously, Tracy,” said Dr. Martinez, annoyed even as she fought to suppress a smile. “We have to go look at a dead girl. Show some respect.”

“I got respect for days, Doc,” said Tracy, his smile audible in his voice. “As a matter of fact, I was respecting that a—”

“Tracy, I am not in the mood,” said Martinez.

“What say we go to work now,” said Van Endel, “and shut the fuck up?”

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so on edge about a case, and knowing why made it even worse. It wasn’t normal to have more than a couple of material witnesses lying to you, and when they did, it was usually fairly easy to press on them until one of them ruptured and burst. This was different. Two groups of kids, different ages, and no associations besides the Benchley kids. Even among those two, there was no apparent angle, just a big sister and a little brother living in separate worlds.

The pit where the body lay covered in a white sheet was surrounded by prints from a German shepherd, along with boot prints from its trainer. Such things were unavoidable at a fresh crime scene.

As if reading his thoughts, Tracy said, “The other ones are mine. No one else has been in here. Which makes these fellas over here pretty goddamn interesting.” Van Endel and Dr. Martinez swiveled their heads to follow his finger. There was indeed another pair of prints—boots, if Van Endel wasn’t mistaken.